Fourteen Is Ripe . . .And Fun!

When I was 14 I wanted to run away with a devout Rastafarian named Jah-Leel. He dressed in white only, wore dreads to his waist and had sparkly black eyes shaped like half diamonds. We talked one afternoon into the evening at an outdoor concert and we made an emotional connection, and nothing more. The running off part was all a fabrication in my own young mind that I clung to for about a year. I would convert! And crochet tams to sell at festivals. I'd never cut my hair and wear longs skirts and cook simple, earthly food; maybe draw water from a river with a gourd . . . I never saw him again though.

Maya turned 14 yesterday and she's just now becoming interested in boys. I don't think she wants to run off, though it's not lost on me that most of my Jah-Leel wishings were just escapist fantasy that didn't have a lot to do with him.

My point is that 14 is super ripe, ain't it? The land of independent absorption and budding resilience; the beginnings of true maturity. And Maya makes for a spectacular 14 year old.

Her party was Sunday and as much as we planned to play and have fun, I was still a little worried that the party would morph into a group of girls sitting around and talking/whining/gossiping. It did not. Play we did! And I'll add that the girls who came seemed relieved in the freedom to play even with big ol' bras and size 9 feet. (They make middle schoolers on a larger scale these days.)

They started with an impromptu game of three-on-three football. I felt a sense of pride when I had to tell the girls to play touch and not tackle football. They let out a collective groan and decided touch would be ok too. Here's Mina wishing she could tackle Maya. Don't let the fashion sense fool you.Then the girls took the soccer ball to the softball field and as they organized a game of kickball, they recruited about eight boys to join the game. It looked like a movie version of Sandlot kickball with every type of kid and personality on the field. When they argued about a foul ball, they squashed it in a matter of minutes -- ignoring the adult reffing from the sidelines -- and went on with the game. Maya was mowed down blocking first base and girls caught balls rocketed towards them off of boys' size 11 feet! (I asked) Mina caught anything that neared her vicinity and the girls bogarted the pitching mound. There was not one mention or whine from the boys about the girls and how they played. Well, not until they headed to the basketball courts for a game of Knock Out. When Maya smoked everybody, one of the boys said, "She shoots like a boy." That, unfortunately, can still elicit pride in a young girl athlete, but I jumped in and said, "You shoot like an athlete is what it is." Maya innocently blurted, "He just meant I don't shoot like AW here." She was pointing to her BFF who then blushed.

After KnockOut there was a fierce water balloon fight and then we played with one of those high soaring frisbees which was retrieved from the trees twice, a backyard once, but when it got stuck on a high, flimsy branch of a pine -- despite a gallant, climbing, shirtless effort by one of Husband's friends -- the game was over. It was time to go home then anyway considering we had played beyond when we said we would. Here are Maya custom-made kicks that Papi & I gave her yesterday.
Happy Birthday, Baby! You do 14 so well.

And Yet More Kid Goodness Leading into Memorial Day

This year, every fourth grade class at Mina's elementary school was given a musical to practice and perform. One class was given the Sound of Music; another Oliver. Mina's class was given Hairspray. For weeks, they practiced diligently. Maya and Mina had already seen the current version of the movie at least five times (I did make them watch the old one once) and so each song was practically committed to memory already. Hearing Good Morning Baltimore BELTED by Mina, with accompaniment and quite often bogarting by Maya, was joyful and grating. After fifteen times at a single sitting, I was tearful in my utter resignation and nearly hallucinating. The tolerance of noise that a parent can bare is award-winning. Though I gotta tell you, it was all worth it come play time. Mina played a smaller role, but lord if she wasn't the cutest thing ever up there. Other mothers would disagree. WHATEV. (Notice Mina's man, FB behind her. Mina said, "It looks like we're holding hands here.")Man! Did she have fun, and the all the kids were just great. Here are a few beaming, post-musical shots.

Mina and proud sister. You might remember FN, the class cut up, from Mina's party. He played Tracy's dad in the play, and he sung his heart out. He was awesome! Here's Maya's Crew supporting Mina; AW on the left, El on the right. Can I talk about how beautiful Maya is? I obviously don't mean just outwardly. She'll be fourteen on Monday. 14! And next year, she's starting high school. Which is strange because I was just asking Betsy, "Weren't we in high school, like, just last week?" Maya really is one of the best people I know. She's so responsible and hard working and caring. I couldn't be prouder of her. I love this picture. Today Maya's animal rights group is holding a bake sale right after school. I hardly did any of the baking. Of what we're contributing, Maya baked the majority of the stuff and she did such a great job. The group will hand over the money earned to the teacher who has allowed the group to use her room for meetings. This teacher volunteers at a Boxer Rescue and all the money will go towards food and care for the dogs. Maya thought it best to thank the teacher by helping her organization. This is what I'm talking about: Fair and thoughtful!

Maya's English class is now reading To Kill a Mockingbird. I'm rereading it along with her so we can geek out about the book together. I recommend rereading classics when you're older because wow! what a spectacular piece of writing that is. I had a sharp and open mind when I was young, but there is something about savoring art more deeply, more dimensionally when you're older. When you're young, or when I was young, I wanted to be Scout so badly. Maya wants to be Scout. And now, I want to be Atticus. The shift to loving Atticus is just as profound as the love I personally once had for Scout. It really is like reading it for the first time. So, it's been fun diving into plot and undertones of the book with Maya. Scout's innocent sense of what's right, the race issues, Atticus' unflappable sense of fairness are all big topics at which we grind away. Seeing Maya's mind dig deep is a pleasurable kick in the gut. She is amazing.

Stay tuned for Maya's big 1-4 birthday post.
Happy Weekend and Memorial Day, mi gente.

Maya's Crew

One of Maya's best friends, El, is a lesbian, and at thirteen she is bravely out to everyone including the playgrounds of middle school. She is a true beacon of progress. I ask Maya if El ever gets harassed at school, and Maya says no. There was one cowardly, anonymous cyber incident but other than that, no. Everybody knows and it's no big deal. Except to El's mother. El's mother is not accepting the news well and their relationship is in severe crisis. The relationship took a steeper downward turn after El told her mother that she's transgender; she is a boy trapped in a girl's body. El is a quiet and handsome girl. Sad and confident. She's very sure of herself but a little distrusting except of her closest friends, Maya being one of them. I get choked up when I hear Maya talking to El sometimes. Maya tells her that no matter what, she supports her; that whoever she is, it's all ok with her.

Maya worries about El in private, about her home life or about how hard it must be for her sometimes. She doesn't understand why a heartfelt talk doesn't patch things up immediately between El and her mother. I tell Maya it's not that simple for El. We can't know exactly what either is going through. We can only be there for her as a friend. I tell Maya though that I think El is going to be ok. I believe that. I've never seen a young person so aware of the big picture and sure of who they are. But in reality, she is still a child, and a child shouldn't have to beg and pray for their parent's acceptance. I can't imagine the stress El feels at home, and sometimes I worry about her too. She comes to our house as often as she can, and when she does, she's at ease. I told her that our house is a safe one and she's allowed to be herself and that we love her the same. She relaxes, takes it in. Then she eats plates and plates of food. She's a growing boy, she says.

El is involved with a group called Safe Zone which is run through our local high school. It's a group committed to promoting awareness and sensitivity regarding the issues of sexism and homophobia. El is the only middle schooler who attends the conferences and meetings and she is driven to the Safe Zone functions by one of our middle school teachers who sits on the Safe Zone board. Through the program, El was invited to attend the Gay & Lesbian Prom given by Safe Zone for high school students. And El asked Maya and their other friend AW to go with her. Maya came home excited about the news. Then she asked, "What if I'm asked to slow dance by someone I don't know and I don't want to." This is a question that stems more from a general slow-dance apprehension at thirteen than anything else. I said, "Then you say no thank you, I'm with my friends. You don't ever do what you don't want to do no matter the circumstances." "Ok, cool," she said as she pulled out dresses from her closet. She began to imagine how her hair would be done. Then I said, "Uh, sweetheart, this is a prom, not an 8th grade gym dance. Did you ask how much the tickets would be?" Her face grew pale and surprised.

The tickets cost far more than Maya could have imagined -- it's prom! -- and the price was too expensive for even El. I said, "The prom should be a fun thing in high school anyway. You guys are young yet." Maya agreed and she fastened her helmet to go skateboarding with her crew. And a good, smart, funny, grounded crew it is.

El, Maya and AW.

Where Were We?

Yes, Mina's birthday . . .we had a party last weekend at this killer park that's crammed between Santa Monica and Pacific Palisades. The park is hidden behind eucalyptus trees and tucked down into some hilly residentialness. It's a gem when you can find it. When I was a kid, my summer camp would go there now and again, and I told the girls that we campers would play Wolves up behind the tennis courts on a little woodsy path that circles the park. The good wolves would get chased by the bad wolves. We'd run on the rolling dirt, ducking branches. We hid in trees. I told the girls, "It was so fun, but I can't really tell you why or the real object of the game. It was just a blast."

I think that was the point of having the party there; to just play. Husband comes from an outstanding tradition of childhood made-up games; stick ball and Ninjas (kids just really kicking each other in a dirt lot) and on. And I used to pretend my bike was a horse or I'd set up a fort out of cardboard behind the apartment building next to the car ports. So for Mina's party we didn't want themes or gimmicks or the Entertain Me pressure. Deep down, kids still want to play it turns out. Adults too.

Papi grilled up tofu dogs on the park BBQ's and brought some Hebrew Beef Nationals for guests who wanted those, which worked out perfectly for the Kosher and Muslim kids, we found out. The tofu dogs were devoured first, I will add (propagandaously). Maya and her BFF AW baked four dozen vegan oreo cupcakes for the party, which were just enough for the kids who wanted thirds and fourths; most of them. Maya and AW are taking on the baking torch passed to them quite famously. I heard them talking about the vegan bakery-cafe they'd open together when they get older. I love that.

Here are some pictures of our day! They're about to run off and find the gift bags that Maya & her friends help me hide along the woodsy path behind the tennis courts. We made these kids work for their bags, which were filled with 99 Cent Store stuff. The most coveted item was the 99 Cent swim goggles. Score! Does anything beat a water-balloon toss? The answer is, No! Some of our grown friends and neighbors joined in.Here are the winners of Water-Balloon Toss, Round One: the boys of Mina's party FB & FN. Mina's crush is the gentle-natured half Peruvian, half Italian blond on the left there, FB. He's one of the best soccer players in school. Mina likes that. FN on the right is the class cut up. He's half Israeli, half British with eyes (and accent) that will devastate in a few more years.Here's our friend and neighbor Drew with Mina about to go long with some water balloons.Here are the winners of Water-Balloon Toss, Round 2: Margaret & Molly! Nice third balloon boob, Margaret.The water-balloon toss turned into a full-on water-balloon fight, which is really inevitable. Here's Maya post pelting, I think by our grown friend John.Maya got him back pretty good though. I think this is after ice went down the back of his shirt. Then we took it to the trees. Here are Maya's best friends, AW, Mina, Maya and El.El, Maya, AW. Mina's BFF Kai.Had to get this one (for Mina) of FB on a branch.
And of course my birthday Beauty, Mina.

We all had so much fun, we decided to do this again in a couple weeks for Maya's party!

Ode to a Girl's Birthday

I want this post to be, for the most part, positive because today is Mina's birthday. Ten years ago my brilliant baby came out all head and hair. Papi, Maya and I were over the moon about her. Look at Maya's face with newborn Mina. You couldn't pry that smile off with a crowbar.
Here's Mina this morning, freshly 10, in her new birthday outfit with a Carmen accessory. Not suit, though. Not birthday suit. She probably would love to be photographed naked. She's a bit of a nudist when not adorning herself in high fashion.In honor of my girl -- both girls --I want this post to be a feminist one too --- wait, don't leave . . .we're reinventing this concept, haven't you heard? Pumping new life into it. We might even freshen up the word. We're having a meeting about it later, but the point is the cause can't be forgotten. Not as long as women are still being born, which they are, like, daily I heard. I know we're tired, sisters, but can't we keep up the fight just a while longer for ourselves, our sisters, our daughters? For our even more tired mothers and grandmothers? So many hard-fought issues have wilted over three decades and women’s rights issues get more and more blurry and we're left scratching our heads, at odds with each other, clinging to protective laws. I don't know about you, but as a mami to girls, I feel it my duty to put my girls on a seesaw while I sky-jump on the other end catapulting them into the stratosphere where they are not diminished or disempowered or told this and that about themselves. And if you're not a mami, you should want to jump on it with me too. Those girls were once you.

We watched Girls Rock! last night. It's a documentary about a rock and roll camp for girls ages 8-18. It was almost a great movie, and just from a film standpoint I think it missed some marks, but the concept of the camp had me choked up from when the beginning frame rolled. Seriously I wanted to burst into tears many, many times. It's that uncontrollable crying like when I watch the girls play basketball sometimes or when they used to do TaeKwonDo, or even at holiday pageants when they sing their hearts out. Something about the breaking down of self-consciousness to just let yourself be something. Kids are so pure about that and girls seem to learn to be self conscious and coy and withdrawn so quickly that when they are open without pretense in the most natural of ways, I get the waterworks. And this camp was all about checking all of that and breaking down and through what girls should or shouldn't be. I'm a stone-cold sucker for an awkward and unique girl. I can't help but think they are granted a halo of specialness and this camp was full of those types from troubled girls to girls completely on their own planet. I loved them all. The camp counselors floored me the most though. They were the coolest most patient and mixed group of women ever. They spoke to these girls like we all ache to be spoken.

The documentary would rattle off facts such as a boy will name a talent as what he likes about himself best while a girl will name a body part. And Maya and Mina would say, "Really? That's weird." Or a girls ability to say "I love myself" diminishes from 60% to 29% between the ages of 9 and 18. And Mina said, "Shoot, I love MYself." And Maya said, "I love MYself." And I said, "I love MYself." Or that girls tend to bottle up how they feel and I said, "Do you guys let out how you feel?" and they said, "Uh, yea." As in, duh.

And I'm left to wonder about the perpetuation of the squashed female spirit. How empty do the overused and well-marketed slogans of You Go Girl and Girl Power! seem? Does this still raise our daughters' esteem? I think so. But do they address any real issues of a girl feeling ok to speak up loudly in school or not keep crap bottled up or to not feel so self conscious. Do girls feel any sense of real entitlement yet? I'm not talking about the Queen Bees of school who bully themselves into that place of power. I'm talking about girls possessing a natural, comfortable, confident empowerment. Do any of us?

Why the hell not yet?

I wish the awesome rock and roll women from that camp would hold a national forum and help us change this. I mean, they are changing it 100 girls at a time every summer, but I mean . . .help, all of us.

I often ride the line of empowering Maya and Mina as girls and teaching them a solid sense of humanitarianism. I think being a decent human being is a priority, being thoughtful and respectful and compassionate and polite. And the fine line is teaching them that it is ok to be selfless yet still feel empowered. We are selfless and compassionate because we have enough power to share and NOT because we feel we are less deserving of anything, especially because we are women. If I had a son, I would teach him the same lessons of being a human. I would not teach him to be less selfless because he was a boy, and I say this because I want the girls to know I don't teach them these things because that's how girls should act, but anybody. I think they know that.

I think the girls have never felt disempowered because they are girls, but we are starting to navigate through the most tricky of territories, which is their observations of women in videos, on TV, in magazines and how these fabricated and cookie-cutter looks relate to their budding relationship with boys, and other girls frankly. Girls are told to be modest, be a lady for f sake, yet every woman on public display is tramped up. I'm trying to buckle on life preservers for my girls to wade through these treacherous waters. I tell them it is ok to reject what everyone thinks is the way you should dress or look. I tell them that this may not be easy. It takes a lot of bravery to be the awkward and unique one no matter how special you are or feel.

I can only have constant conversations with them about everything all the time. I can only let them know it's ok to question everything and have constant conversations about everything all the time. And this really is the only real gift I can give them.

Oh Mina, you are definitely my shining unique soul. Ain't nobody squashing you! I love you so much. Happy Birthday, baby.

And Sisters? I'm in your corner.

Bullet Points Are Efficient

* I don't mind being bossed around by them, for the most part. My heart's a little too soft for them. Mina's getting outta hand though because the world is hers! don't you know. Lately, she's been trying to leave the house every day wearing bright crimson lip stick. Papi ain't having it. I kinda don't mind it. 'Cause I'm a sucka for her! * But I drew the line on Saturday. Mina and I were meeting people at a restaurant and after exiting and locking my car I heard clumpedy clump on the parking lot pavement. I turned to see that Mina had slipped on some silver, spike-heeled ankle boots that I had left in the car, and she was seriously trying to wear these out like nothing. I said, "Have you lost your mind?" And she shuffled back to the car to put her converse back on. * This just in regarding triathlon training: Swimming can go F itself. Ug. I'm head over heels about cycling, of course, and I'm even liking the running ok - que sorpresa! - but the swimming? Ug. It can jump in a lake. And swim itself. I ain't diggin the swimming, y'all, and I was a competitive swimmer when I was younger. I mean, if you call being mediocre competitive. I'm trying to figure out a way to swap out the triathlon for a cycling event instead without looking like a punk-quitter. Punk this, Swimming! * I've been writing. Writing on the real. I finished a story. I'm over the moon about this. Thanks to all of you for your ridiculous encouragement. Seriously. * I'm almost done with my second nutritionist's class, Traditional Naturopathy. After my next test, I have to do a project! Like, write a paper and stuff. Awesome. * Husband recently said, "Holy, you're efficient with time." I beamed about that, but then realized I'm anally efficient. I'm close to having a problem. Like, I'm boiling water and soaking almonds and loading the computer while taking down the trash and laundry on the way to walk the dogs and making a biz call and signing a school note efficient. It's all calculated and planned so every minute fits together like a puzzle. And I have to write every single thing down or I forget the second the minute hand clicks on something else. In fact, I better write down to examine this problem a little more when I have time because am I present during 75% of what I'm doing? Who cares! I get a shit load done! * What were we talking about? * Happy Monday.

Remie

My Aunt Remie was 13 when I was born, five years younger than my mother. It's easy for me to think that my mother's problems started at the moment of my birth, but obviously she was troubled before. Remie will testify to the stream of unease and darkness before me. Even my mother has said her unhappiness started at age two, which is secretly funny to me, sort of, because two? For real? But it's hard to tell if she is over blowing the truth. It's certainly not an over-truth to her. These details -- and the evidence of her complete inability to shake her demons -- makes forgiveness a softer pill to swallow. But I have sliced up my feet trying to walk the edge of objectively forgiving her -- looking at her from every angle but a child's -- and being the child who, whether my mother could help herself or not, had to buffer her insanity against myself by myself; to instinctively stave off her overwhelmingness and know that I was not what she was, even though I didn't know what that meant. She bore deep, though, into that divine cushion with which I was insulated. She cut in enough for me to question myself for most of my life. It was the isolation and loneliness though mostly that left me a thread away from breaking entirely. Her frantic, manic, angry energy could swirl all around me and I could wrap myself into myself, blanketed by other-worldly worry and self silence, and I could feel somewhat untouchable. But I didn't know that the loneliness would shred me down so. I didn't know until much later. I'm still not sure if I'm built up completely.

Mama couldn't save me. Nor could my Aunt Remie. My grandmother wasn't equipped to deal with my mother's force. And Remie was a child, but honestly, Remie was troubled too.

They were equally wild, my mother and aunt. They were drinkers and drug users and they became sexual as soon as they recognized the power in catching a boy's eye. But my mother was cut from my grandfather's cloth: mean and cold, and Remie from Mama's, loving and naive. My mother was mod and edgy and Remie was a biker-hippy girl. My mother's personality drove her as an artist, and Remie's personality drove her nowhere, really. Remie dropped out of 11th grade to run away with a member of the Hell's Angels. My mother loved to tell how Remie came skulking back to my grandmother pregnant with lice and ring worm. My mother would never admit that they were similar. Mostly their differences kept them from ever being close. Today, they don't speak, which doesn't affect me either way. To hell with anybody treating you like shit. Remie still tries now and again to bond with my mother. She can't help herself. She'll yearn for sisterhood, want to bridge their motherlessness. She'll reach out because she feels Mama would have unwittingly done the same, but my mother shoots her down, acts uppity and put out.

When I was a kid, I died at chances to see Remie. She was flighty though. On the move with boyfriends, fucking up a little here and there, at odds with my mother or quietly disconnecting a bit from my grandmother. But when she did see me she gushed over me. Pummeled me with affection. Gave me donuts for dinner. Fawned over me like I was the greatest being that ever was. And I died for that. She'd tell me over and over how much she loved me, how much Mama loved me. She was full-face smiles, and waist-long blonde hair and blue eyes and over-plucked eyebrows and shiny pink cheeks and long jean skirts and batik halter tops and feather roach clips dangling from the inside line of her hair just behind her ear where the beaded, leather cord bounced off her breast bone. She smelled like herbal shampoo and cigarettes. And then she'd be gone, or my mother would keep me away. For months, maybe a year here and there. Two years was the longest when we lived abroad. I'd have to shove back into myself again and turn the volume down of bottomless hurt, the type a kid feels when they want something to return so badly.

Remie found me on Facebook a couple months ago. I hadn't talked to her in six years. When I saw her name, I busted out in tears which caught be off guard because I didn't know I harbored that for her still. But then she wrote me an email; the type of email that you know happens in life. You know other people do it, exchange these feelings and regrets, but it was unrecognizable to me at first. She told me she loved me, but not as well as she should have, that she should have helped me more as a kid but she couldn't figure out how. She said she knew how much I had been through and that she was sorry she had let me down. This makes me emotional mostly because that girl who I was as a child seems nearly mythical. Like she was caught between the earth and space, invisible but still some kind of unseen force. A girl who shed her strength when she broke free -- practically traded it in -- and has spent decades trying to patch it back on. And my aunt knew me then. She knew and loved that girl. I wasn't a ghost.

I wasn't a ghost.