The Mermaid and the Astrologer

"You have to be nice to people, you have to give the best of yourself every moment of your life, and you have to believe in yourself."

-Walter Mercado, Mucho, Mucho Amor

I miss whimsy. I mean, I miss a lot of things: seeing friends, buying paper towels without undergoing a massive search effort, going to concerts, thinking our president is just terrible and not a fascist who's going to get us all killed, getting coffee, reasonable people. But whimsy is pretty high on the list. It's hard to be whimsical right now. Whimsy seems like an extravagance, something that we need to put on hold. I've been buying into this idea since the end of May; scale back the whimsy. Rage bake. Rage blog. Donate. Advocate. Work at home and ignore the the obvious - that you could always do your job at home. Everything is wild. We're all in this perpetual state of something: anxiety, fear, anger, uncertainty, sleepiness, sleeplessness, rage, random joy. Emotions are on hyper drive and the mood swing set is out of control. Ignore whimsy. 

Well, ignoring whimsy has to give a little, even if temporarily. I decided to do myself a small favor and invest in some whimsy this past week. I was in a bit of a funk, which is probably the most obvious thing in the world, but also a complete understatement. I took some solace in the fact that people I follow on Twitter, who have very serious jobs, seemed to be embracing whimsy too. Maybe "return to whimsy" is a stage in a pandemic. It comes after hoarding toilet paper, cultivating your own yeast, and excessive online shopping (I've only done one of these, so I'm skipping ahead). Anyway, one of my favorite people on Twitter received a mermaid tail blanket for her birthday. An adult woman with a mermaid tail blanket! I was intrigued. Where did one get a mermaid tail blanket? 

Turns out the answer is pretty much wherever you can buy frivolous things - Amazon, Target, Etsy. I'm sure there are other places, but those came up first. I went the Etsy route and ordered a lovely mint green mermaid tail blanket. I haven't bought many frivolous things since March, so this feels particularly lovely. It's legitimately everything I hoped it would be. 

Unfortunately, my blanket didn't arrive in time for the truly exceptional moment of whimsy and joy I experienced last week. The blanket came the following day, but the association is enough. I watch a lot of documentaries. I tend to watch documentaries about cults (tiger-based or otherwise), serial criminals, cats, the mafia, random pop culture figures, and baking. I have a lot of interests. Anyway, I wasn't prepared for the utter delight I felt while watching Mucho Mucho Amor: The Legend of Walter Mercado. I truly believe the only thing that could have made the experience better was having the mermaid tail blanket. Walter doesn't strike me as mermaid tail blanket kind of guy, but I bet he had a cape with a mermaid tail, so basically the same thing. 

I had no idea who Walter Mercado was before watching the documentary. I'd seen the preview for the film, but all I really took away from it was "this man has a lot of capes." And he does, he has a cape room (basically). It's possible I have a vague memory of him being on talk shows in the 1990s since he did appear on all of them, but I had no idea who he was or the impact he had on millions of people. If you haven't watched the documentary, I highly recommend doing so to get the full impact of Walter on your life. The film debuted on Netflix in early July. 

The quick, quick version: Walter was a famous astrologer and Spanish language television personality. He got his start as a dancer and actor on telenovelas in the 1960s in Puerto Rico. His life as a tv astrologer started by chance; he was on a talk show promoting a play in costume, and ended up talking astrology with the host. His "reading" was so popular that it became a fixture on Puerto Rican television for decades. Eventually, he would become famous across Latin America and then worldwide. His show was theatrical; high camp might be a good description. He wore extravagant jewelry and so many amazing capes. Walter did for capes what Elvis did for sequined jumpsuits. That's one of my main takeaways from the film. He was over the top and flamboyant. He wore beautifully applied makeup and had perfect hair. Just watching him for a few minutes, you can see his dance training in his gestures and his presence. He combined multiple religions into what he called "interfaith religion." He was an icon in Puerto Rico, which is traditionally both very Catholic and very macho. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. 

I won't spoil the story by telling you about the drama and revealing some of the more amusing parts of the film. Seriously, watch it. If you spent time watching Tiger King or watch any amount of the daily news, you deserve Mucho, Mucho Amor. It's delightful, a little bit whimsical, and so very affirming. 

And that's where I sat with the movie last weekend. I felt so good after watching it. I was upset for Walter at the appropriate times, but overall, the whole film was affirming. That's the word that keeps coming to mind when I think about Walter. He made a career out of reading daily horoscopes on television. In theory, anyone could do that job. But the way he did it was so positive and beautiful. Every clip of him doing one of his readings is so full of positivity; you can feel it through the television. Even clips from 50 years ago still feel so real. He was sending actual love and light through the television to people. His sign off was always "mucho, mucho amor" (lots and lots of love). Yes, he was theatrical, but that wasn't necessarily the point. Did that hook a person in? Yes, but that wasn't why they came back. People responded to him, and the way he made them feel. There's never an example of him telling someone about a terrible tragedy or telling them they're going to win a million dollars. He doesn't really predict anything. He simply gave people encouragement and inspiration without it sounding like watered down empowerment, or what I like to call "Girl, Wash Your Face empowerment." It's a simple message of being kind, caring about others, and doing your best. No wonder he was so popular. 

Walter died in 2019. The documentary was one of the last things he worked on before his death. He was a lot of things for people: a part of their culture and childhood, a non-binary pioneer, a positive influence in the universe. The filmmakers, all Latinx, grew up with Mercado in the background. They associate him with grandmothers and childhood memories. There's so much love and joy in this documentary. I have to believe the universe gave us this film right now for a reason. I'm not saying Walter knew I needed a little whimsy and extravagance in my life at this exact moment, but I'm not saying he didn't.

Stay safe. Wear your mask. Wash your hands. Be nice to one another. Vote. Black Lives Matter.

Walter Mercado meme

The monster is us

At the start of the pandemic, when stay at home orders and lockdowns were still a new thing for most of us, I made a joke in a text to someone (possibly my brother) that I was "prepared" for what was to come because of my love of the epic 1978 novel by Stephen King, The Stand. I've read the book, in its full glory, a few times, and have an obsession with the 1994 miniseries (a new version is coming soon...probably...maybe). I can't help but love a miniseries, even if it is about the destruction of the world. Rob Lowe, Gary Sinise, Molly Ringwald, and Ruby Dee make up a small fraction of the wonderfully 1994 cast. Remember the guy from the show Parker Lewis Can't Lose? Well, he's one of the bad guys. It's a fairly faithful adaptation of a monster novel. As with any Stephen King adaptation, changes are made and things are cut, but it still works. I don't think it's streaming anywhere, but if it is and you find it, you should watch it. And let me know where you find it. I have a VHS copy, but no VCR (sad face). 

If you're not familiar with The Stand, it centers on a group of survivors of a deadly plague (a weaponized version of the flu, released by the government, so not like our current pandemic, but still it's a deadly virus that kills a lot of people) coming together to figure out what happens next. The survivors are drawn together by the forces of good and evil, and of course, have to face the apocalypse as one does in a Stephen King dark fantasy novel. There a lot of characters. There are tons of subplots and small scenes of the way the world "ends." There's also hope and love and friendship, so like every King novel I love, I didn't leave my readings of The Stand hopeless, but hopeful. Yes, the world could literally go to hell, but our humanity would figure out a way to bring us back.

There is a scene early in the book, that also appears in the first episode of the miniseries, where Frannie is listening to the radio while caring for her ailing father. They're listening to a talk radio show and the show host, Ray, is discussing the appearance of soldiers in cities and towns all around the country. I think Ray is a he in the book, but is portrayed by Kathy Bates in the series. Ray is having a conversation with a woman about her dying family when soldiers/military police break into the studio and demand that Ray shut down the program. Ray refuses, continuing to broadcast what is happening live on the air until one of the soldiers shoots him(her). The radio signal whines, and Frannie and her father are left horrified by what they just heard. 

When I think about reading and watching The Stand, this is one of the scenes that bothered me the most. It's not a long scene and happens so early in the story that you would assume I'd forget about it by the time I finished the book because so many other terrible things happen along the way, but this scene has always stuck with me. In the novel, the government is responsible for the release of the deadly flu into the world, so sending soldiers and other military personnel is exactly what they're going to do to try to cover things up and quash any sort of dissent that would tell people otherwise. I was 14 or 15 when I read the novel for the first time, and I understood enough about how the world and governments of the world work to know this was the inevitable in the world of The Stand. I was also not stupid, and understood how fundamentally wrong this was even in a work of fiction. 

This is exactly what came to mind this week as news came out of Portland, OR that protesters are being "arrested" by unnamed police forces in military dress. People are being forcefully removed from the streets, thrown into unmarked vans, and taken to federal courthouses where they're detained for hours. These "soldiers" don't identify themselves, don't tell people why they're being arrested, and have been captured on video throwing people to the ground and causing other harm. Since initial reporting started, it's been revealed that these "soldiers" are from Customs and Border Patrol and that the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) is behind sending them into the city. Since I wrote this on Sunday, these forces have beaten up a veteran and shot tear gas at a group of mothers protesting their tactics. The mayor of Portland and the governor of Oregon have called for these "troops" to be removed from the city, and the ACLU and other organizations have sued the federal government over this unnecessary use of force. It's another example of the impostor in chief testing what he can get away with when it comes to those who disagree with him and his racism. 

If what's happening in Portland doesn't bother you, well, I'm not sure why you're reading my blog. The protests going on around the country and the world are what democracy is about. If we don't question the systems and policies and practices of our government, we have failed as Americans. It's part of why this country was founded in the first place. If you're not supporting Black Lives Matter protests, if you're not questioning why the 45 sent military personnel into Lafayette Square with tear gas to clear protesters, and you're not asking why people are being whisked away in unmarked vans by the government, you're part of the problem. And you can support this movement without being physically present; we each participate in the way we can. I've been donating to groups supporting protesters, sharing relevant information on social media, and making sure my elected officials know this needs to stop. We are watching fascism live on tv, and we need to stop it. I know it's been one video after another, one story after another since the end of May, but this is how movements work. It's not one protest and we're done; it's a long process. 

I know everyone is dealing with a lot right now. We're all balancing a million things while living in a pandemic and a constant state of fear and uncertainty. I understand this. The pandemic isn't going away - I hate to be the one to tell you that, but it's not, at least not in the US. We squandered four months of staying at home to be right back where we started from in many states in the country. We rushed, when we should have figured out a national testing plan and contact tracing. Instead, the 45 ignores experts, declares children will go to school in the fall, and has removed virus data from the CDC's website. He spends his time golfing, selling products (which he's not supposed to do), and being racist. He doesn't care about you. He barely cares about his own family, so let's not pretend he cares about anyone else. 

I'd love nothing more than to start sharing my novel again or post something about the movies I'm watching or my embroidery work or literally anything other than what I keep writing about, but the reality is that none of those things feel right or okay to me right now. As a person who processes things through writing, I have to get this down and a private journal isn't cutting it anymore. Something I love about Stephen King novels is that the horror of monsters and plagues can be stripped away to reveal the true villain: us. Our relationships to one another, our humanity or lack thereof, our choices are the real villains in every story. That's what makes Stephen King such a terrifying writer, it's not the ancient, homicidal clown or vampires or possessed cars - it's one another or our fears come to life. We can choose to not wear a mask and show we don't care about anyone. We can choose to vote for a racist. We can choose to be okay with unnamed military police manning US cities for no reason. When we do choose these things, Randall Flagg (the big bad of The Stand) or Pennywise or the vampires (Salem's Lot) or the killer car (Christine) or the rabid dog (Cujo) or whichever other King big bad you want to pick, wins. 

Or we can be like Mother Abagail's group in The Stand or the Losers or anyone else who goes to battle in one of these novels - we confront the evils head on to become the hero. We can wear the mask and vote for someone who is not a racist, and we can question and fight when unnamed military police start manning US cities for no reason. Is this route easy? No, it's harder and more painful, but it's what we have to do. 

Next week: Maybe we'll discuss a documentary I just watched (not about a cult) that was all about the kind of positivity we need in the world right now. Maybe something else horrible will happen and I'll have to rage again. I don't know. I don't know what our lives are anymore. 

Stay safe. Wear your mask. Wash your hands. Be nice to one another. Vote. Black Lives Matter.

When Can I Stop Screaming Inside My Heart?

I had to take my car in for an oil change and for an issue with the AC (as we move into day 18 of 90+ degree weather in the DMV). I didn't really want to do this, but I also don't want to buy a new car right now, so it's best to take care of my car when I can. Of course, AC services are no longer available even though it's on the website. Always call first. But I digress. I was sitting in the waiting area wearing a mask (plain pink cotton, not super cute, but super efficient) waiting for them to finish the oil change, when another woman came in to wait for her car. The waiting area was set up for social distancing, so we were well over 6 feet apart. She was wearing one of those bandanna-style masks that make people look like old West train robbers. I really need to get one of those. 

She said hello to me, which I didn't expect, and then asked if I'd been to this place before. It was my first time as well; I mentioned I moved to this side of town "recently," but had heard good things about this place. She was quiet for a few minutes, then proceeded to ask me if I was married, if my non-existent husband was in the military, and if that non-existent husband happened to be the man in the white SUV who arrived in front of both of us. I politely answered no to all of these questions and wished her a good day, signaling that I was done with our conversation. She gave me a look that could only mean "I don't understand why you're annoyed with such questions; a woman your age should be married with babies and stuff." She was by herself, but heaven forbid, a woman younger than herself be unaccompanied in public. 

I tell you this not to share my annoyance with the woman, although I was annoyed, but to say that she could still be herself while wearing a mask. We would have had this conversation if the mask mandate here in Virginia didn't exist or if we weren't in the middle of a global pandemic because this is the kind of conversation that happens to me all the time when I'm around women I don't know in a public place. I've been asked this question at the dentist, the bank, restaurants, while waiting at the salon for a haircut, and at the grocery store. Even if I was married, why would I bring my husband to the grocery store with me? That sounds terrible; he'd inevitably put things in the cart incorrectly or bag groceries like a crazy person with no respect for order. It's always an older woman, sometimes a few years older, sometimes a few decades older. She's always by herself or with a friend, never with a husband or man-friend, although she always has one. I know this because she always tells me about how wonderful her husband/man-friend is and that I should really find one for myself. Thank you, random woman for the advice. I'll get right on that. (Spoiler: I will not get right on that.)

Anyway, the point of this is not about random conversations with strangers but about the mask. The point is that this woman was wearing a mask, and was completely comfortable asking me questions that were none of her business while we both experienced a public space while wearing masks. Her right to be a busy body was in no way obstructed by her wearing a mask. My right to completely disengage was also not obstructed. In fact, it was probably easier to do so because I didn't have to waste energy fake smiling. Fake smiling takes so much more energy than it's worth. 

I hate that wearing a mask has become some sort of political statement. There is literally nothing political about wearing a mask right now. Mask usage has been promoted as a best practice, at varying levels, since the beginning of the pandemic. I started wearing a mask at the end of March, and now have quite the collection of them, including a cat one and a Detroit Tigers one. Wearing a mask reduces the spread of viruses, not just COVID-19, by putting a barrier between you and others, while still allowing us to be out in public. The CDC, WHO, Johns Hopkins, and hundreds, maybe even thousands, of other legitimate medical journals, hospitals, and experts have shown the effects of mask usage in stopping the spread of COVID-19. Countries who have slowed the spread, and even returned to mostly normal life, can credit mask usage among the reasons. It's science.

So why is it so hard for some Americans to wear a mask? I would love nothing more than to lay the blame at the feet of the 45, but it's not entirely his fault. It's mostly his fault, but not entirely. Since this is my blog, I get to share my observations and theories about things, so that's what this is. I have no scientific proof to back what I'm about to say, but I hope one day, someone way smarter than me, will do a study on this and prove my theory. 

From a very young age, particularly in the US, we're told we can be anything we want to be. We can be successful and make a life for ourselves in this grand experiment called America. If we work hard and do the things, we'll be able to own a home and/or a car, have a fulfilling job or maybe even open our business. We can exercise our right to vote, and also have a right to voice our opposition to those in power if we disagree. Democracy is cool! Capitalism is awesome! This is the story most of us have been told since we were young. For those who come to the US as immigrants, I'm sure some version of this story is told, but with limitations, especially if you're not white. You can still come here, and do the thing, but it's going to be harder and more limited and people are probably going to be assholes. That's the adjacent story. (NOTE: This is a gross simplification of the immigrant experience and the experience of any person of color. I am aware of this; it's not my intention to be disrespectful or dismissive about anyone's experience.) 

So a global pandemic hits. We're told that we "have to" stay home and wear masks when we go out in public. Kids can't go to school because we don't know much about this virus and it could be hard to contain with kids going to school. Lots of jobs move to remote work setups because they can; many more people continue to go to physical work locations because they're essential and have to be there in person. Hospitals fill up. People are scared. There's no national response; states have to figure it out on their own. States, like mine, who put mask orders in place early and moved through reopening phases carefully, see the numbers decrease in positive ways, although we're seeing spikes again because people are being stupid. Other states, do the bare minimum, and their cases skyrocket. They reopen too fast and it's more damaging. People start throwing "COVID parties" to prove the virus exists. I guess 130K+ dead isn't proof enough. 

All of this is to say, people don't want to wear masks because they're no longer controlling anything else about their lives. Mask usage is the most physical and personal thing we're being asked to do after staying home. It requires us to wear something that identifies the fact that a virus exists and that it can do serious harm. A mask says, "I care about you, my community, my family, myself." We're not used to such bold statements of humanity in the US...at least not since November 9, 2016. Every new video featuring another person throwing a tantrum/being horrible in a public place because they're asked to wear a mask is less about the tantrum and more about fear and loss of control. It's hard to all of the sudden be powerless when you're used to getting your way or always being "right." When I watch these videos or read about another "white woman in the wild," I react in three ways: 

1. I feel terrible for the people, usually a cashier or store manager or a dude walking in his neighborhood or a mom in a parking lot with her kid, who have to deal with this person. I physically want to reach through the screen and do something to help the person being yelled at. I want to punch the person causing the problem in the throat.
2. I'm angry at the person causing the problem because I don't understand why being asked to abide by the rules of an establishment you chose to frequent immediately means you have to become violent and hateful. A store or coffee shop or other place of business is private property. You have to follow the rules of the property owner if you want to be there. That's how a civil society works. 
3. I feel sorry for the person throwing the tantrum because all I see in their face is fear (even through the hate and anger), and I think about how awful it must feel to have that much fear over something mundane, like wearing a mask. And I wonder if they've ever experienced actual fear or if this is performative. And then I spiral into thinking about all the "think pieces" written about people who voted for the 45 being scared about their way of life being threatened (translation: they don't get to be hateful people anymore), and I'm back to being angry almost immediately.

It must be exhausting to be that hateful and full of fear all the time. Imagine getting angry at a sign in a store window that says "Masks only" or "Masks required." I'm exhausted listening to these types of people on social media and the rare times I do go out in public. If we don't continue to do the simple things like wearing a mask, social distancing, and washing our hands, AND the big things like staying home as much as possible, we'll never get to do anything again. Your kids will be home in the fall. Concerts, theatre, sporting events - not for you! I hate that we have become a living example of why we can't have nice things. 

If you can't be motivated by simply being kind and caring about others, wear a mask so we can do things again. You want to go on vacation? Wear a mask. You want your kids to go back to school in the fall? Wear a mask. You want to go to a baseball or football game? Wear a mask. Wear a mask and you'll get to do things again. You don't get to be hateful and racist; we're still going to call you out on that behavior, but you'll be able to go places again and return to whatever normal means these days. If this has to turn into the country-wide equivalent of pizza parties for finishing summer reading, I'll support this movement 100%.

Wear a damn mask so I can stop screaming inside my heart.

 

Stay safe. Wear your mask. Wash your hands. Be nice to one another. Vote. Black Lives Matter.

This Republic of Something

Back in 2017, I submitted a photo and personal story to the National Museum of the Army. The museum was still being built, and they were gathering exhibition material from the larger Army community for various permanent and special exhibits. What I sent in was for the exhibit "Growing Up Army," focused on the children of Army families. I wrote about postcards and adventure. My dad sent me my first postcard in 1987. He was on TDY (temporary duty travel) in Puerto Rico. In the postcard, he described going to the beach when they had downtime, and seeing and catching fish. He signed off with "Be good," something my dad has written on every postcard he's sent me since. It's a thing; he says it to me on the phone before we hang up and when I leave after a visit. I guess my dad always knew I was the "troublemaker" of the family (a rather tame troublemaker, but still). I also sent in copies of a couple of pictures of me, my brother, and dad at an Army field day at Ft. McCoy in Wisconsin (at least I think that's where it's at). I'm a very little girl, sitting inside a very large Army vehicle, smiling like it's the best day ever (because it probably was at the time). It's adorable.

I have no idea if my submitted materials will be in the exhibit. The National Museum of the Army was supposed to open in June, but of course, that's been put on hold right now. My dad is a volunteer at the museum, because of course he is, and he's hopeful that they'll open soon. I'm guessing sometime in 2021, but who knows when anything is going to happen anymore. 

My dad was in the Army for 30 years. We moved all around the US, and he had an amazing career. He worked at the Pentagon, ran logistics for units during the first Gulf War, commanded a base through its closure, and served as Deputy Chief for the Pacific Command. He was/is respected by his colleagues, and probably did a lot of stuff I'll never really know about. When we lived in Hawaii, I was taking classes in the political science graduate program at the University of Hawaii, and I'll never forget the time my dad agreed to come to one of my classes to discuss modern warfare. He had read the book we were discussing in his own graduate program, and was well versed in a few of the other books we had on our syllabus for the semester. I think my classmates thought they were getting some uneducated "grunt," but instead got to debate with someone who knew a lot more than they did. One of my classmates argued that all military operations should be unclassified. My dad explained, and I can't remember his exact words, why that was a terrible idea and more specifically, why none of us really want to know that sort of information. We think we do, but we don't. I think about a lot. 

When you grow up in the military, patriotism is a very interesting point of discussion. I think a lot of people have this set idea of what a military family is and should be like; very "rally round the flag" kind of stuff. That's not my experience. My dad has never told me to think a certain way or believe a certain thing because of his career. Did he instill a love of country and service and respect in us? Yes, but he didn't do in a way that was absolute. My parents have always encouraged me and my brother to question authority and injustice. They wanted us to form our own opinions, even, and especially if those opinions were different from their's. I wouldn't be the delightful feminist/activist you all know and love if they hadn't been supportive and encouraging. We don't agree on everything. They push me, I push them. 

Growing up in a military family is weird. My family is the least military military family I know, but there's still stuff that doesn't make sense to people from outside. I've been to way more airshows and patriotic programs than I care to admit (some good, most very bad). I've seen the extraordinary sense of duty of of my father and his colleagues in action. I've heard people say hateful, ugly things about the military for no reason. I remember my dad telling us about changing clothes before flying because he and his unit didn't want to be harassed (in 1989). I spent the first Gulf War worrying my dad was going to die in Iraq. (His larger unit went in country, but he did not. I didn't understand the difference at that time.) While I appreciate the fact that everyone "loves" the troops now, I question how we got to this point. When did y'all just decide that recognizing those in the military at sporting events was a thing? 

But I digress.

Where am I going with this? 

I'm struggling with the idea of celebrating July 4th this year. Normally, I love the 4th. Fun fact: it's my third favorite holiday. Military celebrations of July 4th are always the best; this is one of the "traditional" things I loved about being a "child of." The 4th was special always so special. One of my favorite memories from my dad's time at the Pentagon was being able to sit on the Pentagon lawn to watch the fireworks from DC. We hung out with his co-workers and their families, had a nice picnic, and watch the fireworks. It was so beautiful and patriotic and so very American. The civics nerd in me just loved it. 

But this year, it seems like an odd flex to celebrate the "birth of American independence," while also thinking about the fact that 130,000 Americans have died from COVID-19. That's a hard number to come to terms with. I've been thinking a lot lately about the book This Republic of Suffering by Drew Gilpin Faust. Gilpin Faust is a historian, and the first female President of Harvard University. A lot of her work focuses on the impact the Civil War had on society, often looking at the experience of women during and after the war. In This Republic of Suffering, she details the way in which mourning customs and processing death had to change because of the devastating loss of life during the Civil War, and the way in which soldiers died. Often, a body wasn't recovered, and this completely shattered the rituals associated with the concept of "the Good Death;" the idea that someone is prepared to die. How can someone prepare to die on the battlefield at Gettysburg or in the prison camp at Andersonville? Families had to adjust to this way of mourning, often with nothing to mourn at all. Scarcity of things like fabric also subverted how women moved through the stages of mourning if they lost a husband or other family member. 

I read the book not too long after it was released in 2008. I can see it on my bookshelf when I sit at my desk for work. I keep coming back to the idea that we're in another period of time where we're forced to rethink how we approach death and mourning. People are watching their loved ones die on iPads. Funerals are on hold, or reduced to quick ceremonies that don't allow family and friends to adequately grieve together, often an essential part of healing. In New Orleans, for example, jazz funerals and second lines aren't allowed because of the restrictions on crowds. Cultural practices like this are essential for grieving, but currently cant't take place because we physically can't be together. Maybe I've been spending too much time alone these days, but I can't help think about this and contrast it with the many celebrations that will take place this weekend. While I understand the power and necessity of normal rituals, (I went to the post-Katrina Mardi Gras, I get it), this feels so different.

I think it's gross that a fireworks display is going to take place at Mt. Rushmore. This is incredibly dangerous from an environmental standpoint. The area near Mt. Rushmore is highly susceptible to fires. That's one of the reasons fireworks have been banned from the park for the last decade. It's also in violation of the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868 that designates the area as part of the Sioux Reservation. Mt. Rushmore is on stolen land, but of course, we don't want to talk about that. People coming to this event/rally don't have to social distance or wear masks. What could possibly go wrong? Literally everything. 

I don't know, y'all. How do we reconcile reality with the need for normalcy? How do we celebrate the "birth of American independence" when police are still violently assaulting peaceful protesters and people just out living their lives? How do some continue to ignore racism in our daily lives when a new video pops up every day of some white woman (white women - what the fuck are you doing?) threatening grocery store employees or brandishing weapons at a Black woman and her daughter in a parking lot? How are we okay with obvious shows of pandering patriotism like the event at Mt. Rushmore when the 45 hasn't said anything about Russian bounties on American soldiers? How do we celebrate when so many have been lost? 

I don't have any answers for you. I'm not going to tell you how to spend your weekend or celebrate this July 4th. By the time I hit publish on this post, most of my friends will have watched Hamilton on Disney+ for the 400th time. At least they're staying inside. 

It would be nice if we all took a few minutes this July 4th and reflected on what we have lost as a nation, if we collectively grieved and mourned for those lost to this horrible pandemic. I don't expect our sham president to ask for silence or to even acknowledge this at his rally, so we'll have to do it ourselves. So maybe tomorrow, before you set out to do whatever it is you're going to do, take a few minutes to recognize what we've lost. Write something, draw or paint, pray, listen to music, light a candle. Maybe do a primal scream. I don't know your life. Then, take some time to think about how you want to enter the second half of the dumpster fire year of 2020. 

Maybe if we all take a little time to do these two things we can refocus what it actually means to celebrate the birth of American independence. We can recommit to what it means to be revolutionary. This country was formed by revolutionary acts and thinking. We have the responsibility to be revolutionary again, in the way we act and vote, and in the way we treat one another with respect, dignity and kindness, rather than with hate and division. 

Stay safe. Wear your mask. Wash your hands. Be nice to one another. Vote. Black Lives Matter.

The Mystic Krewe of Karens

"Mardi Gras is a helluva drug."

-Random person in the chat of a recent Facebook Live broadcast

"It's like if Drag Race and one of the Real Housewives of Whatever City had an actual baby, and then the baby was raised by an amateur true crime podcaster."

-Me, describing this whole thing to my brother (he laughed)

We live in a very strange time. Never in my entire life did I think to myself, "2020 is going to be a disaster movie featuring a global pandemic, wrapped inside a protest movement, alongside some environmental concerns, completely redefine the world of work, all being led by a president who would rather protect rich people and racists." I didn't have that on my 2020 list. I didn't have "NASCAR bans the Confederate flag" or "Trump knew about Russia targeting American troops in Afghanistan and did nothing but invite them back into diplomatic circles" or "It's been 100+ days since Breonna Taylor's murder and her killers are still walking around as if nothing happened" on my list either. What is the world right now? 

As regular readers know, I process things when I write, but I haven't been writing much lately (unless you count rewriting stuff for work - I don't, but you can live your life however you want). I've been hesitant to keep sharing my novel, a few chapters at a time, as I had planned to do over the summer. It doesn't feel appropriate right now (I will finish posting it later in the summer). I write in a journal each morning, but it's not the same. So I thought today, let's write a little something. Let's tell everyone a weird little/big story. It's got everything: glitter purses, narcissism, controversy, social justice, gossip girls, and the drug that is Mardi Gras. The wild part? I'm 100% involved because this is 2020 and literally anything goes.

In 2019, I joined, with two of my very favorite humans, Heather and Kelly, the Mystic Krewe of Nyx. If Mardi Gras is unfamiliar to you, Nyx is one of the parading krewes that takes part in the season. Nyx is/was(?) a super krewe, specifically the largest (until three weeks ago), and membership is all women. I grew up in Louisiana, and loved Mardi Gras as a child. I wanted to be in a parade, but back then, all-women krewes were not asbcommon, and they certainly didn't play on the big stage like Endymion or Bacchus. It's wasn't until I was back in New Orleans in college that krewes like Muses and others started changing the Mardi Gras landscape.

Nyx is what I'll call a "third wave" parade - its existence is built on the successes of other krewes who came before, most notably Zulu and Muses. Zulu, founded in 1909, was the first all Black krewe, dealing with segregation in Mardi Gras well into the 1990s (Mardi Gras was officially desegregated in 1992). Muses, founded in 2001, was a new parade when I was in college, bringing women into the world of super krewes. Nyx is part of the next generation of krewes, not as traditional, a bit more "modern." I've learned a lot more about the history of the group in the last few weeks, something you'd think I'd know as a (former) member, but why would an organization want new members to know things? When Nyx began, it was the first krewe in a decade to get a permit. That alone should be a reason for the leadership to want to succeed. The krewe was founded on the idea of being diverse and inclusive and the women who joined were part of a sisterhood. 

The idea of sisterhood and community is what prompted me to join. Since leaving New Orleans nine months after Katrina, I've struggled with finding a real community. I've been friends with some of my dearest friends for over 20 years. Most of them were people I met while in college in New Orleans. There's something different about the friends you make in your late teens and early 20s - you're all becoming fully formed people together. It's very powerful. Heather and Kelly were not only my friends, but we were roommates most of college. Eventually, we all left New Orleans. We'd come back, but we'd never all be there at the same time. Being part of Nyx was both about finding a larger community and getting to spend time with them. That's why I jumped in. That's why I spent months making glitter purses. That's why I came back for 2020. 

Before we can even begin to talk about the current situation, we have to talk about the 2020 parade. It seems like this was last year, but it was only four months ago. Y'all, is 2020 actually seventeen years long? Anyway, I was looking forward to my second ride. I knew what to expect, for the most part, so I was planning to really focus on enjoying the experience rather than being so stressed about everything. Remember kids, overthinking is my superpower, so I have to focus on letting things go and going with the flow because it's not in my nature. I even stayed an extra day to enjoy a little more time at home. Well, Mardi Gras 2020 had other plans for us. At about the halfway point in the parade (float 21), a woman was struck and killed by a float. The parade was turned around, and we were all dropped in a parking lot to fend for ourselves, while also trying to grapple with the fact that a woman had just been killed. It was awful on so many fronts. Most of us felt abandoned by the Captain and the board. There was no leadership during that experience, or at least not in the way there should have been. Hats off the float lieutenants, tractor drivers, and fellow riders who did their best to help us all in the chaos that was Nyx 2020.

Flash forward a few weeks to late March. We're all trying to figure our lives in the midst of a global pandemic. Fear and uncertainty were/are the feelings of the day. The krewe sent out renewal emails with an extended payment schedule for membership fees. In a time when many people lost jobs or weren't sure if they'd have them for much longer, we got hit up for money. For women like me who didn't actually parade this year, I think we expected a discount or an acknowledgement of some form. Nothing. I paid my first installment despite these things. I wanted to ride in 2021, the 10th anniversary year. I wanted one more ride since this year ended so tragically. I decided I'd play each payment by ear, and drop out if my financial situation changed or if Mardi Gras 2021 got canceled (that's a thing that could still happen). 

And then the end of May happened. George Floyd's murder by Minneapolis PD was captured on video and the outrage at what officers did during this arrest has led to protests, vigils, and a call for defunding police departments around the world. Since then, we've all watched countless hours of police, including random unnamed police forces in DC, shoot tear gas and rubber bullets at protesters. We've watched the 45 support racists, while calling protesters "antifa" and saying that being anti-facist is a bad thing. We literally fought a war as anti-facists, so please sit the fuck down, Impostor in Chief. 

I woke up the Monday after the first weekend of protest to notifications on my social media accounts of a post from the krewe captain. She used her own social media and the krewe's to post an "All Lives Matter" post. It was totally inappropriate and was against the very ideas of sisterhood and diversity that she claims the krewe represents. When I saw the post, my first thought was "Are you fucking kidding me?" My second thought was of the Black women who ride - does she not understand what this means and how they may feel when they see it?" My third thought was "Why does she have to be this way?" 

The post was quickly removed, but enough people had seen it and taken screen shots that it wasn't forgotten. Our private float group was buzzing, and reactions were, as I predicted/hoped, not favorable toward the captain. The forum on the members' only website had some posts too; those were eventually removed, but the overall sense was that the majority of the membership was pissed. She sent a video to members, apologizing and expressing her need to "learn." Eventually, a public apology was issued. At no time did she say "Black Lives Matter" or show solidarity or even knowledge of what is actually going on in this country right now. And this is where things begin to fall apart. Since the post, half (if not more) of the membership, including myself, have resigned. Many of the support groups, like marching bands, dance troupes, and walking krewes, have refused to continue to support the krewe in solidarity. The sister krewe, Pandora, has only 15 members left. Other krewes have come out in support of us "Nyxed Sisters."

And then the flood of allegations began: financial misdeeds, racist practices around board member and float lieutenant selection, racism within the associated dance troupe, transphobia. One of the women I rode with has a great podcast episode that explains the events up until this point if you want to check it out (also, please enjoy the use of the word "allegedly" in this episode - it is everything). There have been two Facebook live broadcasts featuring former members and board members talking about the problems within the krewe (there are two more planned). Members protested at the Nyx office, calling for her resignation. The captain refuses to step down, and the plan she announced is lame at best. People are being served with cease and desist orders from her lawyer (which are apparently just show according to the lawyer of someone who was served). It's a mess, BUT it's one that could have been avoided. 

She said she wanted to learn, but refused to meet with or listen to the countless members who wanted to speak to her. Black members of the krewe have been ignored. She had people who wanted to help learn and to educate her about why what was posted was wrong, why previous statements or actions are racist, why it's not all about her. But she choose to get a lawyer, stop communicating with any of us, and act like a petulant child. I hate to use the term "Karen," mostly because I know some really lovely women named Karen, but she's a Karen, and she's now the leader of the Mystic Krewe of Karens. For her, it was never about anyone else. It was always about her. And those who stay and help her, well, it's still about her. They're loyal to her now, but I'm sure something will one day make her call the manager on them too. 

Of course I can't stop thinking about any of this. The thing that keeps coming to mind for me is this: does she (the captain) not realize the power she actually has? Think about it, you have approximately 3500 women in an organization who are all interested in empowerment, being part of a community, and having fun. We were willing to spend lots of money to be part of this. For me and many others, Nyx was our vacation, the luxury item we saved for each year. Most of us spend months designing and making glitter purses, something that was incredibly cathartic for me. The sheer power of this group could have made such an impact on the community. Members come from all 50 states (51 - DC should be a state - pass it on) and several countries. Instead, we got "Eat, Prey, Love/Girl, Wash Your Face" empowerment, racism and transphobia, and financial mismanagement. She had the power to make this into a real moment instead of the drama that is now. Her husband is under investigation by the NOPD for computer fraud. If other financial misdeeds can be proven, she and other members of the board may end up under investigation. For what? So she can feel important? So she can be the captain forever? 

I saw the comment about Mardi Gras being a drug during the first Facebook live video, and it's stuck with me for the last two weeks. I know exactly what that person meant. There is something very powerful in being in a krewe.  When I was a kid, it was about family ties to a krewe or who you knew. No one, it seemed, was randomly in a krewe. A person like me, not from the area, would have a hard time getting in. That's why the second and third wave groups are so important - they bring more people in. And with more people, more diversity of thought and experience and life become part of the fabric of Mardi Gras culture. I'm sure others will disagree with me; that's cool. We can disagree; let's just be civil about (if you can remember how to be civil).

I've also felt the power of riding in a parade. I've seen what the promise of a coveted Nyx purse or a special throw can do. I've seen, from the top of a float, the wonder on people's faces. I've made eye contact with people, from that distance, and had the ability to decide if they got anything at all. It's powerful to be a woman, in a large group of other women, in a public space, deciding whether or not someone gets a throw. It's a lot of other things, but this is the part we need to focus on now. If that's what it feels to be a rider, imagine what it must feel like to be captain. Mardi Gras is a helluva a drug.

We had the potential to be a group on the right side of history. As I wrote in my resignation letter:

You had the ability to amplify the voices of our sisters, but chose to place yourself and the krewe on the wrong side of history. Earlier this week, a group of our sisters sent you an open letter concerning this matter. That you have chosen not to engage with them or any other sisters asking to speak to you is even more evidence that you don’t understand sisterhood.

If the last few months have taught me anything it's that nothing is removed from the systems of oppression and white supremacy we've created in this country. Mardi Gras has a long history of racism. I'm not going to pretend that doesn't exist, but I've felt like most modern krewes had moved away from that history or were trying to do more to bring diversity and inclusion into Mardi Gras. There is so much joy in Mardi Gras, and this entire event has taken that joy out of it for me.

Why does it even matter? I resigned. I should just move on, focus my attention on more important things, right? But this is an important thing. At first glance it is the drama of Drag Race married with the cattiness of The Real Housewives sprinkled with an overuse of the phrase "forensic audit," but it matters so much. It's 2000ish women and supporters walking away from something they loved because one person couldn't see past their own ego to embrace the change that has to come. It's important because some of these women have probably never taken a stance in this way before, and this is how they become allies and activists. It's important because each time one more woman tells a story we hear her and we take her seriously. If we don't hold organizations responsible for the actions of their leadership, change will never happen. It's important because this exodus from something as "frivolous" as a Mardi Gras krewe is the true definition of sisterhood. 

I'm not naive enough to believe the captain will change her ways or the board will find a way to get rid of her. They don't want to. The people who are still left are, for the most part, are people who feel the same way or who don't care enough about others to do something. They can have it. They can have this rotten shell of a parade. They can keep that busted up purse float and their pop psychology empowerment. But they don't get to take the friendships that came out of being part of this. They don't get to take the memories of doing something I've wanted to do since childhood. They don't get to take away the love that went into every handmade purse the Nyxed sisters made over the years. They don't get to take away what true sisterhood and solidarity is.

Stay safe. Wear your mask. Wash your hands. Be nice to one another. Vote. Black Lives Matter. 

Do one thing

I'm not really in the mood to have a birthday this year. My mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday and my response was "I guess cake?" Normally, I love celebrating my birthday, but it feels weird this year, not just because of social distancing. It's weird to think about celebrating when all I really want to do is burn things down (both metaphorically and literally). 

When I was thinking about this whole birthday thing this week, I thought "I should ask my network to do something for me. That would be cool." I don't like to ask people to do things for me on my birthday, but I'm making an exception this year. I feel like y'all can handle it. 

My request may seem simple, and in many ways, it is. BUT it's also not. It requires you to do some work and to be the good citizen I know you can be. You know how I love being a good citizen. Sometimes being a good citizen means putting your shopping cart in the shopping cart return area or wearing a mask in a public place. Other times, it means doing my favorite thing in the world:

VOTING

We are at a crucial place in history. The next several election cycles will have a substantial impact on the future of our country, up and down the ballot. The choices we make in these elections will impact all branches of the federal government in more ways than a president or members of Congress. You're voting for Supreme Court justices, federal judges, funding for programs that protect healthcare, immigration rights, civil rights, the fairness of our elections, and regulations that impact our planet. State and local elections have the potential to change the way policing works in this country, not to mention the impact on education and state economies. This is the reality of the next several election cycles. 

Are you registered to vote? Take the time today to ensure you are registered to vote. You can check your registration status by going to sites like Vote.Org or Rock the Vote (for all you 90s kids out there). You can also Google your state and voter registration to connect to your state's department of elections (or voter registration) to register. It takes under 10 minutes to register and you don't have to leave your house. 

Once/If you're registered to vote, make sure to confirm some additional items:

• Get the address of your physical polling place. For those of you who already are registered, check to see if it moved. This happens all the time, and can cause confusion when you go to vote. 
• Know the hours polling will be open - if you are in line before the end of polling hours, you can still vote. 
• Understand the identification requirements for your state.
• Check into mail-in and absentee ballot rules for your state. Not all states are allowing for mail-in ballots because of COVID-19. so you need to know what you're able to do and how to do. 
• Educate yourself on the ballot. You need to know what positions and ballot initiatives will be on the ballot. Find candidates that support your values and learn about initiatives because your tax dollars pay for them. 

All of this information can be found on your state's department of elections website. 

Don't let anyone tell you voting doesn't matter. We are where we are today because it does. The systems we have in place in the United States are designed to protect and benefit white people. That's the reality. If this makes you uncomfortable, well, too bad. Because of this reality, voting plays a significant role in how those systems work, are changed, are funded, and are dismantled. Because of this reality, our vote matters so much.

Let's use an example. 

Say you live in a town where the director of the town animal shelter is an elected position. On first glance, this seems like a pretty straightforward elected position. It should be an apolitical position; they're helping animals find new homes. You didn't take time to learn anything about the person running, so you vote for them because A. they're the only one on the ballot and B. it's the animal shelter - it doesn't matter that much. (Side bar: I adopted my pets from shelters, so please don't think this is me saying management of animal shelters doesn't matter. It absolutely does, but this is an example so go with it. Also, many people think this exact thought about local elections and local ballot measures - they all matter, but we don't treat them with the same gravity of voting for President.)

The newly elected animal shelter director takes office and seems to be doing a good job. Animal adoptions are steady. Pets are well taken care of. It looks like the shelter is an awesome example of a community resource. BUT long-time employees and volunteers are leaving at a much higher percentage than normal, most citing "culture" or "hostile work environment" as the reason. The applications for pet adoptions from black applicants are accepted at a lower rate than white applicants despite the application numbers being similar in terms of volume. While it's concerning, you don't think about the possibility of it being related to racism. Someone would have told you if the director was racist. You would have heard that before the election. It's probably just the newness of this person in the position, you think. It can't be racism. You move on with your day and forget about the election of the animal shelter director. 

A few years pass and we're at the next election cycle. The animal shelter director is now running for school board. Again, you vote for this person because they did a good job as director and you heard they wanted to improve class size and look at funding some after school programs focused on engineering. Those are good things, right? They win again, and now the school board is voting on a measure to omit black history curriculum from all schools. Guess who proposed that measure? That's right, the former animal shelter director. Debate gets heated, and the animal shelter director/now school board member uses a derogatory word to describe a black member of the board arguing against the measure and makes other racist comments. You're horrified - you didn't realize you voted for a racist. No one told you this person is racist. 

I get that this is an oversimplification of a very complex problem, but it illustrates my point. If you don't do the work to know who you're voting for, you've allowed someone to voice your opinion for you. You might not be a racist, but you voted for one whether you knew it or not. Not only did they do something racist in your name since you voted for them, you also allowed the system to continue to work in the way it has for centuries. When we don't exercise our right to vote or we don't educate ourselves about what/who we're voting for or we don't fight to make voting equitable for all citizens, we're allowing those in power to take more power from us. They're our elected officials...they work for us, not the other way around. I started working on political campaigns when I was 17, before I could vote. Those early campaigns taught me this. They taught me the true power of the people and why it matters that I exercise my right to vote.

Yes, I'm a white woman who grew up in the suburbs. I have a college degree. My parents aren't divorced. I'm in good health. My privilege is a big, flashing neon sign. I can't change those things about myself, but I can continue to educate myself and use the things that afford me privilege to change the way things are for the better. I can stand up for people who need it, AND I can stand up to people who are racist. I can spend money supporting black-owned businesses. I can donate to organizations that help drive these changes forward. I can boycott organizations and companies that don't or who actively promote racist beliefs (#notmycaptain for those of you from New Orleans). I can march and protest. I can vote. 

And so can you. 

So on this day, the start of my 41st year on Earth, in the middle of the weirdest timeline of my life, I ask you to do one thing: 

VOTE! 

If you're feeling excited and motivated today and want to take my birthday request a step further, here are a few more things you can do/read/learn:

• Take actions to bring Breonna Taylor's killers to justice. Taylor's killers have not been arrested, and it was reported yesterday that the police report regarding her murder was virtually blank. Really? 
• Side note: today is also Cate Young's birthday. She's the woman behind the action website. Happy Birthday, Cate!
• Donate! There are so many great organizations out there who need help right now. Here are a few to get you started:
• Black Visions Collective
• Black Lives Matter
• The Trevor Project - it's also Pride Month. The Trevor Project focuses on mental health support for LGBTQ youth. Check out their resources on helping Black LGBTQ youth. 
• Take a look at this article for a longer list of organizations, bail funds, and victim memorial funds you can support.
• Learn about racism from Elmo's Dad - if it takes a puppet to teach you why racism is wrong, then it takes a puppet.
• Join the NAACP. 
• Let Lizzo remind you that it's not black people's jobs to teach anyone about racism. Seriously, it's not. Do the work.  
• Follow some new voices on social media.
• Support black-owned businesses. Here's a list of Etsy shops and an article highlighting 75 businesses from Forbes. You can use Google to find more. 

Next week: Transient Suburbia returns! We'll pick up with chapters 14 and 15.

Transient Suburbia, Chapters 11-13

Enjoy chapters 11-13 of my novel! More here on what this is all about. 

Chapter Eleven

Harper, 9/7/91

            Aloha! My parents went to Hawaii in August for their anniversary and they keep saying “Aloha”. It means hello and goodbye. They brought me back a ukelele...something else to learn.

How’s the new school? Are they treating you well in Virginia? Did Flannery make cheerleading? Do you have someone to eat lunch with? I think that’s the worst part of school - lunch tables. Danny gets to go off campus for lunch starting next year. I’m jealous.

My buddy Adam and I are going to start a band. He’s a year older but we live next door to each other and have been friends for a few years. He plays guitar (better than me) but can’t sing. I can sing and sort of play guitar. There’s a girl in his class who plays bass and has a place for us to practice. I don’t know her but Adam says she’s cool. I guess we just need a drummer. 

Aloha, 

Ben

Ben, 9/25/91

Aloha! That’s sort of fun - “Aloha”. “Aloha.” How do you know if you’re starting or ending a conversation? Did you get to go anywhere fun while they were in Hawaii? I bet you say “Aloha” now just to get on their nerves. :) :)

School is ok. I’m scared that I’m going to get lost and always be late. I hate being late. The building is huge. 7th & 8th graders stay on the east side of the building for the most part. The cafeteria and gym are closer to the high school side, not quite in the middle of the building. It takes so long to get back to the east side; I’ve been late to English twice (it’s after PE). I need a shortcut. Walker’s trying to help me find one.

Let’s see, what else? Flannery made cheerleading but isn’t captain. She fits right in and is back to her old self. She even took me shopping last weekend which she never does. I let her buy me a purple dress instead of the black dress I really wanted. It seemed to make her happy. Walker is trying out for baseball in the spring and doing something with student council. All is right in twin world.

I’ve made one friend so far and some maybe friends through her. Her name is Amelia. She marched (that’s the best word for it) right up to me on the first day and said, “You’re new. We’re going to be best friends. “ She’s cool. We like a lot of the same stuff and for a 7th grader she seems to know everyone, even some seniors. Some of her friends are nice, some are a little weird but in a good way. We all eat lunch together so there’s that. Amelia and I have homeroom, gym, and math together. I’m in honors English and she’s not. She takes drama and I’m in newspaper. My first VA slumber party is on Friday. We’re going to a football game and then to Amelia’s. Should be fun.

The band sounds like a great idea! You also need a band name...

Aloha,

Harper

Dear Ben, April 1, 1992

I promise that the following story is not an April Fools Day joke.

Do you have to take PE? I have to go every day. It’s the worst. You know I don’t like sports; running isn’t too bad and I’m ok at volleyball but everything else is pretty rough. Anyway, to add more awfulness to PE, we have to take dance lessons.

DANCE LESSONS IN PE CLASS!!!!!!!!!!!

Who thinks this is a good idea? There’s a middle school dance at the end of April and our gym teachers decided that all of the 7th and 8th graders have to take dance lessons. There are two 7th grade gym teachers, Coach Davis (male) and Coach Wilson (female). He also coaches middle school and JV track and basketball and she coaches all girls’ JV sports. They’re in their 30s, I think, so they’re like old and don’t get that we don’t need dance lessons. It’s so stupid.

Coach Davis is my teacher. PE is my 2nd class of the day so I have to sprint from one end of the school to the other, change, and be on the court in 10 minutes. It’s next to impossible. Coach told us before Spring Break that we’d have to start dance lessons when we came back but everyone thought he was joking. He’s pretty funny but was being totally serious. We have to learn the Twist, the waltz, the Electric Slide, the two-step, and some other line dance I can’t remember. I might actually die of embarrassment before the dance even gets here.

Coach Davis and Coach Wilson decided the best thing to do would be to combine our classes for dance lessons. They have to be partners to demonstrate the dances so everyone is making up stories about them being a couple and everything. So the first class goes something like this: they partner us up to learn our first dance, the waltz. There’s an even number of boys and girls and I get paired with Bobby Clark, the biggest jerk in 7th grade. NO ONE likes him. We have to hold hands which is gross. He doesn’t seem to understand “dance space”  like in Dirty Dancing. He stepped on my toes, put his hands in the wrong place, and is being a total jerk. It’s terrible but Coach Davis won’t let me switch partners. No one would take him anyway. The coaches also showed us something they call “the 7th grade hang” which is basically hugging and dancing at the same time. They called this “what not to do” so of course that’s all stupid Bobby wants to do. Blah. We get to learn the Electric Slide next so at least I won’t have to deal with Bobby when that happens.

Amelia told me to relax. It’s not like I have to go to the dance with him. She thinks he likes me. She told me that’s how you know a boy likes you; if he’s mean to you. I told her that is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. If that’s true, I hope no boy ever likes me. You’re a boy - what do you think?

Flannery says all the dances they’re teaching us are worthless and old fashioned. She thinks it’s all babyish and has been trying to teach me dances from music videos she likes. My dancing is not good. I look like Joan Cusack in Sixteen Candles without the neck brace. This whole thing has catastrophe (new vocab word) written all over it.

Harper

Dear Harper, 4/10/1992

Dance class?! Where exactly did you move? We don’t have to do that in my PE class. I don’t think anyone cares how we dance at dances. We have an end of school dance too. It’s in May. I guess I’m going to go. I hadn’t thought about it until you mentioned your dance. Dances are kind of lame in my book but my friends will probably want to go so I guess I will too.

This Bobby guy definitely likes you. We tend to pester (vocab word) girls when we like them. I don’t understand it but those are the rules. You should stomp on his foot the next time he does something you don’t like. That’ll teach him. So are the coaches really a couple? Is everyone talking about them? That’s what would happen at my school if two teachers were dancing together. How hard is the Electric Slide? I feel like that’s a dance my parents would like.

You should make your brother “talk” to this Bobby guy. If that doesn’t do it, I guess I’ll just have to come there and take care of him. Nobody puts Baby in the corner (isn’t that what they say in Dirty Dancing?).

B

Aloha Harper 5/20/1992

I haven’t heard from you in awhile. How was the dance? Did you rock the Electric Slide? Did Bobby act like a proper gentleman? Did your PE teacher announce that he’s marrying the other PE teacher? I need some details Harper.

Our dance was pretty lame. I mostly stood off to the side and made fun of people with my friends. They played a lot of crappy music so none of my group wanted to dance. The DJ wouldn’t play any of the songs we requested. The only song we danced to was “No Rain” by Blind Melon. I got to meet Adam’s friend, Jane, the one that plays the bass. She’s cool. I think this band could work.

Ben

Aloha Ben, June 1, 1992

I’m so sorry I haven’t written in forever. My family is moving to France for the summer. Crazy right? My dad has to go over for work for like six months and my parents decided we’d all go for the summer. The end of the school year has been super busy since we’ve all had to get  passports and a bunch of other stuff to travel. I also started taking basic French classes; I’m getting pretty good. My mom says I get to be in charge of talking to people once we get there. Anyway, we leave right after school gets out and will be back in the middle of August. I’ll try to send you some letters once we’re settled and I figure out how the French postal system works. It can’t be that hard. Barney’s going to Michigan to run around my grandparents’ yard. I think he’ll like it more than Paris.

The dance ended up being ok. Bobby didn’t bother me thankfully. He was too interested in Amelia. Guess she got that one wrong; he likes her not me. I didn’t really dance too much and it was kind of boring. Maybe dances get better in high school.

Glad you met Jane. Any progress on a band name?

Au revoir!

Chapter Twelve

Burke, Virginia, September 19, 1993, Ninth Grade

School had been in session for two weeks. It was Sunday night and Harper was finishing up her civics homework. She didn’t really want to go to school tomorrow but couldn’t think of an excuse. Her mother never believed her when she said she didn’t feel well. She couldn’t lie like her brother when it came to faking illnesses. Harper called him Ferris Bueller, Jr.; his skills were that impressive. It wasn’t that Harper didn’t like school; she enjoyed school more than most of her friends. It was more that she didn’t feel like she fit in. The school was enormous and even though it had been two years since she moved to Burke, she hadn’t figured out her group yet. Flannery and Harper had been less than thrilled with finishing their high school years at a new school but they figured it out. They were good at fitting in.

Harper had made one really good friend since moving to Virginia. Amelia Bennett marched right up to Harper on her first day and made her feel right at home. Amelia was good at making people feel like they were special; she was like a hostess in training. She actually wanted to be a flight attendant or an actress so it all made sense.Their group was an odd mix of quiet readers like Harper, artsy kids like Amelia, and kids who didn’t quite fit in any group yet. Harper knew it took time to settle in; moving as much as she had in her young life made her very aware of being the new kid in school. She still felt that way even after two years; so many of the kids had been friends since kindergarten. Harper didn’t have their history.

Harper had a few letters to write so she could make the Monday mail. She wanted to check in with her siblings. Flannery had opted to move south and was in a design program at the Savannah College of Art and Design. Walker had gone back to Michigan but broke with family tradition and went to Michigan State rather than the University of Michigan. His decision had caused some tension in the house at the end of the year. Harper thought her parents were finally coming around. She missed the twins.It was odd being the center of her parents’ attention all of the time. It made her feel like an animal in a zoo exhibit; they were always watching her.

Most importantly, she owed Ben a letter. It was her week to write and she needed to send her letter at the start of the week. Ben sent her a four page letter last week full of music recommendations and books he was reading. He was learning to play Motorhead songs now and was starting another band (apparently). Ben’s band had been an obsession since the seventh grade. He just couldn’t find the right drummer. Or so he said. Harper had a feeling that he was just being Ben; full of ideas but not so great on follow through.

She finished her homework and got up to stretch a bit before starting her letter. Barney raised his head when she got up; poor dog probably thought she was going to take him for a walk. He realized his error and went back to napping. Harper looked around her room and smiled. This was her favorite room of all the houses they had lived in over the years. It had a window seat that looked over the backyard and across the neighborhood. That’s where she liked to sit and write her letters to Ben. She liked looking outside while she was writing. It reminded her of the window in the apartment they had in Paris the summer they lived there; she could see for miles. Her stationery was no longer the generic geometric patterns of fourth grade; the paper was ivory and had owls along the edge and on the envelope. Her brother bought it for her before he left for college.

Ben sent her a mixtape with his last letter. She only got through part of it; the songs were a mix of heavy metal, glam rock, and more Led Zeppelin. Her brother liked some of the bands on the tape so she sort of knew the music. She was particularly enamored of Metallica and Pantera. Both were completely unlike any other music she liked; she remembered a time when she feared Metallica’s music. She still loved her Big Star but had found Bowie and Lou Reed and was getting into bands like X and Rancid. Loud and aggressive with a side of glam sadness; that’s how she described her musical tastes. She had also started listening to some of the bands who called themselves Riot Grrls. One of the girls in Amelia’s drama class had given Harper a tape of Bikini Kill and Bratmobile. She hadn’t quite figured it out yet. Before she started her letters she changed into her pjs and took off the owl necklace she wore everyday. It had been a gift from Ben for her birthday a few years ago. It was her favorite piece of jewelry.

Ahoy Ben, September 19, 1993

Did you know that “ahoy” was used as a greeting for letters and early telephone conversations? It’s like saying hello but sounds better. Like we’re pirates or something. I’ve decided to begin all correspondence with “ahoy” from now on. I need a trademark phrase and it’s a good one.

I’m listening to side B of the mixtape you sent me. I’ve decided that I’m a fan of loud and aggressive music despite the fact that I am neither loud nor aggressive. I’ve listened to that L7 song about 40 times already; my mother has asked me to turn it down more than once. I think she’s sad that I’m no longer listening to Motown records exclusively. If you have the whole L7 album or tape can you make me a copy? They don’t have it at all at Kemp Mill and Tower was sold out.

I’ve also been listening to The Replacements a lot lately. Do you know them? Big Star (my fav) was an influence or so I read. I wasn’t sure what to expect but I really like them.There’s this one song “Can’t Hardly Wait” that I’m obsessed with. And a song called “Alex Chilton.” I’m listening to those two songs, “Pretend We’re Dead”, and Rancid on repeat right now. It’s a little weird I know. I’ll make you a tape this week; you might like the new Tori Amos I got last weekend.

How’s the band? Have you found your drummer yet? Where are you practicing (or is it rehearsing)? Is your dad still mad that you don’t want to play classical music anymore? You should play “Thirteen” for him.

Not a ton to report here. I decided to sign up to work for the crew for the upcoming play. Amelia is auditioning and she thought it would be fun if I worked on the show too. I’m also the only freshman on the newspaper staff. I’m trying to get the editor to let me write about music but so far I only get to cover sporting events and bake sales. I’m sure it’s because I’m the youngest because it’s certainly not because I know anything about lacrosse. I guess I just have to prove myself and enjoy free cupcakes. The perks of being a journalist.

Have you heard from your brother? Does he like New York? Flannery and Walker are doing ok. Mom wants them to come home for Thanksgiving but neither of them want to. I’m sure that an argument is brewing but whatever. They’ll do what they want like always.

Alright friend, I need to get to bed. I tried to think of an excuse to get out of going to school tomorrow but I couldn’t think of anything my mom would believe. I need to be better about making stuff up; I should have paid attention to my brother over the years.

Loud and aggressive in Northern Virginia,

Harper

It wasn’t four pages but it would have to do. Harper’s handwriting was now much neater than Ben’s so it just took him more space. Ben and Harper had been writing to each other since 1988. That was a long time; Ben was her oldest friend. She never thought that day in fourth grade he would come to mean so much to her. They told each other everything. However, Harper didn’t know what Ben looked like or sounded like. In five years they had never exchanged photos or spoken on the phone. They only existed to each other in letters. Harper both loved and loathed this. She really did want to know what Ben looked like but she was afraid knowing would erase some of the magic of their friendship.

She folded up the letter and addressed the envelope. Ben still lived in the same house in Milwaukee. Once she had asked him about living in one place his whole life. He hadn’t really had much of an opinion at the time. She’d have to ask again.

Harper put her letter with her bag so she wouldn’t forget to mail it tomorrow. She got ready for bed and decided to read for a bit. Her brother gave her his Stephen King novels and she was halfway through Carrie. Not exactly bedtime reading but she was enthralled. Her mom hated Harper’s new reading habits but what she didn’t see wouldn’t hurt her.

Chapter Thirteen

“Seriously Harper, you have to find out what he looks like. You’re probably going to marry him and have like 10,000 of his babies so you should at least know whether they’ll be attractive or not. What if he’s super short? Or has a unibrow?” Amelia was flipping through a Seventeen magazine. Harper laughed at the unibrow comment. It was Friday night after rehearsal and she was staying over at Amelia’s. They had tech rehearsal the next morning but kept finding things to talk about rather than going to sleep.

“I don’t think I want to know. If I ask for a picture of him, he’ll want one of me. And I look terrible in every picture I’m in.” Harper was painting her nails black. She was sure her mother would make her take it off the second she got home tomorrow.

“We can get, like, Glamour Shots or something. Or maybe Jess can do your makeup at rehearsal tomorrow and we can take your picture.”

Harper had no interest in either of these options. She hated wearing makeup and thought she looked weird in pictures. Her sister and mother were beautiful; Harper was cute and pretty-ish but not beautiful. If Ben saw her, maybe he wouldn’t like her anymore. That was one of her fears. She did want to know what he looked like but didn’t want him to know what she looked like. This is why being a girl sucked.

“Not happening. I like the way you think but I’m not doing either of those things. He has never asked me for a picture so I’d rather just leave it as it is. It makes our friendship about real things rather than the superficial shit we deal with at school.” Harper grabbed Amelia’s hair dryer and tried to dry her nails faster.

“Don’t ever say I didn’t try to help.” Amelia threw the magazine aside. “Shall we watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer again?”

“Yes let’s.” Harper settled in on some pillows. Amelia would focus her attention on doing her Kristy Swanson impression and planning her wedding to Luke Perry. They could stop talking about Ben and pictures.

Rehearsal ran over by an hour. People were late and still didn’t know their lines. Their director had thrown a fit halfway through rehearsal and yelled at all of them. It was not the way Harper wanted to spend a Saturday. She was on the costume and publicity crews. She spent most of the rehearsal fixing costumes and taking notes for the costume designer, an incredibly bossy senior named Pam. She skipped her lunch break to paint signs for the hallways. She was not entirely sure that theatre was for her but it did have it’s fun parts and the show would probably end up being pretty good.

Amelia’s dad was waiting for them and did not seem pleased that rehearsal had run over. Mr. Bennett had come into the theatre twice and said something to Mr. Hughes, their director. Mr. Hughes didn’t seem to care that he was keeping them an extra hour or that people were waiting. Pam told Harper this happened every show.

Harper was looking forward to getting home and going to bed. She hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before and the day was exhausting. She didn’t have any homework to do so the rest of the weekend was hers to do with as she wanted. Her plan was to make a mixtape for Ben and finish Carrie. She was excited about the mixtape; she knew Ben didn’t know the bands she was into right now. That was one of the things she loved about Ben, although she would probably never say love out loud. He was interested in the stuff she liked even if he didn’t care for it or didn’t know it and she tried to be the same way. It’s what made them such great friends.

Her conversation with Amelia popped into her head a few times during the day and it was on her mind again as she walked into the house. Did she need to know what Ben looked like? Did it matter? It hadn’t mattered in the fourth grade or the seventh grade. Did high school make the difference? Harper had never had a boyfriend and wasn’t particularly interested in Ben being her boyfriend. She didn’t think of him like that. He was her best friend and she didn’t ever want to lose that.

Her parents were in the kitchen cooking dinner and waiting for her to get home. They were very into family dinners now that it was only Harper at home. They wanted to hear about her day and what was going on at school. It was a little exhausting being the center of attention all the time. She didn’t always have interesting things to tell them; Flannery was so much better at that than Harper was.

How was rehearsal? You’re a little late aren’t you?” Her mother stirred spaghetti sauce. She motioned for Harper to sit down at the table. “Dinner's almost ready.”

“Rehearsal was okay. Mr. Hughes threw a tantrum about halfway through the day so we went over. Half the cast doesn’t know their lines and the costume designer is in over her head. It’s still sort of fun but I don’t know if it’s what I want to do all the time. The newspaper is more my speed.” Harper played with her fork.

“It’s good to have a variety of activities on your resume for college but you should do what makes you happy.” Her dad brought salad and bread to the table. “Could you pour water for everyone, Harp?”

She got up and grabbed the water jug from the refrigerator. She thought about what her dad said. “I want to be a writer so I think I should focus on that. I’m submitting some stories to the literary journal too. I’m going to start pitching pieces to the editor at the paper. He only lets me write sports stories and fluffy pieces. I know nothing about any of the sports I’m assigned to I cover and I am tired of covering bake sales.”

Her dad smiled, “That’s my girl! You have to fight for what you want. Make that editor see how great you are.” Her dad gave her an awkward side hug.

“You got a letter from Ben today. I put it on your desk.” Her mom brought plates to the table. Her mom made excellent spaghetti; Harper should probably learn how to make it sometime.

I love that you two have stayed in touch all these years. And to think, you didn’t want a boy as a pen pal.” Her mom brought this up every time Harper got a new letter.

“I was in fourth grade. All boys were gross and stuff.”

Well, it’s just so nice to see. No one writes letters anymore.” Harper’s mom spent most of her time catching up with friends on the phone.

“I guess I just like being old-fashioned. And I like getting mail so it’s a win-win.”

The rest of dinner was a non-event. Her parents talked about work and about Thanksgiving. Harper replied when necessary. She tried to speed through dinner without being obvious. She wanted to read Ben’s letter and make him a mix. She helped clear the table and finally escaped to her room.

Ahoy matey! Sept. 23, 1993

I thought I’d take ahoy to its natural end and just start referring to you as matey. You may refer to me as Captain from now on.

Loud and aggressive music is now your thing? Should I send some Anthrax (band not poison) your way? Or is it just bands fronted by women? I was going to say chicks but then I thought you’d tell me I was being anti-woman or something. Teenagers are supposed to like loud and aggressive music; it’s a reaction to our parents and their music which was loud and aggressive to their parents. It’s a vicious rock and roll cycle.

As you may be able to tell, my dad is not happy with my choice to stop playing classical music. He thinks that rock musicians are a dime a dozen and that I’ll never be anything special if I play rock music. My argument about the Stones and the Doors and every other successful rock band (including his precious Beatles) is met with a dismissive comment and another round of “I won’t pay for college if you don’t follow my rules.” It’s no wonder Danny went to New York as soon as he was able. My dad means well, I guess, he just has a skewed world view.

No drummer yet. Adam and Jane didn’t like the last guy so we’re still trying to find that perfect match. The drummer is really important, you know? He (or she) keeps us together and none of the guys have worked out so far. We’re having auditions next Saturday. Jane’s parents let us use their garage for practice as long as we don’t trash the place. They live further out of town than Adam and I so there aren’t as many neighbors around to complain about the noise. I’m saving up to buy my first electric guitar; I’m using one of Adam’s right now. We need a name too. Right now we’re going by This Band Sucks. Not a great choice but it’s the best we’ve come up with.

Tell that editor to give you a chance. He doesn’t know he has the next Lester Bangs or that woman writer you told me about (I’m terrible at names). What would be your musical spin? You probably have to have a hook or something. I don’t know much about journalism but I’m sure I’ve heard that before. How is the play? Is Amelia the star? She seems like the kind of person who would be the star. What crew are you on? I’m playing in the pit for the orchestra in the spring. We’re doing “Grease” for the 400th time in this school’s history. I guess it’s ok - not really my thing but I need range so being in the pit is a good thing in the end.

Haven’t heard of The Replacements before but I’m sure if you like them I will too. I ended up enjoying Big Star after your 47th mixtape so send it my way. I have to buy some more tapes before I can send you the L7 tape. I should send you a few other things too; lots of good music these days.

Are you visiting family in Michigan this summer? We might be in Detroit for some work conference my dad has to go to and I thought if we were there at the same time we might be able to meet. No big deal if you’re not going to be there but I thought I’d ask.

So I need some advice about something and I thought you might be able to help. Our homecoming dance is coming up soon and my bandmates want to go. They’re a couple and I don’t want to be that guy that has to pose for his photo alone or be a third wheel. There’s this girl, Jenny, in my English class. She seems nice and doesn’t have a boyfriend that I know of. How should I ask her? Do I go all John Cusack on her or should I play it cool and just pass her a note or something? How would you like to be asked to a dance?

I realize my last few letters have been super long. Hope I’m not complaining too much or whatever. I just like talking to you or “talking” to you. It’s pretty cool that we have each other.

Until next time,

Captain Ben

Harper wasn’t sure where to start with this letter. Ben had so much going on. The dad stuff and the band and now wanting to ask a girl to the homecoming dance. What did she know about asking someone to a dance? She was going to homecoming as part of a big group instead of with dates. That was easier. Maybe she should suggest that to Ben; he should just go as part of a group. Less pressure and all.

Something about this whole homecoming question didn’t sit well with Harper. Was she jealous? She didn’t even know this Jenny girl but Harper didn’t like her. Harper had never had this sort of reaction to another girl before. She needed to talk to the one person who would know about these things...Flannery.

She called her sister’s dorm and of course, Flannery was out. Harper left a message with the roommate whose name she could never remember and hoped her sister would call her back. She decided it would be better to write the letter after she made the mixtape. The process of making the tape would calm her down and get her in the right place to respond to Ben’s letter. And maybe Flannery would call her back and help her figure this out.

Harper grabbed her notebook and started plotting her newest mix. She wanted it to be epic and amazing but not seem like she was trying too hard. That was the thing about making someone a mix; it had to be perfect but not seem like you agonized over it for hours. The mix had to be organic. It had to infect the listener’s brain and heart and soul all at the same time. Making mixtapes appealed to Harper’s love of lists and music as a way to understand someone. She made excellent mixes. At least that’s what she thought.

She worked on her mix late into the night. Her sister never called her back and eventually Harper gave up waiting for her call. She knew she’d have to write her letter and she’d have to figure out what to say to Ben about this girl. Maybe she’d dream of some kind of response.