Author: franla1917

Being adaptable

In a world of musical possibilities, I play the bass. I have never been the singer or the guitar player. Indeed, my first instrument was the sousaphone. Why? They needed someone to play it.
My musical skill has been to fill holes. I have mostly done that through bass playing and tuba playing. Tuba since grade 5. Bass since grade 7. That’s over 40 years of music in my life. There were times when it was little more than strumming some chords in a given month so it’s not an unending streak of practicing but that is beside the point.

Studying music in college, I did a lot of different things. I played keyboard bass in a recording session. I played recorder christmas carols, sang in choirs, played gong in a wind ensemble, bongso/timbales/conga in a jazz group, and sang backing tracks. None of it was my thing. I was always doing it for someone elses thing.

This probably is not that uncommon a story, but along the way there is usually a bit more doing your own thing or leading.

I think it has something to do with being part of a big family and one that wasn’t always the most healthy dynamic. I’m not here to play the victim or throw anyone under the bus. Not today. But I think being thrust into roles of responsibility early shaped my skill set or maybe that’s just who I am all around.

I will say that being adaptable has allowed me to go to a lot of places and experience a lot of things. That part is good. It has also foreclosed certain other possibilities. I’m not the best at identifying what I want. What would make me happy. I don’t mean this in some kind of grand sense of world peace. I mean it in a more pragmatic sense of what to do with my vacation time, how do I unplug and recharge.

I envy people and feel a deep connection to people when they have some consuming goal. My sister is training for the Boston Marathon and apart from the typical avuncular feelings of familial pride that I have for my baby sis, I feel a bit like I’m caught in her wake and being pulled along by an unseen force. I’m not even very near to her and I feel it. Weird, right?

On some level, this line of reasoning is leading to a broader conclusion and it is simply this: Hey kids, it’s okay to not have any idea what you want. It is by no means terrible. And, it is not that unusual. My kids, nieces and nephews are all entering that part of life where they will make grand decisions about “the future.” It can be overwhelming. I would say, do your best, and keep moving along. If you ride in someone’s wake for a bit that’s okay too. You might never stop doing that.

Why do I try?

I have been spending some time re-invigorating a couple of long term pursuits: swimming and music. As I began to think about these two very large and nebulous areas, I also began to hear in my head a certain amount of negative self-talk. Let’s use an example.

I have always admired swimmers as athletes. I love Olympic swimming and I have swum, briefly, Masters swimming. That means I swam in organized practices with a group of people who were coached. And we went to meets on occasion but mostly as individuals. So you swam races, from the blocks just like on the Olympics.

My favorite of all these experiences was swimming in the big pool in Federal Way that was used during the Goodwill games. It’s the swimming equivalent of playing basketball on the same court as your local pro team. It was really cool.

I also swam a lot as kid. I took swimming lessons many summers and eventually became a life guard at our local “puddle”. All the swimming I did then was in open water, not in a pool. I loved this too. You were in shape and tan – back in the day these were both good things.

Whenever I swam with other people my age, I was never one of the fast swimmers. This bugged me because in other sports I was one of the faster people. So I worked on my swimming a lot and had a fair amount of endurance. Life guard training is good at that.

In Masters, same thing. I was never making it to the fast lane. Lanes are broken up by speed in workouts. In the breast stroke, I was one of the better breast strokers during practices. In relays, I would often get slotted by the coach to swim the breast stroke with other faster guys.

So I took this as a challenge and have studied a lot about swimming in order to improve my other strokes. I took master classes, read books, bought videos and did the drills. Now I am a pretty good swimmer technically. I also found that this aspect of swimming fits me. I like instruction. I like the technical part swimming, music, and other things. 

But a lot of this was driven by negative self talk and even now that voice is present in my head. On my “bucket list” is the goal to swim an Individual Medley in a meet. It contains, cue scary music, the butterfly.

I have never swum the butterfly except very poorly. It’s a very technical stroke. If you ever see someone who is good at it, you will be amazed at how effortless they swim it. At slow speeds, it looks as relaxing as breast stroke.

I took a butterfly lesson a month ago. I have been doing butterfly drills for years, but I never put it all together. I figured I would schedule 3 lessons spread over a few months, just so the coach could help me put it all together. I paid for the lesson and took it an it was terrible.

Now I could just be happy with this. Why not? Who am I trying to impress? Who cares? What does “not doing it” keep me from?

I came from the lesson with a great coach who spent 1 hour and extra 15 minutes in the pool with me and I made essentially no progress. I think she might have felt bad for me. I literally could not effectively move across the pool. She recorded the effort. I watched it. It was awful. I came out of the pool thinking, “that was pitiful.”

Eventually, I thought this is fascinating. Why do I do berate myself on certain things and not others? Why is this more meaningful to me and actually makes me feel bad?

I don’t have an answer. But I’m exploring this feeling a bit. I’m letting my mind work around the edges of this odd behavior. I’m not a berator, yeller or shamer. I would never be a parent, coach or a teacher that shames and belittles students. I do not have some stereotypical voice in my head. It isn’t like a cartoon drill sergeant. But it also is not always a nurturing, helpful voice, full of good suggestions and encouragement. That inner voice is just more of a dick who knows how to push my buttons.

The good news is that I don’t think that a depressed person can explore this kind of introspection with any success at all. I don’t want to say I’m cured. But I am in a good enough place right now to avoid rumination and instead let my inner world be a source of interest and fascination. Thanks meditation and therapy!

Yearly Health Screening

This week was a face-your-own-mortality week for me. I got my blood work done and a health screening at my employer’s expense. I was informed that my cholesterol was high along with my blood pressure. Also, my BMI is too high. Essentially, I am a wreck.

Like most people I know, I knew all that before I was stuck–ever so slightly–on my left ring fingertip. Mostly, I went to get a flu shot. My company provides these for free. The cynical reader might point out that this is good for them because sick people don’t come to work. Ok. But I don’t like the flu, either. It’s a win-win in my book.

Lots of the things that Microsoft does in the benefit package are like that. And personally, I find it great having health insurance and getting bonuses. So, good job, Microsoft. I understand that it is not charity either. Bill and Steve or whoever is in charge now provide this benefit because they can, and, in fact, they must provide these benefits to retain employees who would otherwise go to Google, Amazon, Oracle or Apple, to name but a few.

Our yearly health screening can also include sitting down with a nice nurse who will tell you what you can do to improve your numbers. This year I opted out of that. Why? Because of the effect known as “same shit, different day.” I have heard a 3 to 5  strategies for lowering my cholesterol. Indeed, I take Niaspan, Fish Oil, Red Rice Yeast, low dose aspirin among other things. I have heard this for several years. More cardio, lose some weight. All of this is well-intentioned.

It is more of emphasis for me because I am in the group of people who already have heart disease. As I have written before, I have a replacement aortic valve.


I think it is fair to say that I’m not a tub of goo. I’m not skinny either. For my height, my weight is not terrible. I would love to do some more exercise. I would love to have a bit more control over my weight. Who wouldn’t? But I find that I have little interest in pursuing either thing with much more vigor. There are times when I think my father’s solution to this is the best: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

There is so much seemingly conflicting data about what to eat, how much to exercise, what supplements are important. I find my eyes glazing over. My doctor has said the same thing over and over too. He advocates the TQI diet. Essentially, eat less meat but more protein. Cut down or out on sugar, rice, pasta and bread. Potatoes are a maybe. Okay. Sure. I feel like I don’t eat a lot of that already but seriously? Sugar makes some sense but how much pasta? Once a year? Twice a year? How little is little enough?

My father will start prostate cancer treatment in a few weeks. He’s 74. And the prognosis is good. The treatment will be radiation only. He lived at least this long with a diet of the average American mixed in with some additional bad habits. I’m not calling him out here. But for the record: He smoked. He drinks alcohol. And he has some chronic issues: rheumatoid arthritis and COPD. But he’s sanguine about it!

I appreciate your looking out for me, medical community. You are doing your job. I get it.  But I am a bit beat down by the whole advice thing sometimes. It’s not your fault, I guess. But how ’bout for the rest of the year, we give it a rest, drink a bit of wine, have a couple x-mas cookies, maybe some nog, and just enjoy each other’s company a bit.

The Fourth of July Cook-out

Throughout my life, we had a family reunion at one of my paternal aunts. In my family, aunts are called Matante. Uncles are simply Uncle. And our grandparents were Memere and Pepere. Neither the pronunciation nor spelling is pure from a modern French perspective, but our family devotion to these words represents a connection to the French heritage in my family.

This heritage, I have learned, has much in common with Franco-Canadiens, including the lack of a clear origin story. Perhaps that explains in part why the reinforcement of the broader family understanding is important. But that’s too heady for this post. This post is about the effects of family and a family’s tradition.

Our family simply called the cookout “The Fourth” as if the holiday were reserved expressly for us. With 40 cousins, it is not easy to get together in one place. And as people age and have their own families, the base of the party is eventually spread too thin. This year one of my cousins presented the news that it was no longer possible to have the cook-out remain a fixture on our calendar. The Fourth was essentially cancelled.

I live 3,000 miles from this event. I have not attended in years. Yet, the end of an era is big deal, and this reverberated to me all the way across the US. I felt guilt and sadness. Guilt because I could not help sustain this institution and sadness for the loss of opportunity to see my cousins, even though this was really just the memory of seeing them in the past. The ongoing “Fourth” represented a possibility of reconnecting even when the actual connection was not possible or taken advantage of.

I prefer, through much retraining of my brain, to think of this as beautiful opportunity to remember the joy and goodness of the event. And I also think of this moment as an opportunity to recall some of those memories and the impact they had on me.

I do not ever remember saying thank you to the hosts of the party. I don’t think this is a bad thing. It was such a part of my life from such an early age that you just take it for granted. Saying thank you would, in some way, betray it as some kind of out-of-the-ordinary event. And while it was all that, saying good-bye seemed adequate and at the same time difficult enough. You just didn’t want the day to end.

I’m sure the yard where all this took place is smaller than I remember. Isn’t that how the memory of something grand works? But the place it resides in my heart is big. And I don’t want to diminish that.

I am fifty years old and I attended this cook-outs throughout my childhood, on through college, and into my 20s. My Memere and Pepere have passed away along with cousins, uncles and aunts. The matriarch of the Hamel family, Matante Connie, is still alive but suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. I can only guess at her age, but she is my father’s older sister and he is 74. I mention this to reinforce that we are not talking about some mere decade of tradition, but rather more than 5 decades that I, myself, know about. I have no idea what the genesis of event was. Or, what is true versus the failings of my own memory. I don’t want this to represent the “historical” record of the event but instead offer it as my personal memory.

With that disclaimer, I submit some of the memories for “the fourth” and also some of the broader and loving memories I have for the childhood time I spent in Otter River, MA.

Dear Janice and other Hamel family members,

It is clear from the tone of your letter that this was not an easy decision, and that speaks only a little to the impact that the cook-out had on our lives. I understand all the points you made about how it has become difficult. I live in WA and getting together with my family is not easy either. But what a run this cook-out has had! I say celebrate that fact. Perhaps the Hamel cook-out was modeled after another cook-out but the Connie and Alec cook-out is the standard bearer for success in my life and probably my siblings (though I am not sure they like it when I speak for them).

I’m sorry to hear that Matante Connie is suffering from Alzheimer’s. And it is sobering to think how far our big family is spread across the globe, including cousins who are in harm’s way through their own commitment to service for their country or community.

But guess where that comes from? It comes in part from the values that were communicated to us at events like the cookout.


For me, personally, the Otter River house was like a resort. I have no idea how much real time we spent there, but it was as close to summer camp as I ever got. My father’s camper and tent were our housing. And my cousins were counselors. And probably my second cousins down the street. and was it the King family too? I remember exploring wrecks of cars, throwing stones in the river and pond, volleyball, badminton, makeshift tennis and basketball. I remember the little church down the street. I remember Cote’s store.
I also remember a lot of reassurance for my family when the boat my father was on sank while he was fishing. I remember being angry with him because he lost my sleeping bag when the boat sank. 

I remember all my nervousness on my first proposal to a girl. Linda let me down easy.

I remember seeing my cousin Brian absolutely killing it as he tried to capture a greased up watermelon at the town “pool”. Why it was called a pool? That I don’t know. But Brian was a competitor. He was nothing but wiry energy who just got after it. But so did a dozen other kids just like him. I don’t know if he won, but the watermelon put up a good fight.

I remember pining for the day when I would be able to swim out to the raft.

I remember all the kibitzing that happened as new girlfriends and boyfriends showed up. Or husbands and wives. I remember before Sharon and after Sharon. I remember the pain a family feels when it hears news from afar that it can’t explain to a little kid but is clearly serious.

I remember greased up baseball gloves, singing along to records with headphones, and a player piano (A FREAKIN PLAYER PIANO!). I remember Uncle George and a guitar. And rousing choruses of the groove to Sunshine of your Love.

I remember various cars with new features and the inspection that followed. I remember the older boys having beers with my dad and bustin’ his chops about this and that, hunting, Stock Cars. I remember the food gauntlet. Who brought what?  I remember new dishes, old dishes, macaroni with this and macaroni without that. Coolers, soda, marshmallows and the inevitable point in the evening for “Off.”

I remember dignity, too. I remember Memere and Pepere and then new Memeres and Peperes. I remember them taking positions in folding chairs and then having audiences with anyone who chose to sit down near them.

I remember sitting in the back of my dad’s pick-up always at the tail the Rutland parade that I would later march in as a member of local band. A junker of a truck, it was the transportation for our family. We fit everyone in the cab at times. It was literally hot-wired. I learned to drive that truck later and it had standard on the column. What a nightmare. I also learned how to open the hood and bang the linkage when you got stuck in reverse.

I remember fireworks. Not pleasantly but that’s my problem.

I remember makeshift games of baseball that cut across age groups, using a bat and an oversized vinyl department store ball; the well was second base, and my cousin Christopher sliding home but forgetting he had marbles in his pocket.

I just remember it as the highlight of my summer – a never disappointing event that allowed me to interact with my family. I had no idea how odd it was for an in-law to be so comfortable in the other family. My mother was welcome there and as comfortable as a Langlois. She stayed with us at the Hamel resort during our summer vacation, when my father was working. That seemed normal to me.

To see the breadth of reach of this family summer institution, to see the influence of my elders, to see the varied places people have gone, it was simply awesome. I think it is fair to say that it was a success, time after time. And it is also okay to stop.

Thanks for all that.

Love,
Fran

Three of my most happy times

For some reason, I was in a nostalgic mood today. I was thinking back to when in my life I experienced a kind of pure happiness. There were many times when I was happy but there are a couple that rise to the top of the list.

  1. Month in France with families
  2. Italy trip with family
  3. And last summers Otis West 2012

I’m not saying these were the only times I was happy. Or that other experiences weren’t their equals.
What am I saying? I’m saying that they were times where I was proud of myself for what I did. Things were just flowing. I wasn’t second guessing myself for the most part. There were extended stretches of time where I could just be myself.
It’s so rare for me. I think it must be for everyone but I don’t know.
Otis West is not in first place for only one reason – it was just a week of everyone. It wasn’t quite long enough to edge out those other ones. The overlap time with John, Michelle, Christine, Doug, and Tricia – and of course the kids – did add to it for me. 
One thing that I’m learning is duration does matter. Maybe it’s like Al Franken says, “when I was kid, there was no quality time. Just quantity.”
I have been to France before. And those were good times too. However, the time with Dad was the best.
I’m sure someone will say to me, “what about …” and they might be right.
Thanks everyone for helping me make that happen.

Forward

Usually when I start writing a blog post, I have a pretty good idea about what I want to talk about. Mostly the title comes first and I go from there.
Not today.
I started a post that sounded really whiney and full of luxury problems. Then I just stopped and deleted it. I realized I was just making myself depressed. Sometimes the writing is a type of catharsis, a type of sharing. I know my audience likes that to a point because they say things like, “thanks for sharing.”
I guess, today, I don’t have the stomach for that. I am more interested in moving the thoughts forward, while at the same time, not making bold predictions.
Next week, I finish up my work year on Tuesday. I’m lucky to have banked some holiday time that I will forfeit if I don’t take it. I am looking forward to seeing Nathalie for the first time in months. I am anxious to hear her voice and soak her in.
I also look forward to a a little “me” time. I look forward to getting out in the world and taking in some of that x-mas spirit. I don’t even mind going to the mall because there is something about all the decorations that tickles me.
I look forward to finishing a little housework, too. All this is so much more real than my daily life at work.
I am anxious to hear how my musical arrangements were received first by the players and then the audience. Getting lost in creating those arrangements was at once a challenge (to learn new software) and a treat to re-invigorate a part of my brain that I forget exists and is fairly competent and confident. My brain is also the master of the work. No outside agents.
I look forward to connecting with friends and family, some of whom are facing challenges in their own lives. I look forward to taking walks with them and kibbitzing, especially with Amy – my number one walk buddy.
Bing – I just got the title.
There will be some trying moments, too. There will be some tedious moments or frustrating moments. There will be driving that seems unnecessary. But all that mundane shit will be worth it. It will all be folded into the milieu in which I turn away from work and focus on the other parts of life.
I’ve recently found a blog that I really love. it’s called the Bulletproof Musician. It is written by a musician who became a psychologist, Dr. Noa Kageyama. Think of a sports psychologist for artists.
I’ve been resisting making big proclamations and predictions of late. But also feeling some regret. In general, research shows that regret is a stronger emotion than disappointment. This quote, however, really resonated with me.

But I don’t want to get my hopes up and be disappointed if I fail to get there.
Fair enough, but know that if you fall for this common trap, all you’re doing is substituting possible disappointment in the present for probable regret later.

It’s also worth noting that announcing your goals as means of motivation does not produce better results. Think New Year’s resolutions. He says make resolutions, but just keep them to yourself and quietly work toward them. That works the best for more people.
I am happy to be looking forward to some relaxation in the coming weeks. Whatever is to come after that is what I guess I will quietly work toward.
Bon courage à tous.

No set agenda

Growing up, my father was tough on us when it came to grades. At least, I think he was tough on all of us kids. I know he was tough on me. I hated report card time because even though I did well in school, it was not going to be a time of praise or encouragement. It was going to be a time of judgment and reprobation. Even something like a B- or A- could be turned into a “Why is this a minus?”
My mother was a little different but seemed to mostly defer to my father on the subject of report cards. None of this caused me to run to my room and cry. Indeed, I remember nothing more than accepting this with no tangible emotion, and a personal, quiet dread.
I had no great expectations as to what it should be like. But I can also say that the conversation did not motivate me. There was never a point where I said, “I’ll show him. I’ll get an A in everything.”
In hindsight, that report card experience caused me some grief. However, I don’t think my father ever gives a thought. I think he approached the grade discussion as he thought he should and that was the end of it.
It did shape how I would approach grades with my kids. My hope was to never discuss their grades with them.  By doing this, I could completely diminish the idea of the grade’s importance to the parent. I could avoid the appearance of judging the kids. This didn’t work out the way I’d hoped.
My daughter graduated with one A minus in her life. The rest were A’s. Her A minus came in 2nd year college level French in her senior year. She had the highest grade in the small class of overachievers, but the teacher would not use a curve. Nathalie’s grade was, for the first time, something other than 4.00. That was her senior year, and she first perceived it as a blot on her perfect record. I’m serious. Her grades were literally nearly perfect.
Any discussion I had with Nathalie about her grades was on this theme. Please, get a B. Pursuing perfection can only lead to disturbance. Give yourself a break in a class. Your grades are not as important as your happiness.
According to Nathalie, happiness was good grades so how does that work? I am aware of the the dangers of perfectionism. But my counsel on this fell on deaf ears.
Marc does not appear to care about his grades. And while this fit my “not caring” model, it eventually created other problems. Marc did not seem to understand that failing a class would lead to summer school. And that failing a lot would lead to failure to graduate. And honestly, it pissed me off.
Marc isn’t a troublemaker. He received grades like D – “joy to have in class.” This also did not fit my model. I think Marc would say that we give him grief about his grades. We never wanted to give him any grief. We have more or less stopped doing that now, his junior year. I do remember having more than one conversation where I said, “the curriculum isn’t designed to fail anyone. This ain’t college. The teachers are not trying to weed you out. You only get an F because you don’t give a shit, at all. That’s disrespectful to everyone: the other students in the class, anyone who prepared the class material, the teacher who prepares the lessons, and the tax payers who pay for your school. All you have to do to pass is Show UP – as in make a minimal effort to pay attention and do some work.  So start showing up or we keep having this conversation.”
We never had a better answer. And his grades have improved but seemingly disconnected from anything we have done. That’s okay. We didn’t get tutors so that he would get better grades. We got him tutors because he seems to need it. We just want to help him. It’s nothing more complicated than that.
My point is that we have two kids and two different school-related approaches. And neither one of them fit my hoped-for model. Neither one was the expected problem. I have no idea what they will walk away from school with. I have no idea what they will tell their kids. “Your grandfather was a complete dick to me when it came to report cards. “ In reality, I hardly even look at the report cards. I intentionally would rather that be a non-event because, I actually don’t care. The one consistent thing in both cases is that high grades don’t equate to happiness. In Marc’s case, his miscalculation and ours, was that F grades do lead to unhappiness. The summer school thing is not pleasant for anyone. But I did not see that coming; really? an F?
At least one aspect of school and grades is consistent with my parent’s model. And I think the reason for that point of view might be the same. At the end of my required schooling, my parents let me figure out the next stage on my own. They didn’t suggest anything when it came to college. And maybe it was an unintended consequence but the result was ownership. I owned my experience. I was free to mess it up. I was free to make it what I wanted. That was a good result. Whether I was going to be happy or not, it was on me.
Certainly, when I said I wanted to be a musician, they could have said, “yeah, that’s not a good idea.” But they never did. Lots of other people told me tales of starving musicians. Many, including my own music teachers, were less encouraging. It’s not like I said, I’m going to try to be a lawyer or a doctor. I really want to help people. My parents were genuinely happy for me that I chose to study music and made that happen. They could not really tell me how to prepare for my audition or any thing else practical.
My parents could not call on their experience to give me advice. Neither went to college. Both had siblings who did so the thought of college wasn’t a new or foreign idea. But my parents were more practical in this sphere. He’ll figure it out or he won’t. Occasionally this made me insecure because I could not lean on them for guidance. Eventually, that is what happens when you grow up. New things are challenges by nature. Really, they didn’t care how it turned out because their love for me was not based on my success or failure. That’s not how they value people. To some extent, that’s how I approach it. That’s the only principle that I have to lean on. It’s not like I understand either of my kid’s approach to school.

Commencement

Occasionally, you have moments of reflection that come from unexpected places. This is not one of them. It is Father’s day and the week after my daughter’s graduation from high school. This moment is pretty much designed for reflection.
The graduation was a wonderful event seeing all the kids dressed up in gowns, hearing all the chatter of the parents, the pictures, the speeches, the formality. It was held in Safeco field, where our local pro baseball team plays. The day was beautiful. You could not have asked for a prettier setting. And the kids delivered too.
They said evocative things in their speeches. All the speakers were good and some were excellent. The gravitas of the moment was conveyed and perceived as well as one might hope. But there was a moment where I said, um, this is all bullshit.
I realize that I have attended more graduations than most. I was in band so we always attended graduation. That means I attended at least 5 in high school because it included 8th grade. I attended probably another 5 in college. As a musician, we could actually get paid to play one of the graduation ceremonies as a quintet. So we would play at the college of nursing or engineering. I think I played at my cousins in the college of engineering.
I became intimately familiar with the pomp and the circumstance. I knew that the colors, the tassels, robes would be explained in the program. I knew the sashes and the medallions would be made clear at some point. The speeches would follow a pattern and the appreciation for parents and staff would be a point to hit along the way to optimism and hope for brighter tomorrow.
I don’t mean that graduation is meaningless. I’m not saying that it doesn’t represent some sort of capstone in one’s life. But all the pageantry is invented. It’s not a bad thing, but it isn’t like there is some overseer who provides the program and enforces the structure. Each school pretty much makes up some bullshit to give the event some color and rhythm.
This didn’t make it seem any different to me. It was like one of the moments when you are watching a movie and rather than thinking about the storyline, you think, “how did they get that shot?” You are no longer suspending your disbelief.
Throughout much of my early life, I was an observer and follower of “the rules”, I attributed a lot of meaning to everything. Commencement didn’t escape my notions of perfection. This was manifested in the tassel. Does it goes on the left or the right before you have graduated. I remember the murmurs before the graduation as it was passed on to us that it goes on the left. Well, thanks to Wikipedia, I now know that it doesn’t matter. There is no standard for this, no historical meaning attributed to Aristotle. The symbolism is in the unity choosing one side and the group gesture of moving it.
As the graduation progressed, sitting next to my brother-in-law, he leaned in and said to me, “I don’t remember any of this.”
“Really?” Because I remembered all of it. “What do you remember?”
“I remember screwing around the whole time thinking, when is this going to be over?”
That made sense to me, too. When the kids threw their hats in the air, Paul said, “I love this part.” And he let out a good laugh. I remember thinking that I didn’t do that because I was afraid to lose my hat. And then I thought, what was wrong with me. Why the hell would I ever need a mortar board hat. And actually, right then, I decided to love that part too. It was genuine and happy and kinda cool to see.
Funny enough, Nathalie said later, “I can’t believe those kids threw there hats up way in the air. I was afraid to lose mine so I only threw it a little bit.” That’s my girl!
One thing I regret now is skipping my own college graduation. Telling my father that I wasn’t going was a symbolic rejection. Fundamentally, it was a jack ass move. I was perfecting these at that time in my life. I know now that I was at the height of confusion about my life and I forgive myself for expecting to be perfect. I had no idea what to do with myself, then. I didn’t know who I was. I hadn’t figured it all out, yet I was ejaculated into the real world with no great understanding of what is next nor where I fit into it.
In way, rejecting the graduation gave me a break from meeting expectations. Maybe I had to do it. Now, I know that attending the graduation knowing that it wasn’t about me living up to some perceived expectation would have been okay. It might have provided a moment for my mother or father to take a snapshot and reflect on 21 years of putting up with this jack ass. Or a moment to say, we are proud of you.
I have been able to make peace with that. I attended grad school later and I did attend the graduation exercise. I was surrounded by my family and loved ones. It was fittingly held in the back of the dorms where I attended undergrad. The commencement was a fitting capstone to my previous life storyline. I felt good that day too. I was able to feel genuine accomplishment. I didn’t know all the ways that I had changed, but I was pleased with myself.
Now, I am a parent. I enjoyed the opportunity to wish Nathalie and other graduates well. Good luck trying to figure out life. But I also feel genuine pride. Maybe not pride at all as I don’t see that I had anything to do with Nathalie’s accomplishment. I am impressed by the poise that the kids have and their ability to project some kind of future that includes them in it. I don’t think I was capable of doing that.
I also commiserate with the parents, including my parents. Mom and Dad, you did a helluva job.
And I will share this with my father this weekend: as I approach 50, I value in myself that I have demonstrated that I have a commitment to taking care of my family. And, I’ve always known that about my father too. He took responsibility and he still does.
Forget all the parenting stuff. Are you a good father or not? I don’t know. I still don’t feel secure there.
I think I share this with my own dad. I know that I give it my best. I’m not like other dad’s. I don’t always do it gracefully. I don’t always know what to do. Sometimes I’m not leading the gang, I’m just stumbling through the role. I don’t “own” it.
But I have consistently done what is necessary to make them safe and have options. To be a provider. That’s a helluva thing. Thanks for doing that all those years, too, Dad.

College visit

I visited Western Washington University yesterday with my two kids and one of their friends. The purpose of the visit is a little complicated but let’s put that aside for now.
First impressions of any college I have visited is how young and vibrant everyone is. Same here a WWU. I really wanted a piece of that. I want to have that kind of idealism and optimism around me. The flip side is how much I am not one of them.
I even feel this at our local community college, where I take Italian 6. People who discover I am taking Italian always say the same thing, “Why are you taking that? Didn’t you already go to Italy?”
I say the same thing, “I like it. It’s good for my brain.” And that’s true. But even though I might be the youngest person in my Italian class. I’m still in a class, at a college.The other people are there because the want to be there. They are trying to change something in their lives or brain. This might be the closest they come to going to Italy, but it’s closer than they were yesterday.
It’s not the same as WWU or Boston University or UMass Lowell, when I was there. But even Bellevue College is a dynamic, energetic environment. Mark Neslusan likes to say that undergrad was the last time anyone really cared about what you think. What you write, what you think, what you say. It’s all very critical and absorbed deeply by those around you. And you do the same for them.
Around here, WWU is called “Western.” It’s part of the Washington state system. It is in Bellingham which is only 20 minutes from the Canadian border. It is a beautiful place, akin to Middlebury in that it is tucked away from everything and essentially designed to enhance and embrace the local scene. It is surrounded by tall Douglas firs on one side with a view of Puget Sound on the other.
It was rainy so you couldn’t see any of the nearby North Cascades but there are plenty of snow covered peaks around too. I personally loved the physical place.
The closest school to western that I know is UVM, with the lesser burden that Western is not the flagship of the state. That job is the UW.
Class sizes are small, average 14 to 18. The undergrad program is the focus so not a lot of TA classes. And the student body is medium, 14,000 students.
The school lineage is like UMass Lowell’s South Campus in that it was a Normal school for training women to be teachers when it started. Later, is subsumed a number of other colleges to become an umbrella university. It has a little 60-70’s flavor too as the Fairhaven college is a design your own major, no GPA college.
In the tour, the guide did a great job of anticipating the question of how does that work if you go on to grad school. The guide was in her own major she called Eccopreneurship. She is studying sustainable design and interior design. You receive a BA when you graduate. The bottom line is that it works fine, judging from the results that graduates have had.
The architecture is walk through the past 150 years. From old brick, to poured concrete to certified green. Poured concrete is not a great look but you seem to see it on every campus. The UML south campus library for instance is a bit like that. At think point, it looks a little fish out of water.
Everyone there is wearing rain coat, back pack and some kind of low slung sport shoe. We arrived during the twice-a-year humans versus zombies week and saw students walking around with Nerf guns and orange bandanas while other wore green one. The consensus was that that orange/Nerf people were the humans. Zombies don’t use guns.
It all sounded and looked great to me. If I lived here, I think I would go there.