two years on

September 26th will always be a strange day. My family is (and was) not one to hugely celebrate specific holidays. We celebrate the quiet moments. So on a day of such peculiar weight, we were tempted to continue “life as usual” — go to work, be around those we love, eat, sleep, start a new year.

But the embodiment of grief quickly caught up to us. That was one thing I never realized — how simply exhausting grief can be, and how easily the body remembers. The final month of my dad’s life was perhaps the most intentional month of my family’s life. My mom, dad, and I awoke each morning with a clear purpose — to do whatever the hell we felt like. We made goals that we posted on our fridge of what we wanted to accomplish: walk down the block, watch a giants game, cook favorite foods, go to a James Taylor concert (which, thanks to our lovely friends Jess and Vickie, we were able to do). The list was simple. Some days we checked things off the list, other days we simply sat, read, and visited with friends and family.

As the days dwindled, I remember how peculiar it was to step out into the world. I flew back for classes for a few days a week, but otherwise stayed very much in the haven of our home. One day, I remember fetching an early morning coffee for my mom and I. As I placed my order, I felt like I was speaking through molasses and time literally stood still. Here I was, chatting with the barista, as if this were just any day. It was both comforting and haunting to realize the unspeakable worlds people leave behind them every day. What a paralyzing feeling though, knowing there was no space for the words I wanted to say.

The memories of that month weigh heavily on my mom and I. It was a month, much like that coffee shop morning, of surreal and slow-moving moments. And when you live each day on a strange anticipatory precipice, the body remembers. And the body has an equally hard time letting go. The day after, the 27th, was the strangest day of my life. Much like in the preparation before any big event, you sometimes forget what you will do or feel the moment it’s over. Though we had long imagined the world we would live in when he was gone, we never imagined that day. And the simple act of waking up in a world without someone is one of the most universal heartaches.

The second my mom and I woke up, we knew we had to go to the ocean. So we jumped in the car and drove to Half Moon Bay. We ate breakfast at a usual place, walked along the beach, and picked up a few pumpkins. We laughed, cried, stared into the abyss, and drove back. It was lovely. So, this year, in lieu of our typical “life as usual” routine, we’re heading to Half Moon Bay for the night, and living an entirely intentional day.

on father’s day

Yesterday was the second Father’s Day I’ve spent without my dad. In some way, without that familiar stamp of “the first ___ without him”, the string of “seconds” has felt a little strange.

Despite the weight of the day, I felt little urge to write about it. I love my dad, and I loved celebrating what a wonderful dad he was (and continues to be). But I remember very little of the more scripted holidays, so the weight I carry on these days is largely a hollow one.

Thankfully, my friend Kate wrote an incredibly poignant piece about this very subject. Her post touches on often incommunicable aspects of grief, and I’m so grateful she’s shared it, especially on a day when words escaped me. So, for today, I’ll share her words instead.

You can read the whole post here; I’m including a particularly resonant passage below.

“Even though all of us experience it, death sets you apart from people. I can’t mention my father without weight anymore. He’ll never escape that label, no more so than he could escape the label of father once I was born. Sometimes I wonder if, with death, parents pass the weight of parenthood on to their children, newly defined as parentless.

[...]

But for next year, I say: go on — take your dad for granted. I give you permission to do nothing special for him, to treat him exactly like you always have. I’d like a day when my dad’s status as a father wasn’t loaded with meaning. It’s the biggest luxury you can have.”

As sad as it may seem, I read this last bit with a smile. Because as my dad always said, it’s those moments of boredom, those moments of nothing special that we spend with one another, that are the most valuable of all. And that’s probably why I remember watching Giants games with him on lazy summer days far more than that 3rd Sunday every June that we call Father’s Day. So, as I’ve mentioned earlier, here’s to celebrating those moments that hold true meaning — be it June 19th, or that random Tuesday you got an ice cream cone just for kicks.

on workplace inequality

I can always tell how overwhelmed my mom and I are by the number of times we have baked potatoes for dinner (or, as we call them, vessels for butter). Thanks to a crazy time of year and a sudden family medical emergency, it’s been more baked potato butter dinners than I can count.

Nevertheless, I’m trying to regain some sense of routine, thus the blog post attempt. Also, something recently got me riled up, so virtual sharing ensues. Now on to the topic…

A few days ago, my friend and I were talking about women in the work place. At one point, he mentioned that his CEO recently had gotten in the habit of jokingly telling senior female employees that “you better not get pregnant right now!” Ha. Ha.

Aside from being ILLEGAL, that statement says a whole lot about the current status of the entrepreneurial culture of Silicon Valley (well, and pretty much everywhere…). In a hustle bustle go-get-’em environment, pregnancies, marriage, sickness, or family can easily slide into the “hindrance to success” category. This CEO, leading a company doing big things, was largely reflecting on the fact that this ship can’t sink now, we’re heading to mega success — and a pregnancy is a serious sinkage. I mean, babies, who needs ‘em.

I was reminded of a conversation I had with a friend of a friend, who was suggesting to me that women must be inherently less entrepreneurial, since everyone he interacts with in his field is a man. I didn’t want to spend my energy then, nor do I now, deconstructing the MANY issues in that logic — but I do bring it up to demonstrate the pervasiveness of the gender bias in this start-up world.

On a more constructive note, it also reminded me of a talk given by Cheryl Sandberg, the COO of Facebook (which is echoed here in her Commencement Address at Barnard) that tackles this very subject. Having once met with venture capitalists who could not tell her where a women’s restroom was in their entire building, she’s  well acquainted with the gender gap in the Silicon Valley world. But she went on to discuss how she watched as many of her female employees would turn down promotions, leave jobs, or accept lesser pay because they knew that kids would be on the way shortly. Add on a dollop of “we could get funded, don’t get pregnant!” fear-mongering, and you’re one step away from working for free.

Though I question Sandberg’s logic that this burden falls on women (i.e., we must learn to be as ambitious as our male counterparts), I appreciate her insights into a work culture that dramatically needs reform. However much you ask women to “be ambitious”, the fact of the matter is that the laws are unequal. As long as we demand that women must return to work 6 weeks after giving birth and that partner or paternity leave is nonexistent in this country, the mother makes the sacrifice. Compared to the majority of Western Europe (where parents are granted 1 to 5 years leave, man or woman), our policies are laughable. What’s not laughable is the CEOs and employees who frame personal lives (and largely female ones) as hindrances to money-making.

on boyhood

A few weeks ago ago, my friends and I were having a discussion about children. More specifically, about the prospect of having them. It’s normally a topic I steer clear of, largely because the presumption of a “ticking clock” has always insulted me more than intrigued me. (i.e., shouldn’t people just either want to have children or not, irregardless of gender? alas, I digress.] In any case, interestingly, my friend (a guy) immediately said, “I’d be SO protective of a girl and worried for her, I’d probably rather have a boy.”

Though the statement didn’t shock me, it saddened me. Sure, women are most often the victims of sexual abuse and violent crime in the world, but isn’t it sad that to avoid this problem, you have to hope you don’t have a girl? I realize my friend wasn’t trying to solve world problems with his very casual statement, but he was making an observation about what he’d feel more comfortable doing. And it saddened me.

Nowadays, we tend to approach the problems of violent crime (specifically rape, sexual abuse, etc) in a particularly girl-centric way. How can we protect our daughters, how can we talk to our daughters, how can we make sure they steer clear of x situation. It’s a continuation of a long history of victim-blaming, where the would-be victims carry the burden of awareness and prevention. And for many people, including my friend, that’s a burden that’s daunting when it comes to child-rearing. But the thing that many activists are trying to change — and what I feel people need to question — is how we approach these topics. Instead of wondering how to talk to our girls, shouldn’t we be wondering how do we raise our boys?

This exact topic is broached by one of the most kickass slam poets out there — Andrea Gibson — in an incredibly powerful piece called “Blue Blanket”. You can watch the performance here (and I STRONGLY urge you to), and I’ve also included an excerpt below. As a young feminist, I have opinions about many, many things, but what perhaps riles me the most is boyhood — and how little we focus on it. Here’s hoping that changes.

“Blue Blanket” excerpt 

…tonight she’s not asking

you what you would tell your daughter

she’s life deep in the hell—the slaughter

has already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath

a thousand graves in every pore of her flesh

and she knows the war’s not over

knows there’s bleeding to come

knows she’s far from the only woman or girl

trusting this world no more than the hands

trust rusted barbed wire

she was whole before that night

believed in heaven before that night

and she’s not the only one

she knows she won’t be the only one

she’s not asking what you’re gonna tell your daughter

she asking what you’re gonna teach

your son.

every, every minute

Two things of note occurred today.

1) A gaggle of 8th grade girls* stopped in their tracks, stared me square in the eye, and then checked out my entire outfit. I’ve never felt more simultaneously cool, self-conscious (I did button my shirt, right?!), and 14 years old.

*I work at a middle school. That should make this less weird.

2) My friend Harish passed along this incredible video:

If you have the time, take a second (well, many seconds) to watch it.

In any case, aside from distracting me from an ever-so-thrilling bout of scanning, this video struck a chord with me. The basic gist of it is this: a 30 year old photographer took one picture each day for a year, and compiled it into a 1-second-per-photo video. Many people have attempted this, but his take on it was hauntingly profound. In large part, he shares a fear I’ve long suffered from — the fear of forgetting. In an attempt to counteract this, he photographed the banalities of day to day life, and created the narrative of a life that increasingly was becoming less linear. For those of us who’ve grown into ourselves amidst social media, the lack of a reflective understanding of our lives is deeply relatable.

Having gone through years of gradually losing someone, I’ve always longed for a narrative to flatten the complexities and forge some sense to it all. But more urgently, I longed to never forget. And in those moments of heightened reality, photographing the banal came easily. Watching a Giants game together, going to the grocery store, sitting in our favorite coffee shop. My mom and I photographed those moments endlessly because the narrative already existed — this was time dwindling, turning inward, i love you’s, goodbyes, and what’s for dinners.

It’s the moments now, when time has suddenly regained its “how is it already may” pacing, that I find difficult to capture. Perhaps because the plight of the twenty-something is the plight of the ever-waiting. We say things like “I’m just figuring out what I’m going to do with my life”, not realizing that this IS our life. In some ways, I feel like I’m aging backwards — afters years when self defense meant living singularly in the present, I’m finding myself continually living in the seemingly more glamorous future. And you can’t really photograph a future.

In any case, living in the present — trite as it may seem — is at the heart of the daily photo project. And as my life has slowly slid back to normalcy, its a philosophy I’ve found harder to stick to.

So, ironically, it’s a favorite quote of my dad’s that I constantly turn to in moments like these, and one I think many people my age should keep in mind: “Do any human beings realize life while they live it — every, every minute?”. It comes in the final act of Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town”, a painfully boring play we’re submitted to in 8th grade. But the point, and my dad’s favorite part, is that it’s boring for a reason. It’s boring because it’s life. And though boredom is largely associated with the DMV and 11 hour flights, it’s something we need to practice, celebrate, and document.

In which Casey reemerges from a long blogging hiatus (and switches blogging platforms for kicks).

As some of you may remember from my Philly archive blogging days, I get rather excited about parchment and long-dead white dudes. But somehow, leaving the world of the 1800s meant dropping the ball on my blogging habits. As non-sensical as that sentence may seem, I’m sticking with it.

In any case, I struggled for a long time to pick a new theme for my blog. If I’m not writing about AHFODs (awesome historical fact of the day, for those of you who’ve somehow forgotten) or my wonderful Parson Weems, who would actually read this?! Could I only write about bizarre nerd things that no one actually cared about?!

Answer: no.

…at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I’m throwing caution to the non-existent wind, and proceeding theme-less. As many of my friends have suggested, a blog seems like a good place for me. I’ve yet to decide if that’s a nice way of saying “you tweet too much” or “you over-share already”, but I’m forging ahead.

I’ve realized in the passing months that I do indeed have much to say, but nowhere suitable to say it. Oddly enough, it wasn’t until the Osama events of the last 24 hours that made me realize how isolated I feel in much of social media. Though some blogs inspire me (like Kate, Amulya and Rohini), most blogs I read have felt more and more detached from a voice I can understand. In any effort to feel less removed (also, 140 characters, WTF), I’ve decided to revamp my over-sharing habits.

You’re welcome.

Part social commentary (for anyone who’s watched Glee with me can attest to, my comments are many), part journal, this space is largely for me. At the very least, it’s a space for me to feel proactive about my voice, particularly in a media world that continually forces me to be negatively reactive.

I suppose the “purpose” of this blog can be summed in one of my favorite maxims, which will adorn the header of this space: “let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences” (sylvia plath). The ritual of writing has forever been cathartic for me, but largely private and entirely purposeful. I’ve flown through journals to shed myself of heartache, loss, fear. I empty the words in hopes they empty the sentiments that inspired them. As a public space, blogging can perhaps counteract this. This will be a constructive, enduring space — in whatever form that takes.

(This is part where I resist all urges to be hokey, but recognize it’s in my blood, and thereby end by saying this…)

Let’s begin a walk down casey lane.