Birthday Wishes

Dear Emmy- 

You were born on a Sunday—Mother’s Day, in fact.  I stayed the night with a friend and Dad called early that morning to tell me I had a new sister. (I was relieved.  A little brother was out of the question because I didn’t want to share my room with Legos or G.I. Joes.)  I got dressed in a blue and white romper that had ties at each shoulder.  Grammie drove down from Austin to take me to the hospital to meet you for the first time.  

When we got there, Mom and Dad were still debating whether to name you Ashley or Taylor.  Your umbilical cord stump was alarming.  (My six-year old brain was convinced that you were born with an olive stuck to your belly button; Mom promised me it was normal.) You looked small, but I remember being surprised at how heavy you were.  With you in my arms on your very first day, I recognized that having a sister was weighty, substantive.  And I loved you. 

Curiously, I don’t have many memories of your infancy.  I remember that you grew into an adorable toddler and an enviable preschooler.  I remember that you would sing and tap dance for anyone who would smile.  I remember Mom trying to convince you not to talk to strangers and you declaring (emphatically) that “all the people in the mall aren't my strangers, they’re MY friends!”  I remember that you were charming and entertaining and effervescent.  As you grew up, it was clear you were also brilliant.  And happy.  And energetic.  And so many other wonderful things.

It’s a crying shame, I know, but it took me twenty years to appreciate the person that you are.  Now, on your twenty-fifth birthday, I want to tell you that I love you twenty-five million times more than I did when we first met, on your birth day.  I love that you are good-natured and patient and overwhelmingly, breathtakingly optimistic. 

Being your sister is substantive; knowing you has been a saving grace in the past few years.  I love you Sister, and I wish you all the best today and always.

Sincerely,

SEE

Missing Mom

Dear John Walsh-

Its official: my mom is missing.  She was last seen boarding an airplane in San Antonio on June 2, 2012.  It was a short trip to Atlanta—only two hours long.  At some point during the flight, my mom excused herself to use the teensy-tiny airplane bathroom.  Moments later, a highly-skilled mom-impersonator came out of the bathroom wearing my mom’s clothes and took my mom’s seat.  My mom simply vanished.

After landing in Atlanta, the mom-impersonator stepped off the plane.  The mom-impersonator—we call her M.I. for short—looked and sounded like my mom.  She knew our names and seemed happy to see us.  None of us suspected that the woman we were looking at was not our mom. 

The M.I. is a professional—she imitated our mom perfectly.  In the beginning, we noticed only small discrepancies.  Where Mom wouldn’t have been caught dead in a two-piece bathing suit, the M.I. had half a dozen of them.  Where Mom never wanted to be in pictures, the M.I. was single-minded in her effort to capture hundreds of pictures or herself.  Where Mom sunburned easily, the M.I. had a twice-weekly membership at a nearby tanning salon.  Those first few weeks, the changes were noticeable, but not alarming.   

Over time, the differences became more dramatic.  The M.I. suddenly wore liquid eyeliner, refused phone calls from family because she was updating her facebook status, and donned artificial fingernails and synthetic hair pieces.  She lost about a hundred pounds.  Most disturbingly, she took to dressing in princess costumes.  Her attention-seeking behavior was unmatched even by even the angriest of fifteen-year-old girls.   

The tone of the family script also changed.  When visiting home before June of 2012, conversations with Mom went like this:

Me:     Hey Mom.

Mom:  The dead has risen!  I'm so glad you're up! 

Me:     Me too.  What's for breakfast?

Mom:  Cinnamon rolls are in the oven.  Do you want your eggs scrambled or over easy? 

Me:      Over easy please, and then I'm going to move back home. 

Since the M.I. took over, the same conversation goes like this:

Me:    Good morning Mom.

MI:     I curse your father's name every morning at this time.

Me:    I see.  Hey, do you want to go grab breakfast together?  I'm starving.

MI:     I drank a protein shake for breakfast.  I won't be hungry all day.  In fact, I've lost so much weight that my stomach has eaten itself and I no longer feel hungry.  Ever. 

Me:    That sounds like you have an eating disorder.

MI:     I'm very happy.  I've never been happier.

Despite her training, the M.I. is clearly not a convincing substitute for our mom.  Worse, the M.I. is actively revising the positive memories I had of my mom.  Two months ago, for example, the M.I. indicated that her children (including me) had never brought her any joy.  When asked what did bring her happiness, she confessed, “Well, I just got an iTunes account and I’m discovering that I really enjoy music.”

Only an M.I. could make such a ghastly statement.  I know the M.I. is doing her best to be our mom.  I try to be appreciative.  (I even sent the M.I. an iTunes gift card for Mother’s Day.) But when someone who looks like your mom and sounds like your mom, tells you that iTunes makes her happier than you do, it’s hard not to get upset.  It’s even harder to remember that it isn’t really your mom talking. 

I’m tired of all of it.  The M.I. is not my mom.  My mom did enjoy her family. I have thirty years’ worth of birthday cards and letters and pictures to prove that we gave her some measure of joy.  The M.I. is not working out.  She’s not happy.  We’re not happy.  We just need our mom back.  

If my mom had run away on June 2, 2012, I don’t think anybody would have blamed her.  It had been a hard year for her.  Perhaps more than anyone, she was entirely consumed by trying to compensate for the glaring absence of another missing family member. So, maybe Mom needed a break?  That’s fair, but she’s been gone nearly a year now, and it’s time to find her.

Since Mother’s Day is around the corner, I thought this could make a timely sort of news story you might be interested in.  My mom isn't America's most wanted.  But she's my most wanted.  And if that's ever enough for you or your show, please call me.  We have to find our mom and bring her home.

Sincerely,

SEE

Letter to a Young-ish Writer

Dear Brant Coleman-

In 2004, you gave me a copy of Letters to a Young Poet.  I read it and I still read it—it’s become a frequently-relied upon companion over the years.  It’s so highlighted and marked up and annotated that it reminds me of a used college textbook.  No matter, I love it.  Here is one of my most-underlined quotes: 

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...

I’ve thought a lot about this over the years.  I’ve asked myself over and over again if I have what it takes to try and say what I see and feel and love and lose.  There have been rare times when I think I can; there are more times when I think I cannot. So, must I write?  I don’t know.  But in those silent hours of the night, what is clear to me is this: Brant should write.  Brant must write. 

Unfortunately (for both of us), I can’t sponsor your first book.  I can’t make you a writer-in-residence in my 700-square foot apartment while offering you free room and board. I can’t put a pen in your hand and then wrap my hand around yours and make something beautiful appear on the page.  I can’t even tell you the story you should write.  But if I could, I would, Brant.  That’s how strongly I feel about this. 

You must write, Brant, if for no other reason than this:  I insist. 

Sincerely,

SEE   

Freelance Translating for Free!

Dear CNN-

You’ve got entirely too many reporters covering news of the Vatican and you’ve got approximately NO ONE following the Mormon Church. With 14 million members worldwide, that’s a glaring hole in your news coverage.  No worries though; I’m on it. 

On March 1, 2013, the Mormons (led by 3 very white men pictured below) announced the release of an updated version of the Mormon scriptures. 



May the next Mormon presidential candidate be more male, more white and more Republican!

The official release cites advances in historical research and printing technologies. In typical Mormon doublespeak, the Church statement wholly neglects to mention the substantive additions to its scriptural canon.  In fact, Church members are specifically told that they are not expected to obtain a new set of scriptures as a result of the updated version.  That’s because it’s easier to sneak in the changes when nobody is looking. 

But CNN, I am looking and I intend to keep you fully-informed of the latest developments.  The biggest news is the crafty new introductions for official declarations, which can be read here.   They are highly-technical and that makes it easy to overlook the communication that is actually taking place.  Fear not!  As a 20-year scholar of Mormonism, I’m fluent in Mormonspeak.  And I'm happy to volunteer my translation services to you.  For free. 

Translation of Declaration 1:  Stop calling us polygamists!

It’s all God’s fault. God told women that if they didn’t participate in polygamy, they’d go to Hell. (See  Doctrine and Covenants Section 132:4.)  While polygamy may have been bad for women, it was even worse for publicity. So, after the practice was declared illegal, God promptly let the Mormons know that the polygamy thing should be discontinued.  Stat.  The Mormons (mostly) obliged God. But if anyone should be blamed for polygamy, it isn't the Mormons.  It’s God.  The Mormons were simply following the rules.   

Translation of Declaration 2: We aren't racists anymore.

The Book of Mormon teaches that non-white skin is a curse that can be removed by righteousness.  (See 3 Nephi 2:15 if you don't believe me.)  For 100 years, the Church relied upon the Book of Mormon to deny the priesthood to male members of African descent.*  Because God had not yet spoken about the ills of bigotry, the Mormon Church instituted race-based discrimination as a prudent and precautionary measure.  Thankfully, God made an appearance in 1978, and “revealed” that Africa and Africans were pretty much okay after all.  (It is unfortunate, but the Mormon Church can’t un-do it’s own idiotic decisions until it receives God’s express consent. Regrettably, it takes God approximately 100 years to respond to low-priority e-mail messages from Salt Lake.)  In any case, the Mormons haven't been practicing racists for, like, 35 years now. 

CNN, you need me. I promise you won't find a better freelance translator of Mormonspeak than me!  (Especially not one who works for free.)  And besides, you really ought to be paying attention.  These new introductions are obviously NOT the result of developments in "historical research and printing technologies."  On the contrary, these changes are the result of old-fashioned political angling. The Mormons aren't simply distancing themselves from their history; they are attempting to mollify minority voters for the next election. You should be watching. I should be translating.  Please be in touch.

Sincerely,

SEE

*  The Mormon church still denies the priesthood to female members of African descent.

Love-ly.

Dear Oprah-

I can’t remember the last time I watched your show, but it made me cry and then I was depressed.  At that moment, I realized your true genius—you make people think about things that make them sad so that those same people have to tune in the next day so you can tell them how to overcome their sadness.  I’ve got your number, Oprah.  I’m on to you.  And anyway, I have absolutely no interest in all that that you-are-loved and love-is-freeing rhetoric.  Especially not when it comes from a stranger on cable TV.

Nevertheless, I thought of you on Tuesday, February 12, 2013: Valentine’s Day (observed).  Sam treated me to a lovely dinner and we watched the State of the Union Address together. As the evening wound down, Sam leaned over and told me that he liked me.  I told him that I liked him too and that it was a lovely Valentine’s Day (observed).  He smiled and then he said something game-changing:

“Maybe because its Valentine’s Day (observed) and maybe I’m feeling overly-sentimental, but there’s another L-word rolling around in my head right now.”

To be clear, if Sam had told me he loved me, I might have excused myself to go to the bathroom and then climbed out through the vent for the exhaust fan and run home barefoot.  In my experience, love is a time bomb that could break your heart into a million tiny pieces at any moment.   And since I haven’t found a bomb squad that can help me disengage before the bomb detonates, I generally avoid love like the plague. Or the norovirus. 

But Sam didn’t tell me he loved me.  (Thank Gawd.)  By stating there was an L-word bouncing around in his head, Sam simply suggested that he was capable of being in love with me.  And if someone is capable of being in love with me . . . that means I must be loveable. 

It was a revolutionary thought, and one that I hadn’t properly considered before.  (After all, I was very, very busy not getting attached and not letting anyone get attached to me.)  So, while I may have seen myself as smart(ish) and fun and sometimes funny, I’ve never really identified myself as falling-in-love or being-loved material.  Now Oprah, I will acknowledge that you’ve been telling me I was worthy of love for my whole entire life.  But you say that to everyone—it’s like, your job.  And anyway, you don’t really know me.

The point is that now someone who does know me has declared me loveable, and I’ve decided he’s right.  But Oprah, you were right too.  Feeling loveable is outrageously liberating.  It means I can stop fretting about The End.  It means I can quit making lists of reasons not to get attached.  It means I can stop planning escape routes.  It means I can stop trying to convince others that I’m All Wrong.  It means that I can enjoy the butterflies and fairy dust and laugh-out-loud moments of getting to know someone.  It means I can embrace the uncertainty of relationships because I trust that I’m still a loveable person.

In that sense, it was the best ever Valentine’s Day (observed) gift. I don’t know if things with Sam will work out or not.   Fortunately, feeling loveable is a little gem of awareness I’ll take with me no matter how the relationship ends.  But if it ends badly, Oprah, and I need any help overcoming sadness or disappointment, I promise I’ll tune in--I’ve got your channel.

Sincerely,

SEE

Tips On Meeting My Mother's Kids

Dear Lieutenant Tan-

I thought I was fully prepared to meet you.  I knew that you wouldn’t be like our dad, you wouldn’t love us, you hardly know our mom and you’d all but moved in and taken over.  But I guess I thought you’d understand it was a tough situation and you’d do your best to demonstrate how much you were NOT interfering with our mom’s relationships.  You certainly failed at that.  Nevertheless, I can acknowledge that meeting someone’s kids is tricky.  And  since my little sister is coming home to meet you this weekend, you get a second chance.  Here are some pointers:

1.     Learn the script.  You are supposed to feign interest in your girlfriend’s kids, at least at the beginning.  So, when my mom asks me to tell you about my job, you’re supposed to listen.  Then, to show interest in what I’m saying, you’re supposed to ask a follow-up question about me or my job.  You are not supposed to  interrupt me to ask my mom if she received your e-mail forward about the anarchist’s cookbook.  You are not supposed to cut me off and exclude me from the dinner conversation my mom was purposely trying to include me in.  If you’d read the script, you’d have known that, Lieutenant Tan. 

2.    Get real.  Any man over six feet tall should not drive a Mazda Miata.  You are too big for that kind of car and every time you fold yourself inside, I think of a giraffe bending over to take a sip of water.  You are not a giraffe.  You are a grown man.  And you look like a fool cramming your oversized self into a miniature car.  So, ditch the silly sports car and get something with a backseat.  Make room for my siblings and me—we’re a package deal.

3.     Avoid landmines.  Jokes about breaking in and stealing my little brother’s cat are not funny.  It’s nice that you like the cat, but quit making jokes about stealing it.  My little brother got robbed of damn near everything in my parent’s divorce and all he has is his cat.  If you paid any attention to my little brother, you’d know how much he loves that cat.  But since you don’t pay attention, you’re going to have to trust me on this one:  leave the cat alone.

4.     Be generous.  Sending my mom a free online e-card for her birthday is not impressive.  It would be better to go to Target and spring for a $4 Hallmark greeting card like a normal person.  I know $4 cards are a rip-off, but our mom is worth it.

5.     Listen.  It’s rude to interrupt another person when they are talking.  Especially if that person is me.  I tried not to take it personally, but then I heard you interrupt my mom as well and I wanted to gouge your eyes out.  Or stuff a dirty sock in your mouth.  Maybe both.  (Lest there be any confusion, please note that shouting out the make and model of a military aircraft flying overhead is not a justifiable excuse to interrupt or talk over anyone in my family.) 

6.    Don’t compete.  When mom told you that I was going to New Orleans next week, you’re supposed to say, “Wow, what a great trip!” or “I’ve always wanted to go there.”  You are not supposed to say, “Well, I’ve been to Toronto.”  We’re not competing about who is cooler.  (But if we were, I would win.)

7.     Spit out your gum.  Lieutenant Tan, I’m sure you can’t help it that you are a LOUD gum chewer.  But my brother (who has a 30% hearing loss in each ear) can hear you smacking bubble gum all over the house.  And it’s highly irritating.  Swallow it, spit it out, flush it, or make a sculpture out of it.  I don’t care what you do with your chewed gum, but for God’s sake, take it out of your mouth.

8.     Know when to make yourself scarce.  You’ve been around for 31 days.  I’ve been around for 31 years.  Its polite and reasonable and courteous to allow someone to visit with their out-of-town guest privately on the last day of their trip.  You should have had the wherewithal to know that I’d want to spend my last morning home with my mom.  Without you.  If you didn’t know, you should have asked.

9.     Drive responsibly.  When you run over a curb and hit a fence in my mother’s car, it is appropriate to stop and inspect the car for damage and then to apologize profusely.  It is not appropriate to shout out, “No guts, no glory!” and continue driving full speed ahead.

10. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.  You have a GPS and an iPhone and you are a grown adult.  If you can’t find Papa Murphy’s, you should call Papa Murphy’s.  You should NOT call my mom and ask her to call Papa Murphy’s to get their exact street address so that she can call you back and you can put the address in your GPS and wait to see if it can find the Papa Murphy’s so that you can find the Papa Murphy’s so that you can bring pizza over even though we just ate breakfast and we aren’t hungry.  My mom and I live in different cities.  And if you’re badgering her with phone calls and texts every time she’s away from you, it makes the time we do spend together impossibly frustrating.  You can get lost and hound my mother with phone calls and texts any day of the week.  But when I’m in town, maybe you could respect me enough to exercise a little more discretion? Please, Lieutenant Tan, this is important to me.

I don’t know when I’ll visit next, but let’s not do this again.  I’m a good kid and I deserved better. 

In the meantime, please make more of an effort when you meet my little sister.  She’s the most open-minded of our bunch and if you can’t win her over, you may as well pack up and go home.  I’ll help you move.

Sincerely,

SEE

On Going Home

Dear Airline Industry-

I’m flying “home” to meet my now-divorced mom’s boyfriend/fiancé and I’m a nervous wreck.  I’ve looked all over the internet for tips on how children should approach meeting a parent’s new significant other.  So far, all I can find is an episode of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and how-to guides for parents on making sure introductions go smoothly.  (For the record, my mom has already broken all the rules.) Since the internet has failed me and I can’t track down any armchair psychology that will make me think I have the tools to handle this, I need you to help.

I recognize that for many lucky individuals, going home is a treat.  I used to be one of them.  But when your parents are acting out in ways that make you hope you were switched at birth, there is absolutely no feeling at home about going “home.”  You recognize that your home doesn’t exist anymore, and that’s downright depressing.  Then you realize you’ll have to pretend you’re happy that your mom and her new boyfriend are happy . . . even though it means your life will never be the same and you’re decidedly unhappy about that.  And that makes you apprehensive and anxious, because what if you’re not up to the task?  For anyone has to travel “home” under these (or other) profoundly unpleasant circumstances, I don’t think it’s outrageous to expect the airline industry to make reasonable accommodations.

For those of us who have to use quotation marks every time we use the word “home,” I’m proposing we be assigned Traveler Under Pressure Status.  As a Traveler Under Pressure, I should be able to see a doctor at the airport who will give me a Xanax IV-drip to prepare me for the trip.  TSA should forego the usual man-handling in favor of a bear hug.  (Because really, who doesn’t need a real hug before they are greeted by a family that is no longer familiar?)  I should be allowed to pre-board the plane to minimize my time standing around waiting with seemingly-happy families. Once seated, vodka or whiskey or scotch should be brought to me by a social worker who can guide me through deep-breathing exercises.  Or a hypnotherapist who can convince me that I am going to see someone else’s family so there’s really no reason to be upset.   With Traveler Under Pressure Status, I should be allowed to recline my seat before takeoff because I’m attempting to relax and you’re attempting to help me.  Flight staff should recognize me as a Traveler Under Pressure and all the other passengers should erupt into applause to facilitate my courage.  I should be allowed to get off the plane last so that I can enjoy a few more moments before being confronted with the reality of so much change.  On my way out, the flight crew, social worker and hypnotherapist should express warm wishes and assure me that that I’m fully equipped to make the most of this trip “home.”  (The Xanax and alcohol and deep breathing will have taken effect by then, so I will believe them.)  Finally, with Traveler Under Pressure Status, I should be able to make changes to my return ticket without penalty.  Because you understand what it’s like to go “home,” and you want me to know I always have a way out.

 

I’ve traveled a lot, you know, so I feel like I’ve seen just about everything.  I know you make accommodations for children and for the elderly and for people with assistance animals and for people with oxygen tanks and people who can’t walk. I’ve seen you work around canes and pacemakers and wheelchairs and cross-dressers and pregnant women and drunks.  You accommodate people who lost their ID, who accidentally threw away their boarding pass, who inadvertently boarded the wrong plane or who mistakenly got off before their final destination.  I know you try to be accommodating, so I’m just bringing it to your attention that you’ve neglected a whole class passengers with a profound disability—the inability to go home.

Sincerely,

SEE