The Ghosts of Thanksgivings Past

Perhaps because I’m a natural pessimist, not only am I thankful for all of the good things in my life on Thanksgiving, but I also miss people more.  I don’t just miss the family who feast hundreds of miles away.  I miss other kinds of people.  Some are Dead People.  Luckily, there’re only a couple of people in my life who matter, who’re dead.  Sometimes, however, I do miss my childhood dog, Peppy.

But for about twenty minutes each night, after I give up on the daily crossword puzzle and Bryan finishes watching some cartoon he (and I) have already memorized, I visit people in my head.  I think about people I’m close to, who I haven’t seen in a while who I’m too tired to call, and I think about the two dead people I miss.  Sometimes, Peppy.

What concerns me, however, is I miss other people also.  I miss people who are alive.  I miss childhood friends I am no longer in contact with and cousins I rarely see.  I miss former teachers and neighbors.  I miss summer camp. 

Many conversations about Facebook go something like this: “People you haven’t heard from in 20 years will contact you and you’ll have nothing to say to them.  You’ll realize there was a reason you lost touch.  You’ll correspond two or three times, only to learn if they’re married or divorced, if they’re in good or poor health,  and how many kids they have.  Then you’ll be done.  You won’t need to talk to them again.  It’s weird.”

It’s weird, but knowing that I’m even cyberly connected to people who once played such a dominant role in my life happily misleads me into thinking that the world and life make more sense than it usually seems.  I like knowing my former Chicago friends, for example, are on my facebook page, even if I don’t know what to say to them.  I like knowing that my college roommate is also there, despite the fact that life got in our way a long time ago.   I like having some sort of idea of what my cousins are up to and the kinds of things they post. 

About seven or eight years ago, I ran into an old friend from my hometown.  We were close in elementary school and later at summercamp.  I think she was a little tipsy when I ran into her.  Societal protocol dictates that a mere hello suffices.  Perhaps an “It’s good to see you,” but this would be the absolute most sentiment to express.  I think it was because of my friend’s tipsiness, however, that she actually said one of my favorite things that anyone has ever said to me, considering the circumstance.  It had been more than 20 years since I’d seen her.  Breaking all rules of engagement, this friend actually uttered, “I was just thinking of you!” 

Really?     Because I think of people all the time.  Well, for about 20 minutes each night I do.  I’m not sure why.  For the rest of the day, in between the frustrations inherent in being a bad puzzle solver who tries to solve puzzles, and a crazy teacher who tries to solve children, I like to think I spend the rest of the day grateful for the current people in my life, and the perfect little family I found. 

But I wanted to tell this friend that I think of her too, often.  That I have so many memories of her and others and that these memories play in my head like a carousel each night.  I wanted to admit my fear in trying to “befriend” her on facebook, should she ignore my request.  Should she label it as merely another friend [she] hasn’t seen in 20 years, and that once we briefly correspond, she’ll wonder why she accepted the request.  She’ll soon realize the reason we parted ways.  For this, and other reasons, she will, in fact, ignore my request.

I can’t risk that, though I have a strong hope that one day I will see a friend request from her (and the tens of others I miss). 

This Thanksgiving, I’ve determined to be less melancholy and more Zen.  Instead of longing for tangled and broken connections, I will try to be Thankful for the times when the ropes weren’t knotted or tattered.  I suppose some friendships die and many people don’t want their ghosts around, like I do. 

Protect and Defend

I keep forgetting, but am unfortunately, often reminded (as I was recently), that it’s more important to defend and protect one’s integrity than to wonder if criticism has any validity.  To think, for just a moment, that a person has made a mistake or two along the way, is just unacceptable in our society.  It’s more important, for example, for an adult to feel better, to save face, to “win [the argument], [the point], [the game]” then to acknowledge, for example, any potential wrong to, just as an example, a kid.

(a soccer mom who I know, really wants her kid to win!)

I remain sickened, as previously posted, by the length to which people go to win, primarily because I think that’s what we’re living in right now.  A world of the haves and have nots. Big companies on Wall Street find legal, secret places to have money make its own money until all that money multiplies so much that the companies become so big that there’s where all the money goes and now all anyone can hope for is a small job sweeping part of a floor at IBM.  But, according to Herman Cain, if you don’t have a job right now, it’s your own fault. 

Because of what winning means, because no one’s allowed to make mistakes, the only people who run for political office are most often idiots or liars.  (See the previous sentence, above).

People mistake winning by falsely equating it to the idea of survival of the fittest.  Like, if I’m not right, it means I’m less fit.  It means I’m weaker.  It means—if it’s just me and you left in the world—you win.  You live.  I die because, goddamn it, I was wrong. 

Thing is, most likely, you were already wrong.   Or, I was.   What you or I just didn’t want to do, was to admit it.  And so we live in this murky sea of bullshit because it’s rare (but so goddamn refreshing) to meet someone who calls a spade a spade.  It’s a trite idiom, but I feel like using it.

Maybe we need to have a National Day of Wrong.  Like Yom Kippur, only we openly admit our wrongs.  Maybe we could learn to admire people who admit mistakes and try to do better.  When the guy from Gray’s Anatomy had the gay slur and then went on to become a gay advocate, everyone questioned his motives.  I don’t care about his motives.  We will never know his motives.  Can’t we only know someone’s behavior, anyway?  It was a good move.  He should be forgiven.

It’s not just these big headlines, though.  It permeates the air: it’s everywhere.  Winning at all costs happens every second—sometimes it’s also called ‘spin.’  It happens every time a question is evaded or avoided, information is withheld, people engage in conversations with minds permanently sealed shut, when injustices are ignored or unacknowledged and no action is taken. 

My child and my students are growing up in a win-at-all costs world.  Maybe, as human beings, this has always been the way things were.  I have no idea.  All I know is it’s reached a toxic level.  Maybe, the world became so populated and winning has become so much more difficult, that it’s transformed who people are and now everyone’s just bloodied and bruised and still shooting for the win. 

Why is it so hard to be wrong?  Are we supposed to always be right? 

What is it we’re being right about?  What is it we’re winning?   What’s behind door number three? 

I don’t need a new refrigerator, do you?