The mis-adventures of a reluctant parent

Then there's this. After sliding out of bed and preparing the morning's cup of coffee, I shuffled into the living room at 6 a.m. in a pair of boxers, eyes still sleep-encrusted, clutching wakefulness with both hands. Crossing the threshold, I stood, unaware, in the eye of a storm brewing quickly, a toddler spinning with rage beneath me over Lord-knows what.

Suddenly and without warning, her track shifted towards my crotch, mouth open, intent on expressing her tightly wound anger with uncharacteristic ferocity. When she bit down, I howled and spilled steaming liquid everywhere, including on M's legs. Now lucid, shaking from the pain, I bent down, stripped off her clothes, carried her into the bathroom and started the water. Running.

I know too much about degrees, rankings, been exposed to the trauma of percentages ( this is a __ degree burn covering __ % of the body). So as M soaked, playing in a spontaneous "bath", I suppressed the past and sat on the toilet. Just stared. Just as I am now into the screen. Eyes unfocused. It's all a blur.

The synapses are not firing this morning, and I'm cranky as all get-out. We have colds, all four of us, which has made rest impossible, particularly given that this rag-tag mix of nose-dripping, phlegm-spitting dreamers sleep in the same room of a small urban apartment. I'm dreaming of space and hyphens.

And then, there's this: newborns apparently are physically incapable of breathing through the mouth, which makes simple congestion a potentially life-threatening situation. Great. As if I wasn't enough of a neurotic mess.

Yesterday, it happened. After years of reading about those who say it with a snarl, someone said it to me with the appropriate accompanying growl:

Nobody can teach you to write. Good luck wasting your time.

For anyone out there who still insists on such stupidity, I say this: an MFA is a studio degree, a conservatory for writers. Nobody learns to write in such a program, just as a guitarist doesn't discover how to strum at Juilliard.

If one wants to critique MFA programs, there are plenty of avenues: the potentially destructive effect workshops can have on the individual creative process, the competition for recognition amongst students, the petty publishing games some play. However, in my estimation, these potential pitfalls are far outweighed by the opportunity to focus on craft for such an extended period.

So, in the interest of ending world ignorance on the topic, do yourself a favor and stop asking the question. Can you teach someone how to become a writer? The answer is: Please just give me my fries. Story links: Transparency International Stanislaw Lem Scalia George Mason Transparency Myspace Soprano Eta Neocon Plan

RHINO is my favorite readable animal; today I'm preparing a submission it will soon eat.Story links: ben domenech happiness is a warm gun v for vendetta charlie sheen youtube berlusconi snakes on a plane transparency international mary winkler tierney cpe

Jordan hits Foetry square on the head.

Last month, during a self-made "mean week", Foetry hit me with a barrage of honest anecdotes and sound observations. I was amused at the time, and hadn't thought of making reference to its valued public service during that stretch until now, for Foetry is truly a gift, a light among the nations of bloggers droning on about craft and community. Chatter. Foetry gets things done--a locus of noble activism. Plus, it promotes work that it values, and I was fortunate to be featured by Foetry, for the publicity brought new readers here, many of whom found the beginning of this essay and emailed to offer support and praise. Thank you, Foetry. Please continue your important work, regardless of what your detractors may say.

Yesterday, my daughter wet her pants twice at school. When I picked her up, the teacher said, "She gets so excited about her work, she refuses to stop."

This is what I want, to be so taken with my work that puddles form under my chair.

UNCW - Taking the plunge

The anatomy of a decision, particularly one that shifts the foundation of both self and other, is a tangled mess of seething organs. And I don't know how they function, can't figure them out. The moving parts. The pumping fluids. The excess. The bloating. The pressure.

Our emotions have shifted so often, our thoughts changed so frequently during this process, that it was difficult to trust anything in the end. But there is an end to the story, and in the end, we're deciding to take the MFA plunge, to rip roots from our earthen home here in DC and move to Wilmington, NC, where I will realize next what has been up to this point a distant dream: the space to write, the time to write, free of the rat-race responsibilities that cave in on so many.

I feel blessed, lift my head to a God I don't believe in, and say thank you. These breaths are the first I've taken in some time.

A little help?

Question: There's this essay. It's out there, in the hands of editors, places like Post Road & Harvard Review. But I'm seeing new sections, am considering posting another series here, one section at a time, as they come. Should I? Would this be considered "previously published" for print journals currently considering the piece?

Out of the Loop

This morning, I dropped my daughter off at daycare. As I plopped her down at a miniature table for breakfast, countless toddlers gathered 'round and began asking her where's your green? A strange question, I thought. Where's your green? As she looked down at her light blue sweat shirt and then around the room, I saw it. Everyone was decked from head-to-toe. Socks. Pants. Pins. Even the teachers were at it. Fuck. So I pulled off her outer layer and pointed to a random green stripe on the sleeve, saying, "There it is, boo."

"That's my green, Abba?"

"Yes."

And then the smile. It would be alright. She had her green.

Life in 7 Days

And on the 7th day, we rested, heads still spinning.

When my first child was born, I wasn't in love. Overwhelmed, conflicted, I was afraid of being the sacrifice, of losing time, myself. But I eventually grew into the role, confronted the demons whispering she will pull you down, became an activist, Abraham refusing to sacrifice even the lamb.
Now, with the second, I love. This morning, I loved. And it feels right.

MFAs and babies, oh my...

Mailbox News:
Between changing diapers and napping all afternoon, I managed to make it to the mailbox, and this is what I found: Letters of acceptance to two more MFA programs--University of Pittsburgh and George Mason University, and a rejection from University of Iowa. So, now the decision process begins between UNCW, Pitt, GMU & forgoing graduate school.

Baby name:
It's traditional in Judaism to wait at least 8 days before naming your child publicly. Well, we're not so good about following the rules, so today (since J's father is returning home) will be the naming ceremony. Envelope please. Shhhh....

The Short Version

Here's the eagle, pictured yesterday, less than a day old. (She will be officially named on Sunday).

At six in the evening on Thursday, J's water broke. Shit, I'm wet. After talking with a midwife, we were given the impression active labor would arrive in six-eight hours. Thirty minutes later, J's contractions were only two minutes apart and coming hard. A forty minute drive from the birth center, I grabbed our packed bag and sprinted to the car.

After coaxing J. into the passenger seat between contractions, I broke every conceivable traffic law. Ran stop signs. Red lights. Sped the wrong way down one-way short-cuts. Basically, I shaved 10 minutes off of our drive, skidded into the parking lot at 8 o'clock, and J. pushed that sucker out 15 minutes later.

If I would have been forced to deliver my child in the car...

[Now I'm going to taking a nap. Slept 4 hours in two days. Zzzzzz...]

The eagle has landed! Last night at 8:35 p.m., we gained a beautiful baby girl...

...and there are more details, for I almost had to deliver her in the car...

A Public Offering

O.K., the essay is finished, for now. The editing will happen later. Then the submission. And so it goes.
BUT, in the spirit of Joe Massey, I'm taking offers now before I send this essay out. Turning the tables. So...anyone interested in publishing the final version of this piece, backchannel to dictionary_david (at) yahoo (dot) com. Grin.

Now I can obsess about our next project: BIRTH. My wife is officially due, and I'm a wreck! Thank God for chocolate, beer, and blogging.

After the Fact - Part 7 - Final Section

VII.
So this is the story: I teach at a Jewish high school near DC. I don’t wear a yarmulke. I write. And recently, I auctioned off my future income to the highest bidder, setting the minimum price at $100,000. Was looking for a patron. For publicity. Got some. But it was just a variation on the same theme, another subconscious expression of the child, curled on the floor, testing the waters, failing. Nobody bid.

There’s also this: In “Portrait of My Body,” Philip Lopate says, “One reason I like to teach is that it focuses fifteen or so dependent gazes on me with such paranoiac intensity as cannot help but generate an aura in my behalf.” An aura, visible, attracting energy before a captive audience, every day, the self-produced production played out upon a personal stage.

And there’s this: I don’t wear a yarmulke anymore. Don’t want to be that.

And this: I recently stopped playing in the pick-up basketball game I've been a part of for the past year, can't stand the pressure of performance, don't enjoy the games anymore, eyes watching as I throw up brick after brick. Clank.

And this: Death, the thought of immobility, of a cold, still, lonely grave, terrifies me.

And this: I want to be heard. I write to be heard. In the dark quietude of night, I type, moving my lips, mouthing words, hoping they will be spoken, that the breath of life will be blown into them by others. And I want this to be about craft. About art. About life being lived, expressed, swallowed whole. Only, I think it’s being snorted. Injected. Smoked, the fumes rising, forming words in the air, hovering. Tell me I’m loved. I need to know. It’s my addiction. My curse. My breath of life. I’m holding my breath.

[The End]

After the Fact - Part 6 (con't)

I was trailed, followed for miles by screaming, fist pumping supremacists, called fucking Jew through open windows, curtains blowing in the breeze, hired by a private school in Saint Louis undergoing a multi-cultural renaissance. As you can see [by that thing on his head], we’re committed to diversity.

The summer before my teaching career began, I worked at a wilderness exploration center, taught children the art of rock climbing and backpacking. Once, while sitting on the ground plucking strands of grass, waiting for a bus to arrive with the day’s group of adolescent explorers, my co-leader, Jenny, leaned over and asked, “So what does the beanie symbolize?”

I must have said spouted some bullshit about consciousness and respect that probably didn’t register. Upon finishing, she grinned and said, “Looks to me like a bull’s-eye. Kind of like you’re trying to say to God, ‘Pick me, pick me.’”

A few days later, it was time to take our outdoor classroom to Saint Louis’ inner city schools, and the group was unsure whether the bull’s-eye should make the trip. As we emptied the van of our necessary equipment—high tension cables and pulleys for leverage demonstrations; tanks teeming with freshwater fauna from the lake; flags and compasses for mock rescue simulations—Chris said, “You sure you want to wear that thing?”

Jenny added, “Put away the bull’s-eye, dude.”

I suddenly flashed back to a trip several months ago, visiting an old college buddy in Athens, Georgia. One evening, we settled on a local dive where the jukebox was always stuck on Hank Williams. Before entering, Doug turned and said, “You wearing your Jew cap?”

“You think it’s going to cause a problem?”

“Looks like we’re gonna’ find out.”

As we swung open the metal door, it felt as if we had just pushed our way into a Wild West saloon. Heads from the bar turned. The music seemed to stop, and all eyes were on us. If I had been carrying a gun, a hand would have been hovering above my hip ready to fire off a couple of rounds. As it was, my hands were stuffed in empty pockets as we hesitated at the door.

A burly patron sipping a Budweiser broke the silence and bellowed, “I don’t roll on Shabbos.” Smiles rippled through the crowd and hands reached for beers as the music’s reverberations returned. The quote was from The Big Labowski, in which John Goodman becomes notorious among his friends for not bowling on Shabbat. Saved by pop-culture.

After passing through security, we entered a hallway littered with graffiti and lounging teens. A kid, scanning us from the his perch on the steps, stood up and shouted, “Shit, man. It’s the Pope!”

Everyone buckled from laughter, and as we made our way through the hall carrying obscenely out of place items, students circled around.

“Hey, bless me my man.”

“Forgive me fatha’, ‘cause I been bad.”

“I got a test, yo. Can I wear the cap fo’ good luck?”

And so, surrounded, there was nothing else to do except take out my bottle and sprinkle holy water over the mob. “You are healed,” I screamed as students put their hands into the air and administrators attempted to herd the newly saved back into classrooms.

[To be continued...]

After the Fact - Part 6

VI.
An adolescent Jew, my life was a self-loathing blood libel, an identity-murdering pogrom. But after college, having dispelled the cultural myths of my youth, I took a job at Indiana University’s Hillel, resurrected.

Once, after distributing matzo ball soup to sick, Jewish Greeks, I caught up with Micha. He was wearing a baseball cap and jeans, which seemed curiously provincial for a guy who usually wore white button-downs, black pants and a black yarmulke.

“I’m trying an experiment,” he explained. “I call it ‘white like me.’ Yesterday, at the grocery store, I had a conversation with the cashier about how all those damn people from Indianapolis are ruining everything. I think I’ll keep it up for a while.”

And he did. The last time I saw Micha, an Orthodox Jew bound by academic pursuits to the Midwest, he was sitting in a tree with a five-year-old girl. Anonymous. I offered, "Nu, what's this?"

“Lab work.”

“And how’s it going?”

“I don’t know this girl. She just climbed up and asked to share the tree. I think I’m going to be white all summer.”

Micha basked in the shade of anonymity; but I craved once again what he was escaping: distinction. I wanted to publicize my un-orthodox affiliations by wearing a yarmulke, a target. The idea felt rebellious, the act one of defiance in a country full of shiftless wanderers devoid of deep historical roots. I’ll be a target. And people took aim.
[To be continued...]