WWRWP—"Were They Confetti Bombs?"

This morning at the bus stop, a runner went by in Boston blue. In recognition, I put my hands to my heart in namaste and the runner waved back.

"Why did he do that?" Jude asked.

"Well Jude...well... why don't you come over here and sit down." 

He joined me on the steps of the meditation center, where we fittingly wait for his bus each Monday and Tuesday morning. As child-friendly-ly as I could, I told him about what happened yesterday in Boston. I gave him the facts. No drama. Nothing graphic.

Up until today, I've been very protective of sharing world news with Jude. As many of you know, I do not take media news of any kind, which is a whole other subject, the subject of my memoir in fact, which I will eventually finish if I can figure out a way to make more hours in the day. The point is,  he is not allowed to watch regular TV or play with imaginary (or real for that matter) weapons of any kind, at least not on my clock. He is taught daily that "we don't believe in shooters," and reminded that there are no "bad guys," only guys that have been done badly to who in turn act "badly."

I'm not stupid; I know he will and probably does play games of good and evil, though one day last fall I overheard him tell a kid at the playground that "my mom doesn't let me play with shooters." For my benefit,  he also reassures me that when he plays with kiddie toys like BatMan and Robin type weapons over at Dada's that the canons and bullets are love bullets shooting love missiles. I also realize I cannot use young/metaphorical language much longer, which is perhaps why I decided to sit him down today. Perhaps I can tell him the story without sensationalizing it.

Of course he wonders why—why about any and all of it. And because he is my kid, I tell him exactly why. 

For the record, most questions he asks from his creative six-year-old brilliant imagination I'll admit I cannot answer. Often times I will simply say, "I don't know, honey," or I'l make up something really goofy for his amusement. Yesterday he taught me the difference between a "partly sunny sky" and a "partly cloudy" one. When he asks why the sky is so brilliant on stormy days (not his words) I make up something fantastical about magic cloud carpets and Lovelands on high, to which he'll say, "well, I think it's because it's raining over there." He asks a lot of trick questions. 

I'm okay not knowing a lot of things. But when it comes to what is happening to our world—humankind violently, satirically, mindlessly, politely, passively (and aggressively) turning on itself—and why—isolation, fear, lack of love—I am unflinching when it comes to sharing this truth. I'm no bodhisattva, but I've done and seen and suffered and rejoiced and studied too much to keep this truth all to myself, to not share what has been taught to me by elders, teachers, fear, life, the universe... When I talk to my students about the "writers' duty," it echoes Faulkner's belief with a twist: we ought write about what we love and the stories about how what we love has helped us fight for and live more whole, loving, lives. 

Of course that's a bit heady for a six year old. The over simplified, copout explanation is that we are Buddhists (or...Bu-Jews. Or...Hind-Jews) and as such we are rooted in lovingkindness and do not believe (or behave) in harming any living beings. And, as much as I can, I try to live this in our daily lives. We hug trees. We sing songs about love. We help others and each other. We do yoga. We bow to Buddha. Yesterday he offered heartfelt thanks to the birds by shouting out of the car window as loud as he could "thank you, robin!" for giving us the late afternoon sunshine break in the clouds. 

So when he asked why "they" put the bombs there I told him it is because "they" are sad and angry and don't get enough love. 

Like I've said, he may write a memoir someday about his crazy mother called "Hare Mama!" He may think I'm full of shit and become a used car salesman (though we looove them too!). Still, it could be worse. I could be Ma. I could tell him the reason for all this mindless violence is because people are assholes, stupid, unconscious, and should be shot. 

But somehow I think my way's healthier. It's much easier to love Ma now, regardless of, perhaps because of, her suffering. 

Before heading onto the bus, Jude asks "were the bombs confetti bombs?" He is thinking of the easter confetti eggs we dropped on each other's heads and the hardwood floor. The image of happy colorful confetti blasting all over the world's wars and hatred and violence makes me smile. On the other hand, my kid may be the next Paul Wellstone. Or Willy Wonka.

"Imagine that, JJ" I said as he took his familiar spot at the front of the bus and waved to me as they drove away and out of sight. "Just imagine that."

How do you talk to your children? Elders? What sense do you make of the world these days? What is your "why?"

Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—EVERYTHING: PART TWO IN FOUR PARTS

 1.
When I was about four, story goes, Ben and I were playing "Dark Room" in the hallway, which consisted of us scurrying around on the hardwood on all fours and me declaring, "I'm an Aardvark!" while we chased each other back and forth until we'd had enough or Ma put an end to it. On this particular day, story goes, Ma and Dad took us into their bedroom and told us they were going to get a divorce because they didn't love each other anymore.

The way my dad always told it was that Ben and I started laughing and went back to our game.

"While we went back into the bedroom and cried," he added.

That story puzzled dad every time he told it. Later, when I was in grad school for psych, he asked what I made of that, being a budding therapist and all. "Do you think it was some sort of coping thing, Rox? I mean... is there something Freudian about that?" Dad looooooved Freud. Almost as much as he loved Jung. "Eileen, what do you think?"

Ma couldn't remember. "I'm sure they were scared shitless, Leonard," was all she could come up with.

In reality, as far as I can remember, the divorce was a nonevent. Everyone on the block was a latchkey kid with divorced parents. You were weird if your parents, at least your biological ones, were raising you together in the same house.


2.
Tonight while reading books to Jude, he pointed out that he was cuddling his "diverse" teddybear. I looked over and smiled, wishing I could be more awake to take in the sweetness of it. Another night of books, another stuffed animal to love. "Do you know what a diverse teddybear is?" he asked.

Well I thought about that.  I think I know what that means... but why does he? Isn't diversity a bit advanced for kindergarten?  Wow, that Barton sure is progressive! Of course, on second thought, I wasn't surprised to know that diversity was something being taught at his school, and I began imagining the context for this teaching. I looked at the teddy bear for signs of "diversity."

"Do you?" he asked again.

"No, honey, I don't. What is a diverse teddybear?"

"It's when your parents live in two separate houses."

Ah. That kind of diversed.


My kid is so pure with language. I hope he never stops doing it his way. The other day on the way to school he begged me to turn up the "radio-ator" so he could hear "Baila Baila Baila" as loud as it would go.  He says something pure like that every day, which I wish I had time to celebrate as hard as I'd like to each and every time.  Lately he's been saying, "Mama hug me up!"

And tonight he told me, quite matter-of-factly, why he has a diverse teddybear.

I can't help wonder if the pain I feel his or mine. I can't help wonder a bunch of things, honestly. I know what I know... I know my life. But I can't help but wonder all kinds of things, all sorts of what ifs. What if Ma hadn't asked Dad for a divorce. What if we really were sad... And I can't help but wonder about this morning. Jude asked if mon homme was coming over in that predictable anticipatory voice I both fear and love, love because I want everyone to get along and love each other, fear because Too Cute Face and I riding out a storm, forecast unknown. 

I tell him no, not today. "It's a school day, honey."


3.
Fifteen years ago I was at a psychodrama retreat on the Oregon Coast. It was my first of many to come, but I don't remember too many details because it was a complete awakening, albeit a traumatic one.  Where I'd been before that I'll never know, living something of a "half-life," I suppose, as my trainer put it. The few things I can recall: I realized I was on the verge of divorce, I felt the most intense sadness I had ever felt in my life, and one of the teachers said one of the most important things I have ever and will ever hear in my lifetime: "Unexpressed grief kills."


4. 
Two weeks ago when the ENT doc told me he could see nothing in my ears, up my nose or in my throat, I refused to leave his office. "What do you mean there's nothing there?" I argued. "How do you explain the plugged ears? The dizziness? The truck-drove-over-my-face feeling?"

"I don't," he said and recommended Sudafed. I felt the pain and anger well up as he left the room.

Moments later on the phone with Too Cute Face, he listened empathetically as I vented about the appointment. "I'm so sorry," he said, among other kind things. "I'm so sorry it still hurts so much." I know he didn't mean it, but that actually made it worse. But the good kind of worse. The kind that reminds me I needn't be such a stranger to empathy, but the kind that is still hard to integrate so it makes me cry.

I cried a lot that week. A lot of old grief was kicking around, looking for a way out.  Miraculously, my sinus hell gradually went away. I should have been listening to it a little harder, perhaps.




What is your divorce story? Or diverse story for that matter? Or (un)expressed grief story?


PS: Is that really snow I see outside my window? Good golly, cry me a river.