Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Under the gun
For A's 18th birthday, I took her to get what she calls her "first" tattoo. I would like it if it were her only tattoo, but that's her decision to make. And if she does get more, I will probably end up liking them. I just don't want her rushing out to get them all while she is so young. Several of her friends have four or more tattoos and they are not 19 years old yet. I know it is a part of our popular culture right now. And in general I don't dislike tattoos. In fact, I appreciate the artwork and creativity of many of them.
So if I don't want A to be the tattooed lady by the time she is 18 1/2, then why take her on her birthday to get a tattoo? A laughed and told one person, "if you know my mom, you know this was a long, planned out process. Not just some impulsive thing!" I do have the tendency to be impulsive, but not when it comes to something like this with my child.
A has been telling me quite regularly for the past two years that she wants to get various tattoos when she turns 18. Many were cool or creative and even thoughtful, but I just kept telling her it's a bad idea. 18 is too young to make that call. I can't tell her no, but I can give her my opinion, and my opinion is that is not a wise thing to do. A week before her birthday she asked me again, but this time she asked me to get her the tattoo for her birthday as a gift. Again I laughed and said no. But this time I said it knowing she was a week away and a dollar short of being able to go with her friends and do it herself. So I heard her out. She wanted to get a roman numeral 17 on her arm for her cousin Josie who died at age 17. This was not the first time she had talked about doing that. I told her we could discuss it. "Write me an essay making your case for this tattoo. Tell me why and where you want it." And so our conversation began.
Before I got her essay I wrote to her and told her that while I love the idea of a memorial to Josie, I don't believe in tattoos to simply commemorate bad things. There are physical souvenirs for that. The program from her funeral, the pink ribbon she wore in Josie's memory, the photographs and cards she has saved. Sad experiences are important. They can be life-altering. They inform your perspective on the world and can play a big part in making you who you are. But the tribute to those hard times is how you handle them; who they help you to be. How can you move on from them or grow from them if you are constantly reminded by a permanent symbol of that sadness you have tattooed on your skin? So while I think it's beautiful to honor her, what will that tattoo mean?
A responded to me with her essay, which was beautifully written. She outlined the reasons that the tattoo is a celebration of life. How it would remind her to appreciate the life she has because she is lucky to be alive. She wrote about what she learned from Josie's short life and sudden death. She brought up many of the things we had discussed when Josie died, and they are all lessons I know she has taken to heart and lived by since the day Josie died. It was thoughtful and very insightful.
She also wrote about the placement of the tattoo. Originally she wanted it on her forearm. But then she realized that whenever someone asks, "What is that tattoo for?" and she says "My cousin who died," the response will be "Oh, I'm sorry." She didn't want it to be a pity tattoo or something sad. So she decided to put it under her heart in a place where she can keep it personal, but still easily share it when she chooses to.
After reading her essay and discussing it with her further, I decided I would get her the tattoo for her birthday. It's what she wanted, and I was happy that she chose to include me. She didn't have to, and I am fully aware of that.
The day after her birthday we were at Grandma's house and I heard someone ask her about the tattoo. That was when she called it her "first." She responded that she will involve me again when she plans future tattoos, because she likes how much thought I helped her put into it. She said she developed an appreciation for the process, instead of just focusing on the thrill of the outcome.
I want to help A develop her decision making skills as a new adult, and I want her to feel respected by me. I'm proud of her. And Josie would be, too.
So if I don't want A to be the tattooed lady by the time she is 18 1/2, then why take her on her birthday to get a tattoo? A laughed and told one person, "if you know my mom, you know this was a long, planned out process. Not just some impulsive thing!" I do have the tendency to be impulsive, but not when it comes to something like this with my child.
A has been telling me quite regularly for the past two years that she wants to get various tattoos when she turns 18. Many were cool or creative and even thoughtful, but I just kept telling her it's a bad idea. 18 is too young to make that call. I can't tell her no, but I can give her my opinion, and my opinion is that is not a wise thing to do. A week before her birthday she asked me again, but this time she asked me to get her the tattoo for her birthday as a gift. Again I laughed and said no. But this time I said it knowing she was a week away and a dollar short of being able to go with her friends and do it herself. So I heard her out. She wanted to get a roman numeral 17 on her arm for her cousin Josie who died at age 17. This was not the first time she had talked about doing that. I told her we could discuss it. "Write me an essay making your case for this tattoo. Tell me why and where you want it." And so our conversation began.
Before I got her essay I wrote to her and told her that while I love the idea of a memorial to Josie, I don't believe in tattoos to simply commemorate bad things. There are physical souvenirs for that. The program from her funeral, the pink ribbon she wore in Josie's memory, the photographs and cards she has saved. Sad experiences are important. They can be life-altering. They inform your perspective on the world and can play a big part in making you who you are. But the tribute to those hard times is how you handle them; who they help you to be. How can you move on from them or grow from them if you are constantly reminded by a permanent symbol of that sadness you have tattooed on your skin? So while I think it's beautiful to honor her, what will that tattoo mean?
A responded to me with her essay, which was beautifully written. She outlined the reasons that the tattoo is a celebration of life. How it would remind her to appreciate the life she has because she is lucky to be alive. She wrote about what she learned from Josie's short life and sudden death. She brought up many of the things we had discussed when Josie died, and they are all lessons I know she has taken to heart and lived by since the day Josie died. It was thoughtful and very insightful.
She also wrote about the placement of the tattoo. Originally she wanted it on her forearm. But then she realized that whenever someone asks, "What is that tattoo for?" and she says "My cousin who died," the response will be "Oh, I'm sorry." She didn't want it to be a pity tattoo or something sad. So she decided to put it under her heart in a place where she can keep it personal, but still easily share it when she chooses to.
After reading her essay and discussing it with her further, I decided I would get her the tattoo for her birthday. It's what she wanted, and I was happy that she chose to include me. She didn't have to, and I am fully aware of that.
The day after her birthday we were at Grandma's house and I heard someone ask her about the tattoo. That was when she called it her "first." She responded that she will involve me again when she plans future tattoos, because she likes how much thought I helped her put into it. She said she developed an appreciation for the process, instead of just focusing on the thrill of the outcome.
I want to help A develop her decision making skills as a new adult, and I want her to feel respected by me. I'm proud of her. And Josie would be, too.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
upon a star
My parents are the two most generous people I know. Which made me very comfortable taking, when I was younger. Although I think most young people are. I thank the example my parents set for helping me outgrow that phase and perspective in life.
One of my all-time favorite books is The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein. I used to get so mad at the boy when I read it, because he just took and took. I wanted the tree to stop giving herself away and ask for something, instead of giving everything. Or say "no." Even though it frustrated me, I love that book. At different times in my life I have been the boy, and I have been the tree. I think you have it right when you strike a balance between the two.
I have a philosophy on wishes. I use my wishes. Birthday candles, shooting stars, 11:11 on the clock. But I believe that wishes will only come true if they are selfless. I know it's superstitious and silly, but I only make wishes for other people because of my belief about how wishes work. The first time I shared this philosophy with someone was a few years ago and he asked me, "What about the things you want for yourself?" I just shrugged and said "I guess if you're doing things right, someone else is using their wishes for you." I hadn't ever thought about that before, but my spontaneous response made sense to me.
The last time I was visiting my dad, the topic of wishes somehow came up. My dad said, "I have a philosophy about wishes." I laughed and told him I do too.
"Want to hear my philosophy?" Asked my dad. I did.
"Whenever I have a wish, like on a wishbone or something," my dad said, "I always wish that the other person's wish will come true."
Thanks Dad. For all the times you've been the tree.
One of my all-time favorite books is The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein. I used to get so mad at the boy when I read it, because he just took and took. I wanted the tree to stop giving herself away and ask for something, instead of giving everything. Or say "no." Even though it frustrated me, I love that book. At different times in my life I have been the boy, and I have been the tree. I think you have it right when you strike a balance between the two.
I have a philosophy on wishes. I use my wishes. Birthday candles, shooting stars, 11:11 on the clock. But I believe that wishes will only come true if they are selfless. I know it's superstitious and silly, but I only make wishes for other people because of my belief about how wishes work. The first time I shared this philosophy with someone was a few years ago and he asked me, "What about the things you want for yourself?" I just shrugged and said "I guess if you're doing things right, someone else is using their wishes for you." I hadn't ever thought about that before, but my spontaneous response made sense to me.
The last time I was visiting my dad, the topic of wishes somehow came up. My dad said, "I have a philosophy about wishes." I laughed and told him I do too.
"Want to hear my philosophy?" Asked my dad. I did.
"Whenever I have a wish, like on a wishbone or something," my dad said, "I always wish that the other person's wish will come true."
Thanks Dad. For all the times you've been the tree.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Do you hear what I hear
When I was in sixth grade, my school friends and I had a clever way to communicate in class. We did not pass notes under Mr. Flint's watchful eyes. We signed the alphabet to each other instead. We'd spell out messages, our hands hidden at our sides, below our desks, out of the teacher's sight. We would do a slashing movement to indicate a break between words. I can't remember what we had to discuss in sixth grade that couldn't just wait until recess, but I remember signing things like m-e-e-t/m-e/b-y/t-h-e/t-r-e-e. We did it so much that I could write with my right hand while I signed important messages to friends with my left. I would subconsciously sign while I was talking sometimes, as well.
At that time I wanted to be my new best friend, Shannon Weaver. She was perfect. She was pretty, she took ballet. She played the flute. She had a pink bedroom with a theme and matching everything. Curtains and bedding and wall paper border with ballet pointe shoes on it. Her little brother was cute and they playfully teased each other. Her parents were still married, and at her birthday party they came into the living room and did swing dancing in front of all of us. Shannon was lucky enough to be embarrassed; I knew she took her wonderful life for granted. When my mom's best friend got pregnant, I suggested "Shannon Marie" for a name. I thought it was beautiful, just like Shannon herself.
The one thing that Shannon did that I could do with her was choir. It was free through the school, and I could even go with her. I asked my mom and she said yes. I was thrilled. That was the last time I can remember being thrilled about having to be at school an hour early.
That year we had just moved to Fresno from Michigan, so in the mornings my throat was froggy. I was not accustomed to the valley smog. On my first day of choir, I had to keep clearing my throat. Great for singing, I thought. We walked into the choir room and Shannon introduced me to the choir teacher. I forget his name. He smiled and shook my hand and asked me what my name was. My voice came out in a small croak and I said "Rachel." He kept shaking my hand and asked me again. I said "Rachel" again, still barely able to get my voice out, and this time my left hand came up and signed R-a-c-h-e-l. I took my hand out of his and pointed to my throat, and cleared it. I was mortified at this awkward meeting. The teacher watched me sign my name and then gave me a huge smile. He bent forward to be closer to my height and said very clearly, "Welcome.... Rachel!" It's... nice... to... meet... you. Would... you... like... to... stand... by ... Shannon?"
Would I ever! What a nice guy! I turned and followed Shannon to her spot and thought how great it was to be part of her world. Shannon's place to stand in the singing arrangement was on the teacher's far left, as he faced us, right in front. I stood next to her and learned "Big Rock Candy Mountain." He passed out the lyrics on mimeographed pages and I followed along quietly, still self conscious about my voice. Whenever I looked up and made eye contact with the teacher, he would open his eyes really wide and lean towards me, moving his mouth in an exaggerated way to enunciate the words while he sang, nodding at me enthusiastically. He was so nice and supportive, I loved this guy. I loved choir!
Between songs, Shannon would talk to me, and I would just nod and listen. I was in awe of this new wonderful life I was having. All because of Shannon. So this is what it's like to be her. I could get used to this. I started thinking about asking my mom if we could paint my room pink, and debated asking for ballet lessons when all of a sudden choir was over. My greatest morning before sixth grade ever. The start to my new awesome life.
The choir teacher came over to say goodbye to me and asked if I had fun. I nodded. he asked if I would be returning with my friend. I nodded again with excitement and a big smile. "Great!" he laughed. "Now, before you go, can you tell me how to say your name?" and he held up his hand in front of me. For a second I thought he was going for an awkward high-five. Then I realized he wanted me to sign it for him. I signed my name and he followed along letter by letter. "I'll practice that, Rachel!" He said with a giant smile and wide eyes, nodding at me encouragingly. I smiled back and walked out to meet Shannon. I wasn't sure what had just happened, but I was pretty sure I had missed something.
And that's how I became the deaf kid in choir.
At that time I wanted to be my new best friend, Shannon Weaver. She was perfect. She was pretty, she took ballet. She played the flute. She had a pink bedroom with a theme and matching everything. Curtains and bedding and wall paper border with ballet pointe shoes on it. Her little brother was cute and they playfully teased each other. Her parents were still married, and at her birthday party they came into the living room and did swing dancing in front of all of us. Shannon was lucky enough to be embarrassed; I knew she took her wonderful life for granted. When my mom's best friend got pregnant, I suggested "Shannon Marie" for a name. I thought it was beautiful, just like Shannon herself.
The one thing that Shannon did that I could do with her was choir. It was free through the school, and I could even go with her. I asked my mom and she said yes. I was thrilled. That was the last time I can remember being thrilled about having to be at school an hour early.
That year we had just moved to Fresno from Michigan, so in the mornings my throat was froggy. I was not accustomed to the valley smog. On my first day of choir, I had to keep clearing my throat. Great for singing, I thought. We walked into the choir room and Shannon introduced me to the choir teacher. I forget his name. He smiled and shook my hand and asked me what my name was. My voice came out in a small croak and I said "Rachel." He kept shaking my hand and asked me again. I said "Rachel" again, still barely able to get my voice out, and this time my left hand came up and signed R-a-c-h-e-l. I took my hand out of his and pointed to my throat, and cleared it. I was mortified at this awkward meeting. The teacher watched me sign my name and then gave me a huge smile. He bent forward to be closer to my height and said very clearly, "Welcome.... Rachel!" It's... nice... to... meet... you. Would... you... like... to... stand... by ... Shannon?"
Would I ever! What a nice guy! I turned and followed Shannon to her spot and thought how great it was to be part of her world. Shannon's place to stand in the singing arrangement was on the teacher's far left, as he faced us, right in front. I stood next to her and learned "Big Rock Candy Mountain." He passed out the lyrics on mimeographed pages and I followed along quietly, still self conscious about my voice. Whenever I looked up and made eye contact with the teacher, he would open his eyes really wide and lean towards me, moving his mouth in an exaggerated way to enunciate the words while he sang, nodding at me enthusiastically. He was so nice and supportive, I loved this guy. I loved choir!
Between songs, Shannon would talk to me, and I would just nod and listen. I was in awe of this new wonderful life I was having. All because of Shannon. So this is what it's like to be her. I could get used to this. I started thinking about asking my mom if we could paint my room pink, and debated asking for ballet lessons when all of a sudden choir was over. My greatest morning before sixth grade ever. The start to my new awesome life.
The choir teacher came over to say goodbye to me and asked if I had fun. I nodded. he asked if I would be returning with my friend. I nodded again with excitement and a big smile. "Great!" he laughed. "Now, before you go, can you tell me how to say your name?" and he held up his hand in front of me. For a second I thought he was going for an awkward high-five. Then I realized he wanted me to sign it for him. I signed my name and he followed along letter by letter. "I'll practice that, Rachel!" He said with a giant smile and wide eyes, nodding at me encouragingly. I smiled back and walked out to meet Shannon. I wasn't sure what had just happened, but I was pretty sure I had missed something.
And that's how I became the deaf kid in choir.
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