Caroline Kennedy is My New Best Friend

This is kind of old news, but still worth noting: on April 12, 2011, I became friends with Caroline Kennedy.

Setting: 100 people in small room at a Barnes and Noble in Seattle
Context: Book signing of her newest poetry anthology She Walks in Beauty

When I went up to get my book signed, our conversation went something like this:
Me: "I used to be a NYC public school teacher and I want to thank you for all you do for public schools."
CK: "Did you try to get as far away from there as possible?"
Me: "Not exactly, but when I was there, I did poetry slams with my students in the Bronx, like you talked about, through a group called DreamYard."
CK: "Really?! I work with DreamYard! What school were you at?"
Me: "PS 32."
CK: "I've been there! What is your name? Do you know [so-and-so]?"
Me: "I'm Jen Nuckols, but I don't know her. She must have come after I left."
CK: "Did you know there was a peom about PS 32 in the book?"
Me: "Really? I had no idea! That's awesome."

I sit down in the front row of chairs, snap some pictures of her, and look for the poem. I find it, but it is actually about a middle school, not the elementary school I taught at.

After a few minutes, she looks down at me between autographs and says, "Did you find it?!"
Me: "Yes, it's great! Thank you so much for telling me about it." 

We're bonded now. I feel like we're kindred spirits. Besties. I want to call her up and go out to lunch together and discuss public education, poetry and being a woman.

My favorite detail about her that night was that she was wearing fluorescent-orange-and-pink Nikes with her pant suit and silk scarf. At the end of her remarks, she explained that she had forgotten to pack her dress shoes, and her running shoes were all that she had with her. I love that she didn't just go out and buy herself another pair.

She also said that she regrets that her mother, Jackie O, is primarily remembered for her fashion and style, because what she actually valued were words and literature. She would ask her children to memorize poems for her as gifts; she kept a book of all the poems her children had "given" her. Caroline memorized her first poem - it was 3 lines long - at the age of 3.

Caroline said that because poetry is bite-size, it "works" in our fast-paced society. She said that she has watched how memorizing and reading and writing poetry has built confidence in the lives of the students she has worked with in the Bronx. I can attest to that too. And finally, she argued that poetry is the simplest way to express human emotion - and the expressing and sharing of human emotion helps us to live better lives.

I wanted to stand up and shout "Amen!" numerous times as she spoke. We get each other. I am grateful for her and for all the other strong, articulate, intelligent, motivated women in my life who inspire me by contributing so much beauty and goodness to the world.

Lost Access

My passport expired June 17, 2011.

I didn't realize it until I wanted to take a friend to Canada a few weeks ago and decided to check my worn little blue book.

When I was confronted with the reality of expiration, I felt both guilty and panicky. 

Guilty because it seems like a betrayal to both myself and my country. This is not who I am! I left the country at least once every year from 2005-2010. One of the best days of my life was when I had to get extra pages inserted into my passport because all the others were full of sundry stamps and visas. How did I let this happen? Holding a valid passport is a way of saying to the rest of the world: "I am interested in you." Now, I am failing to do that.

I also felt panicky because suddenly I realized that I am trapped. Grounded. Stuck. My liberty has been compromised. I do not currently have any international trips planned, but even if I did, I couldn't go. I have lost the peace of mind of knowing that I could flee the country at the drop of a hat. No more four-day weekends to Costa Rica. No more spontaneous dance parties in Vancouver. 

But now I am scared to send off my passport for fear that I won't get it back. What if they randomly decide to keep it? What if it gets lost in the mail? I think I am going to color photocopy the best pages before I send it off - just in case.

When I do get my new passport - one with an embedded chip, I should celebrate my renewed sense of identity and freedom with a trip. Who wants to come? Where should we go?

A lot of time to think

Last Saturday, I rode my bike 204 miles from my house in Seattle to Portland, Oregon. I rode with 5 other friends in the official annual "STP." We started at 4:45 a.m. and crossed the finish line at 8:45pm - where we lifted our bikes over our heads for this picture.

My friend Julie picked us up at the finish line, and she asked if we every got bored during the 16 hours. What did you think about during all that time? She asked.

This is my response: (Things in italics are yelled out loud.)

I gotta stay close to that wheel. Stay on the wheel! Oh no, I'm losing them. Catch up! Catch up!
I should drink, but I don't want to take my hand off the handlebar right now.
Don't hit me, car.
Can I really go another 180 miles?!
Tracks!
Oh crap, I think I'm already getting sunburned.
Dang, we just hit 25 mph. The pull of this pack is thrilling.
Hungry. Hungry. Gotta fish those shot blocks out of my jersey without losing speed.
On your left!
That is some nasty roadkill.
Only 25 miles until the famed banana bread rest stop.
Pothole!
Let's get onto the end of that line. Oh, I really want to join them.
Umm, I can't feel my fingers.
Wow so many people with flats.
Do you have everything you need? 
Dear butt: I apologize.
Crud, another hill.
Weird that I have the chills and am getting a little dizzy.
Water. Drink.
Turning!
Keep pedaling. Push it. Push it.
How many miles until the next rest stop again?
I hate hamburgers, but they sure sound good right now.
Car back!
Shake out the hands.
Oh hill, you got nothing on me. Don't down shift yet. Don't down shift. Ok, now!
Laying in this grass is the best sensation of my life.
Jen, if you can't handle this, how are you going to handle labor?!?!
Slowing! Turning!
Gross, a bug just ricochet-ed off my sunglasses.
Only 10 more miles til next rest stop. I got this. I GOT THIS!
Stay on that wheel. Stay on that wheel.
Passing!
Why do people do this?!
Oh crap, the light is turning yellow. I hope we all make it through.
This glorious: Mounts St. Helens, Adams and Hood all in one view.
Another hill?! Shut up.
I can't believe we have already gone 170 miles. This is ridiculous. And awesome.
Tracks!
That dude's calves are amazing.
It's the eye of the tiger it's the thrill of the fight. Rising up to the challenge of our rivals.
Portland city limits. Yahoo! Wait, there are still 10 more miles to go? Seriously?
I need more sport beans.
We made it! We made it. Oh my gosh, we made it.

Thirty, I Welcome You!

I turned 30 about 3 months ago, and I had the most amazing birthday party - birthday weekend - ever. It was epic! Magical! There was paragliding, cycling, fine dining, Rothko, LA Philharmonic with Dudamel, red velvet cake, family and friends from out of town, a movie about my life with home video highlights created by Dad, and a book of tributes gathered and artistically assembled by Mom. (Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who contributed! Your kind and generous and creative words meant so much to me.)

I was overcome by the amount of love bestowed upon me throughout the weekend. The amount of planning and work from my parents, the thoughtful gifts and the personal tributes moved me deeply. Because this new decade was ushered in with so much love and ritual and celebration, it has been impossible for me to feel any regret or fear about being in my thirties. I feel only gratitude for the family and friends who blessed my first three decades and who have lovingly launched me into the next.

Turning thirty was unforgettable, and being 30 has been wonderful too - mostly because I can use it as an excuse to justify just about anything. For example:

I am going to run my first half marathon because I am 30! (Saturday, June 25 - still nursing some shin splints. Wish me luck!)
I am going to stop wearing old T-shirts to bed and get some matching pajamas because I am 30!
I don't have to watch cartoons for an institute activity on a Friday night because I am 30!
I am going to frame some original art to hang on my wall because I am 30!
I am going to go wild at the Fremont Solstice Parade because I am 30! 


In reality, I would probably be doing these things regardless of my age, but it is fun to have a ready for excuse for things that I do or do not want to do.

So overall, consider this a hearty endorsement for both turning and being 30.

Classic?

I just saw the film Breakfast at Tiffany's for the very first time. My initial reaction is: "Huh?"

I really do not understand how a gigolo, a nameless cat, a White man made over to look like an Asian, a farmer looking for his 14-year-old bride, a Brazilian millionaire, the mafia and an anorexic spaz all add up to make a classic.

The costumes were beautiful, and there were some interesting shots, but the rest of it was odd, incongruous and unbelievable. I watched it with two other Breakfast at Tiffany's novices, and throughout the film we took turns interjecting, "What?! This is so weird."

Is this movie the film version of Moby Dick - a classic that no one actually likes?

At least a catchy pop song came out of it.

My Therapeutic Bias

As a therapist, my job is to provide a place where people can feel accepted for who they are. I am supposed to "check my biases at the door" in order to empower my clients to make their own decisions.

I have learned to remain calm and impartial when students have told me about selling marijuana to 6th graders (he was a Senior), stealing car stereos for fun, and blackmailing parents for ransom money. Recently, I have sincerely made each of the following statements without any sarcasm or irony:

"So even though your boyfriend has given you STD's four different times, you still do not want to have protected sex with him."
"What I hear you saying is that graduating from high school is not as important to you as owning a gun."
"Oh, I am so sorry that your 14-year-old girlfriend had a miscarriage. That must be really hard for you."

But there is one thing that I can not accept. One thing that makes it almost impossible for me to work with a client. One thing that evokes all my prejudices and biases:

adolescent male mustache hair.

I'm talking about those long thin wispy dark hairs on the upper lip. The ones that look like they belong on the leg of a 13-year-old girl. This is not a statement against full-grown man mustaches; my beloved grandfather has had an attractive one his entire life. I am coming down against boys who are in denial about their ability to grow a real mustache and no one has told them that the pubescent beginnings of one are just gross.

My teenage brother Steven grew a mustache once - ironically. We made the above video as a joke. Unless you are purposefully trying to be ridiculous, this should not be done.

When I talk to the boys in question, I feel like a man talking to a woman who is purposefully trying to avoid looking at her chest: I purposefully try to avoid looking at their upper lip by maintaining strict eye contact. The problem is that instead of focusing on what they are saying, I am focusing on not looking at their face. When I do accidentally glance at it, I have to focus on not gagging. This is not an effective approach to creating a strong therapeutic bond. 

If I am going to provide meaningful counseling to these boys, I am going to have to figure this out. I can not let whiskers effect how I feel about them! I can not let personal grooming keep me from being able to create a safe and accepting environment!

I think I am going to start keeping a basket of free disposable razors in my office.

Nightstand Anaylsis

This is my nightstand:

This is my mom's:

This is my dad's:

This is my uncle's:

I love being surrounded by books. I love reading them and holding them, and I love having them next to me when I sleep.

I think the reason that I like having them so close to my bed is because I hope that some sort of osmosis will occur during the night. There is just not enough time to read everything I want to; absorption seems like the only solution. Even in rooms where I have not had a nightstand, there has always been a toppling pile of books on my floor.

The sad reality that I will never be able to read all that I want hits me every time I walk into a bookstore. I become simultaneously excited and stressed: excited because of all the intriguing titles - both new ones and classics - and stressed because I know that in reality I will probably never read more than just the titles.

So somehow, having a collection of books close to my head for long periods of time creates the hope (the illusion?) that even if I do not get to read every page, those pages will still become a part of me. I hesitate to put those books back on the shelf because it feels like releasing them from active duty and admitting defeat - even if I have not turned some of their pages in months.

Another advantage of a nightstand full of books is the comfort of having a wealth of human stories, wisdom and experience at just an arm's length away. I can lay in bed and grab the biography of Eleanor Roosevelt for a quick fix of inspiration or Fault Lines for a momentary trip back to South Africa.

When the nightstand does not get cleared off for months or years at a time (see exhibit #4, above), it becomes a story in and of itself. It is the story of the reader's curiosities. It is a record of what they have been learning about and thinking about and what stories they have been privy too. If you could see all the titles of the books on my and on my parents' and on my uncle's nightstands, you would learn a lot about us.
 

In analyzing my nightstand - besides the immediate implications of titles like Be Honest, You're Just Not That Into Him Either and Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy and The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down - I have begun to accept that maybe it is ok not to read all my books all the way through (or even to internalize all of them while I sleep). I can interact with books in many different ways. The collection itself tells me something about my goals and values and preferences and interests and desires. 

And right now my primary desire is to read more.

A Grown-Up Christmas

I was going to become an adult this Christmas.

I was going to buy and hang Christmas lights on the outside of my house.

I purchased a $10 box of icicle lights from Walgreens three weeks ago, and since then there has not been one day when I have been home when it was still light out, and not not one night when I have been home when it wasn't raining. (No offense, Seattle. I still love you.)

Finally this afternoon, my home teachers came over with a ladder. It was too short. Knowing that there are no exterior plugs around the house, I had previously purchased a little socket thing that screws into the flood light. It did not conduct electricity at all. I am leaving to go home in two days anyway, so I gave up my three-week battle, thanked my home teachers, and cursed the Grinch for trying to keep Christmas from coming to my little house.

The bigger disappointment is that I did not get to claim this rite of passage. There have been many moments in the past decade when I have thought, "Ah Ha! Now I am an adult!" For example, I had that thought the first time I:

• Drove a 15-passenger van full of teenage girls
• Bought a toaster oven
• Filled out my own tax return form
• Drove a drunken undergrad to the ER 
• Used my ID to get into a club
• Received a Christmas card that was addressed just to me
• Signed a lease
• Bought lingerie for a friend's bridal shower

While those activities did make me feel very grown up, this Christmas light endeavor was particularly exciting to me. For the first time, I have a sense that where I live is (semi-) permanent and I want to invest in it. That seems very adult. So does wanting to contribute to the overall aesthetic of my neighborhood.

There is also something that feels very "old" in taking over a tradition that used to belong exclusively to my parents; my dad has always put up the exterior lights for our family. Overall it feels grown-up to try to create Christmas where I live and not just wait to experience Christmas until I go home to my parents' collection of music, decorations and lights. Like an adult, I am trying to own Christmas in my current home.

It looks like I will have to wait until next year to work out all the kinks so that I can finally hang up my exterior lights. Then I will be able to say, "Ah Ha! Now I am an adult!" one more time.

Comedic Timing?

I unintentionally made an entire movie theater laugh last weekend.

I was at the movie Red. We were all engrossed in its tranquil opening scenes when out of no where the bad guys appeared on screen, and I gasped out loud.

Really loudly. In fact, it may have been more like a combination yelp/scream.

At first when people started to laugh, I thought that I had missed something funny in the split second that I had yelped and closed my eyes. But when I asked my date why everyone was laughing, he said:

"They're laughing at you!"

Oops. At least this time I did not leave the theater with a bruised elbow. That happened in another movie when bad guys startled me, and I banged my funny bone on the plastic cup holder.

I blame my jumpiness on my younger brothers, who spent our growing-up years hiding behind doors and in hallways waiting to spring on me.

They would also laugh at my tormented reaction, but then they would get pummeled.

I almost pummeled my roommate the other day when I screamed like a baby when she walked through the front door. I was engrossed in the mail, and she was wearing a hood. I don't think she thought it was very funny.

But no one got pummeled at the movie theater, and I was happy to offer the afternoon-movie-goers some additional entertainment.

(N.B. Please excuse the sheep costume in the picture. It was the closest thing I had to a surprised/shocked/startled shot.)

It's All So Magical

I used to dislike Halloween.

It enables the proliferation of 3 things I do not like: stereotyping of large groups of marginalized people, the sexualization of women, and gore. Plus coming up with a costume that is unique enough, cute enough and modest enough is stressful.

However, my Halloween-loving roommates have completely changed my view of this holiday. Their ghoul parties, witch parties and dance parties have made this a season of whimsy and magic. Their creativity makes Halloween feel more enchanted than frustrating.

Because of the many festivities, for each of the past two years, I have had to have three costumes. It's been a blast, and my roommates' large supply of costumes, craft skills and make-up artistry have significantly decreased all costume-related stress.

2009
(From left to right)
70's lady in a 70's dress - My friend Laney and I wore matching wigs to the dance party
Ghoul - A group of friends gathered for a "spooky dinner"
Disco Dancer - Yep, same wig but different dress for another party

2010
(From left to right)
Sheep - I was one of seven sheep and and the cotton gluing took hours and then littered the dance floor
A "Tea Party" - As in the political movement. Ha!
Witch - 30 of us gathered for "spooky food" then a witches' stroll through a local bookstore

Many more pictures of things such as the "flock of sheep" and a "close-up of the witch's moles" can be found on facebook.