Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

Growing up, my relatives were far-flung: a set of grandparents deep in Texas, another in Virginia and outcrops of cousins across the Eastern Seaboard.  No one but my nuclear family lived out West in Oregon and so, to me, seeing family meant long plane rides and winter delays all for brief weekends with people I loved without knowing very well.  My parents built a life in Portland far from their original homes—a life that was worth the distance. We existed as a four-person unit miles away from anyone else who shared our blood. From my point of view, a generation removed, this cross-country family situation was normal; I knew nothing more intimate.  We saw each other when we saw each other.   Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles were an occasional, special presence—not every day, never ordinary.  

This is the norm for many people, but in the past few years I’ve started to wonder whether it needs to be mine.  I come from a city I love, one whose cool factor develops much faster than my own, and my family is not one from which to run.  But in spite of every reason to stay put, I find myself very far away.  My motive for distance is not linked to escape.  There was no boring suburb, no great familial dysfunction that I needed to mediate with miles, but from a young age, I knew I would leave home. My parents did it, and so would I. My first move was mild and contained: a 2-hour flight or 20-hour drive to Southern California for four short years. At the end, though, a country full of new cities opened up and I found myself in Boston then New York. Three years later, I still find myself a day’s worth of travel and three time zones away from my beloved city and beloved family.  In most every way, this is the right choice for right now, but around the holidays—the most family-oriented time of year—I take pause.  

I start thinking about distance when seeing my family a few times every year means two $50 cab rides, a $500 flight, a possible delay because of weather, bad airport food at Newark and a pit in my stomach when I have to say goodbye after a week. This is when I start to question whether it’s worth it.  Right now, the answer is resoundingly yes, but I wonder if this yes will expire.  The more enmeshed you get in a city—its jobs, its friends, its men, its beauty—it becomes harder and harder to leave.  But the solution can’t be to leave somewhere before you start to love it too much. That’s low-level depravity.  Then again, if you do want to move back home, the window of opportunity might not be forever open. The Internet, iMessage and Skype give those of us living far away a false sense of closeness--like maybe we could do this forever.  Even with cellphones, 4,000 miles is still 4,000 miles. 

It’s hit me recently that I can make the choice to live close to my family, to make relatives a year-round presence, not a holiday rarity. It’s weird to think that the decisions I make now have the power to reverse a trend for the next generation. My parents don’t pressure me, but I know it’s on their mind, too.  While they’re proud to have a daughter living in the big city, they’re also wondering when she’s coming back. When I mention a new boy, my mom always asks, half-teasing: “Is he Jewish?” Now she’s added on a more-pressing query: “Is he from the West Coast?” If not, “How does he feel about Portland?”

 

Pearls of Wisdom

In my 25 years, I've learned mostly the following:

1.       Passing out before midnight on a Saturday night doesn’t make you lame, it makes you confident.

2.       Cottage cheese looks gross, but tastes amazing.

3.       Never do something yourself when you could bribe your sibling to do it for you.

4.       Although tempting, it’s usually a bad idea to keep your credit card in your back pocket rather than tucked safely in your wallet.

5.       It’s worth spending money on soft sheets and name brand hair products.

6.       Don't let anyone tell you coffee is bad for you.

7.       Belting an outfit really does make you look skinny.

8.       Dance parties are usually more satisfying in your kitchen than in a bar, particularly when they include a certain Wiley Goy.

9.       Eating pizza while drinking is never a bad idea.  Eating pizza is never a bad idea.

10.   Sometimes 12-year-olds have great taste in music.

11.   Never use a glue trap to catch a mouse unless you’re cold-hearted.

12.   Keep your deodorant in the fridge if the temperature gets above 90.

13.   Leave home at least twice.

14.   Procrastinate a lot, and then work harder.

15.    Childhood friends are worth keeping around, because you never know when you might all end up in NYC.

16.   Beware the transformative power of matching pajama sets.

17.   Bring plenty of water on all outdoorsy endeavors.

18.   Reunite.

19.   Travel far away when you have the money, but especially when you have the time.

20.   Create a secret language so you can be judgmental in public.

21.   Get a few speeding tickets because going fast is fun.

22.   Go on long walks with coffee and sandals.

23.   Consider meat.

24.   When shopping, never wear overalls, a sports bra, skinny jeans or shoes that tie.

25.   Flop frequently and flop well. 

Good Reads, Part 2

If Michiko Kakutani can do it, so can I.  Here's what's on my nighstand lately:

The Marriage Plot, by Jeffrey Eugenides: When a writer waits ten years between books, it’s hard to meet readers’ expectations.  Eugenides’ new book is criticized for its failure to live up to his first two novels—the inventive Virgin Suicides and Middlesex.  And it’s true: The Marriage Plot is not as original, thought provoking or beautiful as Eugenides’ earlier work, but this comparative critique doesn’t take us very far. The book is still good.  The novel chronicles the intertwined lives of three Brown graduates trying to keep love and intellectualism alive during the post-college letdown.  As in his previous novels, Eugenides once again showcases his masterful ability to capture—with dry humor and attention to detail—what it feels like to be young and lost. The book is about intellectual snobs and, as such, will appeal mostly to readers who have intimate knowledge of life on an elite college campus (certainly no one I know).  The Marriage Plot is a big, graceful novel in the finest sense: multigenerational, global and full of trial and tribulation. 

The Tiger’s Wife, by Tea Obreht: So much contemporary fiction is about dysfunctional people and their dysfunctional relationships, families and jobs.  In its attempt to capture what life is like at the beginning of the 21^st century, contemporary American fiction often fails to provide readers with the escapism for which literature is known.  Realistic fiction is a little bit too real.  24-year-old Obreht’s debut novel defies this trend by offering up a novel rife with fable, allegory and history—the Eastern European answer to magical realism.  Set in the Balkans, The Tiger’s Wife tells the story of a young doctor trying to uncover the mystery surrounding her beloved grandfather’s death.   Obreht weaves in a tale about a village haunted by a seductive tiger and another about a Deathless Man who cannot himself die but can predict the fate of others.  The darkly beautiful book is driven not by characters and their neuroses, but by a culture so foreign and magical that it’s easy to escape into Obreht’s careful storytelling.

“The Laramie Project” by Moises Kaufman and the Tectonic Theater Project:  Because most of my life is consumed with what I teach, it seems appropriate to recommend what I’m teaching.  In 1998, gay Wyoming college student Matthew Shepard was brutally murdered in what became the catalyst for the last decade’s hate crime legislation.  Immediately following the murder, members of the Tectonic Theater Project interviewed everyone associated with the incident and compiled their interviews into a play. “The Laramie Project” is a powerful exploration of hate, intolerance and the unforgettable influence of one event on a small community.  Plus, if you need a copy, I have 90.

Open City, by Teju Cole: This book isn’t about much, but it’s about something with which I’m very familiar: long walks around New York City.  The protagonist is a foreign doctor living on the Upper West Side who takes long, solo walks around the city, which afford him contemplation, introspection and interaction.  In his descriptions of Manhattan, Cole intimately captures what it feels like to live in a city that draws us in, but leaves us lonely.  Open City offers only a shred of plot, but draws readers in with nuanced description and precise observation. 

Bossypants, by Tina Fey: When this book came out, I was against it for myriad reasons, including but not limited to Fey’s theft of my memoir title.  The other reasons can be categorized under literary snobbishness.  I finally took the plunge when I got a free copy for my school’s adult book club (like, for adults, not XXX). The hype is true enough: parts of the books are literally laugh-out-loud funny.  Fey gives sage beauty advice that I found personally helpful: always wear a bra because you’ll never regret it.  Fey pieces together a coherent book from lists, scripts, drawings, fan mail and childhood stories.  Though self-deprecating at times, the reader never doubts that Fey is proud of her accomplishments and what they mean for the world of comedy. The ending is the weakpoint: a devolution into what it means to be a mother with a high-power career that reads a bit too much like a late-night diary entry.  Regardless, Bossypants is honest, funny and the perfect Subway read.

The More You Know

Sex and the City aired in 1998 when I was 12 years old and knew very little about the city and far less about sex. For better or for worse, by the time I was 14 its 40 minute installments became a facet of my education in both topics. My girlfriends and I were obsessed with the show, devouring it despite parental objections.  We were adolescent devotees of a show designed for women much older than the set who truly adored it.    After calling to check for availability, we’d trek to the video store to pick up the next DVD installment of the latest season. We had neither HBO nor driver’s licenses to aid in our quest.  Enraptured by all we did not understand, we’d re-watch episode after episode in whatever basement offered the least likely chance of a dad popping in during a particularly rousing climax.      

I don’t remember if we found Sex and the City funny. I can’t imagine we got many of the jokes—so dependent on concepts just grazing our consciousness. Only in our delusional minds could we empathize with or relate to the escapades of wealthy single women in Manhattan. And yet we were fascinated with the fairy tale stories because of their glimmer of attainability.  A glimpse into the lives of women who bore little resemblance to us or anyone we knew but also seemed like not entirely inconceivable iterations of our adolescent selves.  Perhaps if life took certain turns, we too could be Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha, sipping cocktails, romping around in dozens of Manhattan bedrooms, then talking about it over brunch. Because my hair was curly, I would be Carrie rather than the red-headed cynic whose character more closely resembled who I would become ten years later.  

In hindsight—and as a middle school teacher—I understand my parents’ objections. We were probably too young to be watching a show that was full of nudity and thematic questionability, but every girl whose mother would let her was watching on similar subterranean screens across the country.  I wonder about the effect of Sex and The City on our early understanding of dating, gender politics and sex itself.  Was watching dozens of raunchy episodes innocuous or influential to our development?  I think of Sex and the City as something of my generation, but in reality, weren’t we a little young to be watching?    

Recently, two girlfriends and I downloaded a season of Sex and the City on iTunes—the modern day DVD for the HBO-less among us.  These are the same two girlfriends—the rotating Samantha and Charlotte to my Carrie—who I watched these same episodes with years ago.  Only now we are twentysomethings living in New York rather than brace-faced teenagers living in Portland. On the surface, the resemblance doesn’t amount to much other than gender and location. We are teachers and students, not media reps and sex columnists. We live in Brooklyn and buy cheap wine. The experience was nostalgic, but also unsettling.  In the most oxymoronic way, Sex and the City seemed more real fantasy or fake reality than ever. 

My roommate remarked as the episode entitled “are all men freaks?” came to its voiceover conclusion: “this doesn’t seem so funny anymore.”  And she’s right.   With more knowledge of both sex and the city, the plotlines are more relatable, but lilt toward depressing.  We laughed at the nineties clothing, but couldn’t find much comedy in the plotlines.  Despite questionable content, maybe Sex and the City is better for girls than women. Girls who wonder if this reality could someday be their own rather than women who worry that maybe it really is.