NOLA Notes

The Struggle is Real

If you know me at all, you know I have exemplary worrying skills. In fact, I am paid to worry for others. And I do my job well. Now that I am a parent, I worry about Sun’s future. I worry about her ability to pay for college, her first home. To be financially independent so that she will never need to rely on anyone else to keep a roof over her head.

Being a planner in addition to being a worrier, we have saved money for Sun’s college. We have a rental home that is more desirable than our own home. It will be paid for just when Sun starts college. And then it will be sitting there waiting for her to make the decision to renovate and own it or not. We’ve got the basics covered. Her personality is a lot like mine, so I feel pretty good that this safety net will not hold her back from pushing herself hard to accomplish whatever she decides is her life’s path.

From Little Miss Sunshine, on Marcel Proust:

French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent 20 years writing a book almost no one reads. But he’s also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he uh… he gets down to the end of his life, and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered, Those were the best years of his life, ’cause they made him who he was. All those years he was happy? You know, total waste. Didn’t learn a thing. So, if you sleep until you’re 18… Ah, think of the suffering you’re gonna miss. I mean high school? High school-those are your prime suffering years. You don’t get better suffering than that.

For one reason or another, I have been inventorying the life-altering suffering I have endured. First love thinking love conquers all (it does not conquer a drug addiction, I learned); the second love from my head that failed just the same. High school. Law school. Graduate tax law school. Early lawyering days. Being fired from a job I hated. Overcoming infertility. My crazy family. Just to hit the major ones.

And damned if Proust isn’t right. It’s those years that I look back on with the most fondness. It’s music that was the soundtrack to these episodes that still brings me back and knocks me out.

As a parent, I want Sun to have a good sense of self. To know her value without needing to see it in the mirror of a boy’s eyes. I don’t want her to be a brat who treats people like objects to use and discard. What I really want is to protect her from all the pain I ever suffered. That same pain that, in truth, made me who I am. My brain knows I need to let her learn these lessons on her own, in her own time. And that my role will be a safety-net to comfort and ears to listen and not a lecturer of how to do it “right” the next time.

All a parent wants in life, a parent’s primary purpose in life, is to do her damnedest to assure her child has more opportunities, bigger dreams, and goes further than her own life was allowed.

But do I have it all wrong? It’s the struggle that matters. It’s that stupid “dash on the tombstone” thing. I have learned that working towards a goal is where I find the most satisfaction in life. Not having it accomplished, but doing it. Whenever I end a big project, I am over the moon waxing philosophic about my ever closer date of retirement. Four days later, I am crawling the walls with worry and vexation. Until the next project comes along and consumes me anew, and at last my mind quiets.

Are we doing our children a disservice paving the way smoother for them? Creating safety nets and doing all we can to protect them from suffering? How will Sun ever find her best self if she never gets her heart stomped on and broken into a thousand pieces on the floor? Or if she aces every test she ever takes? Gets every dream job, and it’s all sunshine and rainbows. What kind of shit life is that? And by then it will be too late for her to enjoy her youth in the search.

So now I worry about being successful in my earlier worries that now are covered. Did I just open a different Pandora’s box for Sun? One with less struggle and thus less actual living?

I can’t reconcile the two parts of my brain struggling on which path is best not for me to feel good as a parent but that is best for Sun finding her truest and best self. The struggle is real.

Let’s Be Clear

When I started practicing law some 20 years ago, I did something just as normal as breathing.

I had been called into the tail-end of a client meeting to serve as a witness to signatures. I dutifully brought my pen with me, nodded when I was introduced, witnessed the signings, stood up to walk out, put my hand on the door, and spoke. “Merry Christmas,” I said. The client smiled kindly and wished the same for me. I was not particularly religious, and what I really meant was, “have a nice afternoon.” But I was a rookie and uncouth.

As the door closed, the secretary who had also been in the meeting took the opportunity to inform me in the hallway that the client was Jewish.

I was horrified.

But let’s be clear here. What horrified me was my own lack of decorum and taste; my own my-way-is-the-default-way-of-life mentality. It never would ever have crossed my mind that she was Jewish. Even though I knew Jewish people, worked with them, considered them my friends. I thought, but who doesn’t say “Merry Christmas”? My intent was innocent even if my wording was not. But my stomach didn’t feel innocent.

Let’s be more clear here. The client was a class act. I later learned that she was one of the elite rich in New Orleans. That she donated anonymously to local charities in large amounts on a regular basis. That she once gave anonymously to the City of New Orleans so as to allow the city to keep open public pools for the city’s children. If I said her name, you’d not know it. She was too modest for having wings and parks named after her. But I assure you her kindness and generosity continues to have an impact on the New Orleans you live in. And I had disrespected her. Unintentionally, but all the same.

More clarity still. This woman continued to be a client until her death, by which she shared her largess not only among her children but to local charities, and again anonymously. She did not hold a grudge against me, the partner who called me in, or my firm. She never uttered a word to any of us to indicate she was the least bothered by what I said. In fact, knowing her as I came to, I don’t think it did offend her. I think she was so used to it, she decided decades earlier to let it pass. Upset or not, she had the good manners not to point it out or otherwise assert her different religious view on me.

Bringing me to the point. Not using racial slurs or saying a greeting you feel somehow makes you deny your religion is not “political correctness”; it is common decency. This is not a cookie-cutter world. The world is a Ferris wheel of religions, races and colors. Our mothers taught us at the ripe age of three to respect our elders and each other; to say nothing at all if we didn’t have anything nice to say; to live by the Golden Rule of treating others as we would have them treat us. Because when we assume everyone else in the world is our own race, religion or other discriminating characteristic (or don’t care to even contemplate that possibility), and act accordingly, we are violating each and every one of those simple rules our mothers taught us as children. Being politically correct is about harmony and respect — respect for the person regardless of their sameness or differences from ourselves. Being PC isn’t as much about anyone’s religion as it is about being polite and kind to your neighbor, your client, your boss, your sibling. Not because they share your beliefs or race and not because they do not share those things. But because they are human beings worthy of common decency.

This Little Light

The last day of our beach vacation ten weeks ago ended with the call that my grandfather had died. We drove the three hours home with me in the backseat with Sun, silent tears running down my cheeks. But my mourning was immediately hampered with worry. I couldn’t help but think of the inevitable, even though then unpredictable, change his death would have on my family.

Almost immediately, I shifted into family-attorney-mode and got busy on the estate paperwork so I could get the signatures needed at the funeral from out-of-town family members. And then his estate took on a life of its own. Two sales of real estate and a refinancing of a loan my grandfather financed some ten years ago. Countless meetings, emails, calls and text messages with loan officers, real estate agents, and my family to get the work done. All allowing me to serve my family in a way I am trained all too well to do.

Thus, when the closing on the second piece of real estate came to fruition yesterday, I was ready for the great sigh of relief. The sense of accomplishment. Peace. Closure.

Instead, I woke up today feeling vulnerable and sad. My battle armor of serving as the family attorney was removed. I was now just a granddaughter missing her grandparents, realizing all my efforts were, in effect, removing the tangible proof of my grandparents’ having ever existed in this world. Their names are off the real estate records. Their assets are being slowly divided, distributed, and some even thrown away. We are further removed from their persons, their being, their existence, every day.

Then, about when I had enough of my own pity party, I received flowers from my sister as a token of her appreciation for my efforts. And a kernel of a thought slipped into my mind, and it was this: Perhaps one cannot erase the existence of people so greatly loved as easily as dismantling their home and holdings. My sister inherited my grandmother’s generosity of spirit. My daughter got my grandfather’s good luck; my uncle got his carpentry skills; my mother, his furniture refinishing skills. And my brothers all have it in their DNA to boil seafood like the old salty fisherman that was my grandfather. I inherited my grandmother’s love of reading, writing and cooking; and my aunt inherited her sense of adventure and love of traveling.

Yes, my family is still struggling with saying goodbye to a generation, to a way of existing with each other in a way that was old and familiar. Yes, we will struggle to face changes that will be unpleasant and unwelcome. Yes, my grandparents’ fingerprints on this earth will fade to nothing but dust. But we as a family still have their essence, their being, running through our veins. Our children are formed in part as a result of the love my grandparents shined upon our lives which allowed for the opening of our hearts to shine our own love on others. And even once everyone who ever loved Sunshine and Bootsie are dead and buried, my grandparents’ descendants will continue to carry their strong spirit. That is their legacy: to have loved so strongly and so well that it begot further love to spread to generations yet to come.

Love freely. Live fully. And know that the most valuable asset one leaves behind isn’t one any attorney can assist in transferring.

Foxhole Atheist

We are told there are no atheists in foxholes. That in times of stress or tragedy, we all cry out, “Oh, God.”

It is with certainty and a heavy heart that I can assure you this is not true.

My family is suffering a tragedy. An innocent baby is fighting for his life, and he will suffer a fair amount of brain damage even if he wins the fight for his life.

It’s the stuff of nightmares.

The father is angry with God asking, “Why me? Why my child? What did I do wrong? Why are you testing me? What can I offer to fix it all?” He believes all things happen for a reason. And that REASON is what he is stuck on. WHY was my child allowed, or worse, selected, to be harmed by God?

As I struggle not to shake this man’s faith as he stands in his foxhole any more than it’s been shook, I do not struggle with these guilt-ridden questions. There is no God. There is no Hand of God that personally picked THIS father or THIS child to allow to be harmed. This injury is not an atonement for a wrong either of them committed. It is Nature at her most fickle. Does it suck? Undoubtedly. Do I want to know WHAT caused the injury? Absolutely. But is there a REASON this injury affected this child? None other than a scientific one.

And I’ll tell you something. It’s a lot easier to wrap one’s head around the fickle side of Nature than it is to determine God’s logic. When you take the personal out of it, that God-is-my-God-and-He-will-protect-me-as-long-as-I-love-him-and-now-it’s-hard-to-see-His-protection-even-though-I-never-waivered-in-my-love-for-Him, it makes sense. Bad things happen to good people. At random. I mean, it seems these days God is on everyone’s speed dial–all these direct lines with Him taking a personal and direct interest in YOU: He is the reason you got a promotion; He caused Katrina and the devastating tsunamis; He is testing you by having you lose your job; He caused you to get cancer; He cured you of cancer.

I just don’t buy it and won’t feed it to my daughter. This baby wasn’t harmed by, or because of, God. He wasn’t left unprotected by God. And praying isn’t going to bring a miracle to this baby either. Yes, you can think about this sick child, offer up positive energy and do all manner of well-wishing for him. But I know that through all that, it is up to that little boy, science, and medical treatment to heal him. Or not.

Things die. Death is all too natural. And we don’t go to Heaven; we cease to exist. Except in the hearts and minds of those on Earth who love us. And that is no small thing.

First You Make a Roux

It started innocently enough. And certainly was not part of a bigger plan.

I attended a Johh Besh cookbook signing event, then stood in line to have him sign the books I’d bought. There was one that was for me. In the back of my head rattled Antique’s Roadshow saying that autographs are usually worth more when they are not personalized. So when Chef Besh asked who to sign the book for, I stumbled. I didn’t want my name on it. In the stumbled second, I thought, “Maybe if I have him sign it for Sun, she won’t toss it when I’m dead.” Yes, folks, I think about death a lot. It’s my day job. And so he signed it to Sun. And all my new local cookbooks gets signed that way now.

One day, years later, Sun was with me for such a signing.  And Poppy Tooker, sitting down, was eye level with Sun and spoke directly to her about what dish to cook from the cookbook. Sun claimed ownership of that cookbook immediately. Within days we cooked the dish Chef Poppy recommended. And Sun was happy and eager to go further.

Then we gave Sun kid Chef Eliana’s Cool Kids Cook for her birthday. She’s since cooked the “Baked” Fried Green Tomatoes. And she was HOOKED. So we bought her a kid-friendly knife set and a new for-cooking-only apron. Now that girl is cooking up a storm! This week, she made a quiche. It was perfection.

Thus, with all the hope in the world but no plan on how to have my NOLA daughter become a lover of NOLA cooking, my dream is coming true. I love even more my time spent in my kitchen: We talk; we teach; we learn. We mix; we stir; we grow. We cook. We live. We love.

All in the Family

They say New Orleans is a small big city. Everyone knows everyone. And tonight is just another piece of evidence to the validity of these claims.

I worked the sweets table at my daughter’s school’s cabbage ball game with three other mothers. As the night grew quieter, we got to talking. And one thing led to another and the topic of my grandfather came up and where he lives. Down to his street. One mother, Darla, asked his house number. Well, don’t you know this woman I have now been friends with for two years realized tonight that she and her husband lived NEXT DOOR to my grandparents for about two years. My grandmother invited this then-twenty-something-year-old to join her weekly pokeno game, and she did! My friend played pokeno with my grandmother! Darla knew of my grandmother’s “spells” with depression and she informed me that my grandmother was one of the few true friends she had in that neighborhood. My grandmother meant a lot to Darla and is remembered fondly by her.

Somehow my grandmother seems a little more real again tonight due to her generosity of spirit and friendship living on in my friend’s memory, too. I miss that woman, and tonight that ache is just a bit more acute.

But, wait. There’s more.

My other friend, Laurel, upon hearing my grandfather’s full name asks if I am related to Mrs. Fox, a teacher at my daughter’s school. “Mrs. Fox?” I ask, “I don’t know but we are related to Mrs. Batt. Very distantly, but definitely connected,” I say. “Mrs. Batt is Mrs. Fox’s nephew’s wife,” Laurel explains to me. And just like that. I am related to TWO of Sun’s school’s teachers.

And really? This is just crazy, even for New Orleans. And I love it!!!

The Secret to Life (No, Really, I Mean It!!!)

I spent a week at my 93 year old grandfather’s this month while our house had work done on it. It didn’t take long for me to realize I’d see very little of my grandfather. You see, he has a lady-friend he visits every evening, and we’d not get to his house after work before he’d have left for his date and we’d be asleep by the time he returned.

At a crawfish boil over the weekend, I mentioned our living arrangements to a friend and she told me about a recent visit she had with her grandparents. Overall, her impression was that they have their lives organized around doctor visits. Many of her grandparents’ friends have died, they have trouble getting around, and they just aren’t interested in doing too much. In the end, my friend made the comment, “It’s just the same thing week after week. It’s so sad.”

I thought to myself whether her description of her grandparents’ lives were very different from my own. My week-to-week is very methodical and similar: Work, carpool, appointments, housework, time spent with family. Rinse, repeat.

But then I thought more about my grandfather, who also is on a regime of week-to-week identical living. What sets him apart from my friend’s description of her grandparents is that my grandfather has his almost-daily dates with his lady-friend instead of appointments with various doctors.

And that’s when the Secret to Life was thus revealed to me, in all its simplicity: Life is best lived when we are looking forward to something. Period. It really is that simple.

Aren’t work days and doctors appointments mere formalities the week before a vacation? Don’t the hours spent in the office go faster when you get close to completing a major work project? When you see the light at the end of the tunnel and you KNOW it will get done, and soon?

Thus, if you are my friend’s grandparents who only have doctors’ appointments and being told what your blood pressure is and whether or not you’ll have to change your medications in which to look forward, life can certainly get dull and mundane.

We need joys in our life. But even more, we need joys in which we KNOW are coming, that are expected. Because it is that expectation that consumes our time far more than the actual realization of the joy itself. So I guess whoever said life is about the journey not the destination really knew what he was talking about. Especially if he gave that journey a whole lot of thought before setting out.

14-Day Challenge of Giving Thanks

Just under a month ago on twitter, Jude Boudreaux put an offer to me to send a hand-written Thank You note a day for 14 days. It took me a bit to get started, what needing to get new stationary and a few gift cards for the big ones.

Yesterday was Day 1. My first Note and Lagniappe was to my assistant at my office. She’s awesome and keeps me at the top of my game. Last year, I took on a project (that has an annual deadline) that damn near took away my sanity. She was the reason I stayed sane AND made my deadline. I could give her a Thank You note every day and still be in debt to her. Yes, I am lucky. And what’s even luckier is that ALL of the assistants I’ve had at my firm and all from whom I’ve ever had to seek help are as good as her. I really need to add the office staff as No. 14….

Today was a Note and Gift Card. This one was to a new friend that loaned us a small generator last summer so my husband could re-open his shop after Hurricane Isaac. She is a volunteer at my kid’s school and her selflessness knows no ends. She is a true unsung hero. So my small gesture was an attempt to hum, if not outright sing, to that dear hero.

Tomorrow, I’ll be giving the next Note and Gift Card to my 84-year old grandfather. He took my family in for a week when our house was having work done on it. And he took in our cat (and the cat box) and our dog in his backyard. We totally tossed a monkey wrench into his schedule. And he was nothing but a gracious host about the whole thing.

That leaves me 11 more (ten if I decide to do an official Thanks to my entire staff). And these were easy/obvious/overdue ones. I have at least five more off the top of my head I can send. And another week in which to send them and perhaps find a new occasion to warrant a hand-written Thank You. Turns out, it’s not all that hard to think of things/people for which to give thanks.

Oh, and I owe Jude a Thank You for presenting me with this challenge! And now I put it to you! Will you send a hand-written Thank You note a day for 14 days? In an America of such abundance, it’s refreshing to give thanks and appreciation instead of seeking out MORE. Join me and you’ll find you will be thanking me AND Jude!

 

Little Free Library

At the end of last year, Sun and I wrote an essay and won a Little Free Library. Since then, she and I have been the stewards of our very own LFL. And I do not overstate when I say it changed my life.

First, it brought Sun and I even closer together sharing the project of checking to see if books have come into or gone out of the LFL and working to replenish our stock. We’ve spent hours together walking the neighborhood handing out flyers. She’s been asking when we’ll be doing that again. I think we’ll be sending out a summer newsletter just as an excuse to do it again soon!

Second, it brought me closer to my neighbors. I’ve yet to hear anything negative about the project. Turns out, folks like free things and appreciate the sense of caring that a steward emits by the very act of stewarding. Even wizened neighbors I’d have thought would have scratched their heads at us young hippies have embraced us and our library. I’ve met neighbors that have lived doors down from me for over a decade that I never knew. It’s that nice feeling we New Orleanians get after a storm passes and we are all sitting on our porches with no electricity to pull us indoors. Humans connecting over a common bond. In this case, that common bond is books. The Marthas and Wendys and Dollys that you meet every other summer after a particularly bad storm. Except now we meet weekly, if not more often. We get thank you notes left in the LFL. My favorite was written by a young boy thanking us for the Star Wars book.  We also get notes of encouragement to keep up the good work. I keep every note. And we get offers of donations. Oh, the donations! I need an extra room for all the books we’ve amassed in under six months!

Third, I am a reading machine now. The quality (and quantity) of books being donated to this LFL is nothing short of astounding.

Our LFL has its own Facebook page, its own bookcrossing account, a personalized embossed seal to mark the books, and, most importantly, its own heart. When I was away from home for a week, a neighbor did the stewarding for us. Because truly, it’s hers too. It belongs to this neighborhood. And we all know it. We are proud of this little box–what it means to ourselves, our children, our community. And we are grateful for the wonder it has renewed in us that we didn’t know we could so easily attain.

Shake It Up

My 5 year old imagines her future—a husband, three kids (two girls and a boy) living in an “upstairs house.” And it strikes me that her plans for a stable future are not all that different than what mine were. I was fortunate enough, somewhere along the way, to add my own career into that mix so I’d never be financially dependent on anyone. I spent the better part of my life setting that dream into fruition. And I’ve been happily married with a solid job for over a decade. I changed my mind about the number of kids and the desire for a two-story house. And All I Ever Wanted has been checked off my list.

And we’ve lived happily ever after.

In an often-times monotonous way.

Some days the monotony so thick in the air it is numbing.

Then I want to take my apparent picture-perfect world and shake the crap out of it like it was a snow globe letting the white flecks of perfection fall where they may. I want to get so stinking drunk that the room is spinning and the roar in my head is all I can hear. And then if I were to focus really hard, I would make that roar sound like the waves on the shore; and the spinning room look like the stars in the sky over the ocean. And in that chaos and destruction I know I will find the appearance of peace in the very ALIVENESS of my being. The numbness will be gone. My very skin will be vibrating.

But then I am honest with myself. I can no longer manage the bad hangover from hard liquor let alone the aftermath of truly turning my life upside down just to feel what I think must be a more ALIVE life. And so I drink another beer and not a shot of tequila knowing my world won’t spin off its axis no matter how much beer I consume. And I go another day. And another.  Biding time on going on that bender.

But then I am presented with a week where illness is all around me in folks I care about but aren’t too close to shatter my world; where financial ruin challenges others in my world, and where there is just an all-around absence of love in the world for so many of us. And I become confident anew in the decisions that have led me to my place in this world, realizing I need not shake that snow globe of that little life of mine. It will get shaken all on its own and I will be fortunate if it isn’t smashed to smithereens in the process.

There’s a price I’ve paid for my dream of a stable and calm life. And it’s good to be reminded that that price was NOT the cost of my soul. It is the human condition never to be satisfied for any length of time. You set goals. You meet them. You set new goals. Or you become vapid and lazy. The irony of having All of Your Dreams Come True is that it isn’t the Coming True part that matters. It is the striving to accomplish one’s goals that make the difference. And so now I have set new goals, new dreams. And that numbness has abated, even if just until my next dream comes true.  And I’ve come to believe that I don’t need to destroy all the dreams I’ve accomplished just to feel alive.