- a mother
- a wife
- a Latina
- a Colombian
- a cat person
- a writer
- an editor
- a public relations professional
- a person who isn’t crazy about the title “public relations professional”
- a talker
- a listener
- a person who reminds herself she needs to listen more
- a reader
- a book collector
- a TV watcher
- a movie watcher
- a Mac person
- a successful person
- a person who has failed at a lot of things I wish I hadn’t failed at
- a hard worker
- a person who sometimes phones it in
- a runner
- a person who is surprised that, looking back, high school cross-country meant a lot more than high school soccer
- a former flute and clarinet player
- a person who wishes she hadn’t given up playing an instrument as a freshman in high school
- a college graduate
- a Davidson wildcat
- an English major
- a person with an ethnic studies concentration
- a holder of a master’s degree
- a UNC-Chapel Hill graduate
- a Tar Heel
- a Tom Wicker scholar
- a former journalist
- a former Senate (deputy) press secretary
- an activist
- a (proud) bleeding heart liberal
- a person who once saw Barack Obama in the halls of the Chicago Tribune
- an introvert
- a 40-year-old
First, let’s get one thing out of the way: I will always want a president who is above all experienced in and knowledgeable of governing (both at a high level and the everyday minutiae), but also familiar with international history and politics, and empathetic of the challenges facing the poorest and least advantaged Americans. (For a sample resume of an ideal candidate, see Hillary Clinton.)
That said, I had a lot of thoughts in response both to the suggestion that Oprah may run for president and to the reaction other people had to the suggestion that Oprah may run for president. Here are the most prominent of these thoughts:
This year often felt like one long politics-induced panic attack. But if we learned anything from Harry Potter is that to give in to that panic, to let anxiety take over and to shrink into a hardened nihilist shell would be to let the death eaters win. So with that in mind, I give you the most important lesson this year taught me and the things that made me hopeful and happy.
For much of my life I’ve had a funny relationship with the phrase “reading for pleasure.” I love books. Reading is pleasure, by definition. But the place reading has in my life has changed considerably over time. The space it occupies now is not what I would have expected when I was a kid just discovering what books were.
Humor me for a minute and I’ll explain what I mean.
I’ll get to the books I read this year eventually. I promise.
Listen, kid, if you’re anything like me (NEWSFLASH: You’re a lot like me. Sorry.), the next 12 years of years of your life will be long, challenging, boring and painful sometimes, embarrassing and emotional sometimes, and a probably more than a little bit awkward. But there will be laughter in there (some of it at my expense—I forgive you) and also lots of love and fun.
You’ll be older and wiser at the end of this. Smarter, too, if you continue to love to learn and continue to be so good at it. And if your dad and I hold up our end, making you do your homework, traveling with you to cool places, taking you to nerdy museums, and quizzing you on your addition and multiplication tables just like your abuelo did with me.
And if you have good teachers.
That’s the good news. On this long journey to your high school diploma and what comes after, we will have help. I don’t know what your teachers will be like, but here’s what I wish for you:
I wish for you a teacher who recognizes when you’re not good at something, but doesn’t treat you differently or make you feel stupid because of it. Like Mrs. Williams, my first teacher after I moved to the United States, who never let on to me or anyone that she thought I spoke poor English even though I did.
I wish for you a teacher who goes above and beyond, so you can participate in something you love. Like Mr. McGregor, my elementary school art teacher, who taught an evening sculpting class I took and shared his dinner with me on the nights that mom had to work late and couldn’t pick me up between the time after-school care ended and the class began. (It was always a tuna sandwich. I friggin’ love tuna.)
I wish for you a teacher who trusts you and gives you extra responsibilities because he knows you can handle them. Like Mr. Ackerman, who signed me up to be on the popcorn staff in 6th grade even though this meant missing one period of social studies every week. He said he picked me because he knew I could do the job and keep up with the class. I managed it, if only because I wanted to prove him right.
I wish for you a teacher who teaches you that life is hard and sometimes you can’t have everything you want all at the same time. Like Mr. Thornton, who was teaching while he put himself through law school. He was also diabetic, and the stress of everything was affecting his health, so he gave up the thing he loved the most, his students, because it was what had to be done. When he told us he’d be quitting, half-way through the year, I put my head down so others wouldn’t see that I was crying. Until I heard a sob, and then another, and then another. All of us cried. But we also learned something: life is hard and sometimes you can’t have everything you want all at the same time.
And I wish for you a teacher who points you in the direction of the rest of your life. Like Mr. Powell, who was my English teacher in 10th and 12th grades. My high school years were an embarrassment of riches in the good teachers department, but in his class, what I learned the most about was myself.
Sofi, I don’t know what you will remember of the coming year or the ones that will follow. (Well, you’ll remember your first day, if nothing else, because I’ll be taking a million photos.)
You’re not going to recognize the teachers who are going to change your life when you meet them. You’re probably not going to realize that’s what they’re doing when you’re sitting in their classrooms. Maybe, you’ll understand that’s what they’ve done for you as you leave them behind. It’s possible that you’ll read this when you’re 18 and think, “Jesus, mom, were you really this fucking sappy?”
On this night, though, before it all begins for you, all I only know is what my teachers did for me. And, damn it, kid, I really, really hope you are this lucky.
Love, your mother
I watched a lot of TV when I was a kid. Also, my memory works in weird ways. So it is that I remember, surprisingly clearly, an episode of Growing Pains in which Mike gets a job at a convenient store. It was one of those that came to be known as a Very Special Episode.
I’m not sure if I recall all the details exactly, but it goes something like this: Mike’s coworkers are two young men who are black and about his age. The owner of the store is an old white guy who seems nice but says all these platitudes about “taking care of our own” that set off alarms even in the somewhat dim Mike.
The convenient store is open 24 hours, but despite being the new guy, Mike notices how he’s never asked to do the “graveyard” shift. He also notices how accommodating his boss is to him, but not his black coworkers. When he tells his parents, they seem to get right away that the dude is a racist. Then, a funny thing happens. (Not funny, “haha,” alas.) Turns out, that Jason and Maggie Seaver don’t want Mike to have to do the graveyard shift because they’re afraid it’s unsafe. They’re genuinely torn about how to confront obvious racism that is resulting in something they want and that benefits their son. (I may not remember everything about this episode exactly right, but I remember their moral dilemma. Through the decades, their unease about the situation stuck with me.)
Ultimately, through conversations with one of his black coworkers, Mike’s eyes are opened to the unfairness of the situation. Meanwhile, the store owner insists he’s just giving the new kid a break. Mike eventually takes matters into his own hands and deliberately messes up at work. When the boss finds the mess Mike made, while Mike is standing right there watching him, he immediately suspects one of the black employees and proclaims that the kid is fired. Mike confesses after this proclamation, and the boss shrugs it off and says, “um, OK, in that case, no biggie.” Mike immediately calls out the guy’s racism and quits.
The moral of the episode—because there was always a moral to Very Special Episodes—was that even when something that was racist, unfair or immoral helped you, it was still racist, unfair or immoral and had to be treated as such.
Growing Pains was the kind of show that is easy to laugh at now and to enjoy only if you do so with a sense of irony, one that acknowledges that it was actually terrible television.
Was it really terrible, though?
In this era of “Peak TV” wherein our stories are all subtlety and nuance and our heroes are dark and complicated and often make morally questionable choices, where would we put a half-hour of sitcom television in which two white, otherwise thoughtful and decent parents are forced to confront their privilege and resulting moral apathy? In which it’s the teenage ne’er-do-well, not the well-educated grownups (Maggie was a journalist and Jason was a psychologist), who realizes that racism is wrong and needs to be pointed out, even and especially when it’s giving you a leg up?
Nuance in art is a thing that I appreciate. And the reason we don’t like Very Special Episodes is that they rarely offered any. The lessons hit you over the head, and the bad guys were unmistakably so. There wasn’t a whole lot of nuance to Growing Pains, or this particular episode. We knew what the right thing to do was right away, and once Mike figured it out, he did it immediately and with admirable resolve.
In today’s cultural context, there would be nuance. The racist boss would be a hard-working blue-collar guy who had been left behind by the political ruling class and wasn’t a monster out to get black people. He’d hired black kids, hadn’t he? Maggie and Jason would be parents just trying to do right by their kids—their inner conflict about doing the right thing would be more complicated, more drawn out.
But their inaction would still be wrong. No matter how much more layered and subtle the story, ultimately, that would remain true. I know that thanks to, among other things, this Very Special Episode of Growing Pains that I watched when I was a kid. Yeah, After School Specials and Very Special Episodes and the ham-handed story-telling of the 1980s were all terrible television. But would I have remembered any of this, otherwise? Would I have learned anything? These stories hit us over the head with their lessons, but sometimes, dare I say, I needed it.
Certainly, it feels like we all need it right now.
I’ve heard wonderful things about Zadie Smith, so when this one showed up at my doorstep thanks to my book subscription service, I figured it was time to finally introduce myself to her. I’d also heard that White Teeth or On Beauty would have been better entryways into her work, but something about the story of two friends who loved dance intrigued me. And indeed, even now that I finished, the interplay between these friends, over a lifetime, is compelling in its complications and contradictions. Smith *knew* these girls. She was these girls. And so did/was I.
Still, I didn’t love this book—it might even be fair to say I didn’t like it all that much—but I love Zadie Smith. In Swing Time, Smith writes that in Astaire and Kelly’s movies, the story didn’t matter so much as the dancing. The story was the price you paid for the rhythm. So it is with this book. The story is the price we pay for the prose.
Despite how meandering this particular narrative is (her first with a first person narrator, apparently, and a frustrating, unlikeable one at that), her style comes through easily. Her writing is rich and dense, but also easy and recognizable. Throughout my reading of this book, I’d find myself rereading pages and paragraphs for anything I might have missed. The story is too long and spends too much time away from the relationship that is supposed to be driving it and with which Smith truly works her magic. But all that said, the reading of it was enjoyable. To use the parlance of the book: it’s enjoyable like a Michael Jackson song you don’t know the words or choreography to is enjoyable because it’s still Michael Jackson.
Although this books has been on my shelf for a long time, I didn’t really know anything about it when I picked it up, prompted to do so by the fact I’ll be seeing the stage adaptation in a few months. The narration from the perspective of someone on the autism spectrum interested me immediately, but it sometimes felt like a bit of a gimmick wrapped in stereotypes of autistic man-children who scream or cover their ears when they’re upset the way Dustin Hoffman did in Rain Man. I liked Christopher and the complicated relationship he has with his obviously overwhelmed parents, but the lack of specificity about his diagnosis allows Haddon to gloss over difficult moments. It feels like this book wants to be a thoughtful and sincere representation of a cognitively different character, but by the rushed ending, it doesn’t succeed as well as I was hoping it would after a promising start.
Whether judging this work as a personal biography, as a historical text or as a political thriller, it resonates on every level. The facts have been thoroughly researched and documented, and the prose is worthy of the man for whom poetry was as important as physics. It’s a long, slow read, but engagingly strung together by a mix touching, incisive, hilarious and enraging anecdotes. The portraits that emerge are that of a flawed and ambitious man who loved his country almost to a fault and of a country that loved and resented his genius in equal measure. The book and Oppenheimer’s story remain relevant as a window into the tortured relationship between science and America’s government.
Once I started, it took about seventy pages for me to decide I wanted to finish this book, but the writing was just engaging enough to get me through the dark, extremely depressing start. Readers should be warned that Shelby, the protagonist, is at rock bottom as the story begins, having gone through not only a car accident that left her best friend in a permanent coma, but also prolonged sexual assault at the hands of an orderly at a the mental hospital where she goes following a breakdown brought on by her extreme case of survivor’s guilt. As Shelby emerges from rock bottom, almost in spite of herself, the book, too, finds a lightness that makes it easier to get through. The story is full of those coincidences that only seem to happen in New York stories, and Shelby inspires both sympathy as well as frustration, as she makes her way through despite her low self-esteem and penchant for self-sabotage. What saves the book—and Shelby—are her relationships to the women in her life and to the animals she rescues along the way. This is a book for dog lovers, no doubt, and for those looking to understand the importance of forgiving yourself.