Life As a Pearl

So. 2020 has been quite a thing, hasn't it? If I'm being real, I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about the deaths. The racial reckonings. The soon-to-be-former president. What could I say that Trevor Noah hasn't said better? There's no material for me in a year like this. But as it comes to a close, I think I've found my niche—the one topic I feel like I can talk about with some authority: endings. Moving on The first definitive ending I remember was the summer between sixth and seventh grade. It was the year we came home from camp to see a moving truck in the driveway. Was that the real timing of it? Perhaps not. But it's the way I experience it in my memory. I went to camp with my friends and came home to an empty house and an open road. Saying goodbye The next ending saw me in a soccer field in the middle of the jungle, waving at a climbing plane and knowing that even though it was my parents who were flying away, it was their child ...

Judging by my Instagram feed, K-12 kids are starting back to school in CO. After approximately 18 years at home in 2020, some are headed back into the germy trenches and others are unsuccessfully logging into 26 different apps and carefully choosing which Zoom background will go with their new sweatpants. And the question for parents across the nation is: How are you feeling? That's a lob, right? Pretty damn terrible ought to cover it. No choice was a good choice and many (most?) didn't get to choose anyway. OK, sure. There's maybe two people reading this who think COVID is a hoax. Hey, guys. I see you. I'm glad you keep reading my blog even though we're really different people. I'm also glad you'll be able to enjoy your kid-free time for the first time in 6 months. Truly. Mazel tov. For the rest of us, it's a fraught day. And when I try to think of how to answer that question— How are you feeling?— all I can think is that this feels just like getting s...

Here's what the do tell you: every story they can remember about it going wrong. Anyone who's ever adopted a child will tell you it's like everyone has an inner Miss Rachel Lynde who just can't wait to say: "Adopting a girl ? Well I know someone who did that and it was just a disaster. She'll burn you to a crisp in your bed. That's what!" I'm sure it's the same if you have the audacity to birth twins or if, god forbid, you consider having more than the requisite 2.5 children. People have thoughts. And people love to think out loud. The truth is, you learn how to respond to what they tell you pretty quick. Or, I did. Every now and again someone will throw me a curveball; but there's not much a You must be so embarrassed to have said that  won't cover. Transparent idiocy—what they do  tell you—is easy to address. But in this time when people are learning to be more open about their privilege, their inadequacies, I'll just...

Although she's mentioned so rarely and in such passing that I either never knew or cannot remember her name, there are stories of a seer in my lineage. The stories dissipate before I can grasp them, like an asp of smoke from a heretical cone of incense—more insinuations of a gift than evidentiary tales. So it's no wonder I don't think of her often. No wonder I don't imagine at the possibilities of my own intuitions, this heritage as remote to me as the origins of my abnormally short pinkies or my unruly hair. But I thought of her today. * I tend to fancy myself an intentional person—a person who does things with purpose. But don't we always flatter ourselves with thoughts of who we  wish  we were? Maybe that's not your problem. But it's certainly mine because the truth is I'm a leaper, not a looker. Being intentional is exhausting and I'm always already tired. So I make most decisions, even big ones, on a whim. And I do it with alarmi...

Years ago, exhausted by my mother's oyster and pearl analogy, I declared myself done with being an oyster and on to my well-deserved Life as a Pearl . It was a bold move. A claim I had no real authority to stake. But I was tired of being the oyster. Tired of that craw full of sand. Tired of being told that the only way I'd ever be a valuable gem was to suffer the endless slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or at the very least, to be deeply annoyed all the damn time. Now we all know the pearl life is just an illusion. It's your curated Insta pictures and your boastful  holiday cards. Your color-coordinated outfits and your whirlwind romances. We know those things aren't real, but it doesn't stop us from looking at our real  oysters and going: What's this garbage? Where's my pearl?! That's where I found myself this fall. Deeply annoyed and saying the word garbage a whole lot. OK. Maybe it was the F word. Or perhaps I was taking our Lord's n...

Open letters are a thing, right? People like these? Well I hope they do, because I'm doing it. You probably don't remember the first time we met, Terri. But I do. We were looking for the perfect school for our perfect daughter. And we'd been driving a half hour each way to her preschool for the last year, so we had a pretty big radius we were willing to explore within. What were we looking for? This may be the part where we should separate out the we . My husband was undoubtedly looking for the school Ayana could ride the bus to. He did the lion's share of the preschool driving, so we'll give him that. I, on the other hand, was looking for diversity. I had run into some roadblocks getting my kid that sibling that looks like her (which she still wishes for every time she blows out the candles), so it became a priority for me to find a school community that would make her feel like less of a novelty, a token. That's how Sanchez got on my radar. That and th...

When I was young, I couldn't have told you why my mom insisted on giving me perms on the reg. I could have told you the only thing more horrific than the process was the result. But that's only because I was super self aware and  articulate. And also because I was not wrong. Exhibit A And when she wasn't going all in on curls and frizz, she was seeing just how much of my hair could be bangs. So much. It's fine. After years of therapy, I've finally gotten myself past all the pain of a bad-haired childhood. And I've done so much better for myself. Oh wait... I did that one entirely on my own. And when people told me my hair was growing back nicely, assuming I'd lost it with chemo, I just...you know...said,  Thanks! Which, I assure you, is better than what I did with my previous bad haircut, the infamous "Lafayette." When I got the Lafayette, I just wept all day every day for months. I think I've made my point. I was set up from a you...