Realizing my Dream

The last dream of my soul is in the process of coming true. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to emulate my mother. The balance of encouragement and tough love, the freedom to figure things out for myself, as well as the knowledge that I'd have support if I fell, allowed me to figure things out for myself. She would guide, but not control.

In serendipitous fashion, I purchased Garth Brooks's new CD this week, as I've been figuring out how to present what the last dream of my soul is. There is one song on this album that speaks so beautifully to what my mom provided me, and what I ultimately want to provide my children: freedom to grow, to learn, to mess up, to try again--in short, to navigate the world with confidence built upon accomplishments of their own doing.

The song, "Send 'em on Down the Road" is my parenting credo. In the chorus, Brooks sings, "you can help them find their wings/But you can't fly for 'em/'Cause if they're not free to fall/Then they're not free at all"(Beeson/Shamblin).

I find that my parenting philosophy is closely connected to my teaching one; it is quite likely that my time in the classroom has only bolstered my resolve that my children need to be given the freedom to not get it right the first time so they can experience the satisfaction of perseverance, and the independence of completing the task before them even though they struggled.

Also serendipitous is that through reading all of your "Last Dream" essays, I'm finding myself commenting that the first step of achieving your dream is to set the intention--in the words of William Arthur Ward, "if you can imagine it, you can achieve it; if you can dream it, you can become it." Thus, I want to share with you an essay I wrote in high school--the beginning of the last dream of my soul, that I find coming true step-by-step, and that will hopefully continue to unfold in the manner I have planned.

Works Cited:

Beeson, Marc, Shamblin, Allen. "Send 'em on Down the Road." Man Against 
          Machine. Perf. Garth Brooks. RCA, 2014. CD. 

***

The Woman I want to Be

One of my favorite places:
Ham-Smith at UNH

The sun warms thoughts of jubilation as I rise for the finale of my four years as a UNH Wildcat.  Semblances of relief, pride and accomplishment scurry in synchronization through my mind.  As I ascend another rung in the ladder of my years, I recall the prominent female figure in my life who has shared her wisdom and learned from her mistakes; she has inculcated me to follow.  Through me she will forever endure.

As my life’s path guides me to my occupation, the countenance of my mother is embedded in my mind’s eye; pride and encouragement are evinced on her face.  This encouragement allows me to imagine the myriad of students I will one day inspire.  The determination she has instilled in me will reap its rewards with my promotion to department head of the English Department and the renowned debut novel I will one day compose.

My husband and I on our wedding day.

Upon savoring the sweet taste of success, I am propelled into marital bliss.  I portray my mother in my new role as wife.  I have received her wit and good humor; both of which endear my love to my whimsical stories.  My husband’s strong arms embrace me as we talk by the fire of all that occupies our thoughts.  To him I show passion in my beliefs and my inner clarity, as did my mother to my father.  Like my mother I am confident in who I am, and will not sacrifice my individuality. 

With my kids at the Halloween Parade

I will convey this same cardinal confidence in my children.  No being will ever tell my children what they can and cannot do.  Their inner clarity allows them to one day navigate their own destinies, as my mother urged me to do.

My mom and me at my friend's wedding.

As the organist begins to play "The Wedding March", new feelings of relief, pride and accomplishment scurry in synchronization through my mind.  My daughter is being escorted down the aisle on her father’s arm, while tears of descend from my eyes.  I taught her everything a woman should be.  I am assured she is my greatest accomplishment.  I have passed onto her all the wisdom of my mother, the woman I want to be.

She'll be there

I come from a large extended family, both on my father’s and my mother’s sides. While many people dread spending time with relatives, especially large groups of them in smaller than ideal spaces, I relish it. 

My appreciation for my extended family could stem from the fact that I grew up with my grandparents and the majority of my aunts, uncles and cousins close by, as close as next door or a few streets away. Adding to the close proximity of my family is the fact they are awesome people. 

While every family has to negotiate the delicate which-side-of-the-family-will-we-celebrate-with-this-year issue, over the last few decades Thanksgiving has traditionally been celebrated with my maternal family. Even if not everyone in the extended family arrived for 1:00 lunch, they would trickle into my parents’ house after their lunch or early dinners celebrated with the other side of their families, for Haley Thanksgiving.

Card games were played, karaoke songs belted out, sometimes in tune, often not, and inevitably, my dad would invent some new word as he loudly expressed his opinions on politics, religion or pop culture. Some of my favorites: when he was talking about that “Harvey Bolito” song you hear at church—known to everyone else as “Ave Maria”—or when he proclaimed the automation in Lion King to be incredible. We even started Bob’s Thesaurus to keep track of his malapropisms.

As the years passed, adopted members of the family would join us. My brother’s friends and mine would come join in the festivities, and then some cousins’ friends began to follow suit. One of my favorite “adopted Haley” moments was when my cousin Tommy’s friend Dave brought his guitar. We stood around him joining in the chorus of Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction,” which then lead to more sing-alongs. A family favorite? Feliz Navidad. It was such a favorite, that if we got together at different times in the year, we would still sing it loud, even in the dead of the summer.

Ma's apple tree, with Tommy back on top.

But at the core of it all was my grandmother, Ma. She was the center to which we were all pulled. We all wanted to be the apple of Ma’s eye—and the top of her Grandmother apple tree. There is a running joke about the favorite grandchild in our family. Ma had a wooden plaque with the painting of an apple tree. Each apple had a grandchild’s name. As we were born, we were placed on the apple tree, with eldest grandchild's apple, my cousin Tommy,  proudly hanging at the top.

Tommy’s participation in a semester abroad in England coincided with my Ma re-wallpapering her dining room. To match the new wallpaper, my mother took the tree home, repainted it, and repainted the grandchildren by family rather than birth-order. Tommy returned to the States to find he had been demoted from top apple. We began competing, trying to give the best gifts or succumbing to brown-nosing in general for the chance to be top apple. Tommy went so far as to write her a song one Christmas which was performed that Christmas Eve, and many Christmases, Thanksgivings, Mother’s Days, and random family gatherings after the fact.

Ma, our matriarch

The last time we all sang the Ma Song was in February at her funeral collation.

This will be our first Thanksgiving without Ma. It’s just starting to hit me that she won’t be sitting in my parents’ kitchen when I walk over after I have my Thanksgiving lunch with my in-laws. Her peanut butter cups and apple pie will not be sitting on the counter, waiting for us to attack. The low hum that she used to unknowingly emit will not fill the gaps in conversation.

She won’t be sitting there, but she’ll be there. She’ll be in the stories we’ll tell and the memories we’ll share. She’ll be there in the recipes cooked—they won’t be Ma’s peanut butter cups or apple pie, but someone will have stepped up to fill the space on the counter with her confectionary goodness. She’ll be there in the pieces of herself she’s handed down to each of us.

For me, she’ll be there in my love of the written word and Emerald Isle, the slope of my nose and the blue of my eyes, the laughter, the love, and the joy of being with family.

***

Below: Tommy performing the Ma Song. I apologize in advance for my cousin Dan's tone deaf singing and the not-with-the-beat clapping half way through. ; )

Springsteen

One of Eric Church’s most known songs is the track, “Springsteen”. Off of his Chief album, “Springsteen” hit number one on the country charts in 2011. When I saw him in concert two weeks ago, he closed with this song, pausing to discuss the power of a melody to invoke memories of moments in time. I have many of these memories.

Whenever I hear TLC’s “Waterfalls,” I’m on the bow of my father’s boat, skin warm from the summer sun, dancing with my best friends—the girls who are still my best friends and the Godmothers to my children. It’s instantly sunny and clear, and I think I have “swag” as I belt out Left-Eye’s rap solo toward the end of the song.

I’m transported to the O’Donnell Auditorium, at old Woburn High, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving whenever The Spice Girls’ “Wannabe” comes on the radio. The first annual lip sync began that November in 1997, complete with acts by The Rolling Stones, Pearl Jam, Puff Daddy—before he was P Diddy, or Diddy—as well as my friends and I telling everyone what we want, what we really, really, want. 

The opening riff—da da dA da da da, da da dA da da da— of “Send Me On My Way” by Rusted Root places me firmly on the patio of Jessie Doe at UNH in May. We’ve traded our fleece jackets for light hoodies, windows are once again open to allow for some relief from the stuffy dorm atmosphere, and the year is drawing to a close. No matter where I go on campus, the yodeling of “Send Me On My Way” provides a soundtrack for my walk.

And naturally, when Tracy Byrd begins singing, “it was no accident, me finding you…” I’m on the dance floor of the Hillview Country Club, spinning into the arms of my husband as we celebrate our first dance as husband and wife.

The list of pivotal moments and of relationships celebrated and cherished through the memory of melody is extensive, but most recently, Eric Church has made his way into my life’s soundtrack with “Springsteen.” It isn’t because his song speaks of music memory that makes it important, though. Plenty of other songs have had similar messages, one of my favorites being Kenny Chesney’s “I Go Back.”

No. It isn’t the sentiment of the song that makes it stand out.

When I hear the low “whoa, whoa, whoooawhoa, whoa, whoa, whoooawhoa” chant half way through “Springsteen”, I’ll see my three-year-old blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, bobbing his head to the words, his little mouth shaping out the sounds while a smile twitches in the corner of his lips, shoulders alternating—up and down—dancing to the music.

To me, the “whoa whoa” song, as he calls it, will always be his song. Whenever I hear it, he will always be three. In that moment, music is melody and memory magic.

Writing on the Run

A photo of my daybook.
I was working on a poem on these pages.

I’m not a runner.  On occasion, I’ve been bold enough to tell myself that this time it will be different.  If I just stick it out, I’ll be able to run a distance without getting winded, without feeling like my heart is trying to fold itself up like a pair of freshly laundered socks.  

The only time I’m able to break this rule is in my writing notebook.  In here, I’m Usain Bolt.  I’m not running to tone and maintain, or to achieve Olympic gold, rather, I’m running for my life, my writing life.  In my notebook, I’m dodging the censor, and the cursor. 

When I have a blank page in my writer’s notebook, I see possibility.  I see the opportunity to simply write without judgment, mine or anyone else’s. .  Here I’m able to, as Don Murray discusses, write badly to write well.  I do not have the distraction of the blinking cursor, taunting me with each blink, or the audience for whom I’m writing whispering in the back of my head that my last line was awful.

Pictures of the important people in my life help provide me
writing inspiration, but also my support system.

I’ve made my writer’s notebook my safe place.  It is bookended by photos of all the people in my life who care for and support me: my husband, my daughter, my parents, my best friend, my mentor, and my dog.  These people provide me with plenty of writing material, but also are those who allow me the freedom to experiment, mess up, and try again.  This comfort allows me to take risks in my writing that I don’t allow myself to take when I’m staring at the cursor. 

There are fewer distractions for me when I’m writing in my notebook, even if the place where I am actually writing has more than noise and activity than a quiet classroom or office.  There are no red squiggly lines reminding me I’m an awful speller, no green hecklers prompting me to doubt my grammar knowledge.  I’m less judgmental about my writing, so I can just write.

When I journey through my writer’s notebook, reliving the writing I’ve recorded, I feel accomplishment.  In this notebook I have found understanding of another’s writing, felt the pain of watching a grandmother succumb to Alzheimer’s (not my grandmothers, but a grandmother of a character I created) and discovered truths about my family and myself. None of these discoveries would have been possible without the security of my writer’s notebook. 

I guess I am a runner of a different sort.  My sharpie pen is laced up, the open track of my notebook ready for sprints.

Sacredness of the Ordinary

It is smooth to the touch save for a dimple in the middle, silver, and the size of a nickel. In the rare moments she wants to cuddle, my daughter will perch on my lap, pull the necklace close to her, and align her thumb in the pendant’s middle—a cast of her one-year-old thumb.

That cast marks my transition to motherhood and my re-education of things I thought I knew.

The sleep deprivation of those first few weeks, standing in her bedroom, shirt wet from my tears and hers because I could not get the mandrake shrieks of my colicky child to stop, trumps any late night college study session. I also realized that fears I previously thought legitimate pale in comparison to the fear that gripped me as I witnessed a heart wrenching febrile seizure and the nerve-wracking ride to the hospital that followed. 

That first year was not all scary and frustrating lessons, however. There were many moments of joy: seeing not only myself, but my mother and grandmother reflected back in her bright eyes, which shortly after her first birthday changed from blue to hazel; watching her confidence grow as she toddled from the couch to my open arms; and, laughing as her diapered bottom swayed to the “Single Ladies” video.

I also learned to appreciate the fun in every day.  I remember someone asking me how parenthood was and replying that there was not a day since Evelyn was born where I had not laughed. Five years later, that laughter and appreciation for the lighter side of life continues, especially now that she has a newfound love for joke telling--and her knock-knock jokes don’t make any sense.

It is hard to fathom that the little girl whose thumb made this print is now a kindergartner, a little girl who loves to read—to her mother’s joy--a little girl who relishes in making new friends, and a little girl who is not afraid to make her voice heard—usually, but not always, to her mother’s joy.

In the end, the greatest lesson I learned in that first year, and continue to learn in the four years since, is how quickly time moves. This year, she went off to kindergarten, confidently strutting through the doors; tomorrow it will be middle school, and then high school and then college. Like so many mothers, I wish I could freeze time and keep her this age longer, to relish each minute.

Yet, with each passing year, I will have the memory of the first year that changed the way I defined myself—no longer just daughter, sister, wife and friend, but mother, first and foremost—cast in silver, smooth to the touch save for a dimple in the middle.

In fiction as in life, fathers are not cardboard cutouts: my defense of fictional fathers

A common gripe voiced this year about the freshmen curriculum is the less-than-stellar father figures in our literature. While there are some fair points to be made about the questionable nature of our fictional fathers, the statement that they're all bad is quite unfair. As we look toward the end of the week, one that honors our fathers, I thought I'd take a swing at dispelling the myth that all our books focus on awful dads. To be fair, some do. But I challenge you to think a bit more deeply about that broad statement to see if there are more redeeming qualities these dads harbor than you give them credit for.

The least defensible father appears to be Capulet from Romeo & Juliet. At first, it seems like we have a father who is ahead of his time and wishes his daughter every happiness. But by the end of Act 3, he is screaming at his daughter, wishing her to die in the streets because she won't go along with his plan to marry Paris. On this one, I'm with you. This character change has always confounded me. I can only chalk it up to Shakespeare having to move things along and add a plot twist that would make Juliet want to take her life. A bit unsatisfying if you ask me.

Five People You Meet in Heaven also includes a father with less-than-ideal tendencies. Eddie's father is displayed through his alcoholism, his short temper, and his violent outbursts. On the surface, he's not a good man and certainly not admirable. Like Eddie as an adult, his father is insecure about his lot in life. He believes his son thinks he is better than him. When we learn of the true cause of his father's death and the fall-out with Mickey, we see that there is more to this man than a violent, angry person. While his case is not compelling enough to warrant him a "good father", to write him off as purely bad--considering not only that he tried to protect his wife the night Mickey died, but also tried to save Mickey--would be a mistake.

Johnny not a good father? Bite your tongue!
(Smith 328).

Those cracks in the argument that all the fathers in the novels are bad become gradually more distinct in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  On the surface, Johnny is the man. He's good looking, he loves to sing and dance, he's madly in love with his wife, and adores his children. But, he is also weak. Alcohol is his kryptonite. 

Yet, despite his struggles with alcoholism, we see the love his children and wife have for him. They know at his core, Johnny is a good man with a good heart. He takes time to listen to his daughter, to tell her stories--as fantastic as they may be--to teach her to dream, to apply herself, and to appreciate and respect her mother. He is constantly trying to educate his children about life, about nature, about song. He is the dreamer that makes Francie see possibilities beyond Brooklyn and a large part of what enables her to go out and seek success.

A father who shares Johnny's flaw is Ed's dad from I am the Messenger. We never get the chance to meet Ed's dad, but from the way Ed discusses his father--and the way the narrator does at the end of the novel--it is clear that his dad, like Johnny, was a good man with a serious weakness. Yet, it is his dad's weakness that ultimately makes Ed into the man he is by the end of the novel. Without a clear picture of the path he is heading down, despite the love he bore for his father, Ed knows he'd end up just like him: a drunk with wasted opportunities. It takes some prodding by his mom and the man behind the cards for Ed to find his purpose. When he does, it is clear to the reader as well as to Ed that his dad loved him and was loved in turn.

In Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, we have a few father figures we can assess. Henry's dad, much like Eddie's, is set in his ways and shuts Henry out. However, in Henry's father's case, he believes he is doing everything to give Henry the best chance at a successful life. He just doesn't realize that his definition of success is not the same as Henry's. Furthermore, he is abiding by the customs he was raised with, and has a hard time navigating this new world and its culture.

While Henry does not have the best model of a good father, he does an admirable job of trying to bridge the gap between himself and Marty. He remembers what it was like to not have the chance to make his own decisions in life and ensures that Marty will follow his own happiness. In doing so, he's able to find happiness for himself long after he believed it possible.  

Lastly, Keiko's dad is flat out amazing. We only have brief glimpses into the character, but he clearly represents the American ideal of making your life what you want it to be. He passes this belief on to Keiko. He enjoys "American" music, harbors no prejudice against the Chinese, and makes the most of his time in the internment camps. Mr. Okabe is certainly a dad to admire.

Students can see Dr. Manette evolving into a present and caring father.
photos drawn by Hannah McIntosh

While all the previous books have had a mixture of good and bad in each of the fathers, there is no denying that A Tale of Two Cities presents us with a father who is good in every sense of the word. He is a good doctor, a good citizen, a good husband, and, when finally given the chance to be, a good father. He devotes his later life to making Lucie happy--going so far as to not only forgive a wrong he'd never thought he'd be able to, but also to defend the descendant of that wrong because he could see the love between his daughter and Darnay. He knows that people are not black and white and that children should not be held accountable for the sins of their fathers.

In saving the best for last, the hasty generalization that all our fictional fathers as bad is dismantled. Hans Hubermann repeatedly puts himself at risk by standing up for injustice--painting over Jewish slurs, offering bread to a starving Jew as he marches down the street, and harboring a young Jewish man to make good on a promise. Aside from being a human that epitomizes a good man, he is the model for a wonderful father. It is Hans that allows Liesel to grow in every way imaginable. It is Hans who teaches her to read and who shows her that humans have the capacity for evil, but so many more have the capacity, and propensity, for good. He helps her grieve the loss of her family and opens her eyes and heart to love again. It is his strength that allows Liesel to keep moving forward after the bombing of Himmel Street. He is a man among men.

Everyone, real or fictional, wants to believe his or her dad is Superman--and we all do to some extent. As children, we do not believe that our dad has any weaknesses, and we can believe so fiercely in his invincibility because we're kids and do not know of all the stresses, anxieties and vulnerabilities that occupy space in his mind. It isn't until we get older, when we start to see dad as a man separate from the person who kissed skinned knees or drove the monsters from under our beds, that we can see the cracks in his armor. But just because he is human--flawed and imperfect as the word implies--he is no less a wonderful father.

Our real dads deserve accolades for the everyday feats they accomplish without armor, capes or superpowers. We recognize their human qualities and understand they're doing the best they can with the tools they have at their disposal. It is easy to condemn from afar, and much more difficult to strive for understanding--to look at the whole picture and see a person's motivations or limitations--before making our final judgment.  In the words of another great fictional father, Atticus Finch, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it" (Lee). 

Dads, both fictional and real, deserve as much.

Works Cited:

Lee, Harper. To Kill a Mockingbird. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1960. Print.

Smith, Betty. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. New York: Harper Perennial, 2001. Print.