I just wanted to include a quick entry today, which would have been Mommy's 66th birthday. Thought about her a lot today, especially as I had to deal with observation at school today. I asked her for help in getting through the observation and for it to go well. The answer came in a weird way. The result was not what I wanted, but is not actually surprising given the current climate at school. I realized on my walk to the train that what Mommy gave me was perspective. Perspective allowed me to see the process here for what it is and to remember that in 10 years of teaching, on the college level, and high school level, and in 2 years in the Foreign Service, I never got anything less than an outstanding evaluation. And, aside from kids with axes to grind (see "40" in last post), I've always had an excellent rapport with my students. I know I'm a good teacher, a knowledgeable teacher, a teacher who inspires students and gets them to think about the world around them. That's not arrogance, that's truth.
The problem here is that my idea of what makes a good teacher (you know, actually teaching for example) seems to be the antithesis of what the government here thinks makes a good teacher (moderating activities and ticking boxes). I'm comfortable with who I am and what I do, and I know I make a difference as a teacher. And, from what I've seen, if that seems to clash with Ofsted's idea of good teaching, then I must be doing something right.
This is the sort of thing I would have probably discussed at length with Mommy, probably over cocktails while watching the news in the den. Life is different now, but I felt her with me, and I know I was the stronger for it. So, Happy Birthday, Mommy. I love you and I miss you.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
24 and a half plus 7 equals 40. No, wait . . .
No, my math skills haven't finally bitten the dust. Not that they were so high above the dust to begin with. I can still remember getting a score lower than my age on a calculus test in college. But I mean, come on! Who really uses calculus, other than mathematicians? Anyway, I digress (as usual). These numbers are merely representative of some of the things that have been going on since I last wrote. Let's start with the easy stuff. The HALF references the fact that we just had the February HALF-term holiday, which came after a particularly difficult first HALF of the spring term, but which also marked that we are HALF-way through the school year. Since coming back from the holiday, I feel better physically, and am so much more at ease with Angela's situation, which has been amazing. But, I've felt a bit wrong-footed at work. I'm not quite sure if it's actually me, though, as everyone is on edge following the Ofsted inspection. At any rate, some people have been a touch snippy, with comments that I don't quite know how to take - they could mean nothing, or they could represent their true feelings which they've been too polite to express before. I'm not going to go into specifics, but I'm trying not to take it personally, trying to chalk it up to the pressure and stress that everyone is under. Just keeping my head down.
So, 7. 7 refers simply to the number of hours I had to deal with a screaming baby on my ride home to NY over half-term. It penetrated even through my earbuds, and I had a pounding headache by the time I reached my apartment. In fact, I don't really know what was worse, the screaming baby, or her Chav mother trying to "soothe" her by loudly humming the theme tune to "The A-Team." Frankly, if she were my mother, I'd cry too.
The trip home was good, and generated a few numbers of its own: 5 is the number of boxes I unpacked. 4 is the number of contractors I met with to do the kitchen and bath, and I'm still too traumatized to actually write down the numbers they gave me to do the work! 3 is the number of suitcases full of clothes I brought back to NY so I wouldn't have to ship them. 2 is the number of suitcases full of groceries I brought back to London (6 boxes of cereal, 8 boxes of mac n cheese, 10 boxes of granola bars, etc.) And, finally, 1 is the number of miracles my family was granted this year.
Moving on to 40. That's a bit of a funny one. They say you should never read your reviews, but I've never been good at following that advice. So, I found a somewhat nasty review of me on ratemyteachers.com from the end of last year (so an Ursuline girl). Now, at the risk of sounding cocky, I'm a good teacher and my students like me. Just look at the number of caring girls who came to Mommy's wake last year. But, there's always a few you can't reach, and there's always those who decide to get back at you if they get in trouble, or do poorly. Students are virtually powerless, so they resort to things like websites that allow you to vent your poison anonymously (quite brave, huh?). Anyway, this particular spoiled brat had a few things to say, but my favorite was "She's jealous that I'm three times the writer at 18 that she is at 40. Sad." You can imagine my ire at this! How dare she! I am not 40!!!!
And that brings me to the last number: 24. This is a number I've thought about a lot over the last few weeks. It's another life philosophy of mine for when life tries to knock you down. Some people believe that being strong means you don't let things affect you, but that's not true. Being an English teacher, it makes me think of a quote from Macbeth. When Macduff is told of the murder of his family, he is overcome with grief. Malcolm tells him, "Dispute it like a man." Macduff responds, "I shall, but first I must feel it like a man." You have to feel things, and those feelings are valid. But, there comes a time when you have to put those feelings aside, deal with it and move on. So, many years ago, I came up with the 24-hour rule. Basically this rule means that, when something goes wrong, when you have a disappointment, or some issue at work or school, you get to wallow in self pity for 24 hours. But, after that, you need to get it together and deal. This way, the feelings are acknowledged and not bottled up, but you don't stay mired in them forever. Life goes on, and we need to go on with it. Even when we think we can't. I never imagined living without my parents, but here I am, still going. By the way, the 24 hour rule clearly would not apply in truly traumatic situations. You need more time for those. But, the basic principle is the same - eventually you have to get up out of the depths and start living again.
So, for a girl who hates math (or maths, as they say here), I certainly have been consumed by numbers lately. I'm sure it's just a passing fever and the world will right itself soon. Only time will tell . . .
So, 7. 7 refers simply to the number of hours I had to deal with a screaming baby on my ride home to NY over half-term. It penetrated even through my earbuds, and I had a pounding headache by the time I reached my apartment. In fact, I don't really know what was worse, the screaming baby, or her Chav mother trying to "soothe" her by loudly humming the theme tune to "The A-Team." Frankly, if she were my mother, I'd cry too.
The trip home was good, and generated a few numbers of its own: 5 is the number of boxes I unpacked. 4 is the number of contractors I met with to do the kitchen and bath, and I'm still too traumatized to actually write down the numbers they gave me to do the work! 3 is the number of suitcases full of clothes I brought back to NY so I wouldn't have to ship them. 2 is the number of suitcases full of groceries I brought back to London (6 boxes of cereal, 8 boxes of mac n cheese, 10 boxes of granola bars, etc.) And, finally, 1 is the number of miracles my family was granted this year.
Moving on to 40. That's a bit of a funny one. They say you should never read your reviews, but I've never been good at following that advice. So, I found a somewhat nasty review of me on ratemyteachers.com from the end of last year (so an Ursuline girl). Now, at the risk of sounding cocky, I'm a good teacher and my students like me. Just look at the number of caring girls who came to Mommy's wake last year. But, there's always a few you can't reach, and there's always those who decide to get back at you if they get in trouble, or do poorly. Students are virtually powerless, so they resort to things like websites that allow you to vent your poison anonymously (quite brave, huh?). Anyway, this particular spoiled brat had a few things to say, but my favorite was "She's jealous that I'm three times the writer at 18 that she is at 40. Sad." You can imagine my ire at this! How dare she! I am not 40!!!!
And that brings me to the last number: 24. This is a number I've thought about a lot over the last few weeks. It's another life philosophy of mine for when life tries to knock you down. Some people believe that being strong means you don't let things affect you, but that's not true. Being an English teacher, it makes me think of a quote from Macbeth. When Macduff is told of the murder of his family, he is overcome with grief. Malcolm tells him, "Dispute it like a man." Macduff responds, "I shall, but first I must feel it like a man." You have to feel things, and those feelings are valid. But, there comes a time when you have to put those feelings aside, deal with it and move on. So, many years ago, I came up with the 24-hour rule. Basically this rule means that, when something goes wrong, when you have a disappointment, or some issue at work or school, you get to wallow in self pity for 24 hours. But, after that, you need to get it together and deal. This way, the feelings are acknowledged and not bottled up, but you don't stay mired in them forever. Life goes on, and we need to go on with it. Even when we think we can't. I never imagined living without my parents, but here I am, still going. By the way, the 24 hour rule clearly would not apply in truly traumatic situations. You need more time for those. But, the basic principle is the same - eventually you have to get up out of the depths and start living again.
So, for a girl who hates math (or maths, as they say here), I certainly have been consumed by numbers lately. I'm sure it's just a passing fever and the world will right itself soon. Only time will tell . . .
Monday, February 7, 2011
One Year
I can't actually believe it has been one year. One year ago today, I was certain my life was over. How was life supposed to continue without the most important person in the world? But, life did continue and here I am, one year later, in another country, living a new life. Coming to London was the best thing I could have done, really. I needed to figure out who I was as a person, without being "Haydee and Joe's daughter." I couldn't do that at home. I needed to be somewhere where no one knew me, so I could reinvent myself. And, I have reinvented myself to some extent. I mean, I'm still me - and it's crazy to think I'd change that significantly. But, I am fguring out how to go it alone, and how to be OK with that. It's not that I don't have low moments or like I don't feel lonely, because I definitely do. But, somehow, I'm finding the strength to keep going. Mommy always said "Adversity builds character," and I suppose over the years I built up the strength to deal with the worst life could throw at me. But there's something else too. Over the last year I've sometimes wondered why someone who has had the close relationship I had with my parents should lose them. Rather unfairly, I have found myself sometimes resenting people who still have their parents. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. I expecially get annoyed when I hear about people not getting along with their parents, when I would love to just have a conversation with mine. Like I said, I know it's not fair to judge others' relationships with their parents, but what can I say? Sometimes I can't help it. Anyway, sometimes I find myself thinking that I was so close with my parents because I was destined to lose them too soon. As if I was storing up the love an happy memories to sustain me through the rest of my lie without them. And, in a weird way, if having them with me longer would have meant not being as close to them, I don't think I would have wanted that.
Anyway, it's been a hell of a year. So much has happened, and continues to happen. Keith and Angela have been through so much more this year too, but that seems to be getting a bit better. This is life, or "afterlife" I guess you could say. Figuring out who you are when the most important person in your world is gone. It's a work in progress, and I'm interested to see how it turns out.
Anyway, it's been a hell of a year. So much has happened, and continues to happen. Keith and Angela have been through so much more this year too, but that seems to be getting a bit better. This is life, or "afterlife" I guess you could say. Figuring out who you are when the most important person in your world is gone. It's a work in progress, and I'm interested to see how it turns out.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Good Enough to See
It really is a good thing I don’t have an adoring public hanging on my every word for nourishment – they’d starve. Seriously, I could never be one of those people who tweet every little detail of their lives. Aside from the fact that the world doesn’t care if I had fish and chips for lunch (I did, by the way), who has that kind of time. Although, that does remind me that Kacy Cannon, the hero of my teen novel The Secret of Starlight Landing, hasn’t been on her twitter in a while. Must get on that.
Anyway, I’ve had some experiences recently (well one was in November, but see statement above about the frequency of posts!) that have reminded me of an old life philosophy I had. Don’t worry, it’s nothing deep and ponderous. I don’t really do deep an ponderous. And, it’s not so much a philosophy as an observation, I suppose. At any rate, I call it “Good Enough to See.”
So, what does that mean? Perhaps an illustration is best. Last week, I went to a black tie performance of Twelfth Night at the Royal National Theatre in London. Very nice. Flowing champagne. The works. And, in November, I went to the 150th Anniversary Gala of the Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. Lovely dinner, great performances. Again, the works. Both events had their share of celebrities: Andrew Lloyd Webber, Simon Cowell, even royalty and red carpets. Not that I actually got to mingle directly with said celebrities or royalty. I merely got to breathe the same rarified air and drink the same champagne. And, I was not invited to the dinner after the Twelfth Night Performance. Now this isn’t about celebrity at all, because I’m not one to obsess over celebrities. But, it proves my point. Lots of people envied me getting to go to these things, and it was fun and pretty cool (how many times do you get to sit in a crowd and be addressed, “Your royal highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen”?). But all I could think was, “How come I can’t be like them?” I was able to attend the event, but not able to move in the highest circles. Thus, I was good enough to see what I was not good enough to be.
No matter what we achieve in life, it seems there’s always a level above us. And, no matter how content we may be with our achievement, as soon as the novelty wears off and we realize there is another level above us, we want that too. “How come I can’t be like them?” Another example was when I was skating. I could execute most of the basic freestyle jumps, but I lacked any true talent, and my bad knees sunk my hopes of doubles and triples pretty early (really was hoping for that double salchow). But, because I was “good enough,” I shared the freestyle ice with the girls at the rink who were really good. Thus I was good enough to see what I was not good enough to be.
The question is, is it a bad thing that we always reach for the next level? Isn’t that what life is about? Reaching for what’s just above in a constant striving for bigger and better things? After all, no one would ever achieve success if they were just content to be “good enough.” And, yet, the constant striving can take its toll. At what point do you need to examine your life and say, “Good enough is good enough.” I honestly don’t know the answer to that because I haven’t reached it yet. I’ve enjoyed some minor success in my life, but my goal has always been to make my living writing. I love teaching and would continue to do it regardless of how successful my writing was, but I feel the need to be validated as an author (writing a more regular blog would be a good start, I admit). I want to be identified as a writer first, and then a teacher. But, does there come a time when I have to hang up the quill? I don’t know.
A last reflection makes me think of the show Frasier. One of my favorite episodes is when they steal Cam Winston’s invitation to an exclusive day spa (because they didn’t get one of their own – again, good enough to see). Once they get in, they’re thrilled and so relaxed, until they see a gold door. They’re told that they have silver membership, and that the gold door is only for gold members. Well, suddenly everything they just raved about was inferior and they needed to go through the gold door. They sneak in and again are thrilled, until they see a platinum door. Well, clearly, platinum beats gold any day! Once again they sneak in. It’s like nirvana, until they see the diamond door. Even though they are told once again not to go through, they do, and bask in the warm glow of the sun, until they realize they are in the alley behind the spa, among the garbage bins. If they had just been content with what they had, they would still have been enjoying the spa, but “good enough” was not good enough.
I don’t have the answer, but my gut tells me we keep reaching, and if we end up in the dumpster, so be it – at least we’ll know we haven’t missed out on anything. But, me, I’m hoping for diamonds.
Anyway, I’ve had some experiences recently (well one was in November, but see statement above about the frequency of posts!) that have reminded me of an old life philosophy I had. Don’t worry, it’s nothing deep and ponderous. I don’t really do deep an ponderous. And, it’s not so much a philosophy as an observation, I suppose. At any rate, I call it “Good Enough to See.”
So, what does that mean? Perhaps an illustration is best. Last week, I went to a black tie performance of Twelfth Night at the Royal National Theatre in London. Very nice. Flowing champagne. The works. And, in November, I went to the 150th Anniversary Gala of the Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. Lovely dinner, great performances. Again, the works. Both events had their share of celebrities: Andrew Lloyd Webber, Simon Cowell, even royalty and red carpets. Not that I actually got to mingle directly with said celebrities or royalty. I merely got to breathe the same rarified air and drink the same champagne. And, I was not invited to the dinner after the Twelfth Night Performance. Now this isn’t about celebrity at all, because I’m not one to obsess over celebrities. But, it proves my point. Lots of people envied me getting to go to these things, and it was fun and pretty cool (how many times do you get to sit in a crowd and be addressed, “Your royal highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen”?). But all I could think was, “How come I can’t be like them?” I was able to attend the event, but not able to move in the highest circles. Thus, I was good enough to see what I was not good enough to be.
No matter what we achieve in life, it seems there’s always a level above us. And, no matter how content we may be with our achievement, as soon as the novelty wears off and we realize there is another level above us, we want that too. “How come I can’t be like them?” Another example was when I was skating. I could execute most of the basic freestyle jumps, but I lacked any true talent, and my bad knees sunk my hopes of doubles and triples pretty early (really was hoping for that double salchow). But, because I was “good enough,” I shared the freestyle ice with the girls at the rink who were really good. Thus I was good enough to see what I was not good enough to be.
The question is, is it a bad thing that we always reach for the next level? Isn’t that what life is about? Reaching for what’s just above in a constant striving for bigger and better things? After all, no one would ever achieve success if they were just content to be “good enough.” And, yet, the constant striving can take its toll. At what point do you need to examine your life and say, “Good enough is good enough.” I honestly don’t know the answer to that because I haven’t reached it yet. I’ve enjoyed some minor success in my life, but my goal has always been to make my living writing. I love teaching and would continue to do it regardless of how successful my writing was, but I feel the need to be validated as an author (writing a more regular blog would be a good start, I admit). I want to be identified as a writer first, and then a teacher. But, does there come a time when I have to hang up the quill? I don’t know.
A last reflection makes me think of the show Frasier. One of my favorite episodes is when they steal Cam Winston’s invitation to an exclusive day spa (because they didn’t get one of their own – again, good enough to see). Once they get in, they’re thrilled and so relaxed, until they see a gold door. They’re told that they have silver membership, and that the gold door is only for gold members. Well, suddenly everything they just raved about was inferior and they needed to go through the gold door. They sneak in and again are thrilled, until they see a platinum door. Well, clearly, platinum beats gold any day! Once again they sneak in. It’s like nirvana, until they see the diamond door. Even though they are told once again not to go through, they do, and bask in the warm glow of the sun, until they realize they are in the alley behind the spa, among the garbage bins. If they had just been content with what they had, they would still have been enjoying the spa, but “good enough” was not good enough.
I don’t have the answer, but my gut tells me we keep reaching, and if we end up in the dumpster, so be it – at least we’ll know we haven’t missed out on anything. But, me, I’m hoping for diamonds.
Friday, December 24, 2010
What Fesh Hell is This?
I suppose I should have chosen something more festive for a title, but frankly, it came down between this and, "F***ing Snow, F***ing Heathrow, Merry F***ing Chirstmas!" I thought the chosen title was a bit less belligerent. Why all the hostility? Because due to a relatively minor snowfall, Heathrow fell apart, and I'm stuck in London, alone, for Christmas. The truly upsetting thing is that it didn't have to happen. The snow fell on Saturday. It wasn't much. But, Tuesday, they were still canceling flights left and right because they hadn't cleared the 2nd runway. In light of heavy criticism, the response from the powers that be is, "Other countries are used to snow, but we don't normally have weather like this." Hmm, well, this is the 3rd winter in row, so maybe it's time to stop wringing your hands and start admitting that now you do have weather like this! And invest in some snowplows and salt. Geez. I thought Yonkers was bad with snow removal, but at least it's not a major international city with one of the busiest airports in the world!
I was on hold with Virgin for three hours before I finally got through, and the best they could do was a Boxing Day flight. We tried every airport on the East Coast, figuring I could then drive to NY. But there was nothing. At one point, I even told the woman (Michaela was her name - very nice woman) that I would take a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, but apparently that was booked too (peak time!). So, I'm stuck here. The first Christmas without both Mom and Dad, and Keith and I are separated by 3000 miles, and an entire ocean. Not to mention that Keith and Angela are going through so much right now because of her illness. We really needed to be together. For many people, these issues are an inconvenience. For me, it's a tragedy.
I am trying to make the best of it, and my boss here, Gaynor, has been very kind and invited me to spend the holidays with her family. At least I won't be all alone. Cali and Brooke have been at the sitter since Monday, so I haven't had them around either. But at least I know they're doing fine. I'll be getting the train to Gaynor's a little later, and then going from her house to the airport Sunday. At least (all things being equal), I should get som time at home, but I lost five days and, as philosophical as I'm trying to be, it still is very upsetting.
Well, on a brighter note - special thanks to family and friends who have patiently listened to me vent my frustration (with special note to Erika's idea to airlift snowplows and salt from the US and Canada!), and to Michaela at Virgin for trying to get me home in time, and to Gaynor for sharing her Christmas with me. At least the Christmas Spirit is alive and well.
Merry Christmas!
I was on hold with Virgin for three hours before I finally got through, and the best they could do was a Boxing Day flight. We tried every airport on the East Coast, figuring I could then drive to NY. But there was nothing. At one point, I even told the woman (Michaela was her name - very nice woman) that I would take a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, but apparently that was booked too (peak time!). So, I'm stuck here. The first Christmas without both Mom and Dad, and Keith and I are separated by 3000 miles, and an entire ocean. Not to mention that Keith and Angela are going through so much right now because of her illness. We really needed to be together. For many people, these issues are an inconvenience. For me, it's a tragedy.
I am trying to make the best of it, and my boss here, Gaynor, has been very kind and invited me to spend the holidays with her family. At least I won't be all alone. Cali and Brooke have been at the sitter since Monday, so I haven't had them around either. But at least I know they're doing fine. I'll be getting the train to Gaynor's a little later, and then going from her house to the airport Sunday. At least (all things being equal), I should get som time at home, but I lost five days and, as philosophical as I'm trying to be, it still is very upsetting.
Well, on a brighter note - special thanks to family and friends who have patiently listened to me vent my frustration (with special note to Erika's idea to airlift snowplows and salt from the US and Canada!), and to Michaela at Virgin for trying to get me home in time, and to Gaynor for sharing her Christmas with me. At least the Christmas Spirit is alive and well.
Merry Christmas!
Friday, December 3, 2010
Snowbound in London
OK, we'll ignore the fact that it's about a month and a half since I've written anything (I like to ignore inconvenient truths - seriously, how do people blog every day?). Let's focus instead on the fact that it's Friday, December 3, and I haven't been in school since midday on Tuesday, November 30. The entire United Kingdom has been paralyzed by early season snow. Three and a half snow days?!?! Before Christmas?!?! If I'd wanted snow like this, I would have applied to teach in Switzerland! Cali and Brooke haven't been too thrilled to have to wear their sweaters (or jumpers, as the case may be).
On the plus side, since I'm in Central London, which has not been hit as hard as the outskirts, I haven't been trapped in the flat. Definitely makes me glad I chose to live where I do. I've been able to go out every day - see Christmas lights, do my Christmas shopping. I even got to my favorite pizza place - Delfino's near Grosvenor Square. If I had been livig closer to school, it would have been just me and the dogs, with some blankets and DVDs. Which would have been fine fora day or so, but now we don' go back to school until Monday, and I would have gone stir crazy by now if I hadn't been able to get out and about.
I've also been able to put up my Christmas decorations. They look nice, and I like having them up, but I kind of feel like a fraud - everything is all festive, and I'm listening to the music, but every time I try to watch a Christmas movie or show, I start crying. And, I suspect it will just get worse whenI get back to New York. These are the last major holidays to get through in the first year, and I'm worried. I'll go to Ann and Bill's for Christmas Day, but what about Christmas Eve? That's always been such a big night, and I don't know if anyone in Mommy's family will host it this year. After all, Mommy's the one who kept everyone together after Mama and Papa died. Now who's going to do it? I'd consider it, but my new apartment is too full of boxes to host a dinner party. Then there's the fact of seeing the house empty for Christmas - with no decorations. I remember what it felt like seeing Gilbert Place empty for the first time on Christmas Eve, and this will be a lot worse. Anyway, I don't want to think about it now. I'm trying to force myself to enjoy the season because I know Mom and Dad wouldn't want me moping around, but it's not easy. Sometimes it seems OK, then suddenly it all goes very dark.
Well, tomorrow I'll hit another Christmas fair, sort the presents I bought, and put up my remaining decorations and lights. And, maybe, I'll manage to write about what I did for Thanksgiving, or as it's known here, Thursday, 25 November. I took the anti-holiday approach this year. Until next time . . .
On the plus side, since I'm in Central London, which has not been hit as hard as the outskirts, I haven't been trapped in the flat. Definitely makes me glad I chose to live where I do. I've been able to go out every day - see Christmas lights, do my Christmas shopping. I even got to my favorite pizza place - Delfino's near Grosvenor Square. If I had been livig closer to school, it would have been just me and the dogs, with some blankets and DVDs. Which would have been fine fora day or so, but now we don' go back to school until Monday, and I would have gone stir crazy by now if I hadn't been able to get out and about.
I've also been able to put up my Christmas decorations. They look nice, and I like having them up, but I kind of feel like a fraud - everything is all festive, and I'm listening to the music, but every time I try to watch a Christmas movie or show, I start crying. And, I suspect it will just get worse whenI get back to New York. These are the last major holidays to get through in the first year, and I'm worried. I'll go to Ann and Bill's for Christmas Day, but what about Christmas Eve? That's always been such a big night, and I don't know if anyone in Mommy's family will host it this year. After all, Mommy's the one who kept everyone together after Mama and Papa died. Now who's going to do it? I'd consider it, but my new apartment is too full of boxes to host a dinner party. Then there's the fact of seeing the house empty for Christmas - with no decorations. I remember what it felt like seeing Gilbert Place empty for the first time on Christmas Eve, and this will be a lot worse. Anyway, I don't want to think about it now. I'm trying to force myself to enjoy the season because I know Mom and Dad wouldn't want me moping around, but it's not easy. Sometimes it seems OK, then suddenly it all goes very dark.
Well, tomorrow I'll hit another Christmas fair, sort the presents I bought, and put up my remaining decorations and lights. And, maybe, I'll manage to write about what I did for Thanksgiving, or as it's known here, Thursday, 25 November. I took the anti-holiday approach this year. Until next time . . .
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Therapeutic Qualities of Doctor Who
So, last weekend, in an effort to keep my cultural experiences broad, I attended the “Doctor Who Live” show at Wembley Arena. It was fun – a bit cheesy, and definitely kid-oriented, but even I got a little thrill when the Cybermen and Judoon came stomping past me! Actually, Keith and Angela gave me the ticket for my birthday, and to understand why, we need to rewind about 9 ½ months.
I’m actually one of those rare Americans who has been aware of “Doctor Who” for quite some time. When I was a kid, it aired on PBS in New York. But, I have to admit, I never watched it because (I’m about to insult an entire nation here) it looked like something a sci-fi geek filmed in his mother’s basement, using a Betamax. The grainy video and low-rent effects just did not appeal to me at all. When the rebooted series came to the States, I was living in Mexico and then, when I returned, it was airing on BBC America which Cablevision, in its “wisdom,” doesn’t carry. So, I was blissfully ignorant of the new “Doctor Who” series, until I came to England last New Year’s with Mom.
On this trip, we spent a fair amount of time relaxing in our room because Mom’s strength was failing (it turned out to be only about a month before she died). At Lainston House, in Hampshire, I watched a lot of “Best of the Noughties” shows that talked about the TV shows, celebrities, etc. that were popular over the last decade. At this time, too, the BBC was in the midst of its all-David Tennant blitz. Now, at the risk of being insulting again, I didn’t actually know who David Tennant was – except for this reaction upon seeing him on one of the many shows he appeared on that week: “Hey, that’s Barty Crouch, Jr!” Yes, the "Harry Potter" fan in me registered the face, but that was about it.
Of course, over the next few days, I couldn’t escape the stories on TV and in the papers, and so I became intrigued by this big finale episode of “Doctor Who” that everyone was talking about. It was so hyped that I actually considered watching it when we arrived in London on New Year’s Day, but it didn’t really make sense to watch the last episode without having seen any of the others! So, I watched Miss Marple instead (They Do it With Mirrors). When I got back to New York, I ordered the Series One DVD Box Set, with the plan to watch it over the next few weeks. Unfortunately, the next few weeks were the worst of my life, as has already been well-documented, so I never got around to watching that DVD set.
It’s funny what you’ll latch onto in moments of trauma; the strangest things become life rafts and get you safely through the rough waters. After the funeral, I lost myself for a bit in watching the Olympics. It was a little difficult because that was something Mom and I would have watched together, but it kept me distracted. Once the Olympics were over, though, I found myself in an odd place. I suddenly realized that I couldn’t bring myself to watch the regular prime-time shows that I had been watching with Mom just a couple of weeks before. It was our routine that we would watch TV together, as we enjoyed a lot of the same shows. She’d be in the recliner, with Cali next to her and Brooke on her lap, and I’d be on the bed. Sometimes we’d switch, if the dogs made her too uncomfortable. Now, the bed was gone, but the recliner was there, and Cali, Brooke and I would sit there to watch TV, and to try to feel closer to Mom. But, what would we watch?
That’s when I turned to the unopened DVD box set sitting on the shelf. It was something different, I reasoned, and something I had never seen with Mom, so maybe it would provide the distraction I needed. I started watching and was immediately drawn in. I’ll admit, with my pre-conceived notions about the old “Doctor Who,” I wasn’t expecting much, but I realized pretty quickly that the production values on this show were light years ahead of its predecessor. And I have to admit to some surprise (sorry!) at the depth of the show and the quality of the acting. It was a true drama that just happened to be Science Fiction. I liked it well enough to buy the Second Series Box Set by the time I was halfway through the first, and the remaining sets shortly thereafter. The second series was the first one with David Tennant, so I would now get some sense of what he had done that merited the media blitz and sense of national mourning I had seen when I was in London.
I was captivated. I already had a high opinion of the show, and they managed to raise the bar with the new series. The wit and charm that David Tennant brought to the role drew me in even more. I had my perfect escape. While watching the show, I could forget for a little while the otherwise unrelenting sadness. I could sit in the recliner in Mom’s room, Cali next to me and Brooke on my lap, and just enjoy something. I didn’t actually think I would ever enjoy anything again in those early days, but how could you not enjoy the adventure and humor, and drama of “Doctor Who”? Over the next few weeks, I spent my days dealing with the realities of the house and estate, and spent my evenings escaping into time and space. Even now, if I start feeling down, and start thinking too much about all the loss over the past few years, I can just pop in a favorite episode and escape for a while. It inevitably restores my good mood. Actually, if I really need a quick pick-me-up, all I need to watch is the 15-minute video clip of David Tennant and Julie Gardner getting a police escort to Blackpool. The unfeigned, child-like glee they express throughout makes me laugh every time!
It’s funny. If anyone had asked me how I thought I’d get through Mom’s death, I would have probably denied that it was even possible. I would certainly never have thought a British Science Fiction show would help me through the darkest hours. Now, I’m not turning all sci-fi geek. I mean, I’ve always liked sci-fi, and anyone who’s known me long enough knows how obsessed I was with “V” when I was a kid, but I’m not about to start attending conventions, wearing costumes, or buying sonic screwdrivers on Ebay. And, while I have continued to watch the show, it’s more a matter of habit now. Especially now that I’m living in the UK, where it’s still quite popular. But, for me, “Doctor Who” is a moment in time, something I discovered by chance, at the right time, and that filled a temporary need. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
I’m actually one of those rare Americans who has been aware of “Doctor Who” for quite some time. When I was a kid, it aired on PBS in New York. But, I have to admit, I never watched it because (I’m about to insult an entire nation here) it looked like something a sci-fi geek filmed in his mother’s basement, using a Betamax. The grainy video and low-rent effects just did not appeal to me at all. When the rebooted series came to the States, I was living in Mexico and then, when I returned, it was airing on BBC America which Cablevision, in its “wisdom,” doesn’t carry. So, I was blissfully ignorant of the new “Doctor Who” series, until I came to England last New Year’s with Mom.
On this trip, we spent a fair amount of time relaxing in our room because Mom’s strength was failing (it turned out to be only about a month before she died). At Lainston House, in Hampshire, I watched a lot of “Best of the Noughties” shows that talked about the TV shows, celebrities, etc. that were popular over the last decade. At this time, too, the BBC was in the midst of its all-David Tennant blitz. Now, at the risk of being insulting again, I didn’t actually know who David Tennant was – except for this reaction upon seeing him on one of the many shows he appeared on that week: “Hey, that’s Barty Crouch, Jr!” Yes, the "Harry Potter" fan in me registered the face, but that was about it.
Of course, over the next few days, I couldn’t escape the stories on TV and in the papers, and so I became intrigued by this big finale episode of “Doctor Who” that everyone was talking about. It was so hyped that I actually considered watching it when we arrived in London on New Year’s Day, but it didn’t really make sense to watch the last episode without having seen any of the others! So, I watched Miss Marple instead (They Do it With Mirrors). When I got back to New York, I ordered the Series One DVD Box Set, with the plan to watch it over the next few weeks. Unfortunately, the next few weeks were the worst of my life, as has already been well-documented, so I never got around to watching that DVD set.
It’s funny what you’ll latch onto in moments of trauma; the strangest things become life rafts and get you safely through the rough waters. After the funeral, I lost myself for a bit in watching the Olympics. It was a little difficult because that was something Mom and I would have watched together, but it kept me distracted. Once the Olympics were over, though, I found myself in an odd place. I suddenly realized that I couldn’t bring myself to watch the regular prime-time shows that I had been watching with Mom just a couple of weeks before. It was our routine that we would watch TV together, as we enjoyed a lot of the same shows. She’d be in the recliner, with Cali next to her and Brooke on her lap, and I’d be on the bed. Sometimes we’d switch, if the dogs made her too uncomfortable. Now, the bed was gone, but the recliner was there, and Cali, Brooke and I would sit there to watch TV, and to try to feel closer to Mom. But, what would we watch?
That’s when I turned to the unopened DVD box set sitting on the shelf. It was something different, I reasoned, and something I had never seen with Mom, so maybe it would provide the distraction I needed. I started watching and was immediately drawn in. I’ll admit, with my pre-conceived notions about the old “Doctor Who,” I wasn’t expecting much, but I realized pretty quickly that the production values on this show were light years ahead of its predecessor. And I have to admit to some surprise (sorry!) at the depth of the show and the quality of the acting. It was a true drama that just happened to be Science Fiction. I liked it well enough to buy the Second Series Box Set by the time I was halfway through the first, and the remaining sets shortly thereafter. The second series was the first one with David Tennant, so I would now get some sense of what he had done that merited the media blitz and sense of national mourning I had seen when I was in London.
I was captivated. I already had a high opinion of the show, and they managed to raise the bar with the new series. The wit and charm that David Tennant brought to the role drew me in even more. I had my perfect escape. While watching the show, I could forget for a little while the otherwise unrelenting sadness. I could sit in the recliner in Mom’s room, Cali next to me and Brooke on my lap, and just enjoy something. I didn’t actually think I would ever enjoy anything again in those early days, but how could you not enjoy the adventure and humor, and drama of “Doctor Who”? Over the next few weeks, I spent my days dealing with the realities of the house and estate, and spent my evenings escaping into time and space. Even now, if I start feeling down, and start thinking too much about all the loss over the past few years, I can just pop in a favorite episode and escape for a while. It inevitably restores my good mood. Actually, if I really need a quick pick-me-up, all I need to watch is the 15-minute video clip of David Tennant and Julie Gardner getting a police escort to Blackpool. The unfeigned, child-like glee they express throughout makes me laugh every time!
It’s funny. If anyone had asked me how I thought I’d get through Mom’s death, I would have probably denied that it was even possible. I would certainly never have thought a British Science Fiction show would help me through the darkest hours. Now, I’m not turning all sci-fi geek. I mean, I’ve always liked sci-fi, and anyone who’s known me long enough knows how obsessed I was with “V” when I was a kid, but I’m not about to start attending conventions, wearing costumes, or buying sonic screwdrivers on Ebay. And, while I have continued to watch the show, it’s more a matter of habit now. Especially now that I’m living in the UK, where it’s still quite popular. But, for me, “Doctor Who” is a moment in time, something I discovered by chance, at the right time, and that filled a temporary need. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
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