Influencers

Adorable dogs sitting on grassy field

I want to share a moment I often think of, but never openly talk about.

I can’t remember her face or her clothes, but I remember her voice and the delicate hand on my knee as I sat cross-legged next to her on my friend’s living room floor.

I was in my early 20s, employed, doing a bit of writing and a lot of thinking, upset with the way the world was run but not really doing anything about it, almost like I was still collecting data, but maybe I was just scared.

She was older and wiser.

When I spoke, she would pause as if to think about what I said. As if to show me she was thinking about what I said. We were playing some trivia game, and when I couldn’t answer a question about politics, everyone guffawed, but she took a different tack.

“That’s amazing! That you’re able to keep yourself outside of all that junk, it’s like your mind is clean, completely untouched. What a wonderful place to be.”

I didn’t know who she was or where she came from — a friend of a friend sort of thing — but I was crushing on her kindness.

She made me feel big, proud, and eager to dive into my “clean” mind.

I’ve since corroded my mind like the rest of us. You kind of have to at some point, once you realize that the shuffling of paper in Washington is more dangerous than a hatchet.

But I still revere my own original thoughts more than any magazine article. And I still reflect on this exchange with my nameless, faceless, kind-hearted mentor with joy and wonder.

We had spent a couple of hours together on a living room carpet, probably exchanged a few hundred words, but she is remembered, and those words are appreciated.

When we think about making our mark, we think about becoming something else — a teacher, a senator, an actor, an influencer — but really, all we gotta do is be present and kind with the people we meet.

Being present allows us to see them where they’re at. And being kind allows us to stay with them forever.

Two People On a Sidewalk

A person doing carwash

Scene: Dusk. Me, outside washing my car in the driveway, which crosses completely across the sidewalk. A passerby approaches.

—–

THE WAY IT COULD HAVE GONE…

Passerby: Rude! I have a disability, you know.

Me: Easy, lady. I’m just washing my car.

Passerby: Well, you should think more about other people.

Me: Whatever, You don’t know a thing about me.

Passerby: Jerk.

Me: Weirdo.

—–

THE WAY IT WENT…

Passerby: Rude! I have a disability, you know.

Me: (Standing up straight, rag at my side) I’m sorry.

Passerby: I’ve already been hit by a car once from walking in the road.

Me: Oh no. I’m sorry that happened.

Passerby: (silent)

Me: (smiling)

Passerby: I’m retired, you know. I used to be a teacher.

Me: Really? I’m a counselor.

Passerby: In Oakland?

Me: Yes. Merritt College.

Passerby: I went to Merritt! Early Childhood Education. Long time ago.

Me: Still one of our most popular degrees.

Passerby: Well… then, thank you for your service.

Me: And thank you for being a teacher.

Passerby: (smile)

Me: (smile)

—–

How often do we miss these wonderful, hidden moments simply because of the way things started?

How hard is it to give up the upper hand, to bow down a little, so two people on a sidewalk can smile?

Why are we so damn afraid of each other?

Especially the people we don’t know.

All Them Moons

Three clothespins on clothesline

As I take in the trash cans for the billionth time, a general malaise washes over me, and I wonder if it’s this moment in time we’re in.

Uncertainty, everyone says. What’s next? And the people in the control tower tell us, once again, to hold on while the ship goes under. Time your breaths, people.

Or maybe it’s not those guys in the tower, but me, trying to ignore a chorus of quiet whispers coming in through the tunnels I never explored, teasing me about the things I could have done. Or been.

Not enough lives in one lifetime.

But maybe this isn’t something to ponder. It’s only that I’ve seen so many moons, that the golden slivers of light on the waves have become familiar.

Not a bad thing. Just tired eyes and pumping heart. Working against each other.

The barnacled knot of existence. Highs and lows. Too much analysis of a thing that should be left alone.

Back to the basics.

Garage door code, unoiled hinges, boxes stacked. Framed in the evening light. How is it 7 o’clock already? And June?

I put the cans back in a different order.

Take that, universe.

we be illin’

Courage

It was feminists who had the courage to diagnose the world around them, to take the glaring light that was shining on them and turn it around to blind their accusers.

“We are not the problem,” they said, tired of being labeled anxious, depressed, hysterical. “We are not the ones to be fixed.”

So when I struggle to get out of bed, when I hear yet more stories of livelihoods lost, when I feel like I can’t bear another day of headlines and hatred, I call upon Mary Wollstonecraft, Sojourner Truth, Susan B. Anthony, Simone de Beauvoir, Fannie Lou Hammer, Jane Austen, bell hooks, Angela Davis, and Malala Yousafzai. I summon the spirit of the people who did and didn’t make it into the textbooks, who died with fists and fire in the air…

When I am down, depressed, and anxious, I remind myself of the irrefutable feminist mantra that guided so many heroes through their difficult days, “It is not me who is sick. It is the world!”

It is this country that claims to manufacture life, love, and liberty, but only offers capitalism, a country that was founded by slave-owning racist men who raped and exploited people to monetize and automate the extraction of goods from the ground.

It is those who held up the pursuit of profit above everything else, willing to buy, sell, and trade people, in order not to work themselves, who carry the cancer.

And now we know, we never got rid of these vile people. They merely became quiet and patient. Their children and children’s children silently crept into positions of power, slithered into courts and thrones and boardrooms, and waited for the day they could speak honestly again.

It is not me who is sick.

It is a perfectly normal, healthy, and human response to look out at the U.S. as it’s been designed, to discover the blueprints under the desk drawer, to find the coded message in our nursery rhymes, and become ill.

The more human we are, the harder it is to get out of bed. Us folks who actually care about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are sick to our stomachs. Every day.

So, let’s take a note from the women who called bullshit on The Man’s game: the origin of our maladies is on the outside. The light that shines on us is not for warmth. Politics, however far away, is always personal.

Let us revere our depression. Let us hold up our anxiety as a trophy of goodness.

For we — the ones who hurt and ache and scream — we are the healthy ones.

We are alive. We are wonderful. We are strong. And, should the moment call for it, we are dangerous.

However horrible we feel, it is not us who are sick.

It is not us who are sick.

It is not US who are sick.

It is the world.

New Constellations

Constellation in starry sky

One of my best friends from high school once pointed out how I like to think about my thoughts.

He’s right. I like to think about my memories too. And in both cases, I often misinterpret and misremember. I’m often wrong.

But, as it turns out, that’s not a bad thing. I tend to put a positive glow around everything in my head; that’s how the BrightSide came to be. I turned optimism into a profession.

Memories aren’t linear. They pop up out of nowhere. They’re driven by feelings, like dreams. And they’re incomplete; they have to be. We only see a few high points (or lows).

It’s like we’re constantly playing connect-the-dots in our heads. And it’s inevitable we’ll leave some dots out, so it’s just a question of which ones. With practice, collecting only good thoughts becomes second nature.

I thought that was the best way.

But just as being right doesn’t lead to happiness, ignoring the dark spots causes you to circle them forever.

The most important thing to remember is not where all the bright spots are or how to avoid the dark ones; it’s to recognize that you’re not seeing all the dots. Like all of us, lost in our own psychology, your collection of memories, your life’s work of ruminating thoughts, is incomplete.

Turn your head, trade in your monologue, or just wait for the world to spin around a few more times. And, for God’s sakes don’t close those beautiful eyes of yours.

You’ll see new constellations.

The Right A(l/t)titude

Travelers seated on a bus interior view

I get mushy on airplanes.

I’m not sure if it’s the altitude, the closeness to sudden death, the leaving of people behind, or just being crammed in a small space with so many souls.

And it feels good. This big-heartedness, this overly emotional way of being.

Here’s an example:

On my way to Massachussetts, everything was going wrong. Delays right away, and the flight attendants telling us to hurry or we’d miss our connections.

“Full flight folks. Take the first seat you see.”

The first seat I saw was in the first row — bulkhead — which was surprising since I was at the way back of the line of people boarding. Yeah it was a middle seat, but shit, first row, so I took it.

It wasn’t until I wedged my butt in there that I realized why it was vacant.

“Sorry,” the woman to my right said, her arms folded over herself. “I hate planes.”

I looked to my left: the other woman, of similar size with a day-old bandage on her nose, sat in the same way, holding onto her own elbows like she was trying to squeeze herself into the tiniest little package she could.

At first, I tensed up my body to try to pull in my legs in, cower in my shoulders, get small like them, but it just felt worse, like a quiet insult.

So I loosened up, let our bodies touch fully: hips, elbows, shoulders, upper arms, thighs. And it was alright.

Perhaps it was the touching that started it all up.

“You have a connection?”

“Yup.”

“How close?”

“20 minutes.”

“30 for me.”

“Welcome to fuckville.”

“Population: three.”

Somehow we all stayed light in our moods, even though we were looking at a night of sleeping in the airport, missing hours with loved ones.

We joked about the fake hopefulness of the pilot over the loudspeaker, at the timid flight attendant taking a barrage of questions she couldn’t answer. Everyone was pissed and we got to witness it in rapid fire one after the other. It was anger on repeat. You had to laugh at it.

“I get 1 free drink with my flight,” the woman on my right said. “Do either of you want it?”

“I’m good,” said the woman to my left. If I drink I might start something up.”

I never said yes. She just handed me the menu.

I got something called a Voodoo Lager. We laughed at the name.

The maintenance on the plane took 90 minutes, we kept looking at the clock, Gave up hope after the first half hour, then regained it because our connecting flights got delayed, then lost it again after an hour, then regained it when the pilot said they were going to make up time in the air, then lost again when the pilot deboarded the plane.

“Looks like we’ll be getting a hotel,” the bandaged woman said.

“Anyone know anybody in Denver?”

I entertained the thought of us storming the rental car place, cramming into the last compact sedan, stopping at the supermarket for pretzel sticks and wine, and laying on double beds binging on hours of home improvement shows.

Could our laughter carry us that far?

I took them by surprise with my sincerity.

“I’m really glad it was the two of you I sat between. You’ve made this whole thing bearable. Seriously, you both are awesome.”

“Agreed.”

The other stayed silent, the one who apologized when I sat down.

And I thought I saw something in her eyes that pleaded with me, asked for something and then regretted it, and I wanted to find everyone that passed her up from the aisle and beat the living shit out of them. I swear to god.

I told you I get emotional on planes.

But instead of seeking justice, I put my head on the headrest, closed my eyes, and went back to the vision of us on hotel beds in Denver.

Marlene pouring 3 glasses of Chardonnay, apologizing for spilling a bit on the nightstand.

Joyce Ann slapping one of the glasses over, the wine spilling down the wall, all three of us laughing.

The plane started moving.

“Finally!”

Applause behind us.

“Think we’ll make it?”

Windows shutting, seat belts clicking.

“No way in hell.”

More laughter.

My Mom, and the Art & Science of Corrective Shoes

Mom In a Diner in Montana

When I was 5, my mom made me wear corrective shoes.

It was a special brand: Markell Workboots. They had a thick white (glowing?) sole and bright yellow showelaces. They looked like something an old-time cobbler made. No one else had them. I tried to cover them with my pant legs as best I could. Hard to play soccer at recess in workboots.

But my mom insisted: “You’ve got bunions,” she said. “There’s an extra bone in your foot.”

I didn’t see anything.

My brother made fun of my shoes every chance he got; it was low-hanging fruit.

The man behind my Markell Workboots was Bob Sprafski, a large, rotund man with a deep voice, loose neck, always breathing heavy. He took a good 10 seconds to get down on one knee, really worked for it, but he didn’t mind; he believed strongly in good shoes. His large hands wrapped around my foot and ankle always felt comforting. I looked forward to that part.

But the shoes. Man, those shoes.

And that wasn’t the end of it. Eventually, my mom gave up on the Markell Workboots; Bob Sprafski disappeared. Maybe one caused the other.

Instead of shoes, she found me a toe brace that I had to wear every night. It was this weird contraption that velcroed on, and then you ratcheted the big toe away from the other toes. My friends had a field day during sleepovers.

“Is that a bionic toe?”
“Get your bunions away from me.”

This was what it was to be my mom’s son: doing everything unlike everybody else, learning from a different how-to book.

I remember whenever we got a green light at a certain underpass, we’d have to pay tribute to my dead grandfather.

“Hello Victor,” we’d all shout.

My mom gave weird advice.

“You should sing her a love song in class.”

She insisted on mispronouncing words her entire life, even after I corrected her.

Parmeezin Cheese
Sonameters

When my mom believed something, whether it was right or wrong, it became right, so right that it was law and you didn’t question it anymore. We’d be driving down a one-way street (you could plainly see the white arrows in the road pointing the other way!)

“Ma, I think this is a one-way.”

“No, it’s not.”

And so it wasn’t.

That’s how I grew up, learning laws that weren’t laws, playing by a playbook no one else has heard of. It wasn’t hurtful; it was just our way.

As a teen, she’d walk behind me while I checked out shoes. When I picked one up, she’d put out her hand.

“No arch support,” she’d say, and I’d have to put it back. According to mom, a healthy skeleton starts with good arch support.

With my first job, came a new chapter of footwear. I went to the store alone and bought some skater shoes, bout as flat a sole as you can find. No arch support.

“You’re going to pay for it later,” she’d say.

But it didn’t make a difference. I could play soccer, slip my shoes on and off with very little effort, no one made any remarks. I bought whatever shoes I wanted. For years.

25 pairs of shoes later, a growth is starting to form on my right foot, as if the little bump at the base of the big toe is expanding.

Now, when I coach soccer and run along the side lines, it hurts. I’ve been dealing with it for about a year.

“You’ve got bunions,” a friend said.

And I have to wonder… Would those God-awful Markell Workboots have helped?

When I think about all of those moments of weirdness in my childhood, my mom’s strange tangle of logic, it was a hard path to walk but it never harmed me; it was like we took the rollercoaster instead of the tram. We got whipped around a bit, but we came out pretty okay.

I haven’t shopped with my mom in years. The only shopping she does now is at the Super One. She takes a $1 bus ride 3 times a week to go buy pre-packaged roast beef sludge in little plastic trays along with big tubs of yogurt. That’s what she eats every day, in addition to milk and chocolate.

“A little piece of chocolate and some milk and, boop, no upset stomach.”

“Wow, mom. That’s crazy.” She tells me this nearly every time we speak. It’s hard to keep up the enthusiasm, like I’m hearing it for the first time. But I try.

According to a faith-based nurse at her church, my mom needs shoes.

“Her body is in great shape, but her sneakers are pretty worn.”

So now I’m working with a ‘Dementia Navigator’ to help her shop for shoes from 2 states away.

When I picture some stranger walking my mom into a Foot Locker by the elbow, all the bright lights, the rows and rows of shoes on the wall, Bob Sprafski and her son nowhere in sight, I can see her clutching her 50-year old cracked-vinyl teal purse to her chest, eyes wide, small steps.

I’ve half a mind to get on a plane.

“Any idea what type of shoe your mom will want?” the voice asks, and I can tell she thinks I won’t have a clue.

“Yeah,” I say, knowing what it feels like to lose a part of yourself you never cherished enough.

“Make sure they have good arch support.”

I Feel Like

I feel like the villains are scheming to blow up the planet from their rocketship, and I’m trapped in a basement tied to a sewer pipe.

I feel like someone cut off my hands, and they’re laughing at me through the walls.

I feel like the bomb shelters were not dug deep enough.

I feel like the intercom system has been hijacked.

I feel like words, however you try to say them, are only weapons now.

I feel like the keys are in the hands of the intruders.

I feel like I know the password, but it’s not working.

I feel like we tripped the blue wire.

I feel like we’ve been thrust into some horrible game where the only roles are puppets, charlatans, scapegoats, and fools.

I feel like half the players are sleepwalking on a heroin binge, and the other half are doing sixteen cups of coffee a day in straitjackets with duct tape over their mouths.

I feel like the devil is dancing.

I feel like I’m the only one who can hear me screaming.

I feel like it’s already over, that levers have been pulled, and I’m on the ground with a foot on my neck, choking on dust like Captain Kirk, like Ghandi, legs broken, ribs shattered, being forced to watch it all play out as I bleed back into the Earth.

I feel like I’m out of time, like we all are, and some of us are going out with regret, some with anger, some with cash, some with ignorance, and some with lies.

And even then, in the last second before the boom, before the finger pushes the button, when we all realize we must contend with the only truth left, we won’t be together.

2 Stones, 1 Dance

I’ve had to limit my dog walks to the nearest block. Ziggy’s getting older, and the three hills we used to do together are too much for him now.

So I’m treading a path that I’m getting to know quite well.

There’s one corner where the intersection is on a slight hill, but it’s enough of a slant that I (and everyone I’ve ever watched) cut across the diagonal instead of using the proper crosswalk area.

As a result of this trend by neighborhood dog-walkers (and there are a lot of us), the grass between the curb and the sidewalk on that patch at the other side of the diagonal has worn completely away, turned from lush green to dusty brown.

But, a small surprise today.

I noticed as I rounded that slightly uphill corner that someone had laid down two small stones over the dirt. One and then the other, grey and square, flat and smooth, inviting feet and paws to cut the turn and come up off the road onto the sidewalk.

I danced up onto them. One, twist of the hips, two. Even Ziggy used them. Mostly.

What a thing.

Given the choice, people will surely use the stones, not the dirt. Over the years, the grass will grow back around the stones: good for grubs, good for dog pee, good for our morning eyes.

The anonymous stone-layer could have put up a sign: PLEASE don’t walk on the grass! Or laid down a fence, or left just the dirt in place of the grass and called it a day.

But they didn’t. And now there’s a neighbor dancing a two-step on his dog walks.

I guess what I’m saying is, being neighborly isn’t hard: generosity serves up well in small portions.

When you reach that point of exasperation and quandry, don’t put up a fence.

Lay down some stones.

(Not So) Mad Scientists

A kid scientist in the lab

We often work on our projects in secret, tinkering in a lab with the door closed.

As the project develops, our thoughts become visible, like mazes of pipes running in all directions, quaking and smoking.

With such a spectacle circling the room, it’s difficult to open the door, especially if we’re not done yet.

We’re worried people will laugh at the pipes and our spills, not understand them, respond in a way that makes us second-guess ourselves or come to realize that our percolating genius is not so genius after all.

Take some consolation in knowing we all feel this way. And remember that beautiful, inventive, life-changing things almost always develop in imperfect ways.