Time for Mrs Fringe to have the first beach day of the season to herself. I feel pretty lucky to have kiddos that recognize my particular brand of lunacy requires both beach time and occasional time by myself. So the other day–the day before the girl’s last day of school– I checked the weather (iffy, which made it perfect to not bring Art Child), packed my bottle of frozen water, bleach-stained oversized towel, my trusty black and white composition notebook (just in case I should be inspired to write, hah!) and got on the train.
At first it seemed like the iffy weather prediction was completely wrong. A bit of wind, but blue skies and sun all the way. A bit more wind. Eh, the sand scraping across my skin is free exfoliation. I can be freckled and have a youthful glow! Before two hours had passed, I found myself wondering how long I could lie there with sand blowing straight up my nose before I suffocated. I gave up. Took my towel and headed back toward the train. While I stood on the boardwalk shaking out my towel, I thought of the many times I had gone to the beach in my angsty teen years, shivering in out-of-season winds while sitting on the rocks writing horribly overwrought poetry. For some reason I also remembered going with my mother to the “big girl’s” shop on Coney Island Avenue, to buy housedresses for a relative in California, while my father sat in the car outside, grumbling about muumuus. Shh, it’s a secret, don’t tell anyone. For my mother, the secret was that this glamorous, beautiful cousin was a “big girl.” For me, the secret was she wore house dresses in her home that seemed like a mansion compared to our semi-detached brick two family house. For the love of God, she had gotten three thousand miles away from there, didn’t she know there was a reason they didn’t sell those polyester monstrosities in Southern California?
It’s a funny thing. When I was growing up, I couldn’t wait to “escape” South Brooklyn. Seriously, it was like living the script of Saturday Night Fever, those bridges and tunnels represented everything. I’m a cynical gal and always was, but I can and do certainly look back and realize my rose-colored glasses were firmly in place, like most other young people. If I lived in the city (people who live in the outer boroughs refer to Manhattan as “the city,” regardless of the fact that it’s all five boroughs that make up NYC), life would be different. I would be free, not trapped, living the life I always wanted. You know, in a cold dark garret, chain smoking clove cigarettes while scribbling the great American novel. Manhattan/Paris, Nineteenth Century/Twenty-First Century–it’s all the same thing, right? I’d be living the dream. Regardless, I certainly wouldn’t spend twenty years dodging PTA meetings and worrying about doctor’s appointments. Whatever happened, I would never find myself back in Brooklyn. Most of all, I would never, ever wear a housedress.
So what do I do now with every opportunity on beautiful (or iffy) summer days? Hop on the train and go over the bridge back to the Brooklyn, of course. Just the beach, but. No matter how many times I’ve gone back, no matter that it’s been a firm part of my summer routine for eons, I have to laugh at myself. The first couple of times I went back, I wondered if I would run into anyone I knew. Never have. Who knows, maybe I’ve been towel to towel with someone who graduated from high school with me and neither of us recognized the other. I quickly stopped thinking about it. The realities of living in a city so densely populated is that I have people who live on the same floor of my building that I don’t see for months, sometimes years, at a time.
This winter I reconnected with an old high school friend, through Facebook. She left Brooklyn before I did, and it turns out she too, is back in NY, living in a different borough. We briefly talked about meeting up, but it hasn’t happened. What would I say, without judiciously chosen and edited photos to represent my life? Badge of honor, I’ve never worn a housedress! Still, I found myself on Brighton Beach Avenue before I got on the train, looking at my favorite (cheapest) variety store running a going-out-of-business sale, and wondered if I had $5 on me.
Despite the fact that it’s only June, I’m already exhausted by this presidential cycle and all the nonsense that has accompanied it. Yet here I am yapping about it. Why? Because I’m confused, and sometimes writing things down helps sort it out–and maybe, hopefully, we’ll get a rich conversation going in the comments that will allow for clarity.
I’ll admit, my imagination is limited. I can’t fathom what it is that enables someone to want to be President. I’ve gone extended periods with very limited sleep while still needing to make decisions, large and small, that impacted five people. It isn’t fun. To choose to do this while making huge, impactful-for-generations-to-come for 318 million people? (Many more, really, because US decisions and policies are felt worldwide.) To believe you are the best person to be in this position? Nope, unfathomable to me. But hey, I’m someone who can spend two hours staring at the screen attempting to decide if I’ve chosen the most effective verb.
I keep saying, “How have we gotten here?” “How is it that in 2016, the GOP candidate is an openly hateful, selfish, liar?” How is it that the Democratic candidate is likely the most contentious woman in America?”
In regards to the Democratic party, I’m conflicted. I’m sorry Bernie lost, truly sorry if not surprised. I don’t care for Hillary Clinton. I want to be clear, this isn’t because of the history of bogus witch hunts targeting her, not because of what went on/goes on in her marriage, and definitely not because of her $12,000 blazer. Really people, what gives with that nonsense? First and foremost, I’ve never heard outrage or seen articles about the cost of any male candidate’s suit. Call me an old and out of touch feminist, to me that’s yet another symbol of not-so-subtle sexism. I know, I know, she wore it while talking about inequality. It is gross, represents much of what’s got people angry and frustrated in this country. But let’s be honest. If you were able to swallow her throwing a $3 million dollar wedding for her daughter while this country was in a serious recession, people losing jobs and homes daily, well then, let’s not pretend moral outrage about her jacket. I’ll be straight, you could tell me you found proof that she was in the backseat of Ted Kennedy’s car at Chappaquiddick and I’d still support her right now. Why? Because the alternative is Donald Trump.
Talk about witch hunts. Can you imagine if he was to become our President? Goodbye, First Amendment. That’s right, he’s been pretty clear. For all his lies, there are kernels of truth as to what he supports and believes, and what he believes is that he should be not just President, but Dictator, wanting to stomp on the rights of the press, freedom of religion, free speech, and the right to (peaceably) assemble. I’m pretty sure I’ll be burned at the stake along with the real journalists, because no slight or grievance is too small for him to let go. Well, maybe not burned, that leaves a horrible stench in fabric, and could drive his property values down. Hanged. Go ahead and say goodbye to the Statue of Liberty, because our liberties have been eroding–fuck, we’ve given them away in the name of “freedom”– and Trump is not interested in accepting any poor, tired, huddled masses. White, energetic, wealthy and attractive, maybe. Say goodbye to women’s rights. Women will go back to their place, at their men’s sides, lips stitched closed and legs spread wide. Only if they’re young and attractive, of course.
Many are tired of the status quo, and Hillary represents just that. I get it, I really, truly do, and that’s why I was hoping Bernie would win the nomination. But he didn’t. It’s over. He can continue to speak, I hope he will continue to work in the Senate, but he didn’t win the nomination. That he got as many votes as he did, that he got as far as he did, gives me hope for the future, but it doesn’t fill me with confidence for the present. There are too many variables, and we have too long a history of bedding down with fear, hatred, greed, and wishful thinking.
Sure, we like to talk about valuing reason, justice, intelligence, ingenuity and creativity, equality. But not really. When it comes down to it, too many of us value comfort and mediocrity above all else. Again, I’m not pretending I don’t like comfort, and God knows I’m mediocre, but I’m not trying to lead the country. We are currently enjoying the most reasonable and intelligent President we’ve ever had, Barrack Obama. In current polls, his approval rating is shockingly high at 51%. So why all the moaning about how horrible life is under him? Is it because he’s (shhhh) black? Or because he’s reasonable and intelligent? Or both? Ingenuity and creativity, these can’t possibly be valued. If they were, our education system wouldn’t be continuing to cut arts and flexibility in what and how our children are taught, valuing fill-in-the-bubble tests, grading teachers on how neat and attractive their bulletin boards are, over real teaching, thought and comprehension. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, one of the things that has stayed with me most is the pride with which I heard so many say George W Bush was a C student. Pride. For Cs. From the man who led America for 8 years. Equality? Talk about equality to people of color, trapped in the classroom to prison pipeline.
If Trump wins, I’m blaming everyone. (because for the moment, I’m still relatively free and can): the people who confuse unfiltered verbiage with integrity, the GOP that allowed Tea Partiers to take over their party, and the Democratic Party, who endorsed and backed a woman so hated that in our racist country a black man was chosen over her the last time she ran. I believed and still believe Obama was the better choice, and I’m proud and thrilled that was recognized by enough for him to become President. He can’t run again. I didn’t agree with all of his decisions and concessions, hated a few, in fact, but wow. Have we ever had a leader with such grace? I doubt we’ll see an equivalent leader; be they male, female, white or person of color, in our lifetime. Think for a second about all he’s put up with and worked through–don’t throw his hard work away. And yes, I’ll admit it, this old and out of touch feminist is pretty fucking happy to see that if it isn’t Bernie, the Democratic nominee is a woman. Here. In misogynistic America, a land filled with people still working to stuff women back in the kitchen, value the comfort and future of rapists over rape victims, and whittling away at our right to choose what to do with our bodies.
We do have a long and proud history here in the US. But we cannot take pride–we can never move forward–without acknowledging the shameful history woven in with our rights, and our history of sliding backwards before moving forward. The decisions based on fear, an inflated sense of our place in the world, that old surety that might makes right. It can’t happen here is a lie. That we naturally evolve in a positive way, progress with reason is a lie. Witch hunts, real mass witch hunts have occurred repeatedly, Salem and its twenty people killed was child’s play: Japanese Internment Camps during WWII, McCarthyism, Stop and Frisk, Muslims after 9/11. If we aren’t careful now, we could be looking at the broadest witch hunts this country has ever seen, because Trump hates and is afraid of everyone who doesn’t look like, pee like, move like, and parrot him.
I’m confused as to how anyone outside a handful of his cronies could support Donald Trump. Not wanting more of the same should not be blurred with it-couldn’t-be-worse. So yeah, I’m confused as to how anyone could say Hillary Clinton would be equally bad for our country and our rights.
Here lies reason and knowledge. Let’s not bury them again, ok?
In less than two weeks, Nerd Child will be graduating from high school. (I suppose I’ll have to change his Fringie name at that point–the current one doesn’t feel so right anymore.) It’s a big deal, not just for him, but for me, and not only in a two-down-one-to-go kind of way. It will mark the end of an era for this mama as a boarding school (bs) parent. The other night a friend of mine asked me about boarding schools because her child is interested. These two things coming up together made me think it made sense to post about our experiences. Disclaimer, I do not and cannot speak for all boarding families, all scholarship boarding families, or all boarding schools. I will try to hit points that I think are fairly universal in the world of being a scholarship family at fancy shmancy boarding schools, but of course, this is all just our experience–and really, my perspective. I know exactly zero about therapeutic, military, or single sex boarding schools (though I’ve heard great things about several of the all-girls schools), or even being a full-pay family at a selective bs. After two kiddos attending two different boarding schools, visiting/touring/interviewing at approximately 30, and 9 years, I’m not an expert.
If you mentioned boarding school to me fifteen years ago, I wouldn’t have known what you were talking about. As far as I was concerned, the term was either a polite euphemism for “juvie” or part of the fictional realm of glam and glitz novels. Ten years ago I had a glimmer, but if you asked if my child would attend, I would have laughed. Actually, I’m pretty sure I did laugh. So how is it that I’m about to see my second child graduate from boarding school? It wasn’t an accident, it didn’t just happen. It was the result of tons of campaigning by Man Child, research and hard work done by me, Husband, Man Child, Nerd Child, and the middle school both boys attended. That and the fact that our home had become the center of medical doom and gloom. Husband wasn’t well, then Art Child wasn’t well, I had a bag permanently packed and at the ready for a hospital admit.
Both my boys went to a small, private middle school here in the city, a prep school that involved ties and dress codes, but not what jumps to mind when you think prep school. This school is bare bones, for gifted, economically disadvantaged inner city kids, with an emphasis on personal responsibility and responsibility to the greater community. Oh, and a no-dating policy. Sound silly? Not at all. Remember, this is middle school. Half the kids are relieved to put off dealing with romantic entanglements. Half aren’t, it’s true. But trust me, the kids don’t ruin their social lives forever by waiting and focusing on an inclusionary community. Dating, by its very definition is exclusionary. The staff/school has connections with the top high schools in the country; parochial, private day, and boarding, and they work hard to make sure each child gets into the schools with the greatest chance of success–and enough financial aid to make it possible.
Kids in NYC, particularly Manhattan, are well versed in the concept of applying to, interviewing for, and being rejected by schools by the time they reach high school admissions. I realize this isn’t the case for much of the country. Is it stressful? Of course it is. But it’s manageable, especially if you, as the parent, keep your balance and don’t convey to your child that any one school, or even one type of school, is the only option. Their chances of getting into a “good” college, their lives aren’t ruined if they don’t get into school A (or B or C), regardless of how glossy the brochure is. So. What’s it like, opening to the possibility of boarding school? It’s exciting, it’s an adventure, it’s a lot of road trips, it’s eight gazillion essays written by you the parent, and 32 gazillion written by your child, it’s fucking terrifying.
I’ve said it before but this can’t be said too many times. BS isn’t for everyone. Not for every family, not for every kid. Your child has to want it. You have to want it for them. You have to know your child. You have to believe your child is going to get up on time, and do their homework without you standing over them. In my opinion, they have to already be doing these things–but I have heard from many parents whose kids weren’t already doing these things, but they figured it out and managed, with time very successfully. You have to be able to take a breath when your child calls, upset over x happening, and figure out whether this is a boarding school upset, a high school upset, something that requires a call to their advisor, or an unplanned trip to eyeball them in person. When/if you go tour, ask the staff, they’ll be honest about how quick they will/won’t be to contact you, it differs with different schools.
Boarding schools do offer tremendous opportunities. Academics are top–in a way I couldn’t have imagined, ten years ago. The teachers are truly passionate and caring. They live there, with your kids, so believe me, they care. Not just in the classrooms, but onstage, in the dorms, on the athletic fields, in the dining hall. Class size is generally not an issue, they’re small. The schools want kids engaged, working, interested, happy, and successful. Trust me, there are many more applicants than seats available. When we’re talking about kids on full scholarships, we’re talking about major investments, averaging btw $40-50,000 per year, per kid–and they expect these kids to stay all four years, do well, contribute to the community, and need the same money every year. Your kiddo won’t be bored. Ever. Not to say there are never problems, they’re kids, life happens–but these kids are kept busy–a lot less room to get into trouble. Your kiddo has been breezing through school? So has every other kid in their class. They stop breezing, and are challenged, while still being supported. Your child’s dorm mates will likely be from all over the country, maybe their closest friend will from Beijing. Or Jamaica. Or Korea or Nigeria. And I mean the friend, not just where the family is from. Most of these highly selective boarding schools have large endowments, allowing them to offer generous financial aid packages–more than their equivalent day schools. Your child will become independent, in amazing and wonderful ways. That said, your kiddo won’t be 13 forever, growth and maturity happens regardless of what type of high school they attend.
There are commonalities among the highly selective BS, but there are many differences. Some things to look at: what are the dorms like? nice? cramped? mixed ages? are there Saturday classes? every week or just a few times a year? are parents always welcome to visit? kids able to come home (if within a reasonable distance) for the weekend if they need/want to touch base or are there many “closed weekends?” is there a way for the child to leave campus and come home by public transportation? is there a dress code? how strict? are meals formal? assigned seating? how is the food, anyway? is there a religious affiliation/how prevalent? how large is the school? some schools are very small, with a total of 300 kids or so, “large” bs are about 1200 kids, not that large compared to many public high schools. what percentage of kiddos are receiving financial aid? Is it needs-blind (needs-blind means the decision to accept or deny is made without looking at financial need, if they believe the child is a good fit/they want them, they offer enough financial aid)? what is the percentage of kids of color? –how does that break down (so called under/over represented minorities), and how much do you/does your child care? are there day students? what percentage? a few schools are 100% boarding, but most are mixed to varying degrees. what is the academic range? are the kids friendly as you pass them on your tour? how strict/what are the rules? different schools expect varying degrees of independence, and offer varying degrees of structure. all BS have active athletic programs, and all kids are expected to participate–how much? do they have to participate in 3 sports each year, can they take a season off, do they have alternatives for kids who aren’t athletic by allowing theater to count as a sport, basic instructional classes, etc? Can your child see themselves there?
Are you ready for the judgement, assumptions, and hairy eyeballs of…everyone? Seriously, everyone. Some will assume you’ve been hiding the fact that you’re a bazillionaire. Many will assume that your kiddo has in fact gotten into serious trouble with the law/drugs and are in juvie or a residential treatment facility. People who have known you as a parent for years (including family members) will assume you are “sending your kid away,” don’t want to parent anymore, aren’t parenting anymore, and/or kiddo hates you–either because you “sent them away” or that’s why they wanted to go in the first place. You can try to explain, but not too much because then it sounds like you’re making excuses or they’ll hear it as you judging them. (I’ve even heard stories of teachers being openly judgmental when asked for recommendations for the applications, the assumption being you either hate your kid or think the local teachers are incompetent.) If you have more than one child and they don’t all go boarding the assumption is you dislike one of them (either the one who stayed or the one who went, take your pick). When friends/family talk about issues with their kiddo attending the local high school, it’s oh-those-teenaged-years; if you talk about the same issue with your kiddo, it’s clearly the result of your horrible parenting that enabled you to send your kid away. This doesn’t ease up, by the way. Most who don’t “get it” still don’t get it 4 years or 4 kids later, with luck they just learn to be quieter about what a horrible and unfeeling bitch you are.
Money. It can’t be ignored, not in life, and not in bs. I thought my boys were well prepared. The staff at their middle school addressed this head on; and we live in Manhattan, in a building that is part of a program designed to keep working class people in the city, on a block that includes 9 million dollar brownstones and project housing. Public school classmates that included families with country houses in the Hamptons, immigrants living in SROs, and families living in homeless shelters. Yeah, no. The level of wealth that can be found in these schools is a whole different playing field. Not that every full pay family is a family of billionaires, many make significant sacrifices so their kiddos can attend, but seriously, some live in a world so different that even after being a part of the boarding school world for 9 years, I can’t grasp it. But your kiddo will. They will when they hear what the other kids are doing with their breaks, hear about familial residences, names they’ve read about in the papers/seen on tv, and when they realize those $20 music lessons you scrimped and finagled don’t mean shit compared to the opportunities and lessons some of their classmates have not only experienced, but live. They may visit classmate’s homes, and then not feel comfortable inviting classmates back to their home, because now they feel the difference. (maybe, depends on the kiddo) Financial aid only goes so far. Speaking of, check those offered packages carefully, there’s a wide difference in how different schools define full scholarship, and those extras can add up quickly, you don’t want to be sitting in a dark house with an unpaid electric bill while your bs kiddo is taking notes in a $12 notebook he charged to your account at the school’s bookstore.
It isn’t about the end game. If you’re only looking at bs because you think that will guarantee your kiddo admission to an Ivy, forget it. First of all, the days of “feeder schools” are long gone. Second, Precious Brilliant Talented Snowflake will be one of 3-1200 precious brilliant talented snowflakes, no one college is taking all of them. Diversity, it’s a good thing–in high schools, in colleges, in life. Third, boarding school is an end game unto itself. The experiences, the growth, the opportunities, the relationships, the way it shapes the way your child sees themselves, others, the world and their place in it; these are valuable unto themselves, to say the least. Bonus: If you’ve done the boarding school application process, by the time they’re applying to colleges the stress is greatly decreased, you and your kiddo have had tons of practice! The flip side is that college tours are harder to schedule and frankly, less impressive.
Most of all, you miss them. Even when you 100 % believe it was the best decision, at the best possible school for them, you miss them. Some kiddos will call/text/Facetime/Skype all the time, and tell you all about their days, some won’t–it’s basic personality, they are individuals, it’s just how it is. And you miss out. Whether it’s a dance or a show or a game or a trip to the ER or an argument. Even when you live close enough, if the financial aid office works with you to help you get there for a visit on parents’ weekend, even if you have a job with enough flexibility to go see the big moments, you miss out on a million small moments. When we dropped Man Child off for the first time, I sobbed all the way home. Heh. I had no idea how much I would/could miss him. Every drop off after that was harder, I think I stopped breathing when Nerd Child left for the first time. I couldn’t go with him, because Art Child had just started middle school the day before, and for the very first time in her school career, she wanted to go to school the next day. He was fine with it, I couldn’t comprehend how I was still walking around.
There are many, many things I wish I could do over in life, different paths, different choices. But given the parameters I have, the life we live, I do not regret allowing my boys to go to boarding schools. They each took exciting, interesting classes, pursued extra curricular interests we couldn’t offer here at home, enjoyed successes and failures they wouldn’t have experienced here. They were safe, loved, and supported. They each had fabulous opportunities, cultivated real and wonderful friendships, received high school educations many colleges can’t match. I didn’t send them away. We let them go, each with a clear safety net and connections to home.
Good grief, this is the longest post I’ve ever written!
Our children; individual human beings, with or without boarding school.
Hello all. Yes, yes, it’s been a while. You know when more time than usual passes in between speaking to a friend, you keep thinking you should call, but the more time passes the harder it becomes to make that call? Yeah. First I was in a bit of a funk; there’s nothing to say, no one cares what I have to say, blah, blah, blah. Then, in the past few weeks, there’s been so much going on I couldn’t decide where and how to jump in. Nothing has happened to me/mine personally, it’s been wonderful having Man Child home, he has a good job, Nerd Child is in the last stretch of high school–drove north and saw his final production the other day–that young man is an excellent director! Art Child is well, Husband is well, Incredibly Stupid Dog continues to forget which end is supposed to be on the pee pad when she lets loose…all good in Fringeland. But the world around me? Prince died, which I took more personally than I have any right to. North Carolina has decided genital checks are in order because thinkofthechildren. The Bernie movement has faltered (to say the least), and Donald Trump has won the GOP nomination.
After two weeks of pretending that last tidbit couldn’t be real, I have to accept it. I have to get on the train. Not the train car supporting him, of course. I feel like it’s rush hour and the car open in front of me is suspiciously empty. If you’ve ever been a subway rider, you know what I mean. If you haven’t, let me give you a tip. When a crowded train pulls in, if the car you’re about to get on is miraculously empty with several open seats, there’s a reason–and that reason usually involves a stench so foul even the most weary and unsteady travelers would prefer to be squashed nose to armpit in the next car.
Yesterday I was having a conversation about this nightmare with a friend of mine, and I referenced playground politics. For me, this sums it up. Because it doesn’t feel like a train. I’m an adept rider; pains, nerve damage and all, I can keep my balance, squeeze into the most narrow space between two man-spreaders if it means a seat, and throw myself through the closing doors without getting my purse caught. This is more like a throwback to childhood, a concrete lunchtime playground where girls have cooties and with a choice between splintered seesaws, dodgeball, and a cement water fountain that dribbles rust. So here we are, this cycle of American politics where might makes right and he who spreads the most outlandish, the most vicious rumors wins. Where is the lunch aid? Where are the teachers? Where are the grown-ups?
As I’ve said previously, I like Bernie. I never thought he was a perfect candidate, and I had questions, but I thought he was the best choice. For a moment, I thought he had a real shot. That moment is over. I don’t love Hillary. I have a lot of questions and reservations about her that I don’t want to have. (I’m a feminist ferchistssake, a woman for President? Yes, please.) But I’m not hesitating to support her, especially when I look at the alternative. The alternative isn’t Bernie Sanders, it’s Donald Trump. A man whose positions take us from an unsupervised playground to Lord of the Flies.
While I wasn’t blogging, I did more reading than I’d done in a while. I even decided to read Infinite Jest, it’d been on my to-read list forever, and it seemed like the perfect time. I got about 600 pages in, and spent a good 500 of those pages feeling certain that I’m an idiot, because I didn’t get it. Not that I wasn’t able to follow the storyline, I was. Not that I didn’t notice and appreciate some lovely sharp prose, I did. But I really, really don’t understand the how/why this novel became the lauded, prized bestseller that it did. So I gave up, once again determined to accept that I’m just not that smart, and clearly incapable of understanding the publishing industry. If a friend had written it and given me the manuscript to beta read, I’d have suggested cutting about 500 of the 1200 pages. But the timing of my attempt to read this was perfect for today’s political climate, because today is when we are living the backstory of Infinite Jest. If Donald Trump becomes President of the United States, we will slide right into Subsidized Time, and tomorrow will become the Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment. I may not be smart enough to slog through all 1200 pages, but I’m smart enough to know I don’t want to live inside them.
You’re frustrated? Me too. You’re broke? Me too. You’re tired of the status quo? Me too. But my eyes are open. And what I see is hideous. A circle has gathered around the combover playground bully. The circle is growing, gathering legitimacy and support, and it’s feeding on greed, racism, xenophobia, misogyny, and wishful thinking. I know some people speak of idyllic childhoods and pine for their lost youth. Me? I was glad to leave the playground behind, and I don’t want to return. The lunch aid isn’t coming. We have to turn away from the childish blowhards telling us might makes right, get on the train before it derails completely, and be the grown-ups. We may or may not be in the gifted program, but we’re smart enough to recognize the stench of fresh shit.
Critical thinking. In my opinion, it’s the single most important thing (after learning to read) for people to learn. It’s what allows us to make informed decisions, objectively analyze information, sift opinion from fact and learn to incorporate the nuances of life. Develop empathy, compassion because we understand (at least the facts of) all sides, whether we agree with them or not. Not just so we can make sensible charts and see patterns, but critical thinking also feeds imagination, promoting innovation, new discoveries, and progress. The higher the level of educational institution, the more critical the thinking should become. And it’s something we’re seeing less and less of. There isn’t a whole lot of room and time left for teaching critical thinking skills when public schools are forced to spend the majority of their days teaching to (high stakes, homogeneous) tests and teachers are evaluated based on how their students perform on said tests, and how well they design a bulletin board. That leaves college, right?
On one side, we’ve got Bernie Sanders, who wants to eliminate tuition, and offer free education at public universities. I like Bernie, and I agree with much of what he has to say. I would absolutely support free tuition at public universities. It isn’t unprecedented in the US, California public universities were free to California residents until the 1920s, with a nominal fee for another fifty years. In New York the CUNY (City University of New York) schools were free (I think some, but not all) until the 1970s. If I were king, I’d make it free for in-state residents, still charge for room and board for other than low-income students, and place GPA restrictions on the free tuition, both to get it in the first place, and then to keep it once a student is in. (And no more bullshit with these “weighted” high school GPAs, stop penalizing economically disadvantaged kids from poor communities who don’t have the opportunity to take 23 meaningless AP classes.) I think these types of restrictions and minimum requirements would have to be in place to avoid degrees from public universities becoming meaningless.
And on the other side, we’ve got this. Excuse me a minute while I puke, will ya? In a nutshell, concealed carry laws will now allow students to carry handguns on campus at public Texas universities. Because of this, professors are being told to avoid sensitive subjects, drop certain topics from their curriculum, and limit student access to them. Putting aside the underlying facts regarding guns, gun violence, and gun safety (because we don’t want to get involved in too many high fallutin’ facts here, it’s just a blog, after all), there is no way to look at this and not see how very wrong it is. College. What’s the point of it, anyway? A liberal arts education was intended to provide students with (drumroll) critical thinking. Different ways of viewing the world, figure out how to solve complex problems, communicate effectively, provide you with the ability to think for yourself. I suppose liberal arts is definitely out with this now, huh? Well how about an applied degree in science, mathematics, law? Nope, sorry, because any and all of those fields of study may include sensitive topics and be offensive to personal beliefs, they can’t be studied.
To be fair–and possibly even demonstrate critical thinking skills–despite my left leanings I also think the extreme on the other side is a bunch of bullshit. Excessive trigger warnings and attempts to “protect” students from subjects they might find uncomfortable or offensive effectively muffle debate, discussion, and analysis. This warm and fluffy blanket of avoidance isn’t doing us any favors.
I believe in education. Power, reasoning, and opportunities grow from academic discourse, exposure to new ideas, and studying history. That said, I don’t believe everyone should or needs to go to college. Some people aren’t academically gifted. Some people aren’t good at sitting in a classroom. *that’s me* It doesn’t make sense to me when I see help wanted ads for receptionists that want college degrees. Way to penalize people who don’t go to college. Skills learned outside the classroom are important too, and many jobs and careers that make our society keep chugging along have nothing to do with a BA, BS, MS, etc. I do believe everyone who’s capable of doing the work and wants to go to college should have the opportunity to do so without trading a degree for homelessness, life on the pole, or forfeiting any chance of ever using that degree to get ahead in their chosen field because they’re so in debt from it.
Regardless of the path chosen, and regardless of whether you lean left or right, aren’t we all saying we’re frustrated because we want better, we want more? Downward mobility isn’t just about economic status. One by one we’re burying the tools we need along with our heads in the interest of…what? Ignorance, narrow-mindedness, and divisiveness.
I don’t care whether your classroom of choice is a traditional one, online, or in the corner bar at happy hour. What matters is that we insist on continuing to learn, listen to all the sides and all the facts, and grow.
We need knowledge. Progress. Problem solving. Opportunity.
The NYC public schools were closed this past week for the February break. I’m cursing this break when school is still in session at the end of June, but in the moment? Yeeees, so necessary. For the most part, the girl and I spent the week resting and ate half-priced-post-Valentine’s Day chocolate. But yesterday morning Husband needed to get new glasses, so Art Child and I went with him to help pick frames. Since we were going to be on the east side anyway, I figured it was a good day to hit a museum.
The Upper East side has been (marginally) more resistant to change than most other residential neighborhoods in Manhattan, so there are still a few old gems left to wrap me in the nostalgia of remember when. Like this one.
Almost makes me wish I liked egg creams.
Art Child and I said goodbye to Husband, I grabbed my camera, she grabbed her sketchbook, and off we went. The Guggenheim isn’t one of the museums we visit regularly, it is not one of the suggested donation institutions. Those types of museums can quickly blow a week’s budget. Eat before we go. No, we aren’t buying anything in the gift shop! No, we can’t go again before the installation leaves. The saving grace is that flat admission price doesn’t exclude any of the temporary exhibitions. If you’ve never been, the building itself is well worth a visit. All curves, you spiral your way up a continuing ramp to see what’s on display. Certain floors branch off to more permanent exhibits and/or smaller installments.
Every time I go I think of being there with Man Child when he was a little guy, an installation of motorcycles. Very cool, even if I still don’t understand why they were there. Mostly I think of it because Nerd Child was an infant. They didn’t allow strollers/carriages along the ramps, and Nerd Child was a champion puker–one of those babies where every spit up looked like an audition for The Exorcist– so Husband and I took turns carrying him while zig-zagging around the bikes.
The current primary exhibition is a retrospective, a collaborative effort from Swiss artists Peter Fischli and David Weiss that spans over thirty years, “How to Work Better.” Huge, the sheer number of sculptures, photographs, videos, and instillations left me overwhelmed at times. Art Child tells me I’m supposed to be. Some of it I really liked, some not so much. The first thing you see is the costumes the artists wore while making their films THE POINT OF LEAST RESISTANCE and THE RIGHT WAY. umm, ok. I didn’t take a ton of photos, I was busy trying to understand what I was seeing, but I’m glad we went.
Here’s where I love the tourists, they remember the views over the park are part of the intended experience.
In the Thannhauser Gallery there are an assortment of paintings by Picasso, Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Cèzanne, Toulouse-Lautrec, and others. Regardless of what else is on exhibit, whether it’s something I enjoy, understand or not, I’m moved and satisfied sitting in that gallery. I love Picasso, his paintings, his etchings, his sculptures. Not all of his work, he starts to lose me with swaths of his Cubist period. Does that mean I’m déclassé? Maybe just a peasant. That’s ok, I don’t mind.
One of my favorite paintings is there now. Sorry, I must have knocked the dial on the camera right before I took this photo, it’s way too yellow.
Woman Ironing, by Pablo Picasso. Can I say it again? I love this painting. From his Blue Period, there’s something about it that has always drawn me in. I don’t remember the where (pretty sure it wasn’t the Guggenheim) or when (I was a child, for certain) I first saw it, but I will never be tired of this woman. When I hear people refer to a work of art speaking to them, this is one of the paintings that comes to the forefront of my mind. Maybe I always knew I was destined for drudgery. And scoliosis. And shadows. Take a closer look with me, the shadow along her neck is delicious, makes me shiver.
Everything you can’t see in her eyes, but see in her curves and angles.
This was the first piece of the day that Art Child chose to sit and sketch. I can’t say what I enjoyed most, being able to sit down and enjoy the Ironing Woman, the girl sitting at the end of the bench and sketching her, or the museum visitors stopping to watch her sketch for longer than they looked at the painting in question. Perfect moment.
After we had moved on, and were back to Fischli and Weiss, I felt my phone buzz. A text from Nerd Child, frustrated and disappointed about a lost opportunity. No fault of his own, one of those life-happens things. Still, I’m a mom, which means through the life experience that enables me to understand the whys, hows, and frequencies of disappointments, my heart aches for each of my kiddos, every time they’re faced with one. In the middle of the gazillion clay sculptures I happened to be standing in front of a representation of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. I walked past the donkey to the inner wall of the museum and looked down.
Something had clicked for me, and the artists’ spent Rat and Bear costumes lying on the lobby platform made sense. Trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t, philosophical questions that don’t have a right answer–or any answer at all, dreaming about success. Yeah, these are the things we need to do, to experience, the questions we need to ask. These are the moments we need, perfect or otherwise.
This pair hung out on the water tower across from my apartment all morning.
The crows seem to enjoy today’s fine flurries. They stuck around, cawing and calling and circling until the flurries stopped.
It’s that time. That time of year, when I start thinking about how nice it would be to get away by myself. Still haven’t done it (not since I had children, anyway), but I think about it. A little while ago I even looked up writer’s retreats for 2016. They lose their appeal after about 3 minutes of web surfing. Wooded settings, steep price tags, set meal times, and evening conversations with strangers. Feel me shuddering through the keyboard? Creating my own retreat, though, that would be lovely. Just a few days. Coffee, tea, salad, and Cheetos should cover all the necessary meals/food groups. Maybe some salt and vinegar chips. On a beach, because if I were to be overcome by the glory of uninterrupted alone-time and therefore not get any writing done, I’d still be happy.
It’s also that time when I’m thinking about writing. A lot. I know myself, what it means when I can’t stop thinking about a poem, a photograph, a song…and I know what’s next; obsession with the next manuscript. You know when you hear women talk about nesting in the later stages of pregnancy? I never did that. I do it before getting serious about a manuscript. Why? I dunno. It isn’t like baking or being caught up on laundry and grocery shopping beforehand makes a damned bit of difference by the time I’m a month in, but I do it anyway. Feels like dropping down to a low gear in order to drive up a steep hill without stalling or getting caught at the red light at the top. Not that it works, life provides red lights with regularity, and god knows I stall out all. the. time. while I’m writing, but that’s what it feels like for the moment.
So I’ve been thinking about Emily Dickinson’s “I’m Nobody.” I always loved this one, no matter how many times I’ve heard and read it.
I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—Too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!How dreary—to be—Somebody! How public—like a Frog— To tell one’s name—the livelong June— To an admiring Bog!
I’ve never been Somebody, from my vantage it seems like there’s power in it. But there’s freedom in being Nobody, do you think? Maybe not, maybe it’s just one of the not-so-little lies we tell ourselves, along the lines of poor-but-happy.
A few weeks ago I took this photo on one of the (thankfully) few bitter cold days we’ve had this winter.
Lost? Forgotten? Abandoned?
The flowers, this photo, a complete story by itself. But which one? My first thought for a caption was something like, “Screw you and your cheap-ass bodega flowers!” Such a frigid morning though, maybe they dropped from fingers so numb the person carrying them didn’t realize they lost them until they were fumbling for their Metrocard two blocks later. The neighborhood where I took this shot is a busy one, home to a large social security office, a few social service agencies, and several thrift stores. Maybe they fell from the cart of someone’s wheelchair, or the little basket that sits across the top of a walker. Maybe they were dropped as someone late for a date grabbed the first available cab they’d seen in twenty minutes, or maybe, maybe, maybe. So many possibilities, and those are just a few of the more mundane ones.
I stopped halfway through putting this post together to go pick up the girl. In Grand Central, when you walk through the tunnel connecting the tracks for the shuttle and the 4/5/6, there are several abandoned “windows.” I can’t remember if there used to be stores behind them, or what they were originally for, but now they’re lit empty boxes, good for backlighting the various street performers and religious groups that stop in front of them. Today I was walking past and saw this.
MTA worker with dreams of being a display artist?
Clandestine spy code? Pre-arranged tableau signaling the all clear for a passionate liaison between an engineer and a station inspector? I think, if I were writing this into a manuscript, I’d have to add a crow.
It’s well documented that I hate winter but really, it’s just the cold. I never minded the snow, always figured if we had to have sub freezing temperatures, might as well have the beauty and quiet that comes with snowfall. There’s always something a little magical about snow, not to mention the throwback to being a kid, hoping for a snow day. And let’s be honest, if you live in the city, it’s likely you skip the bad part of snow–shoveling. (Unless you have a car and park on the street, in which case you’re screwed.) Sure if you have a brownstone the steps and path need to be shoveled, but it seems like most hire that work out. It has to be a LOT of snow to interfere with public transportation or cause any real inconvenience. Say, for example, 26.8 inches, like we saw yesterday. Even with that, we were warned well in advance (though we didn’t expect as much as we got, it isn’t like we were expecting a dusting), and it was a Saturday, no school anyway and many people off from work.
Look what we get in exchange, clean and lovely scenery, cool ice patterns, etc.
All good, right? Biggest concern dodging the icicles and avalanches of snow sliding off the rooftops in the days after the storm, as they melt just enough to slide off and hit the ground–or the nearest head. Except not anymore. Every step on the snow, every glimpse of an ice patch…makes me think of the ice patches I won’t see, how hard those snow piles are after sitting on the curb for a couple of days–or weeks–and flash back to my face hitting the ice last spring, when I fractured my everything. Ridiculous. I’m not young, but I should be too young to be literally worried about busting a hip. Should be.
Maybe I should just stay in and write. Winter has traditionally been my most productive time in terms of fiction. I think it’s the excessive heat pumping through the radiators, puts me in just the right stupor to lose myself in my imagination. Except. Recently every time I open the damned file intending to do more than read the few pages I’ve got, I flash on the mountain of rejection letters I’ve accumulated over the years for various projects. Dear Fringie, Intriguing story, great characters, thanks so much but no thanks and good luck.
Maybe I’ll just kick back on the couch and watch Netflix with Art Child. Mmm hmm. Remember the avalanches I mentioned? Sometimes they happen and you hear them during the storms, from winds blowing and drifts settling. They make quite the sound on impact, and mostly it’s just background noise, though sometimes it can be startling, depending on the size of the chunk of snow, and how far it has to fall. A few years back Art Child and I were home during a storm, and there was a particularly loud snow-muffled thud. It wasn’t snow. Someone jumped from the roof. Despite all the years and storms where those thumps were just snow and ice, now I jump.
Nervous staying in, nervous going out. I took the girl and the camera and went to the park this morning. I’m too damned old to be scared of boogeymen, especially when they’re decked out like Frosty.
Click on the photos if you’d like to see them full-size. Happy Blizzard, Fringelings!
Perspective
Such a pretty block, in every season
Trees and shadows, the snow provides an excellent canvas
The Pool is one of my favorite spots in Central Park, a little (manmade) pond
The Pool was frozen today, though not enough to step on
Waterfall feeding from the pool
At the edge of the pool, where the ice began
Poor swings, ignored in favor of sledding today
I swear the mayor said something about keeping the fire hydrants cleared of snow.
Who needs steps? Guess they’ll sled down to work on Monday.
Remember when I said you’re screwed if you park on the street?
Not even a blizzard gets between New Yorkers and their restaurant deliveries.
In my defense, they still taste delicious. I’ve been working on this recipe, trying to figure out how to get them to hold their shape and not collapse. They’re like a Caribbean flavored popover. Honestly, I’ve never been able to get a regular popover to hold its dome either. I’ve tried preheating the pans, pre-cooling the pans, increasing/decreasing salt, warming the milk–but not totally hot, I don’t understand how people do that without immediately cooking the eggs before the batter is mixed. Nothing has made a difference. One day I’ll find actual popover pans in one of the discount places and see if the shape make a difference. I suspect it won’t.
Here we are, a new year. Once again I considered making resolutions, but didn’t. Funny, I don’t think I ever really considered making New Year’s resolutions until I began blogging. Something about it makes me feel like I should be making grand-yet-attainable declarations of intent. Hmmm. I’m still doing my yoga, albeit less frequently, with shortened sessions. I could make a resolution to blog more regularly, but that would suck the joy out of blogging for me. I’m perfectly content with my sporadic blogging non-schedule. I could resolve to get back to fiction, open that file I started and work on it, but I’m still not sure I want to. I’m a regular cranky old gal living a regular cranky old life. I could resolve to be less cranky, but less cranky = less snarky, where’s the fun in that?
I know! I resolve to figure out how to access and re-import the thousands of photographs that were on my laptop until three days ago, but are now trapped in this little silver rectangular thing that I’m told is an external hard drive. For some bizarre reason, I’m supposed to be happy about this–my laptop is now faster than a speeding bullet! more powerful than a locomotive! able to leap tall buildings in a single bound! well, maybe not that last one. Very nice and all, but I want my pictures back.
For now I offer this Gary Clark Jr video, because we all need great blues to ring in the new year.
mrsfringe 