Although I consider myself a fan of all music, I will be the first to tell you I am a neophyte when it comes to dissecting and analyzing the nuances and intricacies of rap. I find much of mainstream rap to be trite and overprocessed much like their counterparts, the cheesy pop songs that frequently top the iTunes charts. It's a sad state of affairs in the music business these days, that's for sure. As someone who prides herself on gravitating towards music that is a little left of center (to borrow a phrase from Suzanne Vega), I find myself turning more and more to indie and small label bands as I find the end product tends to be more organic and entertaining.
Anxious first tumbled onto my radar screen after seeing him in a few youtube videos where he appeared with his buddy, Jonny 5 from the Flobots. I was immediately taken in by his effervescent personality and infectious grin. With a smile that creeps up to his eyes and out the top of his head, he came across as genuinely exultant. I couldn’t help wondering what he was about. Clearly a talented rapper from the short clips I viewed, I was excited when I discovered he had released a new EP, Spittin Fire.
I've often said that indie musicians are modern day orators to be revered for their talent and bravery in putting forth their voice in such a static filled, auto-tuned world. Indie and small-label rap artists are no exception. Anxious is a powerful example of the tenacity required to be successful as an artist.
I decided to listen to the album while at the gym as a) I needed the distraction from watching the machine tick away the seconds painfully slow, while I was busting my ass in preparation to climb 1,311 steps and b) although not "mellow", I had listened to the iTunes preview and knew this album didn’t scream "get your ass moving, you have 1,311 steps to climb!". As it turned out it made for a good workout mix without giving me a heart attack in the process.
Some thoughts on each of the tracks:
"Chandelier" - Balls-to-the-Wall personal mission statement, exclaiming his presence on the scene w/ obligatory shout-outs to his hometown of Denver, CO. This is a strong opening track that makes you want to keep listening.
"When It All Comes Down" - Beautiful example of 21st Century rap which could very well be a future Top 10 hit that will set the standard for others. I love this track so much, that I keep coming back to it again and again. This is an introspective declaration of never-ending drive and bravado, which again are necessary qualities to be a successful artist in any genre. The female vocals are powerfully exquisite, and complement the gruff richness of his spoken word. "Can you see what I found in you?"
"Rooftop" - Clearly, this is a dude who's taken his licks...and is now putting the world on notice. The track has a mellow flow, in spite of hard hitting vocals that belie Anxious' youthful appearance. Left me wondering - how old is this guy, anyway?
"Beautiful Day" - Good composition that tells the tale of why he loves what he is doing...and it shows. Reminiscent of Ice Cube's "Today Was a Good Day".
"Beverly Hills Cop" - samples the title track from the movie of the same name. Fun song that calls to mind long summer days driving down the beach, with the volume up, pissing off all the old people.
"The Return" - "My name is Anxious, and I love makin' music" Ummm, yeh!...that's obvious. If I had one problem with this album it would be the one metaphor used in this song comparing his skintone to cocaine. But that's just me. Otherwise this was a cool track.
Overall, this was an amazing effort! Anxious seems to be one of those really fun, happy guys who has found his passion in life and who drives forward to achieve the riches he has coming to him. I recommend this album without reservation, even for the most neophyte of rap devotees.
Stay strong, Anxious!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Senseless
This morning, I learned of the shooting in Arizona where 14 were wounded and 6 killed by a man believed to be mentally compromised. Of particular note to me was the 9-year old girl who was shot dead in this seemingly random act of senseless violence. The article I read stated the girl was born on 9/11/01. It immediately struck me that on the most violent day in U.S. history a child was born who, a short time later, would be killed in another act of senseless violence. To me, this was the very definition of irony.
After coming in from a walk with Miss D, I happened to glance down at the Sunday paper that had been left in the lobby for one of my neighbors. The bold headline stated: Arizona Congresswoman Shot in Rampage. My first thought was that that woman was still alive; the article I read this morning had stated that fact. Then I thought of the little girl. She was not alive. She was dead. And yet, she was not worthy of a big headline in a major market newspaper simply by virtue of the fact that, in the mind of the editor who created the headline, the Congresswoman trumped her in terms of status.
Why?
Why is it that we assign priority and importance to our fellow humans, simply based on class, profession and economic standing? What makes the Congresswoman’s life more valuable than the lost life of a 9-year old girl? Is the fact that I am an educated professional making a six-figure income make me more important than the homeless guy seeking shelter in the rain in my entryway? Why, when I am at work, I often feel invisible when in a room of attorneys? Does the fact that I cannot claim Juris Doctorate make my opinions less valuable?
Logic says no; it should not matter where you come from and what you do. What should be important is how you live your life. If you are a good, kind person then that should be the only status indicator. Unfortunately, reality dictates otherwise. Superficial factors of class and money often command how you are viewed in the world. It is human nature to categorize individuals…put them in easy-to-understand compartments in order to comprehend who we are dealing with, and in turn, use that information as a means to gauge goodness and success in life.
I don’t want to pretend that I myself do not engage in this behavior. Of course I do. I am only human, as flawed as that is. But I think I would be doing a disservice to myself if I didn’t question these things.
Life is a valuable commodity, no matter who you are or what you do. If more people remembered that, then perhaps we would not have such senseless acts of violence.
After coming in from a walk with Miss D, I happened to glance down at the Sunday paper that had been left in the lobby for one of my neighbors. The bold headline stated: Arizona Congresswoman Shot in Rampage. My first thought was that that woman was still alive; the article I read this morning had stated that fact. Then I thought of the little girl. She was not alive. She was dead. And yet, she was not worthy of a big headline in a major market newspaper simply by virtue of the fact that, in the mind of the editor who created the headline, the Congresswoman trumped her in terms of status.
Why?
Why is it that we assign priority and importance to our fellow humans, simply based on class, profession and economic standing? What makes the Congresswoman’s life more valuable than the lost life of a 9-year old girl? Is the fact that I am an educated professional making a six-figure income make me more important than the homeless guy seeking shelter in the rain in my entryway? Why, when I am at work, I often feel invisible when in a room of attorneys? Does the fact that I cannot claim Juris Doctorate make my opinions less valuable?
Logic says no; it should not matter where you come from and what you do. What should be important is how you live your life. If you are a good, kind person then that should be the only status indicator. Unfortunately, reality dictates otherwise. Superficial factors of class and money often command how you are viewed in the world. It is human nature to categorize individuals…put them in easy-to-understand compartments in order to comprehend who we are dealing with, and in turn, use that information as a means to gauge goodness and success in life.
I don’t want to pretend that I myself do not engage in this behavior. Of course I do. I am only human, as flawed as that is. But I think I would be doing a disservice to myself if I didn’t question these things.
Life is a valuable commodity, no matter who you are or what you do. If more people remembered that, then perhaps we would not have such senseless acts of violence.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Mean Reds
One of my favorite books is Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's. Many people have seen the movie, but I know far fewer have read the book. I would recommend this short novella to all who have ever felt the need to belong while at the same time, to not be tied down. The underlying theme is that you should never love a wild thing for the more you love a wild thing, the more inclined they will be to break away. As Holly Golightly says in the book, "...you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky."
I've always felt a certain kindredness to Holly. She seems always to be running, while at the same time standing still. She is a strong female character with an inherent weakness for never giving up on her "friends", even when her friends have given up on her.
Holly describes the concept of the Mean Reds. What we nowadays call "depression", Holly describes this feeling as being afraid yet not knowing what you are afraid of. There are times when I have often experienced the Mean Reds myself. I think everyone goes through them from time to time. It's when they start to take over your life, that you have to wonder if maybe you should seek professional help. I will not lie...I've been that low...so low that I needed to reach out to an unbiased third-party to help me through. That was several years ago after a nasty episode with someone I credited at the time with being the one true love of my life (I now know this to not be the case), and my married co-worker. No need to go into details - you can do the math and maybe understand why seeing a therapist was a good option for me back then!
It's been years since I have been back to therapy. Nowadays, I try to combat the Mean Reds with other distractions - I call those Warm Fuzzies. Things that I enjoy doing, that bring me happiness one way or the other so that I may impart joy onto others (yuck - I sounded like friggin' Pollyanna right there, didn't I?!). Do you remember when you were a kid and learned the story of the Warm Fuzzies and the Cold Pricklies? I do...it was a concept that stuck with me throughout childhood and (obviously) till today. It was an important lesson to learn so young in life...that being warm and inviting will get you much further than (frankly) being a cold-hearted bitch ever will. Unfortunately, there are still those people out there that think being cold and callous is the only way to get through life. The challenge for the Holly Golightlys' of the world is to learn to identify the signs early on and extract yourself from the situation so you do not encounter the Mean Reds. I am by no means advocating that one should run away from their problems, but simply don't entangle oneself in the pettiness of others and you will be fine.
I know....easier said than done.
Back to the idea of not loving a wild thing...when I think back on my relationships, the ones that always seem to start off well, the ones that are actually good for me, usually end up with my pushing the other person away and not letting them in. The relationships that were the unhealthiest were the ones that I fought tooth and nail for, and miserably lost. We always want what we can't have, right? I propose as well that we often reject what we need the most. After all, isn't it easier to be alone than than to make a romantic relationship work with someone else? That's all fine and good until you find yourself in bed alone on a cold Saturday night with your down comforter from Ikea and a 15-pound cat keeping your feet warm. (YES..I speak from personal experience). So the question remains, like Holly, am I better off being a wild thing, or will allowing myself to be tamed be to my benefit?
Any lion tamers out there?
I've always felt a certain kindredness to Holly. She seems always to be running, while at the same time standing still. She is a strong female character with an inherent weakness for never giving up on her "friends", even when her friends have given up on her.
Holly describes the concept of the Mean Reds. What we nowadays call "depression", Holly describes this feeling as being afraid yet not knowing what you are afraid of. There are times when I have often experienced the Mean Reds myself. I think everyone goes through them from time to time. It's when they start to take over your life, that you have to wonder if maybe you should seek professional help. I will not lie...I've been that low...so low that I needed to reach out to an unbiased third-party to help me through. That was several years ago after a nasty episode with someone I credited at the time with being the one true love of my life (I now know this to not be the case), and my married co-worker. No need to go into details - you can do the math and maybe understand why seeing a therapist was a good option for me back then!
It's been years since I have been back to therapy. Nowadays, I try to combat the Mean Reds with other distractions - I call those Warm Fuzzies. Things that I enjoy doing, that bring me happiness one way or the other so that I may impart joy onto others (yuck - I sounded like friggin' Pollyanna right there, didn't I?!). Do you remember when you were a kid and learned the story of the Warm Fuzzies and the Cold Pricklies? I do...it was a concept that stuck with me throughout childhood and (obviously) till today. It was an important lesson to learn so young in life...that being warm and inviting will get you much further than (frankly) being a cold-hearted bitch ever will. Unfortunately, there are still those people out there that think being cold and callous is the only way to get through life. The challenge for the Holly Golightlys' of the world is to learn to identify the signs early on and extract yourself from the situation so you do not encounter the Mean Reds. I am by no means advocating that one should run away from their problems, but simply don't entangle oneself in the pettiness of others and you will be fine.
I know....easier said than done.
Back to the idea of not loving a wild thing...when I think back on my relationships, the ones that always seem to start off well, the ones that are actually good for me, usually end up with my pushing the other person away and not letting them in. The relationships that were the unhealthiest were the ones that I fought tooth and nail for, and miserably lost. We always want what we can't have, right? I propose as well that we often reject what we need the most. After all, isn't it easier to be alone than than to make a romantic relationship work with someone else? That's all fine and good until you find yourself in bed alone on a cold Saturday night with your down comforter from Ikea and a 15-pound cat keeping your feet warm. (YES..I speak from personal experience). So the question remains, like Holly, am I better off being a wild thing, or will allowing myself to be tamed be to my benefit?
Any lion tamers out there?
The Art of Toast
I love toast. I love toast in the morning. I love it at noontime. I even love having toast for dinner. Sometimes - like tonight - I will even go all out and have toast for dessert! With a little bit of honey, my mouth won't know the difference between the toast or the pint of dulce de leche in the freezer. And dare I say - the toast is probably a little bit healthier! I am, after all, using whole wheat bread as the toast foundation upon which I build my tasty dessert.
When I was a kid my mom used to make the best toast. It was always browned to perfection, with just the right amount of butter, spread on at exactly the right time so that it melts into all the little nooks and crannies. mmmmmm...I used to love her poached egg on toast. You would pierce the yolk of an otherwise alabaster egg and the sunshiney yellow gooeyness would seep out onto the bread creating a tasteful combination that was a joyful start to your day.
And we can not forget the sheer esctasy that is French Toast. Day old cinammon swirl bread, sliced thick and allowed to soak in an egg batter before frying up in a generous slab of butter...6 minutes over medium heat, turn, then 4 minutes on the other side. C'est magnifique!
People make fun of me because I insist on having a toaster oven - you know, like grandma has. I say "pish-posh"! I like my toaster oven. It allows me to make toast out of any kind of bread - whole grain, sprouted wheat, ciabatta, baguette...even the occasional blueberry muffin has taken a turn in my trusty toaster oven. Though I will say there is nothing worse than having to dig out burnt-on blueberry muffin from the heat coils of a conventional toaster!
Shut up...it was an experiment!
And let's not forget about my panini press...that makes a very tasty toasted cheese sammie when I am in a hurry! If I could have a brick oven in my kitchen, I would install one just to make bruschetta the way they do at Macaroni Grill. Mmmmm....
In case you are wondering - no! I am not high. I just have visions of toast points dancing around my head, the way some people think about chocolate or sex...well...I think about those too, but in addition to the toast!
Oooohhh...you know what is really good?? Baguette toast, with a little nutella spread on it, shared with the one you love... *sigh*
But don't get any crumbs in the bed! That will just really spoil the mood!
When I was a kid my mom used to make the best toast. It was always browned to perfection, with just the right amount of butter, spread on at exactly the right time so that it melts into all the little nooks and crannies. mmmmmm...I used to love her poached egg on toast. You would pierce the yolk of an otherwise alabaster egg and the sunshiney yellow gooeyness would seep out onto the bread creating a tasteful combination that was a joyful start to your day.
And we can not forget the sheer esctasy that is French Toast. Day old cinammon swirl bread, sliced thick and allowed to soak in an egg batter before frying up in a generous slab of butter...6 minutes over medium heat, turn, then 4 minutes on the other side. C'est magnifique!
People make fun of me because I insist on having a toaster oven - you know, like grandma has. I say "pish-posh"! I like my toaster oven. It allows me to make toast out of any kind of bread - whole grain, sprouted wheat, ciabatta, baguette...even the occasional blueberry muffin has taken a turn in my trusty toaster oven. Though I will say there is nothing worse than having to dig out burnt-on blueberry muffin from the heat coils of a conventional toaster!
Shut up...it was an experiment!
And let's not forget about my panini press...that makes a very tasty toasted cheese sammie when I am in a hurry! If I could have a brick oven in my kitchen, I would install one just to make bruschetta the way they do at Macaroni Grill. Mmmmm....
In case you are wondering - no! I am not high. I just have visions of toast points dancing around my head, the way some people think about chocolate or sex...well...I think about those too, but in addition to the toast!
Oooohhh...you know what is really good?? Baguette toast, with a little nutella spread on it, shared with the one you love... *sigh*
But don't get any crumbs in the bed! That will just really spoil the mood!
Music And Me
I've been thinking a lot lately about music and how I relate to it in my everyday life. It seems these days in order for me to focus on any task, I need to have some sort of music going in the background. Depending on what I am doing, it can be something as chill as St. Germain, as energized as New Order, or as profound as this guy whom I've mentioned a couple times in previous blogs (and who is currently grinding away in the background as I type this).
I read somewhere once that "music enriches us all, and the seeds for appreciating it are planted in childhood". Based on my own experience, I do firmly believe this statement to be 100% true. My parents - my father especially - laid a solid foundation early on for music appreciation. My dad still grooves to the Beatles, the Beach Boys and Elvis. He also digs folk music - the Chad Mitchell Trio, Peter, Paul and Mary. And he LOVES showtunes...don't even play Red and Black around him or he will happily serenade you. When my mom was younger she certainly had an appreciation for folk and classical music; then again, she also had a "thing" for John Denver. If she were a teenager, it would have been akin to a massive crush on a teen pop idol, a la Leif Garrett. I vividly recall once on one of our many car trips between DC and NH we took during the 80s, a radio station somewhere in Connecticut played Calypso. My otherwise "keep in turned down to a nice, pleasant decibel level lest you ruin your delicate ear drums" mother, nearly drove us off the road reaching for the volume control, proceeded to jack it up to full blast and sang along at the top of her lungs. When the song was over, she literally begged the radio to play it again. It was a bit frightening actually. However, it does drive home my point that music can have an amazingly profound impact on the listener. It can reach down into your soul and pull something out that you otherwise keep hidden away.
I've been to many a music show in my day - from huge stadium rock concerts, to orchestral/ symphonic presentations in world-class concert halls, to funky jazz jams in back-alley clubs, to down and dirty hip-hop and reggae performances at smaller, local venues. The music may vary, but the emotion it provokes is a common theme no matter the genre. You can see it in the audiences' faces, in their body language, the way they bop their head to the rhythm, tap their feet in time to the music. Human beings are organically predisposed to respond to music. The fortunate few among us who possess the gift to create music are to be regarded as modern-day heralds, calling out to the masses to rejoice in their inherent passion.
Do you remember the first album you ever bought? Mine was AC/DC, "For Those About To Rock". Seriously. I loved it - played it over and over again. I wish I still had it. I would play it now. I was 10 when I bought that record. Three years later, I hit puberty and subsequently discovered the perpetual boy band and it was all pop, all the time, until I was introduced to the pleasures of funk and jazz while in college. From there, my tastes gradually evolved into the eclectic mix they are today. My preferences vary depending on my mood...ambient, funk, soul, rap, country, jazz, pop, electronic, grime, even house and trance. I always say I will listen to anything once. More than likely, I will listen more than once, and usually grow to like everything I hear. I view the whole musical experience as a lesson in acceptance and tolerance. I believe that shutting yourself off to entire genres - to the point where some people won't even walk through the loathed section in the store - is contrary to human nature and doesn't allow one to grow in mind, body and soul. What upsets me more are those people that do not allow music into their lives, because they are too busy letting in misery and negativity and are incapable of enjoying the relief that music will bring them. I am sad to report my mother has become one of those people. Ironically, it was around the time that John Denver passed away, when the music died for her.
My hope for my mother, and others like her, is they will one day feel again the good vibrations, allow themselves to tap their feet, and open their hearts and minds to the possibilities that music presents...whether the message being expressed is one of joy or sorrow, life or death, love or loss.
Music is Life.
I read somewhere once that "music enriches us all, and the seeds for appreciating it are planted in childhood". Based on my own experience, I do firmly believe this statement to be 100% true. My parents - my father especially - laid a solid foundation early on for music appreciation. My dad still grooves to the Beatles, the Beach Boys and Elvis. He also digs folk music - the Chad Mitchell Trio, Peter, Paul and Mary. And he LOVES showtunes...don't even play Red and Black around him or he will happily serenade you. When my mom was younger she certainly had an appreciation for folk and classical music; then again, she also had a "thing" for John Denver. If she were a teenager, it would have been akin to a massive crush on a teen pop idol, a la Leif Garrett. I vividly recall once on one of our many car trips between DC and NH we took during the 80s, a radio station somewhere in Connecticut played Calypso. My otherwise "keep in turned down to a nice, pleasant decibel level lest you ruin your delicate ear drums" mother, nearly drove us off the road reaching for the volume control, proceeded to jack it up to full blast and sang along at the top of her lungs. When the song was over, she literally begged the radio to play it again. It was a bit frightening actually. However, it does drive home my point that music can have an amazingly profound impact on the listener. It can reach down into your soul and pull something out that you otherwise keep hidden away.
I've been to many a music show in my day - from huge stadium rock concerts, to orchestral/ symphonic presentations in world-class concert halls, to funky jazz jams in back-alley clubs, to down and dirty hip-hop and reggae performances at smaller, local venues. The music may vary, but the emotion it provokes is a common theme no matter the genre. You can see it in the audiences' faces, in their body language, the way they bop their head to the rhythm, tap their feet in time to the music. Human beings are organically predisposed to respond to music. The fortunate few among us who possess the gift to create music are to be regarded as modern-day heralds, calling out to the masses to rejoice in their inherent passion.
Do you remember the first album you ever bought? Mine was AC/DC, "For Those About To Rock". Seriously. I loved it - played it over and over again. I wish I still had it. I would play it now. I was 10 when I bought that record. Three years later, I hit puberty and subsequently discovered the perpetual boy band and it was all pop, all the time, until I was introduced to the pleasures of funk and jazz while in college. From there, my tastes gradually evolved into the eclectic mix they are today. My preferences vary depending on my mood...ambient, funk, soul, rap, country, jazz, pop, electronic, grime, even house and trance. I always say I will listen to anything once. More than likely, I will listen more than once, and usually grow to like everything I hear. I view the whole musical experience as a lesson in acceptance and tolerance. I believe that shutting yourself off to entire genres - to the point where some people won't even walk through the loathed section in the store - is contrary to human nature and doesn't allow one to grow in mind, body and soul. What upsets me more are those people that do not allow music into their lives, because they are too busy letting in misery and negativity and are incapable of enjoying the relief that music will bring them. I am sad to report my mother has become one of those people. Ironically, it was around the time that John Denver passed away, when the music died for her.
My hope for my mother, and others like her, is they will one day feel again the good vibrations, allow themselves to tap their feet, and open their hearts and minds to the possibilities that music presents...whether the message being expressed is one of joy or sorrow, life or death, love or loss.
Music is Life.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Word to the Wise
Not sure if anyone would want to take parenting advice from me: someone who has not had a child and who will likely never bear a child of her own. However, I feel that I can still offer some valid advice to parents who may be struggling with how they will pass on life lessons to their children, simply by virtue of the fact that I am child to a parent who was unable to connect with me, his eldest daughter and in many respects his most complicated offspring.
Lest you think this is going to be a soliloquy of “Oh-Woe-Is Me-I-Had-A-Crappy-Childhood”, I wish to be clear from the outset that I do not now, nor did I ever, think I had a crappy childhood. My upbringing was challenging at times, but I always felt loved and nurtured, supported throughout and pushed forward into the world armed with the necessary tools to be a successful adult, many of which were bestowed upon me by my mother. What was truly lacking in my life was a father who was present: emotionally, and oftentimes physically. He was too wrapped up in his work and his own problems. And when he was, I never got a sense for who he truly is as a person. He was/is very much a “say as I do” kinda guy, who covers up his flaws under a thick armor of fear and rarely lets his guard down. Although compassionate and extremely intelligent, he has always been too absorbed in his own world to really know how to deal with me on an emotional level. I never fully bonded with him. According to my mother he just simply did not know what to do with me. He was 24 when I was born; an age I look back upon and wonder if I could have even managed to deal with a child had I had one at 24.
I was a very shy and introverted little girl who clung to the apron strings of my maternal grandmother, having spent many days under her watchful eye while my mother went back to work almost as soon as I was born. I was an avid reader and preferred solo play to time spent with my peers. When my brother and sister came along, it didn’t really get much better as I always felt they had each other and I was the third wheel. A myriad of health problems plagued me from an early age, forcing me into surgery at least seven times before the age of 12. I had hearing and speech issues that erroneously led some teachers to believe that I was just incapable of learning. To his credit, he did rally against those teachers and told them in no uncertain terms that as a fellow educator, they couldnt be further off the mark.
That being said, things came to a boiling point when I was a teenager. We were always arguing with each other, largely because I never fully understood his need to put himself forward as someone he was not, nor his need to put up walls barracading himself against his own children. When my father did share of himself with us, it was always about how infallible and perfect he was and how his detractors and those who did not agree with him were flawed individuals. He was convinced that he was going to be President and live to be 100 years old. If he was to be believed, my father was Superman, The Green Lantern and the Lone Ranger all wrapped into one.
Even now, I am the age I am and I still expect him to give me some clue that he has come to terms with his imperfections…that he is a person who has learned from his mistakes and embraces those lessons to make himself a better person. He struggles with this to the point where I suspect he is fighting against acceptance as he believes it will make him weak and vulnerable. He recently said to me that he thought he was a perfect person and doesnt know how to deal with having a black mark on his record as that means he is imperfect. Hated to tell him, but absolutely no one is perfect. It's about time he accepted that fact.
Here is where I get to that sage advice I promised earlier: let your children know that you are less than perfect. Don’t be afraid to tell them that some of the toughest lessons life teaches us are the hardest to adhere to. It’s ok to make mistakes, even when you know better, as long as you aren’t causing physical or emotional pain to yourself or to others. And it’s really ok to just be human and accept those imperfections that make each and every one of us unique. Your children will not judge you negatively if you admit your flaws and acknowledge your mistakes. If anything, you will teach little Johnny or Betty Sue that it’s ok to be who they are. Life’s greatest challenge is overcoming obstacles and hardships on the way to becoming the best person you can. From my perspective, if I had more of that reassurance when I was growing up I think both my father and I would be in a better place today.
Lest you think this is going to be a soliloquy of “Oh-Woe-Is Me-I-Had-A-Crappy-Childhood”, I wish to be clear from the outset that I do not now, nor did I ever, think I had a crappy childhood. My upbringing was challenging at times, but I always felt loved and nurtured, supported throughout and pushed forward into the world armed with the necessary tools to be a successful adult, many of which were bestowed upon me by my mother. What was truly lacking in my life was a father who was present: emotionally, and oftentimes physically. He was too wrapped up in his work and his own problems. And when he was, I never got a sense for who he truly is as a person. He was/is very much a “say as I do” kinda guy, who covers up his flaws under a thick armor of fear and rarely lets his guard down. Although compassionate and extremely intelligent, he has always been too absorbed in his own world to really know how to deal with me on an emotional level. I never fully bonded with him. According to my mother he just simply did not know what to do with me. He was 24 when I was born; an age I look back upon and wonder if I could have even managed to deal with a child had I had one at 24.
I was a very shy and introverted little girl who clung to the apron strings of my maternal grandmother, having spent many days under her watchful eye while my mother went back to work almost as soon as I was born. I was an avid reader and preferred solo play to time spent with my peers. When my brother and sister came along, it didn’t really get much better as I always felt they had each other and I was the third wheel. A myriad of health problems plagued me from an early age, forcing me into surgery at least seven times before the age of 12. I had hearing and speech issues that erroneously led some teachers to believe that I was just incapable of learning. To his credit, he did rally against those teachers and told them in no uncertain terms that as a fellow educator, they couldnt be further off the mark.
That being said, things came to a boiling point when I was a teenager. We were always arguing with each other, largely because I never fully understood his need to put himself forward as someone he was not, nor his need to put up walls barracading himself against his own children. When my father did share of himself with us, it was always about how infallible and perfect he was and how his detractors and those who did not agree with him were flawed individuals. He was convinced that he was going to be President and live to be 100 years old. If he was to be believed, my father was Superman, The Green Lantern and the Lone Ranger all wrapped into one.
Even now, I am the age I am and I still expect him to give me some clue that he has come to terms with his imperfections…that he is a person who has learned from his mistakes and embraces those lessons to make himself a better person. He struggles with this to the point where I suspect he is fighting against acceptance as he believes it will make him weak and vulnerable. He recently said to me that he thought he was a perfect person and doesnt know how to deal with having a black mark on his record as that means he is imperfect. Hated to tell him, but absolutely no one is perfect. It's about time he accepted that fact.
Here is where I get to that sage advice I promised earlier: let your children know that you are less than perfect. Don’t be afraid to tell them that some of the toughest lessons life teaches us are the hardest to adhere to. It’s ok to make mistakes, even when you know better, as long as you aren’t causing physical or emotional pain to yourself or to others. And it’s really ok to just be human and accept those imperfections that make each and every one of us unique. Your children will not judge you negatively if you admit your flaws and acknowledge your mistakes. If anything, you will teach little Johnny or Betty Sue that it’s ok to be who they are. Life’s greatest challenge is overcoming obstacles and hardships on the way to becoming the best person you can. From my perspective, if I had more of that reassurance when I was growing up I think both my father and I would be in a better place today.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Blog.
I am a blog.
People read me. I was created by a single being...a carbon-based, bipedal lifeform with a seemingly endless array of emotional capability and eternal capacity to endure much pain, while still maintaining a bottomless sense of humor. My creator is a person full of morbid curiosity, self-contained imagination and stifled creativity.
And - dare I say - impeccable writing skills. Most of the time.
I am a compilation of feelings and thoughts. A repository for that which occupies my author's mind and bedfuddles her spirit. I am a vehicle by which this person can communicate and say what is flying about the rafters of her brain.
I am a modern day diary. A journal filled with sometimes inane, but occasionally brilliant ideas. I am a virtual vessel that contains the emotive ramblings of an imperfect being. I am rife with opinion and unafraid of expressing myself.
I am what every human strives to be.
Then again, I am what every human already is, but they just dont realize it.
I am an innocent messenger, representing a not-so-innocent human being, all alone in a complicated world.
I. Am. A. Blog.
People read me. I was created by a single being...a carbon-based, bipedal lifeform with a seemingly endless array of emotional capability and eternal capacity to endure much pain, while still maintaining a bottomless sense of humor. My creator is a person full of morbid curiosity, self-contained imagination and stifled creativity.
And - dare I say - impeccable writing skills. Most of the time.
I am a compilation of feelings and thoughts. A repository for that which occupies my author's mind and bedfuddles her spirit. I am a vehicle by which this person can communicate and say what is flying about the rafters of her brain.
I am a modern day diary. A journal filled with sometimes inane, but occasionally brilliant ideas. I am a virtual vessel that contains the emotive ramblings of an imperfect being. I am rife with opinion and unafraid of expressing myself.
I am what every human strives to be.
Then again, I am what every human already is, but they just dont realize it.
I am an innocent messenger, representing a not-so-innocent human being, all alone in a complicated world.
I. Am. A. Blog.
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