Note to Self

Dear younger self on the day of your high school graduation,

You are about to graduate from high school and in a few months you’ll head off to Los Angeles to start college and a new life.  If I remember correctly, you’re equal parts excited and terrified about this prospect.  It’s a feeling you might want to get used to, it’ll come up again and again.  For the most part, the experiences you will have over the next twenty years will be pretty necessary, even if you think you could do without them some of them.  That being said, if I were in a position, on the eve of my twenty year high school reunion, to give you some advice that might make the challenges easier to bear, the good stuff easier to recognize and the whole shebang happen in a more fashionable wardrobe, believe me, I would.  So here goes…

The Good

You’re about to meet a guy, who weirdly enough, your 14-year-old sister is going to set you up with.  He’s pretty awesome, and when he says he loves you, he really means it.  You’re going to break up with him in a year and a half or so.  You should.  You’re young,  you live far apart, you have lots to see and do before you settle down.  But here’s the part that’s really important.  This guy is probably the most truthful, genuine, caring guy you’ll meet for a long time, so he’s a good yardstick to measure the rest of them up to.  If they fall short, and they will, chalk it up to a learning experience and just hang in there.  When you meet another one like him, you’ll know it, and this time, you’ll be good and ready.  You’ll pick some good ones, or they will pick you.  You’ll also pick a lot of questionable ones, and on more than one occasion you’ll wish you’d never met those.  Don’t.  Almost every one of them teaches you something valuable.  Well, except the really pretty one.  You’ll know who I mean.  He’ll turn out to be a good friend in the end but don’t go with him to that house party in the Hollywood Hills.  It’ll happen pre-iPhone days (just wait, kind of amazing), and you’ll be stuck in a gilded bathroom with a handful of Hollywood posers snorting blow all night and you won’t be able to GPS your location to get a cab and get the hell out of there.  You already know cocaine is stupid and pointless, and thankfully you didn’t have to learn it the hard way.  So just save yourself the agony of that long night, because it’s gonna suck, and you won’t be able to get it back. 

The Bad

In the middle of your twenties, something pretty crummy is going to happen.  It’s going to feel as if the world has turned you inside out, like you’re some pair of ill fitting clothes on someone else’s body.  You won’t know how to make it through.  I’m not about to tell you what happens, because there’s simply and absolutely nothing you can do to make it different.  I’m just here to tell you, I love you and it won’t ever be okay, but you’ll get through it. 

The Ugly

Generally, you’re not half bad in the fashion department.  Your choices are often on the safe side, you could stand a few more pieces with patterns to break up all that solid color, but most days you’ll get through without someone whispering “fashion victim,” or “fail” behind your back.  I said most days.  When you start college, please for the love of God, do not wear Birkenstocks with socks for the better part of your freshman year.  You’re moving to California, not a hippie commune.  Yes, I know they are comfy and you have a long walk to class every day.  That is what tennis shoes are for.  And lose the stomach baring cropped sweaters senior year.  You are cute, and post freshmen fifteen, in pretty decent shape, but you are not Britney Spears.  As for the hair, skip the attempt at red highlights.  And the blue.  But keep the purple, those actually work. 

Shoulda Would Coulda

I don’t want to tell you to change much about how you do all the things you are about to do.  Because I think most of your choices are going to be the things that shape the woman you will become over the next twenty years, and that’s a woman who doesn’t believe in regretting choices or spending too much time looking back on all the things she should have done differently.  That being said, there’s this one thing.  You like to write.  In college you’ll write even more – papers for school, lousy poetry for the boys you like which they will never read, and stories.  You’ll write at night when you can’t sleep.  You’ll write for fun even when you’ve spent all day on a paper for school.  You’ll find that you love it.  Don’t ignore that.  When you think maybe you should take some writing classes, do it.  If you find yourself wondering if a degree in Creative Writing is a good idea, remember that I told you it is.  And that day, in the first year after you get out of college, when you start to write that story that you will think might turn into a novel, don’t stop writing it.  Don’t put it down for months and years at a time.  You’ll be afraid you don’t have it in you to write a whole book.  That you can’t do it.  You can.  Just keep writing.  Think really hard about whether that master’s degree you are about to apply for shouldn’t be an MFA.  Decide for yourself, but don’t be scared to just go for it.

Life two decades from now will be pretty good, despite the fact that it will look exactly nothing like you picture it right now.  And on the last weekend in April, 2012, you’ll be headed to your 20 year high school reunion.  You’ll be looking forward to it, and you’ll still be friends with a few of the girls you’re standing now standing around with in white dresses with abnormally large bows on the sleeves and equally outsized white hats.  Right now, in this moment, you all look the same.  84 women on the verge.  In 20 years, you’ll be 84 different women.  Because of it all.  And that’s a good thing.

Vegas in the Springtime

Yesterday afternoon, after a very bumpy flight, the kind that gives even a seasoned traveler like me clammy hands and a few mild heart palpitations, I landed in that desert oasis known to many as Sin City.  Las Vegas.  It occurred to me, as I made my way through the airport towards the interminably long taxi line, amidst the ka-ching sound of slot machines, sandwiched between the two best friends I will spend today working and playing with, that this was the third year in a row that I had made an April trip to the strip and my second one here in less than six months, not to mention my sixth in three years.  That’s a lot of Vegas time for someone who no longer lives in close proximity and doesn’t have a gambling addiction.  In my defense, and lest you think me an insufferable party animal, no would be a good time to note that half the trips were work related, and as for the other three, one involved a half-marathon, one was to see family and one had the sole purpose for visiting was a baby shower.  Yes, a baby shower in Las Vegas.  But I’ll get to that later.

My first April here was in 2010.  Any good rockabilly fan should know about the Viva Las Vegas weekend event that takes over the Orleans Hotel every spring.  A weekend of cool bands, slick cars and the hippest cats this side of the Mississippi.  So now might be a good time to mention I sometimes moonlight as a 19040’s pin-up doll in a performance/dance group called The Diamond Bettys.  Think USO style-show, with dancing, classic 40’s and 50’s tunes, a little singing and a host who is hopefully both funny and charming.  If I’m not, don’t tell me.  We had been invited to perform two mainstage shows during the weekend-long event.  That April I was still fairly fresh off a difficult breakup and still reeling from the blow.  And the ex in question was in the process of moving to Las Vegas.  This was now his city and I was a nervous outsider.  By the end of the weekend, after a stint on the news, two mainstage shows with rousing audience approval, some quality time with a great group of girls and by the end of the weekend, I owned the town.  Well, at a slightly sketchy stretch of it along Tropicana. 

A couple months later, I came back, this time for an old friend’s baby shower.  Jennifer moved here from LA years ago and is one of my oldest and dearest friends from my life in the City of Angels.  She was a first-time mom, single and with twins on the way.  It wasn’t even a question of if I would come.  I packed my dog in the car and made the road trip to spend the weekend with her.  I did see the ex on that trip, unexpectedly, coming at a time when I still thought we had a chance of something down the line.  It was the last time I would see him, and shortly after, we would fall out of communication, for many reasons that make me sad, because in a quiet moment, when I think back on that part of my life, I can remember the good times. 

The following fall, with my life and car headed in new directions, my mom and I came through on a road trip.  I was taking said car, and my dog on a month-long trip to Dallas.  A chance to see how I felt about the town I hadn’t lived in for 18 years.  We waylaid in Vegas for a night.  My cousin Kyle had starting his contract to star in Love, the resident Cirque du Soleil spectacle about the Beatles.  We wanted to catch him in the act, because how often does a relative star in a Cirque Show as the spirit of John Lennon.  I’m guessing not often.  Let me just interject with a note on how much I love Vegas shows, Cirque shows in particular.  A dream vacation to Vegas for me involves meals in great restaurants, some time by the pool and a show every night.  But this was even better than that.  My own family member, owning that big, brilliant stage.  He smiled at me once during the show.  Well, almost smiled, he’s not aloud to move his mouth more then a few inches, per the artistic director’s interpretation of the character.  But that tiny half grin, made me feel like a star.  And like family.

Last April, the Betty’s came back for Viva Las Vegas, round two.  Which came just a few months after I’d left LA for the big move back to my hometown.  This time we were invited to model for the big fashion show, walk the runway for Bettie Page Clothing.  That trip was a chance to reconnect with my girls on the West Coast.  Plus I got to see Jennifer, and Kyle.  The trip was a good gut check on my world.  Did I make the right decisions in the past?  Maybe, maybe not, but I felt at peace.  In December, I was here again.  And last night as we walked to an amazing Indian restaurant to eat our weight in naan and tikka masala, I marveled at the expanse of Las Vegas Blvd, a street I had last seen for 13.1 miles on foot, in the dark of night.  But you can read more about that here.

Today, I’ll spend most of the day somewhere at the Renaissance Hotel, or maybe the Convention Center.  Something called the NAB.  I guess with as much of a tech geek I am, I should know something about it but I honestly have no idea.  Renee, Alika and I will be wandering around somewhere, handing out flyers.  It’s not a Bettys gig this year, it’s just the three of us.  A new fiancée and her two bridesmaids, who spent the flights here gabbing about which wedding gowns will look best on the lovely Renee.  We’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.  It wasn’t that long ago that I was here last, for my first half-marathon.  And landing here again today got me thinking about what Vegas is to me.  For most people it’s a place to party, a place to escape, to get away from the real world.  I haven’t been to Vegas purely for a vacation in almost three years.  I’m sure I’ll do it again, in fact, I kind of look forward to it, just to see what it might bring, which will hopefully be good food, great shows and some time by the pool.  But for now, for me, Vegas has become something altogether different.  It’s a home.  To an old friend and her new twin boys.  To an ex-love.  To family.  It’s a challenge.  A place to conquer, miles to cover.  Somewhere to find a little bit of success just when you need it.  It’s a job, albeit a fun one.  That I get to do with the best friends a girl could have.  And so each visit, without gambling a penny, I get to go home a little richer than when I arrived. 

Easter Dinner for Wayward Children

For two years, my sister Wendy and I lived together in a small house in the North Hollywood neighborhood of Los Angeles.  She was finishing up her undergrad at Occidental College and I was going to grad school at Claremont.  As Easter rolled around that first year we lived together, we both found ourselves craving the traditional Easter foods of our youth.  We have always been a family of holiday food traditions.  Christmas eve was grandma’s paella and empanadas, in honor of my grandfather’s Spanish heritage.  Christmas morning, bagels and lox, a nod I suppose, to our some Jewish lineage in our family, and also just because we like it.  Christmas dinner was crown roast of lamb and twice baked potatoes.  But Easter was always one of our favorites, a Honeybaked Ham, as in from the Honeybaked store, scalloped potatoes, which is the definitively the best way to eat them and an old English family recipe for a sweet wine and raisin sauce that gets poured over absolutely everything.  Followed, if you can find the room, by peach cobbler.  An unusual variation on the recipe that somewhat resembles a clafoutis, with puffs of airy cake made with lots of spiced rum surrounding sweet peaches. 

Neither of us were particularly religious, Wendy and I both leaned towards a more universal approach to spirituality, understanding and respecting the beliefs and traditions of a number of different religions.  But we also both understood that sometimes, holidays are less about the historical moments they symbolize and more about the way they give us an opportunity to come together, and a chance to share the things we have with those around us who we care about.  Things like love, and peach cobbler.  So we decided to pull together the family recipes, make a trip to the Honeybaked Ham Store.  And then we put the word out to friends – those displaced from families due to college or work.  Those with no connection to their families, those with no connection to the idea of holidays.  There was no formal invitation, just an open door policy.  We called it our “Easter Dinner for Wayward Children.”  We were very clever back then.  We had a full house and a houseful of full tummies.  So we did it again the following year.  Same menu, same policy, same chance to share with friends who didn’t have other plans.

After Wendy was killed, I took a little hiatus from my regularly scheduled life.  But as things began to turn right-side up again, I tried to reconstruct those dinners from my own little rental house in LA.  What’s funny is that I know I had a few of them over the last 11 years and I know people came, but it just wasn’t quite the same, and to be honest, though it makes me sad to say it, because I know that friends I love dearly came, I don’t even really remember them.

About a year ago I moved back to Dallas.  We didn’t do Easter dinner last year, I was still in the midst of the adjustment process from moving across the country.  But last week, I suddenly got the craving.  The one for ham and scalloped potatoes with wine sauce all over everything.  The one for a holiday shared with friends.  And the one for making Easter dinner with my sister.  Two of my best friends moved back to Texas within the same six months that I did.  So I put out an invite to them, and to another friend, one who went to school with my sister and has become a part of our family in lieu of a great relationship with her own. 

Saturday afternoon, I made wine sauce and peach cobbler in the kitchen I grew up cooking in.  One I spent countless hours in with my sister.  She was with me, making sure the flavors were right in the sauce.  Definitely making sure I had a heavy hand with the rum in the cobbler.  Sharing in my enjoyment during what she thought was the best part of the cobbler making process, when you got to squish the peaches in your hands and let them fall into the batter.  Sunday, I scalloped the potatoes, cutting my finger twice while peeling them and wishing I could hand that job off to Wendy.  And Sunday evening, with my dad out of town, we sat around my family’s dining room table.  Renee’s new fiancé was with her, and Alika’s boyfriend came too.  And Tash, my mom and me.  Wendy was there too, in the house, in the meal and in our memories.  Our Easter Dinner for Wayward Children was complete.  And then I realized that we were no longer wayward.  And as we laughed and ate and drank, and drank some more, I knew that we had all somehow, found our way home.

Run, Karen, Run

I am not a runner.  That’s a phrase I’ve said most of my life.  It started back in the 7^th grade, where my classmates from Hockaday will fondly remember with me the joy of the 10-minute run at the start of Phys Ed.  “I’m not a runner,” I would say in a breathy huff, to somebody, anybody, as I shuffled around in a loop inside the big gym in the dark green shorts and white t-shirt that made up our PE uniform, as if this statement explained away my inability to get through 10 minutes of running without stopping to walk.  In high school, I joined the swim team.  My feet didn’t have to hit the ground, I didn’t have to sweat and most of my effort came out in short bursts.  I was a sprinter.  No long distance anything for me.  In college, while some of my friends were enjoying a different kind, I got addicted to the endorphin high that comes from a good long bout of cardio.  My early twenties, AKA the step-aerobics years, started me down a path to good cardiovascular fitness.  At the time, I had no idea it would be 13.1 miles long.

“I’m not a runner,” I said to my friends, in 2006, when I signed up with Team in Training to participate in an Olympic-distance triathlon, “but I might just try.”  Over the intervening years, after my step had fallen woefully out of fashion, I’d cobbled together sort of a half-run, half-walk routine.  It usually got me through three to four miles, though I probably only ran a mile or two.  For the triathlon, I would have to run a 10K.  6.2 miles was new territory.  The coaches helped, as did a lecture on running form.  But I was still walking.  In both races I did that following spring, I couldn’t get through the run without breaking for a walk on a regular basis.

“I can be a runner,” I finally said, to myself, late last summer, and signed up for the Rock n Roll Half Marathon in Las Vegas before I could change my mind.  Why Vegas?  The run was at night, on the strip, with all the lights and people.  I needed motivation, I needed the race to seem fun, and I was willing to travel to make that happen.  The marathon was in December, so I had thirteen weeks to train.  I scoured the internet, asked runner friends and finally culled together a training plan, all printed out nicely, so I could check off each workout.  And then I just did it.  I became a runner.  Slowly, starting with interval training, and building my walks right into the workout at first.  I ran four minutes, then walked one minute.  On a treadmill, because it was still too hot in early September to run outside.  It was boring, but I kept at it.  And then I worked my way up to running ten minutes and walking one.  I lived for that one minute for a while.  I built up my distance.  And then something changed.  As the end of the minute approached, I realized I was eager to start running again.

“I am a runner,” I said to my parents and my friend Jimmy, when I finally found them in the mob scene that occurs when 44,000 people try to run the same race in the middle of the Las Vegas strip.  On December 4^th, 2011, I ran 13.1 miles in 2 hours and 12 minutes.  The only time I stopped to walk was as I passed through each water station, and only long enough to get a good drink without sloshing it all over my face.  Just for good measure, I ran a 15K in February, freezing my ass off on one of the coldest days of this past winter in Dallas.  And about a week ago, I ran half-marathon number two, the Rock n Roll Dallas.  And despite continuing issues with knee and hip pain, I finished in 2:09.  I’m not the fastest runner, and probably not the most graceful, and if I want to keep going, I’m going to need some coaching because without changing my gait somehow, the knee pain is threatening to do me in.  But I think it’s safe to say I am a runner now.  What’s crazy is that I actually like it.

A couple of weeks ago, I interviewed my 94-year-old grandmother for an online magazine (read it here).  She talked to me about what it’s like to be her age.  About how important it is to keep on living.  “Nobody’s too old to try anything they want to do,” she told me.  She went on to say, you have to keep trying new things, even if you don’t succeed at them, because it keeps you young.  She took up tap dancing for the first time at 77, which makes my discovery of running at 37 look like small potatoes.  Except that it proves her point.  Because, despite the achy knee and another birthday next week, I feel great. 

Parenthood-ish

It’s quiet here now. No more messy faces to clean. No more chasing around the house. And while I relish it on many levels, I have to admit, I kind of miss the squeals, the stories, the barrage of questions, even the unintelligible gibberish. Not the poopy diapers though. I don’t miss those.

Last weekend I was treated to a little dose of parenthood when I agreed to take care of two children for three nights and four days. The one-year-old boy and nearly four-year-old girl in question are the offspring of two very good friends, who for all intents and purposes fall squarely into my “family” category. Meaning, of course I said, “Yes, I’ll take them! Go to Mexico. Scuba dive. Chill on the beach. Don’t eat raw fruits or vegetables.” Also meaning, they would do it for me too. I hope. And in all fairness, I didn’t have to go it alone, single parent style. My mom was on hand to help corral the little ones. It was a full, busy and mildly sleep-deprived four days and three nights. And other than successfully taking care of two kids, I got absolutely nothing accomplished. Which is okay, because I didn’t really expect to. But I did learn a few things during my temporary custody.

Kids are funny, really funny.
No need for a stint in front of a half hour sitcom to get a few laughs with Edie and Gray around. Seriously, these kids are funny. And they aren’t even trying, which makes it the kind of natural-born humor that is far more hysterical than even the best comedian’s ten-minute set. I spent a good twenty minutes completely amused at the dinner table one evening watching Gray attempt to eat grilled cheese with a spoon. I know it’s probably a little mean to laugh at the expense of a one-year-old. But in my defense, it was his idea to try and eat it with a spoon in the first place. And he would not let me help him. While he understood the general mechanics – food goes on spoon, spoon goes in mouth, the finer details were totally escaping him. Instead of turning the spoon upright so the sandwich bits would stay in on the trip to his mouth, he opted for the lick and stick method. Doesn’t work very well. But it’s damn funny to watch. Oh, and Edie, who is almost four and says the funniest things, had me and my mother doubled over in laughter when she explained to us, after a slightly messy trip to the bathroom, in a very serious voice, that “diarrhea just means excited poopers.” Comedians can’t make this stuff up. Nor can they deliver it with the genuine sincerity needed for a real laugh.

It’s both easier and harder when they don’t belong to you.
Taking over parenting someone else’s children can be a double-edged sword. There’s a lot that’s great about being Auntie Kii instead of Mommy. Hanging out with me is novel, special. At least for the one old enough to appreciate that she’s at a different house and that means doing some things she doesn’t normally get to do, like have a slumber party with me instead of sleeping alone in her own room. And of course, the obvious – I only had them for a few days, not an endless stretch through the formative years of their lives. Kind of takes the pressure off. And when you’re not the parent, I’ve also noticed that sometimes kids behave a little better. Oh, Edie definitely tested the waters with me, but when I was firm on boundaries, she backed down pretty quickly. I suspect she works a little harder to chip away at her mom’s resolve than she did with mine. You aren’t the parent. Yay! You can grant special dispensations, you can use a little fear of the unkown to your advantage, you can get away with sneaking them a treat or two that aren’t part of the normal repertoire. But there’s a flip side. You aren’t the parent. Which means, somewhere off in Mexico, or wherever they happen to be, there are parents of the little ones you are watching. And you have a responsibility to them too. To take care of their children the way they would, not the way you would if they were your own. You answer to those parents, at the end of the day. Heavy responsibility if you think about it. You might let your own kids stay up all night, swing from the chandeliers and eat Jello out of a shoe (this is a purely hypothetical example), but if that’s not how your friends’ roll, then when you take care of their kiddos, neither should you.

I think I’ll be pretty okay at this when it’s my turn.
I know it’s a tough and often thankless job. And it involves basically a lifetime commitment and a lot of time wiping something off of somewhere. But to be honest, I really do think it’s all worth it for the treasured moments. I spent a long weekend with Edie and Gray. And between the diaper changes, the messy meals and a few minor and thankfully short-lived temper tantrums, I got so much love and laughter. And sweet moments. With Gray, first thing in the morning, when he would nestle his little head down against me as I carried him from his crib, and just before bed, when I would rock him as he quietly sucked his thumb. And all the smiles and giggles and baby joy. With Edie, when she would curl up against me as I read to her before bed, and when she would sweetly and generously offer to help me clean up a mess or share her chicken nuggets. All the questions and fantasies of a little girl growing up. When they’re my own kids, I won’t be perfect at it, though I don’t think anyone is. But for four days and three nights with two little ones who only temporarily belonged to me, I did good. So when the time comes, I got this.

It's Not my Party and I'll Cry if I Want To

At about 7:45 yesterday evening, we pulled up in front of a bar in a Dallas neighborhood I haven’t been to in years. We snagged a choice parking meter right outside the doors, a lucky break with another rain shower threatening, and seized the chance to unload all of our spare change. A quick check in the mirror told me my lip gloss was still in place and my bangs were losing their battle against the humidity. I stepped out, smoothed my dress and took my precious cargo out of the backseat. Armed with two large and unwieldy picture frames, an inner monologue of pep talks and a good friend by my side, I made my way into the reunion. Stepping into the cool, dry air I simultaneously wanted to be no place else and anywhere but there. Because it was not my 15 year reunion. It was not my party. This class belonged to my sister, Wendy. And the only reason I was there last night is because she’s gone.

About a week ago, I was touched to receive an invitation to attend Wendy’s reunion, and even more moved by the effusive response to my acceptance. A reaction that was multiplied tenfold that night. The hellos, the hugs and the “thank you so much for coming’s” kept, well, coming. I started to realize that my presence there meant as much to her classmates as it did to me. If not even more. Which made me think about it from their perspective. Wendy and I went to a small, private girl’s school. A hard school, the kind that either chews you up or spits you out as an Ivy leaguer. You don’t just get a degree from Hockaday, you fight for it, earn it. The girls in your class are your teammates, your allies and your strongest survival asset. My graduating class totaled 84 and I think hers wasn’t much larger. And they had lost one of their own. It’s a big hole in a class that small. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Throughout the course of the night, and fortified by more than a few glasses of wine, I listened to stories about Wendy, caught up with bright, successful women who I had last seen when they were just girls and watched as her class raised almost $1000 in a raffle to win one of two signed reprints of Wendy’s artwork. Money that will be going to our school, to help promising art students pay for supplies. And then a moment came in the evening, sometime after my early bout of nervousness and discomfort and before to the effects of the wine had rendered me comfortably numb, when I found myself alone, sitting on a barstool, watching the class of 1996 swirl around me, chatter and laughter drifting over the music. In that standstill I suddenly tried to imagine what the scene around me would look like if Wendy was there. I pictured her, head thrown back in laughter, arms gesturing freely as she described her latest adventure. Ever the social butterfly, I could see her making her way from group to group, hugging and kissing with gusto. Later, when the band went on, she would dance with wild abandon, even though if the music was terrible.

And then I desperately wanted to see her at 33. I wanted to know who she was, what she had become. Just like I was seeing with the rest of her class. But I couldn’t, because in my head, she is always 22. She will always be 22.

It wasn’t until today that I realized that Wendy never made it to any of her class reunions. She was killed in the fall of 2000 and her first reunion would have marked five years in the Spring of 2001. She was never there to mark these passages of time with her class, gatherings that until today, I took a little for granted. Reunions are kind of a context for where we’ve come from, who we are now and where we are headed. Like mile markers or checkpoints. I suppose that might not be the case in a bigger school, or one that isn’t fraught with the same level of stress and academic challenge. But for anyone who went to Hockaday, those years are a defining piece of our personal history. An experience only shared by those who survived it next to us. And our lives are still marked today by relationships that started in the trenches with those girls around us.

So, not for the first time, and probably not for the last, I willingly took her place last night. Did my best to walk in my sister’s shoes even though they are too big for me to ever fill. Did my best to help her be at her reunion with the rest of her class. For her. For them. For me. I laughed with her friends, some of whom have become dear friend of mine, knocked back more than my fair share from the bar and partied like it was 1996. And then, today, I cried.

The Unforgiven

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the word forgiveness as “to grant free pardon and to give up all claim on account of an offense or debt.” Just let that percolate for a minute.

Last Tuesday evening, I plugged the address of a downtown Dallas parole building into my navigation system, still relearning my way around a town that has changed and grown in the eighteen years I’ve been gone. This part of South Downtown Dallas has always been around, but until last week, I’ve never had much cause to be in the area, nowadays a hodgepodge mix of dicey streets and artists lofts. In short order, I would be sitting down at a long table in front of somewhere between 40 and 50 convicted offenders, now out on parole and required, because of the high degree of their crimes to participate in what is called a “victim’s impact panel.” A chance for them to listen and talk to some of us who’ve been on the receiving end of crime, and hopefully learn a little something.

I honestly wasn’t nervous. I’ve spoken many times before about my sister’s murder at the hands of a nineteen-year-old girl. I’ve spoken to large crowds from a microphone on a podium, on panels and in small intimate circles. I’ve talked to other bereaved siblings, to politicians and celebrities. And to defensive, heartbroken bereaved parents who don’t understand why their surviving children won’t speak to them. I’ve got this, I thought to myself as I swung into a parking lot slowly filling up with parolees. No problem. Even the size of the security guard who was as almost as wide as he was tall, taking up the majority of the height and breadth of the hallway, didn’t set me on edge as I walked with him and the panel facilitator to a waiting room where we would stay until the everyone had arrived and was seated. Together with two other women and the moderator, I filed into the room and took my seat. These women next to me would tell heart-wrenching stories of violence and abuse, time spent in hiding and pleas to the parole board to keep a husband hell-bent on murder safely tucked away in prison.

“You are here tonight because you have to be here. It’s a condition of your parole,” the moderator began as the audience rustled and adjusted, some leaning forward and listening, others sizing us up and some clearly wanting to be just about anyplace else.

“I’m here because I have to be here too, it’s my job. And he has to be here, because it’s his job,” she continued, pointing to the security guard. “The only people who don’t have to be here tonight are these three women, who have given up their free time to come and talk to you. Remember that.”

I listened quietly along with the audience as each of the other women spoke. And then it was my turn. As I looked out at a sea of faces and wondered what each of them had done to another person to end up in that room listening to me, my voice began to stick in my throat. My words came out slowly and I was surprised by the effort it took to form the shapes that make the sounds and then push them out of my mouth on a current of warm air. I chose my words carefully, laying out my story. All the while, trying to be mindful of this particular audience. What I could say, what should I say to a group of offenders, many of them with multiple stints in prison and all of them currently walking free. Don’t be too specific, I reminded myself over and over again. No last names, no exact dates, no detailed locations. But really make them think. They had heeded the moderator’s opening words though and were quiet and respectful. I was lucky that night. I had been warned that isn’t always the case. That next time they might be rowdy. Offensive. Thoughtless. They might act like criminals. It was during the question and answer session that things really got interesting. As the moderator opened the floor, the hands started to come up.

“Have you forgiven the person that did this to you?”

“If you can’t or won’t forgive them, then how do you live with that in your heart?”

“Forgiveness is a blessing and it’s what you are supposed to do, don’t you agree? Cause forgiveness is a gift.”

It became clear to me that these offenders were seeking a very specific response from us. Something along the lines of “Yes,” and “Of course I forgive him. Her. Them.” It was intriguing, to suddenly be put on the defensive by a room full of parolees. Tables turned. On the issue of forgiveness. It was obvious what they were looking for. If they could hear that we had forgiven the men and women who had hurt us, then each person in the room could infer that their victims had forgiven them too. They could be let off the proverbial hook. And I wasn’t okay with that.

I drove home and looked up the definition. Those words “to grant free pardon and give up all claim” leapt out at me. Free pardon. All claim. Serious business, this forgiveness. Is it really a gift? Forty some odd criminals would like me to think so. Do I just hand it over, like a pretty package at a birthday party? Hand over free pardon and give up all claim so we all can feel better and move on? That girl took my only sister away from me for good. My first thought? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. My second thought? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. There might be some people in the world who are that magnanimous, but I am not one of them. And I’m okay with that.

It suddenly occurred to me that this was the second time in a week that the issue of forgiveness had come up and I looked back at a recent email from someone who’d committed some significant wrongdoings against at me one time. In it, an expression of hope that perhaps my forgiveness might be offered someday. My first thought? Doubtful. My second thought? Okay, possible in theory, but what have you done to earn the right to ask? Which begs another question. Is forgiveness less like $10 you get from your aunt on your birthday and more like $10 you get from your parents for cleaning the kitchen and taking out the trash? Maybe. But if you can earn forgiveness, does it becomes an absolute, something you can lay claim to if you complete some prescribed set of tasks? A chance to buy or work your way to absolution?

So as not to knock myself out of the equation, and lest you think I’m coming at this from a holier than thou approach, I thought about times when I was seeking forgiveness. Because I screw up too. And I’ve learned over the years from my own mistakes that a genuine apology can go along way when you’ve committed a minor transgression. And those unrequested words might be all it takes to garner true forgiveness in some cases, like drinking the last of the milk, but most of the time a little extra effort is in order. A replacement for a broken item that you’ve borrowed or lost, dinner and movie to make up for a forgotten plan, flowers and a kind card to show that hurtful words were spoken out of turn. I’ve tried pretty hard to live a life where I can usually clear something up with a genuine apology and possibly the help of a cookie bouquet. And would I forgive someone in those cases? Grant them free pardon? Give up all claim? My first and only thought? You betcha. Which makes me think forgiveness is really most like the $10 your dad suddenly hands you to spend at the store when you’ve done a little extra around the house that wasn’t asked of you. Maybe you asked for it, or maybe you didn’t, but he saw the extra effort you made, not because you had to, but because you wanted to.

I’m not sure I have a solid conclusion to offer, because for me, this seems to be a question that mostly begs more questions. And on the great sliding scale of forgiveness, sometimes it comes easy, sometimes really have to work for it and sometimes, to be quite frank, I just can’t even figure how it’s a viable option or why the matter should even be coming up. And when you’ve done wrong by someone, there’s no guarantee that you can make it right. That’s the kicker. No one can tell you how to ask for forgiveness, to earn it, or if you’re ever gonna get it. Because what it takes for someone to grant “free pardon” is different for every person and every situation. Plus doing something to make amends without being asked is kind of the point.

I sat on a second panel last night in the same parole office and one of the offenders wrote in her evaluation that if she had the chance, she would tell her victim she was truly sorry. She also wrote that she didn’t think her victim should forgive her for what she had done. I don’t know what she did, but I can safely assume it’s not something that could be rectified with the extra-large cookie bouquet. But I applaud her honesty and her willingness to own up to the choices she made and the consequences of her actions. Which is probably the best first step anyone can make down a road that might or might not lead where you want it to go.