November 15: The Whole Roll of Our Order, My Mother, Mother JFK

Nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole roll of our order . . . 

Ishmael is writing about whalers in this sentence.  He's trying to convince his readers of their nobility and worth.  Thus, whalers are heroes and holy men, kings and gods.  For Melville, whalers embody all the best qualities of human nature.

For some reason, my mother has been on my mind a lot these last few weeks.  I don't exactly know why.  Perhaps it's the approach of Thanksgiving.  (For those disciples who do not live in the United States, Thanksgiving is a holiday that takes place on the fourth Thursday of every November.  It's a time when friends and family sit down together, eat a huge turkey dinner, and--ideally--feel grateful for the blessings of their lives.)  My mother was an amazing cook and spent two or three days making sides and relishes and breads and Jell-Os for Thanksgiving.

Anyway, last night, in the composition class I'm teaching this semester at the university, I gave my students the following prompt:  Write about a person in your family for whom you are thankful.

This is what I wrote in my journal:

Let me tell you about my mother who gave birth to a baby girl with Down syndrome in 1965.

Let me tell you that the doctor who delivered my sister told my mother about a place where she could drop off her baby, a place for mental defectives and cripples and castoffs who would never be able to walk or talk or go to the bathroom by themselves.  "There's no hope here," he said.

Let me tell you that my mother wrapped her baby in a blanket, walked out of that hospital, and brought her home.

Let me tell you that my mother didn't treat my sister any differently than she treated me when I was born a few years later.

Let me tell you that my mother taught my sister her letters and colors and numbers, how to write her name:  Rosemarie.  Note Rose.  Not Rose Mary.  Rosemarie.  Four consonants.  Five vowels.

Let me tell you that my mother once marched into a school's office, into a principal's office, and told that man with the wide ugly tie, "You WILL find a classroom for my daughter" in a tone that said, "Fuck.  You."

Let me tell you that my mother never, ever, ever pitied my sister or made excuses for her.

Let me tell you that my mother, at my sister's high school graduation, looked like the mother of a President of the United States on Inauguration Day.  Mother JFK, mother FDR, mother Lincoln, mother Obama, you choose.  See her sitting there, back straight as a flagpole, the air cold, drums snapping in the January bright.  My mother, imagining her baby's face on Mount Rushmore.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his mother.

January 21: Inaugurations Day, Sickness, "Rye" Dip Monday

I woke up this morning with every intention of going to work.  I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth.  When I started flossing, it was all over.  I don't want to go into great deal here.  Suffice to say, the toilet and I have been on a first-name basis all day long.  Thank goodness I didn't have to teach today because of Martin Luther King Day.  I was able to lie in bed and listen to the Inauguration festivities on the TV.

I listened to President Obama's speech.  I listened to James Taylor and Kelly Clarkson and Beyonce sing.  The only thing I watched was Richard Blanco read his inauguration poem, "One Today."  At first, I wasn't sure I liked it, but it built momentum and ended up being quite moving.  You judge for yourself:

One Today

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,

peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces

of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth

across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.

One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story

told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,

each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:

pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,

fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows

begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—

bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,

on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—

to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did

for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,

the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:

equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,

the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,

or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain

the empty desks of twenty children marked absent

today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light

breathing color into stained glass windows,

life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth

onto the steps of our museums and park benches

as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk

of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat

and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills

in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands

digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands

as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane

so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains

mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it

through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,

buses launching down avenues, the symphony

of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,

the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,

or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open

for each other all day, saying: hello| shalom,

buon giorno |howdy |namaste |or buenos días

in the language my mother taught me—in every language

spoken into one wind carrying our lives

without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed

their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked

their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:

weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report

for the boss on time, stitching another wound 

or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,

or the last floor on the Freedom Tower

jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes

tired from work: some days guessing at the weather

of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love

that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother

who knew how to give, or forgiving a father

who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight

of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,

always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon

like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop

and every window, of one country—all of us—

facing the stars

hope—a new constellation

waiting for us to map it,

waiting for us to name it—together 

I'm not sure if the line and stanza breaks are correct, but this is the full text of the poem, delivered by Richard Blanco this morning at President Obama's second inauguration.  He is the first Cuban American to deliver an inaugural poem.  He is the first gay American to deliver an inaugural poem.  He is the youngest person to ever deliver an inaugural poem (he's younger than me).  And I officially hate him.

Well, it is Monday, which means I owe you a Rye dip.  My question today is very simple:

Will my body stop exploding any time soon?

And the answer from Holden and company is:

...She was laying there asleep, with her face sort of on the side of the pillow.  She had her mouth way open.  It's funny.  You take adults, they look lousy when they're asleep and they have their mouths way open, but kids don't.  Kids look all right.  They can even have spit all over the pillow and they still look all right.

There you go.  Phoebe looks all right asleep, not sick or throwing up or rushing to the toilet.  That means I'm going to be all right soon.

Saint Marty's going to take that one to the bank.  Or at least to the bathroom.

My newest person to hate