Race Me

The big news this week in golf —- don’t fall asleep writer friends! — is Sergio Garcia and his comments about Tiger Woods and fried chicken.  The racist-ness of it all.  You can read the short article and see a video about it here.

Let me say this straight out.  I have little (no?) respect for Tiger.  He’s got a beautiful, almost perfect, game, yes.  He’s a brilliant golfer, maybe the best who’s ever lived.  But he’s a jerk.  He doesn’t sign balls for kids.  He’s flip.  He refers to his opponents by childish nicknames.  He breezes by the gallery (the fans) like they’re not even there.  He’s above … above it all.  Superior.  Arrogant.  Entitled.  Painful.  And don’t even get me started on the cheating scandals like this one, or this one.    But this, this kind of thing, is what lets Tiger off the hook.

Damn it.  Come on.  Sergio.  My god.  Sergio, your “fried chicken” thing undid me.  I’m from the  midwestern south.  I love fried chicken.  I love fried chicken so much I’d request it — along with mashed potatoes and gravy and biscuits — for my last-ever-on-this-earth meal.  But we all know what your fried chicken comment means, and you’re not fucking funny.

I come from, was raised in, homes where the ‘n’ word was used like “the” and “but.”  As my stepfather once said, “I don’t mean anything by it, it’s just what they are!”  And frankly, in too many cases, this … this … still is.  Racial derogation and its destructiveness is part of the book I’m writing (how could it not be), and part of why none of us — even the folks in my family — are getting along these days.  It’s over.  Or it should be over.  Racism is a giant wall that separates us.

But even me, me with my self-enlightened ways, am not immune to falling into the trap.  I remember a long-ago dinner at home with my son where he was suddenly wearing a LeBron James bracelet — “King James” in white — LeBron new and special and uber-talented in the game of basketball.  I was serving up the salad at our table and said something about all NBA players being thugs, hoodlums, LeBron included.  My son started to cry, to protest.  He surely would have left the table if he wasn’t so much nicer than me.  He surely would have left the table if I hadn’t been falling all over myself trying to set that uncalled-for, shocking even to myself, racist statement right.  I’d said it.  And I said it without even knowing where it came from until it was out.  Out of my own mouth.  In shame.  In shock.  Some statement laying dormant there in wait for me and my past.

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What comes out of your mouth that shocks you?

Finally ….

I’ve been having a hard time finding a book that really grabs me.  I’ve read the first pages of so many novels, so many memoirs, only to toss them back on the pile and move on.

Until now.  Here’s the best book I’ve read this year.  You won’t be able to get these characters, or their decisions, out of your mind.

You can read an interview with the author — a first time novelist — here.

On Notice

When I was little, I was constantly looking for ways to go unnoticed.  I equated being noticed to causing trouble or being in trouble.  When my grandmother suddenly spotted me lingering around the kitchen while the adults were gossiping, she’d say, “Grown up talk isn’t for little ears!” and shoo me outside to play.  If my uncles found me reading a book, they’d poke a big finger hard into my chest and laugh or grab my book and close it so I’d lose my place or, worst of all, call me names like Book Worm and Smarty Pants, names which sound totally benign and silly now but that made me feel shaky, sick in my gut, and exposed, when I was 6 or 8 or 12.

The first person I met when I arrived at Alley Cat Books for last night’s reading was the publisher, Jon Roemer.  Jon could not have been nicer or more welcoming, and you could tell how proud he was of the anthology.  I had fun meeting and talking to my fellow writers.  I took pictures.  I put my glasses on top of my head so I would know where to find them, only to discover, upon returning to my seat, that I hadn’t even needed them — since I’d printed out what I was reading in 20 point font.  (ha!)  And then, as I was leaving the store, a complete stranger asked for my autograph (bless you, sweet woman in line).

Alone in the car on the drive home, I recalled my 6 or 8 or 12 year old self.  The reading went well, as readings most always do, in the end, but I understand that what I feel coursing through my body when I stand on a stage or at a podium isn’t as simple as nerves.  It’s that same feeling I had as a kid.  Low in the gut.  Hands and shoulders shaking.  Chest pounding, waiting, possibly, for the hard poke of a man’s finger.  I’ve always blamed nerves — who wouldn’t be nervous reading their personal, paper words out loud in front of strangers? — but I realize lately that nerves aren’t the whole story.  It’s the fear of taking up too much of someone’s time.  The fear of causing trouble.  The fear of being noticed and told to go outside.  The fear of not belonging in the room.

Alley Cat

Come Sunday I’ll be reading with some of my favorite writers at Alley Cat Books in San Francisco.  Let the anticipation of terror begin.

You may recall that at my last reading I was so scared I forgot how to put my own glasses on my face.  Ah, well.  This time it’s a reading and a publication party.  There are 12 of us.  I can blend into the crowd.  Comfort in numbers.  I’ll only have the mic for 5 minutes, then it’s all party and wine and cheese.  I can survive 5 minutes, right?

I’m excited about this anthology, excited about having one of my little stories in a book — a real, live book that will be sold on-line and in bookstores — with writers like Jasmin Darznik, Andrew Altshul, and oh-my-god Stephen Elliott.

Unfortunately, Stephen’s movie starts shooting this week in New York, so I doubt he’ll be back in town for our party.  Imagine.  Reading with Stephen Elliott.  Seriously people — how much fun would that have been??

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This is your brain on Mother’s Day

With Mother’s Day coming Sunday, I thought I’d post a couple of old photos of my mom, to share with my family.  I dug around the photo drawers for about an hour and came out with these two.  Random choices, both.

Or so I thought.

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It was only when they were posted side by side that I saw it.

In the one of me with my mother, I’m 27.  A year later I’ll be divorced.

In the one of mom with my little brother, she’s 27.  A year later she’ll be divorced.

And is it just me, or do our hairstyles look remarkably the same?

Here’s to Mother’s Day.

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*comments for this post are OFF*

On Over-Sharing

Thank you, Mr. Sedaris.  We laughed for an hour and a half, from your first sentence to your last.

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After his reading last night, someone asked how he got started as a writer, about his process, about showing work to people (family, friends, beta readers, fellow writers, etc…).  He said he thinks it’s tougher for writers starting out today, that there’s so much expectation to share every thought, to expose yourself, to get your work out there, to “Get Published!” even if you have to do it yourself; that he is often directed to “read my blog” or is given the link to read someone’s self-published book.

No thanks, he says.

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David Sedaris wrote for 7 years before he showed his first sentence to another human being.  We live in the age of over-sharing.  How do you keep yourself current without being carried away by that rip tide, and drowning?

Here’s to the Fosters …

When I first was looking to adopt an older lab, Bruce was one of the big boys on my list.  He was being fostered right up the road from my house, and I remember the day I was finally going to make the call that I wanted to meet him:  that’s the day I found Annie.

But two weeks later, even after I brought Annie home, I worried over Bruce — who was going to adopt this playful, 14 year old boy?

The woman who fostered Bruce wrote the following essay for Labrador Retriever Rescue‘s newsletter.  And as this is where I celebrate great stories well-told, I’m sharing the best thing I’ve read this week.  Here’s to you, Elisa Painten, and to foster mothers everywhere, of all kinds.

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LETTING GO
by Elisa Painten

Several weeks ago, I said goodbye to Bruce, my 14-year old chocolate Labrador retriever foster dog.

Bruce, one of the sweetest dogs I have ever known, came into rescue underweight and with double ear infections. He had significant hair loss on his hindquarters from a flea allergy and two raw, oozing sores on his paw. He leaked urine and his dull coat was covered in dandruff. Bruce’s owner was no longer able to care for him. Fortunately for Bruce, his owner called Golden Gate Labrador Retriever Rescue instead of having him put to sleep or bringing him to a shelter, where he might not fare well as an older dog with medical needs.

Golden Gate Labrador Retriever Rescue immediately had Bruce examined by a veterinarian, where he tested negative for heartworm and Cushing’s Disease, and was treated for the flea allergy. Medication helped with his leaky bladder and two rounds of antibiotics resolved his paw and ear infections. He was placed on a high quality diet. An ointment was applied daily to the sores, and he was given twice-weekly baths with a prescription shampoo. For good measure, the veterinarian added a few supplements to support his thyroid function and to help alleviate suspected joint pain.

Despite his condition, Bruce was a happy boy right from the start. In typical Labrador style, he managed to be both dignified and goofy. He shimmied with excitement when it was time for his daily walk, ate his meals with gusto and placed his big, blocky head on my lap when he wanted affection. A tennis ball in his mouth, he trotted around the yard with obvious delight. Over the weeks, Bruce’s coat grew back in, his sores healed and he had more energy. He loved our daily walks and short games of fetch. His delightful personality, which had been subdued by the physical discomfort he was in, began to show more and more. He was one year past the average life expectancy for his breed, but Bruce still knew how to have a good time.

I have fostered older dogs and dogs with special needs before, and have been inspired by the caring people who adopt them. But given Bruce’s age, medication and special dietary needs, I thought he might be with me for a long time. I was wrong. Seven weeks after he arrived, Bruce was adopted by a semi-retired gentleman, and went to live with him in a country home not far from the ocean.

I was only one part of the effort to see Bruce off to a new life. Saving an animal always involves multiple people, not to mention resources like food, medical care and supplies. As a foster, I get the additional benefit of the animals’ companionship for however long they stay with me, and the opportunity to learn from them. Of course, this also means I develop a strong bond with them. This is especially true for the dogs like Bruce who come into rescue with an illness, or suffering effects from neglect or abuse. I enjoy playing a role in their rehabilitation and seeing them flourish into healthy, happy dogs.

Of course, that is also when it is time to let them go. Inevitably, people will ask how I can stand to say goodbye to a foster. Some even remark that they could never do it, because they would not be able to give them up. But, like most foster providers, the reason I can let them go is not because I don’t love the animals I foster, but because I do. Bruce, like so many other rescued pets, is safe and loved now. His troubles are behind him; he is cherished, safe and happy in his new home. And with so many dogs in need of rescue, there is no time to dwell on sadness. When I think of Bruce, I will not think of missing him. I will think of him walking on a country road with his new best friend, the sunlight dancing on his full and shiny coat. And then I will open my home, and my heart, to the next one.