The First Day

Prelude: Lydia is now a high school student. :)

Over the years, various friends have made very kindly observations about Pete's and my parenting style, and our family unit being cohesive and happy. I'm always appreciative, but I don't always feel I merit it. So I thought I would share a moment in my mothering continuum that highlights my imperfections.

With Lydia's first day of high school looming, I began asking questions of her a couple of weeks ago...about style choices, comfort level, growing up. As I had done with Zoë before her, I bought Lydia Teen Vogue and Seventeen so that she could see some of this year's fashions. A Maine island is not exactly the locus for up-to-the-minute teen styles, and besides, when I was her age, I was obsessed with knowing what was popular. I didn't necessarily emulate those things (mostly because I couldn't afford it), but I just.needed.to.know.

Freshman year of high school was also my moment to begin using makeup. Horrific, not-right-for-my-skin-color make-up (viva los 70s). Those of you who know me well, know that the Makeup Era for me was exceptionally short-lived.

I offer these reminiscences about me because they highlight my mom choices. So, back to that: I bought the mags. Lydie read them over, or so she said. I asked if she'd seen anything she liked, or that she might want to buy in a similar style next time we shopped.

"Nooo, not really," said my 14-year-old daughter.

Urgh! I thought to myself. Usually Lyd loves spending time with me, talking about stuff we both like. She's not in any kind of rebellion stage here. She just plain was not interested.

Fascinatingly, Zoë is now living back at home and serving as a secondary mom voice. She's different from me, and has her own completely personalized sense of style. Apparently, colors-matching is a huge must-do for Z. She has critiqued Lyd quite a bit lately for not matching—and, bizarrely, for wearing basketball shorts instead of cargo or cloth shorts. (This is definitely in the WTH realm for me, but they're sisters, so I let them work it out between themselves.) But take note: neither girl will a) wear makeup or b) show skin. They're adamant. And sometimes teenage Nessa is totally baffled.

Okay, here's where I turn into a kinda villainess. One of my least-appealing maternal hallmarks is my strident voice. I get impatient and I do not typically yell or demand, but I do cut right to the chase and expect back-and-forth conversation. My children, accustomed to a pretty serene and laissez-faire home environment, sort of freak out when I go for the sharp-focus on an issue. Who blames them, I guess. But maybe it's a Queens holdover for me. And in this instance, when I've spent two weeks dropping hints about first-day-of-school attire, and I get a distinct lack of action back for my troubles, and it's the night before the first day...I'm gonna go strident.

Thus, last night when we got home, I asked Lydia if she had done her laundry and selected an outfit for school. "Yep, I did the laundry," she answered.

The outfit, I pressed. What did she choose?

"Oh, I dunno, just...jeans and a T-shirt, I guess."

I drew a resigned breath. Then I launched into a strident (told you!) explanation of.... First impressions. And big changes in one's life. And opportunities to maybe change one's image a little bit when one moves from a class of 15 kids to a class of, say, 70-ish. People judge a little more in high school, I lectured on. And you don't want to be wearing, say, a T-shirt that might look childish, or something that just doesn't look right. Because teenagers remember stuff like that.

[I am not pleased with myself for this stream-of-rapidfire-consciousness that I released last night. But look, I had one hour to take her shopping if she didn't have something that would fit her, and given her growth curve, that was a distinct possibility.]

"So please go upstairs and choose something," I ended it.

First, she came down with a long-sleeved shirt of Zoë's. An entirely inoffensive item, but a little heavier than the weather requires. I'm sure I looked crestfallen, because here I'd just blathered about style and change and reinvention, and she delivered ehh. But I didn't say ehh...I merely explained that the shirt she'd chosen was too warm and maybe too plain and--

This was where she began to weep a little. "What? What is it?" I asked.

"I-I don't want to disappoint you! You-you said not childish!" she sniffled.

[Commence my self-hatred. Sigh.]

So, I re-stated everything, softer and less accusatory. And sent her back upstairs, hoping I sounded kinder, to try again.

A few rummagy minutes later, she came down with a red Snoopy tee and a pair of Zoë-handmedown jeans. Hmmm. Zoë, I should add, was sitting across from me in the living room, making acerbic comments—which I enjoyed, truly: her participation, and her relative maturity. She added the occasional observation about the way MDI High School rolls, which greatly helps me—I don't have a clue. 

Collectively, we tried to figure out if a Snoopy tee was right for MDIHS. I asked Lydia if she liked what she had chosen, was comfortable with it. Yes, she said.

What can I say, a former New Yorker who thinks people should dress up for the first day? Nothing, clearly. In fact, acerbic Zoë mentioned something about how I'd encouraged her to dress up for the first day, only for naught, since no other Island kid had evidently gotten my urbanite memo.

I share this vignette because Lydia chose her own way despite my strident leanings. And I am so, so proud whenever that happens. Moreover, she reported after school today that two different girls had complimented her on the sweatshirt she decided to add this morning: Zoë's Totoro character. So that made me doubly proud: my girl rocks handmedowns by choice and gets props for it.

The moral: she knows what's right for her. She's smarter at that, in fact, than I am. Which is, ultimately, my best parental goal. I'm just sorry that sometimes I don't reach it with my best self forward.

God bless the child

She is slender and suddenly taller, as in: you look at her and are jolted. Whoa! when did she get that tall?! By which you are secretly saying, when did she get that grown-up. For, now, the childish rounded cheeks are attractively shaping, the nonchalant dirty blonde hair is styled and distinctive, the womanly figure is pre-ripening. And her brown-eyed gaze, always sharp and aware, is gaining an amused wiseness.

Also, I write with pride, these days her words are sorting themselves into more careful statements. Lydia has ever struggled with verbal expression. Not that she was incapable, but she just seems to shape her thoughts and ideas differently. I could write a book about how she writes and speaks in her own way. You could say she marches to her own beat. That's precisely it. And her parents are responsible for keeping her in the parade, regardless of that difference.

I have been amazed by Lydia since the moment she emerged, bellowing heartily. In my arms, protesting and red-faced, she looked offended that her term safely in utero had been brought to abrupt closure by dreadful muscular contractions not of her choosing. How do you not admire a newborn with that kind of chutzpah? We ceded our household to her at that moment. Tell us what to do, Miss Lydia. Because, really, no one else in our home has that kind of willpower and spark. She did not steer us wrong, our unfailingly polite diva. At age 1, a favorite activity was to sit in her highchair after dinner, the white tray set before her grandly, wiped of its meal leavings...and she would begin to tap on the tray, or wave her hands, or pat her head, and we would all do the same thing once she set the pace: two sibs, two parents, precisely imitating her actions. She would watch us with indulged good humor, while we all laughed--because her stamina for this activity was boundless. So was ours.

Really, it's this: I trust her. For nearly a decade, we've weathered storms of academe: extra help offered at school that we deemed useful, versus overly solicitous concerns that Peter and I were not willing to share and act upon. Never easy, those school meetings, but Pete and I are united. Throughout, I have placed my trust in that steady gaze of Lydia's, that determination. I remember a night as I was tucking her in, and we discussed some reading issue she was having. First grade. I explained to her what the teacher was concerned about, and then I explained to her that I didn't think the teacher understood that Lydia was well capable of whatever activity was being discussed. I said to Lydia, passionately, "I know you can do this, honey. Show them that you can do this." The brown eyes filled with tears, and she hugged me tightly. My trust, again, not disappointed.

Second grade is when our elementary school opens the world of music to children who wish to participate in an orchestra. I never attended a school that offered music as part of its curriculum, and as each Reifsnyder child grips a violin and starts learning, I appreciate so much what that means. Well, it turned out, Lydia did not really like the violin. Instead, she confided one night, she wanted to learn to play guitar.

Play guitar!?! You can only imagine how rock 'n roll Mumma Nessa rejoiced. And so Weslea Sidon began coming to our home every Monday night, an experienced teacher, writer, artist, and fellow NYer in exile. She "got" Lydia immediately--and while Lyd was by no means a natural at the instrument, she eagerly greeted that hour of intensive learning. Two years later, when Lydia transitioned at school from violin to (finally free!) trumpet, Weslea and we realized that Lydia's enthusiasm for the horn was outstripping her efforts on the timeworn acoustic guitar. But what a foundation had been laid, both at school and at home.

Lydia is a jazz musician now. You hear me, Mom?! She loves, craves, embraces jazz. She clutches that trumpet like a boss, and she plays it with that determined look I adore. Mount Desert Elementary School loves jazz, too, and what an opportunity our children receive in the jazz band: two phenomenal teacher/directors whose expectations are high, but gently imparted. They know these children are capable of extraordinary musicianship, and they give them the environment and the early-morning, pre-class time to master challenging arrangements. Lydia rarely oversleeps the 6:30 a.m. alarm that's required of her for jazz band practice. Dresses herself, feeds herself, gets the lunch ready, out the door.

Every spring, those early mornings bear beautiful fruit. Say what you will about Maine's bad press re: education costs and struggles; this state welcomes and nurtures music from a young age through high school. (Shout-out to the Maine Music Educators Association!) In the 1940s my mother was a direct beneficiary of that; today, my children draw strength and skill from it. On Saturday, Peter and I traced the endless gray ribbon of I-95 up to Mom's hometown for the Middle School Instrumental Jazz Finals. Last year, I was not able to attend, and Mount Desert won first place. This year, I closed my shop for the day. Lydia's personal investment in this activity has become even stronger, so we made the trek gladly. Saturday morning, I walked through the portals of a building that used to host my Brownie Girl Scout troop, the year I'd lived in Millinocket: I got my wings in that school auditorium. Even more so, my mom got her wings in that small town, becoming a musician with purpose.

If you watched the video I posted, you know the outcome. Ned Ferm and Heather Graves did it again, guiding the MDES Jazz Band to another first-place year. The band's music selections fairly pulsed with emotion and nuance. I could not believe these children were middle schoolers. And there was my girl, wielding that brass horn, perfect posture, composed, playing her heart out. My sense of family in that room was overwhelming...how I wished Mom and Nana and Grampy could have seen and heard this. Well, truly, my belief system tells me that they did, but to have had them physically present would have been even better.

After the awards were given out, Peter and I made our way through the crowd to congratulate our girl. I was still wiping away tears inspired by the performance and the circumstances. Down the bleachers she scrambled, and she pulled me into a typically fervent Lydia hug. Her hugs are different these days...our heads tuck next to each other. Equal heights. It's even more comforting. As we separated, her brown eyes were large with emotion. Crying. In her own words, she told me that she just felt so...much...and so happy.

Exactly what I was going to say. Two hugs, this time.

Sweetheart

An imagining from last night.

In an alternate universe, in Queens, NY, there was a Father-Daughter Dance. Let's say, February of 1978. Valentine's Day week, festooned with red and pink paper silhouettes of cupids, hearts, and arrows. A crowded gym, a deejay playing shiny records he stored upright in milk crates. A veritable swirl of girls' skirts and heeled feet...every color imaginable, all heights, toddler to preteen. Dads in suits, some of which looked like office clothing repurposed for the event...others who were stiff in more fancywear than their blue-collar jobs would ever merit. And then the fathers, boisterous, in brightly floral polyester shirts, chains glinting inside the wide collars, and flare-leg slacks with platform shoes: the dads who "got" disco.

Not my date. My father wore a simple suit, almost '60s throwback. He didn't draw attention to himself, but he looked right for the occasion--even though I knew his tie was too narrow and his collars too subtle. My dress came from Lerner's, a clothing mecca right up the street from my house. I wandered Lerner's for hours to find it, circling through and around the spinning silver racks, a dizzying obstacle course of preteen fashion. Touching every single fabric as I passed them, musing, mulling. I decided on this one because of its pink and beige color combination--soft and different. I liked it on my Irish-pale skin. Long sleeves, because it was winter, but they were puffy floral cotton with elastic at the cuffs. The bodice was shirred and puckered all over, with a rectangular lacy neckline, and the skirt was full. No ruffle at the bottom: felt like a ladies' dress. Mom finally let me wear the wedge-heeled sandals from her closet that I always tried on, because now they fit me for real. With nylons, sheer ones. I had to wear snow boots over to the gym, though; they joined a marching battalion of fur-cuffed footwear near the doorway. My stockinged feet were still icy from the trudge over.

Dad and I were not the types of people to fully buy into the concept of a Father-Daughter Dance. A little too ironically distant, we, and both of us burned by our mutual, unpopular reality: we were eggheads. Never quite in the mainstream. Always suspecting mockery from gaggles of our peers. But we agreed to do this because some of my friends from class got their dads to go--and, as submerged as I kept it, I really did want to feel popular, somehow.

Dad was a jazz drummer, but surprisingly able to dance nonetheless. This was another trait we shared. Early on in the evening, the deejay picked up on the overwhelming craze for all things Bee Gees, and spun "Night Fever". The room, predictably, erupted. Dad never indicated any particular affection for this music as it thumped from my homework-strewn bedroom, but he definitely allowed himself to dance to it, and I found myself grinning--which I did not expect, not at all. In fact, the gym was pervaded by a temporary dismantling of preteen embarrassment about our parents and their uncoolness. I stole glances around as Dad and I, yeah, boogied, and everyone else seemed equally unaware that if the overhead lights were on, we'd be fleeing from this dance floor faster than you could say "get down tonight".

After "Night Fever," the deejay pulled out "Love Is (Thicker Than Water)," which kind of called for a closer dancing posture (and had an uncertain beat, besides). I asked Dad if he wanted punch, and he nodded, so we made for the paper-covered table, loaded up on red sugar fluid and pink cookies, and found steely folding chairs to sit in. The gym was so cavernous that we could converse and hear each other, just.

"I can't believe I'll be graduating in this room, like, 5 months from now."

"I can't believe it either, sweetheart," Dad said. He sipped the punch and grimaced, making a sound something like "grack". "Even in my boozing days I wouldn't have choked back something like this," he said wryly, setting the cup far away.

I was always relieved when he made a comment that placed alcohol in his rear-view mirror, so I smiled happily, even though I agreed the punch was putrid.

"So is this," he paused, "disco the kind of music they'll be playing all night?"

"I don't know," I replied, honestly. "I hope they play a little rock, at least."

He nodded assent and bit a heart-cookie. I looked over as the song ended and the deejay flipped on the next turntable. "Native New Yorker". Shook my head at Dad. Although I did love this song, I just didn't want to dance to it. He didn't seem interested either.

"Do you feel ready for your high-school entrance exams?" he asked. Just the thought of them made my stomach cramp.

"Sure," I lied, hoping my lack of words might kill the topic.

"How many do you have to take, again?" (No such luck.)

"Four," I squeaked. "The overall exam, and then three schools have their own."

"I know you'll do fine," he said with a hand-squeeze. I gulped, cookie crumbs chafing my throat. Then I smiled again to cover it.

People had been making requests; I could see shadowy goings-on at the deejay table. The next song kicked on and I was initially stunned--Led Zeppelin...?

"'Misty Mountain Hop'!" Dad crowed. "Let's go!"

We were still holding hands, so we made our way in tandem into the dance throng. Dad's enthusiasm over Led Zeppelin had me astonished (and he knew the name of the song! I never did, with Zeppelin), but here we were, rocking out, almost choosing the same moves. Robert Plant's vocals pealed and shrieked over the crowd, and the deejay must have had a subwoofer, because the drums and bass were shaking the floor. Dad did not shout "woooooo!" the way some of the wilder fathers were doing, nor did I jump up and down as some of the frilly girls were doing, but we were into it nonetheless.

And then there was a slow song, throwing the mood sideways. Bee Gees again (was that a sigh I heard around the gym?) "How Deep is Your Love". Which I swooned over nightly--not thinking about my father, of course, but wishing for a boyfriend like some of my classmates had. Still, Dad went into his 1950s arms-bent, dancing-with-a-lady posture, and that was fine. Before we started moving, he leaned over and whispered in my ear: "John Bonham on the drums, that last song. Killer." I had to laugh a little, because he was such a music nerd. (And he was right about Bonham, but I didn't grasp that fully until later.) We let the Bee Gees' harmonized warbles wash around us and we swayed with it, twinkling lights along the walls seeming to flow with the melody.

It seems so trivial in the writing: this alternate universe, this father-daughter spot carved into a cold February night, this gym that would revert to a sweaty game space with Sunday sunlight, all guided by the music that mattered to me (and ever evokes my eighth-grade year). Whereas, in the universe I actually lived in, I honestly did not know that I yearned for such moments--because I wouldn't have known to imagine them. I never, ever saw my father, until I was an adult myself.

Now, every year, as a mom and wife, and even moreso as a deejay, I experience a local Father-Daughter Dance and I see in countless other couples what could have been; what was right to expect; what pure happiness and fun looks like; what touches the heart and bonds the daughter to the daddy, and vice versa. Placing 1978 Nessa and Dad in that scenario...absent the many, many reasons that I did not know him at that time in my life, stripping away what was negative, while keeping our essences...this is a healing, rightful vision.

Because, I can attest, it is painfully possible to miss what you never had.

Pathfinding: A Loyola Memoir

The first week of my freshman year at Loyola was unseasonably hot, even for late summer. The wool blazer—which took some getting used to under any circumstances—was even harder to tolerate during that early September of 1978. So the deer-in-the-headlights feeling familiar to any new freshman was compounded by the stifling New York City heat. I can remember feeling basically stunned that whole week.

 

So when Louis Tambini began one of our first history classes by standing in front of us, silently holding up a silvery dime, I felt completely mystified. He was an impressive figure to begin with, sartorially elegant, with a laser gaze and a bottom-line voice. In my years of parochial school in Queens, I’d never seen a teacher like him. Then he spoke, emphasizing his words with the dime between thumb and forefinger. “This is all you need to get into the Metropolitan Museum,” he said. “Don’t ever feel like you can’t go there because you don’t have enough money to get in. It’s a suggested donation. So go to the Met.”

 

Many teachers at The Loyola School made a lasting impression on me. Charles Winans, who nurtured my writer’s soul and extolled my Irishness; Ellen Fee, the calm, collected artist, who helped us all create in the serenity of her studio; Father Ferrand, the unforgettable dynamo en français; Daniel Sullivan, a rigorous communicator of the events that shaped our modern world; Richard Vogel, under whose tutelage I became a full-fledged writer and editor; Sister Maureen, a most unique theologian with a sunny outlook; Joe Hanser, who tolerated my mathematical blocks with gruff kindness; Colleen Ranney, with her unabashed enthusiasm for science; and Jim Lyness, who taught so many of us how to express ourselves before a crowd with confidence. These people truly set up the building blocks of my life and career—what I learned from them I still utilize to this day. But as I seek to summarize my Loyola experience, I turn to Lou Tambini. He opened up this scholarship student’s world with that dime.

 

Does anyone else still have their “Tambini Bible”? (For the uninitiated, that was our history class notebook.) Mr. Tambini’s approach was brilliant: he wrote carefully outlined notes on the blackboard which we copied word-for-word into our notebooks. Those notes described the great ancient civilizations, starting with archeological evidence of early man and ranging through Egypt, Greece, Rome and Europe. They were matter-of-fact and tailor-made for efficient exam studying. But he took our note-taking to a higher level by demanding that we illustrate our Tambini Bibles. Not with drawings, but with photographs clipped from any source we could track down. Travel agencies were our best bet, he advised—they were chock-full of glossy, free brochures that depicted the wonders of the ancient world. Old encyclopedias, National Geographics, any source would do. And each picture had to have a caption. Thanks to this latter requirement, my Tambini Bible still serves as an excellent learning tool about the development of civilizations. I’ve proudly shown it to my own kids, who love to see the pictures of old statues, ruins, castles and other remnants of the distant past…the ancient world at our fingertips.

 

Moreover, I took to heart Mr. Tambini’s admonishment that we should go to the Met. I spent many happy afternoons there as a Loyola student, particularly in the Egyptian galleries and the beautiful Temple of Dendur hall. For a kid from Astoria, Queens, this was a transporting experience. In fact, all of Loyola was. “Diversity” is an oft-heard buzzword in education these days, and well it should be. But Loyola represented a kind of reverse diversity for me: an introduction to the world of diplomats’ children, Park Avenue dwellers, students attired in haute-preppy wear and accustomed to more freedom than I had ever imagined. It was not an easy transition to make; I suffered silently about not being able to shop at Bloomingdale’s and wear Izod-Lacoste shirts, and excursions into New York’s nightlife required Herculean arrangements to get home safely and on time. It seems trivial now, but my otherness was a major heartache then. As my sophomore year commenced, however, the school’s accepting atmosphere finally penetrated my psyche and I realized it didn’t matter. I was valued for my own self, not for what I looked like or where I came from.

 

And along with that brand-new revelation of individuality came the expansion of my intellect. I was by no means a model student, but I learned that certain subjects were native to me, and teachers in those areas helped me to thrive. That prepared me for the challenges of college, where one has to select carefully the courses that will advance one’s goals. But the social lessons of Loyola also prepared me for my stint at Bowdoin College, where my Queens-ness really stood out against the L.L. Bean-dominated, ultra-preppy landscape. I made my way regardless. Loyola had taught me to do that.

 

Ten years ago, I married the son of a classical history teacher (she taught at Germantown Friends School in Philadelphia). My mother-in-law still drills her children on significant dates, events and places. She took her son to Greece and he experienced the beauty of that civilization firsthand. So in a way, Lou Tambini even helped me prepare for my married life! I deeply mourn his loss but am fortunate indeed to have been his student. And I thank the Loyola family, too, for helping me to find and follow my own path.

Venite Adoremus

Starting in fourth grade, I spent a lot of time on the altar of my home church. Not as an altar server--sheesh, that was my Holy Grail back then, to wear that puffy white cotton gown-with-undergown and ring the little golden bell. But in the 1970s, girls were not altar servers. Instead, through a turn of events I can no longer remember, I became a lector.

Fourth grade. The same age as my youngest, who still frequently stammers through a sentence with childlike enthusiasm. Somehow, at age 10, I was instilled with the awesome power of the responsorial psalm and expected to deliver the words calmly and understandably. An entire parish lifted its myriad faces to me, awaiting my instructions as to what they would say in response to the interspersed psalm content I had to read, cold, from a big fat ponderous book. Yes, cold--I was handed the text upon arrival each Sunday.

Did I audition for this role? It's lost to the mists. There must have been some kind of try-outs, although knowing my parochial school, it's just as likely I was drafted because of my grades or my aptitude or the suspicion that I'd had "the calling". (Pause to recall the day that a nun told me that. Pause also to recall that I stammered when I answered Sister Maureen with some bland platitude, dancing around saying what I really meant: "Ohhh, I like boys WAY too much for that.")

Lectoring meant that weekly Mass was a must for me, and I didn't get to choose which Mass I was compelled to attend. I had to dress up, and I often used this as an excuse to borrow my mom's wedge-heeled sandals because "nothing I have matches with this skirt, Ma." How I walked across that massive marble-floored stage without wobbling, I do not know. I was shivery inside, and maybe my voice quavered as I intoned the psalm, but the huge silver mic always covered for me and boomed my words out into the massive church hall. (One of those retro-looking mics, rounded silver square with the horizontal cutouts. Ever cool.)

My nerves calmed as my lectoring career went on. One of the greatest gifts I ever got from my tenure at Most Precious Blood School, in fact, is my ability to speak in front of a crowd without hesitating. And here's an incredible true fact: my mom never came to a single Mass where I lectored. She was completely alienated from her faith at that point, and not inclined to use up Sunday leisure time on accompanying me to a service that would distress her. So, while that might seem cold-hearted and dismissive as you ponder it, what it really meant was this: at a young age, I was handed a major weekly responsibility that was mine alone to fulfill. No mom to comfort me if I made a mistake or got nervous...buck up and do it, young Nessa. Say what you will, my mother molded a fiercely independent spirit. For all I know, I advised her not to bother coming anyway.

Mom did, however, attend Midnight Mass with me and my brother, as my other altar-centered stint was the school choir. Those auditions, I do remember. Being in the choir meant everything to me. I strived for it, and each year I fretted that I might mess up my audition and not get in. The choir's base of operations was the Lower Church of Most Precious Blood, home of the infamous and kid-beloved Folk Mass (acoustic guitars! John Denver songs! feel-good liturgy!) The ceiling was lower down there, indeed; the lighting a fascinating peachy beige that warmed me inside. Sliding into the worn wood of those chestnut pews, feeling their grain under my fingertips...I spent hours upon hours there.

Our leader was a modernistic, charismatic young priest named Fr. Rucando. (So modernistic was he that, on Saturdays, you might see him in the neighborhood wearing beige slacks and a brown collared shirt!) Fr. Rucando was as good a music instructor as anyone I have ever seen. He was exacting yet pleasant, knowledgeable but accessible, and I would have probably leapt off a ledge if he told me that was the way to hit a note accurately. Our choir was about 50 kids strong. We rehearsed after school in the Lower Church, preparing for the big debut (either Christmas Eve or Easter Sunday, depending on the season). That debut performance would relocate us, you guessed it, onto the marble floor of the Upper Church's altar. We would line up by height along the length of the altar, so different from the casual weeks we had spent in pews downstairs. Our voices made a blended sound that stunned us: a lofty, soaring, magical hymnfest. Father selected unusual Christmas fare: "We Three Kings," "There's A Star in the East," "O Come O Come Emanuel." The program was always tinged with melancholy, culminating in our much-rehearsed "Silent Night." Fr. Rucando took "Silent Night" very seriously. He derided the way that popular singers dragged out "heavenly peeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEACE," asking us instead to leap carefully between the two segments of the word, according some dignity to the moment and the emotion. Singing to his specifications, I felt as spiritually engaged as could ever be possible. As though I were an instrument to convey important messages. A muse for faith.

Walking to Midnight Mass, my stomach felt jumpy and excitable. Surely the knowledge that presents would soon materialize was part of that; also, dinner was long since digested, so my stomach was a little demanding. But even moreso, I was immersed in the night-ness of it all, and that never ceased to thrill me. The streets of Astoria were dipped in an inky midnight blue, punctuated by the occasional orange streetlight's benevolent glow. As we approached the church, a life-size Nativity was posted at the corner, constructed so that you could walk "into" the manger and feel that much closer to the Christmas miracle. And my mother was walking alongside me, which (independent girl must admit) meant the world to me. When your mother's an accomplished musician, your musical endeavors essentially become offertories.

The choir's repertoire would be sung before the Mass. Then, a great thrill: after the singing, we were herded up the stairs into the choir loft--by far, the coolest place in the whole church. From the bird's-eye vantage point, we watched the Mass so far below. The entire church was luminous from that spot, with vivid poinsettias winking all over the room. Also, every time the presiding priest waved the jangling censer, and its musky sweet incense wafted out, the concentrated scent would wreathe the choir loft with especial intensity. I reveled in its festivity; the censer only appeared for certain services.

Our choir was called upon during the Mass once more, to lead the congregation in "Adeste Fideles". That was fun, because we had not been taught this hymn during the course of our rehearsals--instead, we were expected to pick up the hymnals and deliver it cold. Of course we knew the tune, but the Latin danced on my tongue, a fizzly delight, unfamiliar even as I knew what the lyrics really meant.

On the way home, invariably my family would tease me because I was a little too "into it" as I sang. Moving my head around, keeping time. So sue me; I'm the daughter of musicians, I can't stand still when I perform. I knew they had been watching me, and that's all that mattered. It was my thing, my offering, and they were there.

What awaited us at home was usually not a happy holiday. Christmas brought stark conflicts between the adults in our home. Luckily we had usually freed our presents of their wrappings before then, so at least that part was sacrosanct. And no matter what happened on the 25th and beyond, my Christmas always had its shining, holy introductory eve, festooned in music and hope. And here's a nifty coda about Fr. Rucando: I always went to him for Confession, because he knew me so well. In what was then the new, daring, face-to-face Confessional method, I used to sit with him and seek advice and solace about my turbulent home life. That man never failed to help, a balm to my young spirit. Coupled with the instruction and joy of his musical teachings, I was deeply fortunate to know him when I did.

Manifesto

Page one: I am a mom. I look at any one of my children and my heart immediately fills with warmth and reaching, nurturance and ridiculous pride. This particular page has been written four times, in the whirling effort of labor and delivery. It was forged under fluorescent hospital lights, where a tone of worry and protectiveness was overlaid. It drives me like no other compulsion. On a weeknight, weary from the working world, it pushes me to stand at the stove, and when my children eat with gusto, this page’s work is momentarily done. It is the hunter-gatherer seeking affordable clothing that will be just cool enough.

Page two: I am an authority figure. More to the point: I’m like a football coach. In my head at all times is a game plan for each child (maybe not with all those x’s and o’s and arrows—though it would be cool if their lives were diagrammable like that). Strategy, rationale, the urgent need for success: all of these are in my mind with every parental mandate I deliver. And I’m not an easy coach, I know that. Sometimes my dictates seem far too frequent and pitched for my liking: I mean, fussing over fourth-grade homework assignments? Page three (see below) really does not want to care whether a kid achieves dominance over tricky mathematical word problems. Lord knows I never did. But it’s all part of the plan, isn’t it? What gates must my child go through before s/he can be deemed whole, successful, ready for adulthood? Which scouts does s/he need to impress? Which linebacker might take my child down? (See, this is where the football analogy may crumble, because I can’t say for sure if linebackers are those massive tackle-delivering guys, or what.)

 

Page three: I am a friend. Each one of my children’s faces inspires automatic, companionable devotion. I pine for their happiness and their satisfaction, and above all—because this is a guiding principle for me—I want them to seek joy and eschew strife. I love spending time with them as a friend would—you know, at the beauty salon with a daughter; at a museum with a dinosaur-loving son; on a train with every one of them (because we’re all train geeks). I love that we laugh at the same goofy things. I love that my iPod reflects their musical tastes as well as mine, and that there’s more overlap there than I ever imagined possible. I will offer advice as a friend whenever and however asked. I believe that each one of them knows this, but I understand that not always can they take me up on it. So in a sense, this friendship has vulnerabilities and potential pitfalls, because rejection is entirely possible. I am not deterred.

 

Page four: I am a writer. I watch the lives of four young people take shape, emerge, shift and grow, and as with everything else I encounter (literally), I am constantly taking notes. These people fascinate me. I know the genetic legacies they’re carrying—the personalities and appearances that resonate up from previous generations—and I’m just watching it all unreel with amazement and interest. The previous pages all lean on this page, though. They demand that I attempt to intervene and help lead these four stories. And with tearful intensity, they desire a happy ending for each. I wish they understood that once I sit down to write, I have no idea what will happen to my characters.

 

Page five is the person I was before these children were born. Before I met their father, even. It’s less a page than it is a film of places, people, times, and motivations that are quaint and nostalgic, now. The ill-starred fashion choices! The bumbling attempts at romance! The conversations with people I don’t see anymore! In a number of cases, in fact, those people are dead now, and I’m left to change and adapt. Thus, all of the above pages now lack the backup of some of my closest advisers and loved ones. I am forced to draw from reserves of strength that, in my youth, I had no reason to believe I would have.

 

All of this reflection has been prompted by a rejection letter from a college to my treasured oldest daughter. Every page of my being is challenged and affronted by this turn of events. Even more so, because the college decision and its implications for my daughter’s future—well, it’s not my game. It’s hers. I have to sigh and hope and believe (and I'm experienced in all of these). But there are tears in my eyes, regardless.

Entangled

The non-specific longing that engulfed me at age 15 remains the most sustained spasm of feeling I have ever experienced. I had always been prone to crushes and flights of fantasy, but as my freshman year of high school commenced, I became a heat-seeking boyfriend missile--only, my guidance system was completely off. The resultant frustration and loneliness were 24-hours-and-7-days challenging.

 

I expended a lot of energy imagining the scenarios that would result in BOYFRIEND. Every school-dance poster brought a surge of hope--although my stepfather held the keys to my fate there, as he would capriciously decide whether I could go or not. Usually, he said that I couldn't. Since these dances involved a nighttime subway trip from Queens to NYC and back, I could understand, even when his decision devastated me. And even when I did go, I pressed my back against the wall and observed blocky movements out on the floor, mentally beating myself for being a non-entity.

 

By sophomore year, I'd crafted a master plan of sleepovers at my friend Alexandra's house that released me into the latenight Manhattan world. With emerging bravery, I displayed my best dance moves with various crush victims (never slow-dancing, sadly). Almost always, there were exhilarating post-dance conversations with those same quarries at bars or ice-cream parlors or pizza places--the oases of colored light in the blackness of New York night. Nonetheless, and maddeningly, I was still unable to maneuver a boy into asking me out. Or even spontaneously kissing me. Much less kissing me.

 

One problem was, I had absolutely no idea what I would do to said elusive boyfriend if I got my trembling hands on him. I had long since received the stone tablets of the facts of life, handed down by my mother when I was in fourth grade. (Bless her for understanding that I was intellectually ready and thirsty to know.)  I consumed young-adult romances like they were self-help books. I certainly understood that there was kissing, and then there was kissing. I knew a boy's trembling hands would start wandering around my shirt front at some point, once kissing commenced. And I had read plenty about the post-foreplay penetration...an activity so mind-blowingly absurd that I dismissed it from any considerations. At any rate, these physical movements existed in a black box of actual sensation. So, essentially, I desperately craved a black box.

 

I did think I knew what it would feel like to have a constant companion--a love sidekick--who would share my interests, praise my music choices, laugh with me, read my writing, and sling an arm around my back when I wasn't expecting it, to remind me that I finally existed in a circle. I belonged. Perhaps this was a lot to load on the average teenage boy.

 

Perhaps it wasn't.

 

Reader, I met him. In the most mundane place: French class. He sat alongside me--assigned seats--and for months I had taken notice of his longish light-brown hair that curled despite any efforts to comb it, the relative heft of his shoulders inside the navy-blue blazer we all had to wear, the stylish corduroys (1979, remember) and the smiling eyes behind big aviators (again, 1979). One day I took notice of something far more revelatory: he had doodled Yes on his notebook. The band name. In its logotype.

 

This, I could launch a conversation out of. For which I must be eternally grateful to my brother, the music fanatic, who had long since infected me with encyclopedic knowledge and my-band's-better-than-yours attitude.

 

"Rob," I said casually, "you like Yes?"

 

He turned left and met my gaze. "Yeah!" he said eagerly. "Seen them a few times live, in fact. They're incredible. [Insert an excited discourse about their elaborate stage set, which I listened to indulgently.] Why, do you like them?"

 

I tilted my head in somewhat-assent. "Yeah," I said. "But Genesis is better."

 

His eyes popped. Really, they did. Score. Rob's response was a diatribe that included words like "sucks." Thus raising my hackles. And for weeks after, we traded barbs about Genesis versus Yes, making escalating claims of superiority based on music that we had rushed home to listen to the night before. A spiraling keyboard solo here, a particularly inspiring vocal there. Guitar prowess. Drum dominance. All delivered to each other across the bow of our French desks, with the slightest twinkle in our eyes.

 

As the dialogue continued, we both started making concessions about the other's favorite, because I was popping in my brother's Yes tapes for comparative purposes, and Rob had taken to analyzing Genesis as closely as Yes. So I became familiar with many of Yes' charms, Rob developed serious fondness for Genesis, and our arguments morphed into encouragements.

 

Most importantly, all this prog rock gave final shape to my burgeoning sense of romance. Cool water on the hot rocks of my wanting. These bands did everything BIG, with ebbs and swells of sound, and lyrics at once obscure and emotionally charged. I felt championed and supported by this music; long nights alone in my room were less desolate.

 

It would be untrue to say that the Genesis-Yes Wars (as Rob and I came to refer to them) were an instant guarantor of romance. No, it took an agonizing year for that to happen. Turns out that Rob was as constrained by inexperience and urgency as I was. But we forged a friendship that ranged beyond music, got to know each other's quirks (plenty on both sides), made each other laugh all the time...became companions. Finally, in the spring of 1980, Rob's friend Larry--an everlasting sparkplug, one of the funniest people I've ever known--became impatient with all of this mooning in the guise of friendship. He prodded Rob to take action, even gave him careful instructions--just as my friends began insisting that I had to do something (because they were dog-tired of hearing me moan about it). And they were right: I had taken to making journal entries in grey marker, for God's sake, to reflect the hopeless that wrapped around me. Besotted poetry excerpt from said journal:

 

a journey into the center of your eyes takes me

farther into myself than I'd ever believed was possible...

joins your dreams with mine

and makes them all come true

and makes your thoughts my words...

 

A pounding in my head: Rob, Rob, Rob. And yet every day I hung out with him cheerfully, never giving voice to anything I was feeling.

 

I always figured that a boy would ask me out under cover of darkness. Hence my frequent engineering of sleepovers, so I could make myself available for the big mo. Yet Rob chose full-on afternoon, in Central Park...a place we had been together many, many times, just two blocks from our school. In fact, the Park was the refuge for those of us who despised the sweaty drill of gym class. Improbably, instead of gym, we dissenters were allowed to go to the Park without a teacher and jog. (I know, it strains the imagination, doesn't it? So 20th century.) A ragtag band of about eight kids would bang out of the gym doors, blinking in sudden sunshine, and head two blocks west. Once the Park's majestic treetops became visible, a subgroup of stoners would veer off to the right, and the rest of us would go to the Reservoir and make some attempt to plod faster than usual around a wide oval. Rob and I used this time for deep conversations, which would start to get breathless until we gave up on trotting and returned to sensible walking.
 

That fateful day, spring had overswept the city, dressing its greys in ballgowns of blossoms. As we half-jogged, Rob and I engaged in a strange, stilted conversation about the idea of going out as we walked the Park paths. I don't think I overwhelmed him with enthusiasm, because a) I was constricted with nerves, and b) I had finally learned something about not scaring off my prey. After the words had been released, rendering us boyfriend and girlfriend in name only, we returned to school--gym was the last class of the day. Once we had changed clothes and the final bell rang by the lockers, Rob and I reconvened and headed for 86th Street, to grab the subway downtown.

 

For an hour now, ever since the conversation, I'd felt like a newborn--overwhelmed by the everyday. Now everything was different in the context of everything being the same. I wondered if I would feel this way forever, until Rob snapped me out of it. At the mouth of the station on 86th and Lex--where streams of people crisscross on the sidewalk, either heading down into the subway, or coming up from it--he stopped me by touching my arm, and then he delivered one electric kiss right there where we stood. My lips tingled with the jolt. As we took the grimy steps downward, I didn't feel the impact under my feet. Perhaps I really was floating.

 

Why am I reliving this? Well, last Thursday, Genesis was issued some kind of Rock Honors thing from VH1. Now, 27 years after I championed them between filmstrips in French class, they are being acknowledged as innovators, masters, leaders. No matter. They were all of those things for me back then, and as the VH1 broadcast brought the full range of their music to the masses, I sat back on the sofa, overspread with the heady, painful confusion and the final sweet payoff of 1980.

 

Tune in next time for: How Alcohol Led to Kissing.  

Sister Grace Agnes

One of the strongest influences in my life, apart from family members, was a woman who routinely bullied and occasionally whapped kids; whose eyes burned with thwarted ambition; whose demeanor was 85 percent sour; whose intentions were simple, if difficult to divine: to elevate her charges whenever and however possible.

You couldn't say that Sister Grace Agnes went about her intentions the right way. In this society, harassing and haranguing students in your classroom is completely unacceptable. Not to mention the open-palmed smacks in the face that she delivered when a student misbehaved.

Moreover, if Sister Grace had taught math, I would not be writing this piece about her. I would have had no reason to seek anything admirable in a tyrant who ruled mathematics, because I despised that subject. But Sister Grace clutched golden keys to the land of my ambition: English grammar. And so, in sixth grade, when I was assigned to her homeroom, I was kind of glad--in a flinching way, because she was definitely the most feared nun at Most Precious Blood School [pause to insert laughter over ironic school name here].

Sister was in her late fifties when she taught us, not much taller than we were, with a dollop of steel-grey hair peeking out of her white-rimmed veil and a piercing gaze. She had a slight limp when she walked, and while she wasn't large in girth, her shoulders were squared off enough to be intimidating. Legend told us, and experience bore out, that she would not hesitate to take a swing at anyone, even the roughest students in the class. And she kept even those kids off-balance, so that order reigned in her classroom. There were times when she smiled or chuckled, and her face would be transformed into someone's daughter, someone's friend. But when that light moment faded, she was all business. As the old-fashioned saying goes, she brooked no foolishness. 

Sister Grace's teaching method never varied from year to year. From Day One, she possessed a set of index cards upon which she had written (in her flawless penmanship) the names of each student. In your hard-bound, black-marble-cover notebook, from Day One, you would transcribe the definitions of every grammatical rule. Sister dictated; you scribbled furiously. And then, you memorized. If you knew what was good for you, that is. Because within a few days of those scribbles, you would be asked to recite the rules she had dictated. "Asked" is not the right verb, actually...demanded. Sister would stand at the front of the classroom with the afore-mentioned index cards held firmly, at viewing distance from her bifocals. And she would bark the surname of a student, randomly, followed by a part of speech. As in: "Martinez. Predicative nominative." And Martinez would be expected to immediately say the definition of that rule, word for word as it was in the notebook. (Only, without the notebook.) "The predicate nominative follows a verb of being and refers back to the subject." (See what a little fear will do for you?)

If Martinez faltered, Sister would flip the card and bark the next name...noting the faltering, so that grades could be rendered later. It was Grammar Boot Camp. And for me, it packed all the thrill of a game show, because I adored the subject matter and strived to know it.

Sister Grace's other major task in sixth grade was teaching us to diagram sentences. Universally, everyone groans about this seemingly pointless exercise, and guess what? I loved it. I was, in fact, exhilirated by it. To me, diagramming was a puzzle that I relished solving, each new sentence a challenge to my burgeoning writer's mind. I never, ever got less than 100 percent on a diagramming test (and we had them at least once a week).

Despite such successes, did I fear this intimidating nun? Indeed, frequently. I dreaded the thought that some minor motion of my hand, some facial expression, some lighthearted glance at another student might cause Sister to barrel down my row and wallop me silly. I saw it happen to many others. My abject terror was such that Sister Grace assigned me a classroom name: Nervous Nellie. Boy, was that fitting for the geeky, jittery kid I was.

So you're wondering where my admiration for this bizarre creature comes in. Well, at the rear of Sister Grace's classroom was a little library. I don't remember any other teachers at Most Precious Blood maintaining a library such as this. It held Scholastic books of the day (nothing too topical, mind you), as well as numerous older books of the Cherry Ames, Student Nurse variety. In a previous blog, I mentioned that my mom resisted my incessant pleas to buy books. "You already have plenty," she'd say. I know now that we were pretty strapped for cash, but it never made sense to me then. Anyway, Sister Grace, for that year, supported my insatiable reading habit by allowing me to take her books home. This was a privilege, and I was extremely careful, never allowing those books to dog-ear or get grease spots at the kitchen table. 

After school, there was a tradition that kids would throng around teachers they liked and walk them down the block towards the avenue, where everyone went separate ways. Someone would volunteer to hold the teacher's bookbag. It wasn't a brown-nose thing, it was more like an informal way to end the school day. Needless to say, Sister Grace had only a smattering of students who ever wanted to walk with her to the convent.

One afternoon, Nervous Nellie found that Sister Grace Agnes had fallen into step alongside her. "You've been reading the books about student nurses," she said to me. A flat statement it was, delivered in her strident voice.

"Y-yes, Sister," I said. "I really like those series." (I did.)

"Are you thinking you might like to be a nurse someday?"

"I don't know...I guess I've thought about it," I said, not accustomed to having adults ask me things like that.

In the slow walk to the convent, Sister proceeded to tell me about how she had wanted to be a nurse as a young woman. (Pre-nun, this was!! The sisters never talked about pre-nun days.) Unfortunately, she contracted polio and became sufficiently weakened that it was deemed she would not be able to handle the rigorous life of a nurse. Thus...teaching.

Thus...the burning ambition that I thenceforth saw in her eyes, thwarted and dulled. 

Thus...my appreciation that she tried, albeit not in the best manner, to at least give her students something: proper English. Which, Lord knows, the streets of Queens were not offering to us on a regular basis.

I found it impossible to defend Sister Grace Agnes to my peers. But many times after that, I walked with her to the convent door. And as the year went along, I came to understand that she had ambitions for me. That was a secret that I held like a jewel. It buoyed me to an excellent high school, and an even better college. Brought me out of Queens, which was a transition I needed to make. More to the point, her support helped me believe in myself. Family members can reassure you all they want; you're never sure if they're just saying that because they love you. But when the woman who rules class 6-305 makes it clear that she knows your worth and expects you to fulfill it, you are persuaded.

Before I launched into this, I googled "Sister Grace Agnes" and actually found a fellow alum of Most Precious Blood who cited her influence:
http://trafcom.typepad.com/blog/2005/11/break_some_rule.html

My fellow alum, Donna, is a writer and an editor. What do you know...Sister Grace nurtured at least two of us. I've e-mailed her, of course, because what are the odds? In the meantime, her blog provides the ultimate capping line for this piece:

"You have to know the rules before you can break them. Amen." 

Living in the House by the Side of the Road

A jumbled reflection on the election just past

There is a moment from my Catholic-school education that I will never forget, circa sixth grade--a year of stern nuns with fearsome face-smacking and hair-pulling disciplinary styles. We were being prepared for Confirmation in that flinching, maturing setting. One day, we were taught that over the centuries, Catholics have often been persecuted and even murdered for their beliefs. Even in our lifetimes, the teacher explained, such endangerment may lurk right around the corner. If persecutors arise in modern times, she said, and if we were ever challenged at gunpoint to state our faith, it would be a mortal sin to deny being Catholic at that moment just to save ourselves. Clearly, martyrdom was a long-standing tradition we were expected to uphold. 

I see now how this was the perfect Confirmation prep, as we were about to choose a saint's name to represent our Christian ideals going forward. I recall many of my classmates handily choosing names that were familial or sonorous (e.g. Marie), but I could not do that. Instead, I spent hours perusing a book I found in Mom's library, The Lives of the Saints. This 1930s volume featured lush artistic renderings which increased my interest in a saint's tale; unfortunately, it seemed that every passage I read with eagerness would suddenly end in martyrdom.  In fact, the saint I really connected with was Cecilia, she of cascading long hair, beatific face (seated at a piano in her picture, interestingly), and musical patronage. But Cecilia was martyred under brutal and vivid circumstances. I could not hitch my star to that, so to speak.

Finally, my deliberations led me to Helena, mother of the emperor Constantine, sophisticated world traveler, finder of the True Cross, cat-lover, and an exceptionally long-lived saint who died of natural causes in her early 80s. Multiple Christian sects revere her--I liked that, too. Even at age 12, I was beginning to realize that my Christianity was less bordered than the Catholicism in which I had been raised. Helena, as it happens, is the patron saint of discoveries, converts, difficult marriages, and divorced people. I could not have chosen more accurately. Moreover, three decades later, I realize that Helena was the root saint's name for my great-great-grandmother, Ellen Finn, whose teenage journey from Ireland to Maine was surely guided by this adventurous patron saint of discoveries. (I didn't know enough about etymology or genealogy to put that together at age 12, so here's a retroactive pat on my preteen back.)

I've been reflecting on these moments from my childhood because they caused me to become immensely less brave about my beliefs…to cocoon them inside, so as not to be challenged. Martyrdom, to me, seemed much less persuasive a way to effect change; I rather preferred Helena's approach: traveling among disparate peoples, inspiring hope, living as an independent maverick female, and maternally supporting her son's world-changing reign as emperor. (Adult Nessa has learned that Helena and Constantine were imperfect, sometimes authoritarian figures, but let's remember them as Lives of the Saints did, for these purposes.)

My young-adult transition from Catholicism to the Society of Friends has not been kept secret (and lest we forget, Quakers have been martyred too), but I don't proselytize, and I believe that prayer is best held privately, as Christ demanded (fascinating information about that here: http://www.religioustolerance.org/prayer.htm). For some reason, political beliefs dwell in the same realm for me. Thus, my lifelong liberalism (honestly! I supported George McGovern, even!) has been something I've rarely promoted. In college, I did find myself arguing vigorously with some of my fraternity brethren, because I just could not tolerate Reagan's policies anymore--I felt those were dangerous, teetering as they did on a chilling Cold War precipice, and damaging as they were to the poor as well as children's educational futures. Those passionately defended arguments left me thwarted and shaking. I stopped doing that sort of thing thereafter.

So, here's a little retroactive bravery for you. I voted for Mondale and Dukakis, Clinton and Gore, Kerry and Obama. Many of those ballots ended up as hopeless as my college-age debates, pushing against a tide of conservative bluster and anti-intellectual sentiment that constantly made me feel beleaguered and disenfranchised. Yes, friends, I'm one of those saps who espouses that Christ himself was a liberal. I believe our government exists because we citizens need its myriad services: protection, infrastructure, education, guidance, all of which I believe the Constitution set up firmly.

Now, I'm not a hook-line-and-sinker liberal, and I won't share why because, see above, not so brave and usually private. But I am someone for whom the last three-odd years of national political discord has been painful in the extreme. Friends on Facebook, pundits on Fox and elsewhere, all decrying loudly and angrily many things that I hold to be self-evident. And I have kept my counsel because I was a scared potential martyr. Seriously, that is exactly how I felt. If Romney won--which the right wing insisted he was on track to do--I feared for myself, and my beliefs. The same fears arose in me during the second Bush administration, when citizens were advised that speaking out against the President in a time of war was tantamount to treason. Gosh, that seemed martyr-like to me. I've wondered why that policy did not apply to the 44th President, but who am I to judge?

I do not like to offend people whom I love, and I despise arguing and discord. So I have tolerated months of ceaseless Internet propaganda that inflamed and infuriated me. I tried very hard not to answer that propaganda in kind. Today, I find myself at a dizzying pass: my presidential vote has been successful for the second time in eight years. Even more to the point, policies I believe to be humane and important have been enacted; women's personal rights have been upheld. There has never been a time in my entire adult life when I felt this nearly in step with my government. (Let's not consider my pacifism…not likely to see that honored in the near term.) 

I seek to peacefully believe. Story of my life. Perhaps I should be more of a crusader, but as we sang at my childhood folk Masses: "Let there be peace on Earth, and let it begin with me." For those friends whose political landscape has just shifted seismically, who are feeling beleaguered and disenfranchised: I empathize with you entirely. I will not mock you, berate you, or despise you. But I am allowing myself joy this week, internally, and here in this modest little post, as bewildering as it is to feel such satisfied inclusion.

Coda: Years ago, I bought an embroidered sampler at a yard sale that reads: "Let me live in my house by the side of the road/and be a friend to man." Having written the above, I was reminded of that phrase--which I always loved, but never quite knew why. Googling just led me to the full poem by Sam Walter Foss, which I'd never read before. Joyfully, it completely summarizes what I'm trying to say. You may read it here: http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/foss01.html