What I’ll Tell You Someday

Dear Baby,

You’re still three and a half months away from us, we hope. You kick and squirm and your dad does the same when he feels you through my belly. Tiny little you and your movements make a grown man leap and scream. You already have such power. Before you nestled inside my uterus, we knew you would be immensely powerful–when you were just a dream or a hope or a maybe because of everything we did to get you here. You may only be the size of an eggplant but you have the strength to grab our hearts and souls already.

Someday when you’re older and can understand, I will tell you about the late winter and spring of 2020. I’ll tell you how people looked at this year as a chance to live out their “2020 Visions.” How it was a fresh start for many because something about those two zeroes made everyone feel a new, clean hope. I’ll tell you about no snow days (or just one fake one) and a warm winter that was still wrapped in wintry melancholy, somehow.

Then, I’ll tell you about how your daddy worked 80 hour weeks, all of the sudden. His phone would TING TING in the night and his fingers would clickety-clack out emails at all hours. How he planned and calculated and attempted to save lives in our state. And how suddenly his brand of germaphobia became the way of the whole land.

And conversely, I’ll tell you how you and me were confined to 807 with the occasional fresh air mixed in. How our whole world became gripped by a new fear, for ourselves, for humanity, and for you. I’ll tell you how we loved sleeping for 10 hours, going for distance walks with our family and friends, drinking a pregnancy-appropriate-amount of coffee from a ceramic mug, and taking the most thorough notes for my 8th graders. And I’ll tell you how I had to stop listening to the radio, in favor of the slowest music or a podcast about presidents or the history of soda, because I didn’t want us to hear and feel the weight of the world, particularly on your brand new ears. I’ll tell you how your sweet auntie planned a baby shower for you and how she and I sat together picking everything out for you. Then we had to move it to after you were born. And how even though the world looked relatively normal, it was upside down or sideways or inside out, or all of the above.

I will tell you how we tried to plan for you in the midst of this thing, not knowing what a hospital will look like when you’re ready to enter the world through one–how I tried to prepare myself to be alone for your birth because some new mommas around the country are doing just that. But then I’ll tell you how your great aunts helped me pick paints and a layout for your room. And how I had groceries delivered so you and I could keep drinking lemonade every night.

Most of all, Baby, I will remind you over and over how you were my built-in beacon of light through the weirdest time our generations have ever known. How I rubbed your soccer-ball-sized casing for my own comfort, for yours, for ours, and how I hoped your arrival would be my bookend for this madness. And when I craved touch but your daddy wasn’t home, I had you.

I will tell you how before you were born, you offered so much comfort. But all of those stories are a few years away. So for now, stay squishy and squirmy and stay with me. We’re making a spring wreath today–I’ll need your help.

Love,

Momma

Until Now Becomes “A Was”

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Well, COVID-19, you’ve created an interesting world for us here. Or perhaps, in many, many small ways over time, we’ve created it ourselves.

Every single email list I have ever joined or company I’ve ever purchased a product from has sent me its own Coronavirus plan. I’m sure this is the same for everyone. They could have just gotten together on a conference call and just used one template. From the Baltimore Chef Shop to Toms Shoes to Wolf Trap Concert Venue. Back on My Feet, About Faces Day Spa, Donors Choose, yoga studios I visited once, a restaurant we never went back to, and on and on to places I don’t have any idea how I got on their email lists. They say…

  • carefully watching this evolving situation
  • given the current circumstances
  • an abundance of caution
  • to do our part to protect our community
  • your safety is our number one priority
  • continue to closely monitor information

Of course the messaging is consistent, what else is there to say? We can’t have nuance in something that is so new and utterly unprecedented. Everyone is entering this moment thinking, “What in the actual ____?”

I’ve found that Coronavirus limitations come in waves of acceptance (unless you’re a dingbat and still chugging Coronas, like this is funny). If you start out thinking that certain aspects of your life will remain the same, you gradually become more accepting of your new isolated existence–just like the NCAA tournament. First I was teaching yoga with hands-on assists but not giving neck rubs, then I announced that I would stop giving the assists and walked the perimeters of the room like I was trying to avoid a security camera, and finally I told both gyms I had to stop teaching after I read this. The next day (March 16), Governor Hogan announced that restaurants, bars, and gyms would be closed.

With Chas working for MEMA, my slow, independent days are a grave contrast to his 7-day work week of 10 hour shifts which are topped off with him coming home to take calls, email, and pace.

Sitting down to watch the governor’s press conferences (always on Chas’s encouragement) means catching the tail-end of whatever TV is before the BREAKING NEWS. I’ve seen how far Rob Lowe has fallen–all the way to “9-1-1: Lone Star.” And why is the lead singer of the Goo Goo Dolls’ hair…that? Daytime game shows are a true horror, nevertheless, Drew Carey persists. Then there’s the commercials. You need a lawyer, you need a new job, you need car insurance, but what don’t you need? Good credit.

I’ve heard lots of comparisons. I think it’s the natural thing to do when a society is just grasping for meaning by connecting with an existing memory. One is to WWII–but those have been contrasts really. “Thank goodness, this isn’t that.” We’re not at war, many of us aren’t rationing food (though it’s really important to remember that some are). We aren’t fearing for our lives or being persecuted, not sailing across an ocean to be turned away.

Another is to H1N1, which doesn’t really work. All I remember about that is getting a vaccine, whim bam boom, we were okay.

The comparison that lands the most is to the 1918 Flu Pandemic, more aptly, it should be called the 1918 and 1919 Flu Pandemic. Estimates are that it killed between 20-40 million people. Read that number again. Have you ever heard this sung in a child’s voice?

I had a little bird,

Its name was Enza.

I opened the window,

And in-flu-enza.

It’ll haunt your dreams. The “1918 Flu” depressed the average life span in the US by 10 years, infecting 28% of Americans, and killing almost 700,000 of them. You want to feel bolstered and justified in social distancing? Read more about it. In particular, the comparison between St. Louis’s handling and Philly’s is fascinating and pertinent. I heard today on NPR that we, as a nation right now, are more “1918 Philly” than “1918 St. Louis.”

My plan is to use my goal sheet to guide my days. Feel free to click “File” and “Make a Copy” and create your own. Day 1–it went well.

Goals include working on my girls’ reflections and giving them feedback, FaceTiming, registering to absentee vote, completing the US Census, some furniture roulette to begin to prepare for a nursery, daily indoor workouts, writing, baking, crafts, gardening, meditation, and more.

I don’t have any real answers, obviously. Sometimes I have used this blog as my soapbox, my megaphone, my accountability method. Right now, it’s my binoculars and my therapist. Because of the uniqueness of this time, I think we could all benefit from some writing, to process, to remember, and to remind ourselves of what this was like. And yes, eventually, someday, it will be “a was.”

 

Shar’s take: https://medium.com/@sharhollingsworth/umuntfu-ngumuntfu-ngebantfu-bb477a99949c

 

KT’s: https://30daysofgratitude.wordpress.com/blog/

Greenmount and E. 33rd

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There is a window in a shuttered carry out restaurant, Mama Lucia, at the corner of Greenmount Avenue and E. 33rd Street in Northeast Baltimore. I first noticed this window because it appears to have cracks splitting it into an unimaginable number of pieces, yet, it stays assembled for my daily glance on my commute to work. But with a closer look, you can see that it’s not really shattered, not even at all…

 

Both the northeast and southeast corners house gas stations. One’s a BP with an outdated mural bordering it. The other seems to change hands a lot, maybe it’s a Crown. I remember a shooting there a few years ago but when I google shootings at this intersection, the results are peppered with more examples than I can sort. Two victims found in a car last year, a police involved shooting in 2016, another, a gun feud in the Giant Foods lot just a couple corners away. A neighbor is quoted in that article, “All I know is I was coming to get some treats for my cat and I don’t appreciate this at all.”

There’s an open food place called TEXAS Chicken & Grill. Why it couldn’t just be called BALTIMORE Chicken & Grill, I’m not sure. They’ve got platters and seafood and coffee and “NO LOITERING” signs.

Above the Mama Lucia, back on the southwest corner, is a carved sign from another generation that reads “Baker Block.” The “Baker Block” sign which looks like it’s part of a Mission-influenced part of the building led me down a rabbit hole that I don’t currently have the time to climb into, nor out of: The Waverly Main Street Historic District National Register of Historic Places application, approved in November 2013. It’s 97 rich pages of layered Baltimore History written about 6 city blocks I’ve been traversing for all of my 32 years. Just looking for Mama Lucia’s, I found this (from 2013, but now outdated):

“3240 Greenmount Avenue Originally 1-story ca. 1925 commercial building with 5 separate storefronts on Greenmount, combined with adjoining building on E. 33rd Street ca. 1950 Block 3882 Lot 012 Contributing Building This is an end-unit single story commercial building with Mission influences. The building has a painted stucco exterior and has a triangular parapet on the north and east side of the facade a well as pinnacles along the top of the facade. The building features multiple fixed display windows above a painted kneewall, and painted faux arches above each set of windows. It is listed as a ladies clothing shop in a 1928 city directory and then as Julius Adler’s clothing shop in 193 7. Stucco Spanish Colonial style building contains several storefronts. It is currently in use as Mamma Lucia’s restaurant and was recorded as a restaurant owned by Clarence Hasslinger in 1928. Each corner of the buildings has a front gabled look, although the masonry in fact acts as a pediment on the flat roofed building. Each pediment contains three prominent finials, probably constructed from precast concrete. The corner portions of the building have one or more arched openings. Between the corner pediments, the facade is covered by a short metal shed roof and the storefront openings are rectangular. The building’s name, Baker Block, has been embossed in to the stucco facade. The multiple storefronts include Mama Lucia’s restaurant, Luxx Nail Spa, Boost Mobile, Beauty Island, and China Express. A portion of this building was originally addressed as 3228 Greenmount Avenue. This was the site of Public School No. 51 before it relocated to 34th Street, and later housed a Woolworth’s department store.”

Within this 6 block area, there’s a 1920s potato shop that’s now a beauty salon, a once-upon-a-time-nightclub that is now the Community Mediation Center, out of which the Baltimore Ceasefire operates (Happy Ceasefire Weekend!), several former “confections shops” that are now serving fried foods, and many more make overs and repurpose-ments. I could keep summarizing the report for you, but I know you’ll read the entirety yourself.

For the past few months at this corner, the construction has been crawling–possibly backwards. More time waiting at that light has meant more looking around, but, construction moves more slowly in neighborhoods like this one. There’s often a large blinking arrow telling you the right lane (of two) is closed. There are orange cones, steel plates, random holes in the ground that have yet to be covered. Maybe someday, it’ll be worthy of its 97 pages, but right now, it’s really an annoyance.

A couple months ago while waiting at the light to cross Greenmount, I saw an old man planking on the median. Entirely held up by his own wrists, he held his body a foot above the ground. I waved to him and as he waved back, I realized that he is the man often doing yard work in the house across the street from my parents, where he lives. Just an elderly gentleman planking in a median surrounded by years of layers of history.

 

So when I look more closely at the shattered window, I realize that the cracks are just the reflection of the tree branches on the other side of the street. 

 

Also, more importantly, please visit Shar’s piece here: https://medium.com/@sharhollingsworth/white-people-quota-reached-bc52767118db

A house near the end of the middle of the block

“Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.”
― James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

IMG_0874 2Being raised by post-hippies comes with a collection of odd details and memories that don’t make sense unless grouped together, especially in a rowhouse in one of the weirder cities in America.

Welcome to 1536.

There was the time Aub and I made superman capes out of white bath towels, adorning them with highlighter markers and running through the house humming a theme song we didn’t really know.

And the time we decorated our rowhouse version of a tiny foyer with pencils all over the walls and Mom and Dad didn’t paint over it for 20 years.

Our Northeast Baltimore rowhouse with corn in the front yard, Dad in his cut-off jean shorts working our small plot like a farmer way out in the “county” where he always said we’d someday move.

I remember Ms. Jean down the alley calling me Fat Baby for three decades and telling me how, as a toddler I liked Nike’s treats so Mom let me eat them.

I see the remnants of our childhood repurposed in Dad’s garden. The old marble coffee table that held Chuckie’s tank until Mr. and Mrs. Taylor from across the street overfed him while we were in Ocean City and he went belly up at 5 years old, still the largest domestic gold fish I’ve ever seen. In the peppers, there’s home plate from a tee ball set we haven’t used since the early ’90s. An old toilet seat cover is another stepping stone and the bathroom stool I remember from childhood holds a big pot of rosemary. The furniture that never dies.

We watched Seinfeld nightly on an 1960s-era black and white TV well into W. Bush’s first administration. It sat in our dining room, got a maximum of three channels, and could only be changed by a stubborn dial.

At some point the golf phone went the way of the black and white, its cradle a golf bag and each number a dimpled ball. Because life was more of a priority than cleaning, I remember once taking a phone message on the golf phone, which I wrote with my pointer finger in the dust on an end table.

One time in college when I lived at home for a semester, Dad redid the wood floors. I was upstairs doing homework in my room and had to go out the front door and around the block with my laptop cord dangling behind me to go back through the kitchen door to eat dinner. He also built shelves without nails that line the living room, now a veritable library. Aubrey’s bedroom window became a door to a second-story deck a few years ago, complete with park bench and space for Mom to sunbathe. I guess when you stay somewhere long enough, you eventually get that space to reflect who you are.


I got good at picking glass out of my knees and I had tough little feet from playing in the alley without shoes. We knew how to make the alley into a baseball field and which bushes were the best for hide and seek. I used to get nervous in my hiding spots and pee my pants. Once at Ryan and Tiara’s house, I peed my jean shorts, left my hiding spot, ran the alley back home and changed into my other pair of jean shorts, then sprinted back to resume hiding.

You had to be out of the alley when it started getting dark. One time a man stumbled over to us and asked if we’d show him where the McDonald’s at Northwood was. We pointed down Tivoly as his bloodshot eyes followed our tiny puffy fingers. He asked if we could walk him there and without any knowledge of the horrors of the world, “No,” we’d said, and retreated back to whatever we were playing.

The most magical the alley could ever be was during a blizzard. The street lamps and layers of glitter sugar snow. Thick cotton and no cars. Its flaws and trash cans covered. It is perfect.


Ednor Garden’s Lakeside’s rowhouses popped up as the the baby boomers popped out. “Lake” and “side” are both stretches but Lake Montebello, which began as part of the water filtration plant, is a destination now. Runners, walkers, bikers, eccentrics, and miscellany surround a modern rod iron fence with the lake decorated with ducks and geese in the center. Across six-lane Hillen Road, on the other side of MerVo and the other filtration buildings lies Ednor Gardens Lakeside.

Each blog of about two dozen homes back up to another set just like them. In 70 years there are a lot of changes that set each once nearly identical house apart. I remember my mom describing end of group houses like Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, the fish-killers, as “huge.” They had windows on three sides.

To drive down the block updates people have made are obvious. Solar panels on my parents’ roof, an awning there, a new porch over there. What I am fairly certain all EGL houses began with was a knotty pine basement, equipped with a bar.

Our bar is topped with pink laminate and we have two backed, swivel stools which must have come with the house because I cannot imagine my parents purchasing such a thing. As kids, we loved to play bar and restaurant. Now, it’s just another storage spot. Back then, it was magical. All its shelves and the mirror in the back and a crank pencil sharpener–seemingly a standard in houses built in the ’50s. Above the bar are stick-on letters that may have belonged to the first owner, the bar’s first barkeep. What’s left says in red block letters: “All drinks on the house. If we run out, U go out and…,” “some…more,” “Proprietor Sgt of Arms P White Jr.”

I wonder if P White could have ever dreamed up the strange concoction that are my parents, who would move in in 1986 then gradually become the only white family on the block. Could P White have imagined that in 1971 Ms. Mabel and Mr. Clyde would need a recommendation from a white person to move in? A $12,000 row home that would someday sit in an all-black neighborhood. Did P White have the honor of knowing Mabel and Clyde? Mabel who took care of us while our parents worked and is largely responsible for our sense of discipline, who bought us tights every Christmas, who wore backless slippers, and mothered generations. I wish we had a photo of this proprietor and could see what he looked like sitting at his basement bar in uniform. Maybe we’ll find one in a crevice somewhere, someday.


When I was a kid I was embarrassed about where we lived. It was so different from the siding-coated homes my friends lived in, out in the “county.” We were far down Loch Raven Blvd. Crime sometimes happened nearby. There wasn’t a lot of space to hang out (more because of the sheer amount of stuff my parents kept than a lack of room). We kept clubs on our steering wheels. Our house was inconvenient, deemed unsafe (although I never felt it), and pretty quirky.

I remember going to Calvert Hall’s junior prom with a guy named Jeff who reminded me of a dinosaur. He was from Harford County. He and his parents came down to pick me up for the dance. My mom said that Jeff’s parents were horrified, seemed like they couldn’t get the photos taken fast enough–maybe by the sunflowers in our front yard? Or by the view of downtown from the hill by the Y? Or by our 175-pound St. Bernard? That’s the first time I can remember feeling proud of our house. Proud that these stuffy people were scared of it. Proud that we lived in a unique place just a few miles north of downtown. Proud that we could see the Harbor’s fireworks from our porch. Proud that my parents raised us differently. Proud that we had a pencil sharpener in our basement bar.

1536 is imprinted in my mind as a member of our family. She might be worth a whole memoir. I can only hope we someday get the chance to create or piece together as interesting of an upbringing at 807, in our own rowhouse near the beginning of the middle of the block.

The Mystery of Faith

Universe/Mother Nature/gods/God/Yaweh/Allah/little-baby-Jesus/spirits have always confused me. And being an adult, and not knowing what you believe in, that’s confusing too. The older I get, the more I see, feel, hear, know, and realize that I don’t know. There are times when I think that there is no possible way there’s a higher power and times when I think that there just has to be. Catholic school taught me how to be a good person and maybe learning about Jesus did too. But it certainly scrambled my little soul.

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You spend your formative years watching a man in a white robe sing poorly about bread then hold tasteless wafer crackers in the air as two children bustle around him assisting his table-setting, tiny priest-waiters. Napkins, plates, book with a ribbon bookmark. You can see their school shoes beneath their miniature white tunics. They’re just like your own pair. The annual suede bucks from Vandyke and Bacon. Two hundred people file to the front. Then two hundred people share the same cup. The body of Christ. The blood of Christ. And with your spirit.

When you pray before bed, you make up a sign-off you say every night: “Thank you. I love you. Bye bye. Amen.” You pray for the people you love, you think good thoughts for them, you hope that the boys you like start to like you back. Looking back, this was more of a meditation on things you hoped would happen. Is that what prayer is? You’re still not sure at 31. Thank you. I love you. Bye bye. Amen. 

You “earn” your first confession in an old classroom where you tell the same white-robed man who’s now mysteriously wearing all black that you have been mean to your sister. He tells you that you’re absolved and you receive a metal pin. You likely continue to be mean to your sister. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all good and deserving of all my love. The act of contrition. You’re seven, and you have no idea what “contrition” means. You’re told you’re supposed to feel differently than before, and so you try really hard to feel differently. You convince yourself that you do, that you’re cleansed. I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do.

Now that you are cleansed of your sins, it’s time for First Communion. You dress like a child bride in a dress you love, veil too. You practice: left hand over right, put in mouth with right hand. He will say, The body of Christ. You will say Amen instead of “thank you.” Say Amen instead of “thank you.” Say Amen instead of “thank you.” You get a party afterward because now you, too, have the body of Christ in you. Adults are drinking orange juice with champagne. You are seated at the right hand of the Father.

In 8th grade, it’s time to be confirmed. You must confirm your faith. You are 13 and that is what you do. You choose a new name because now you’re an adult in the eyes of the church. (Does the church have eyes?) There are many events to prepare you and all of your peers for this compulsory confirmation. One is a lock-in where you are to stay up all night. There are high school kids meant to be spiritual guides. They’re nice enough but you’re skeptical of their ability to guide. One of your classmates flashes a group of boys–this is the first you hear of such a thing. You get a special dispensation to chose a virtue as your confirmation name: Hope, rather than a saint’s name. You’re not even really sure why you care enough to write the extra essay. Amanda Marie Hope Doran. I look forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.

High school opens doors for more religious history, which you find interesting, horrifying. At some point you watch Alive about the soccer team who crashed in the Alps and resorted to cannibalism. The questions of morality and resulting discussions are difficult and challenging. Senior year you have a doctor of theology for “Images of Christ in the Arts.” One day you’re working at Panera and a person who is blind comes in. You help her order, get her food, and lead her to a table. The doctor of theology is also at Panera that day and sees this exchange (which is simply a part of your job). At the baccalaureate ceremony, you win “The Growth in Christian Womanhood Award” which is a gold necklace. You’re sure this is a a combination of sympathy for being runner-up for the coveted Super Senior Award and helping the woman at Panera in front of the head of the religion department.  Hosanna in the highest. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest. 

Throughout college, you attend the crunchy granola church you grew up in with your mom. It offers intellectual stimulation, community, a Sunday ritual, and beautiful music. This feels right but you’re not sure it has anything to do with Jesus. You start to think of him as a good role model but with your newfound mental independence, you have a hard time believing he’s risen from the dead, walked on water, didn’t eat for 40 days, etc., etc. The mystery of faith. 

You visit the Vatican at 20 years old and the walls inside St. Peters are lined in gold. And a woman with one leg begs just beyond the massive wall lined with saints, for a few coins as all of the tourists walk by, you included, annoyed to even have to look down to avoid tripping over her. You get to go to mass said by the “papa.” He seems mean. It is truly right and just.

You flail aimlessly through services of different kinds, types, faiths, throughout your 20s and into your early 30s. Unsure. Uncommitted. Untethered. And this is a story you keep writing. Because you just don’t know. How can any of us know? Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. 


Then, I imagine Grammom in her final month on earth praying the rosary in loop, although she could barely talk. She used the hand that still worked and tore through those decades. I know the steadfastness of her faith and the example she set for us. How she really lived the way we were taught to live in Catholic school. And I just have to hope or have to know that she’s with Universe/Mother Nature/gods/God/Yaweh/Allah/little-baby-Jesus/spirits because sometimes, even in the scrambliest moments, the mystery of faith just feels better than the absence of it.

The Should-Have-Been

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
       Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
       Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
       Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
               Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
       She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
               For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ode on a Grecian Urn – John Keats
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In Boyne City, Michigan on the shore of Lake Charlevoix, there is a grassy park where visitors can watch 10 p.m. sunsets in August. Where people can hear the waters of Lake Michigan called by a different name lap against rocks. Where boats stroll by a football field’s distance away like they’re barely moving. Where an hour before midnight, the curfew siren echos over the water, more out of tradition than any need to cut a summer evening short. That park is lined with carefully curated native plants, meant to display purposefully what would have happened naturally a hundred years ago. A few yards back from the water’s edge there is a bench. As benches in tourism towns often are, it is dedicated to someone with a plaque. In carved letters, that bench reads something like: “To Linda, my fiancée. I’ll always think of you here in this spot, especially every year on August 6th.”

I bastardized that man’s tribute but the point is that Linda’s birth year and death year weren’t far apart enough. And that man didn’t get to say “wife,” he said “fiancée.” So my mind went walking. I leapt to their planned wedding day and how Linda must have chosen the details for this park to be the sight of their vows so they could start forever here. With the geese and the tide and the native plants. But Linda and her bench author didn’t get to have that perfect August 6th. For him, that day will remain suspended in air because even though it passed years ago, it also never happened.

Monday, August 12th was my due date. I remember hearing it and thinking it and imagining my big belly all summer. I dreamt about it and planned it and thought about the likely zodiac sign. We stared at those ultrasound pictures, as if they looked any different than anyone else’s set. I thought, “Who are you?” and “How will we help you become that person?” We’d wait to find out. We’d wait until August 12th.

When we found out that I wasn’t pregnant anymore, at seven weeks, after we’d heard the heartbeat and then didn’t and Chas started reading the baby book out loud and then stopped and I hid it in the back of the basement, I still thought about August 12th. I thought about what it would feel like to reach that date and to feel nothing, or worse, to feel everything. I imagine that moment of not finding the heartbeat and 12:00 a.m. on August 12th as being so connected. Because the first completely changed the second.

Monday, August 12th is almost here. And while I’m not who I thought I’d be on August 12th, I am a stronger me. I am a woman who knows how to mourn and grieve and come out on the other side ready to try something again, if even that means risking the same mourning and grief.

August 12th takes on a new identity. It’s the very day that Lillie May Carroll Jackson Charter School will open for day 1 of school in a new space. I didn’t give birth to the school or even the idea of it. But I have been there from the start. I’ve been integral in the incubation, the forming, the mistakes, the bounce backs. Maybe in my heart August 12th will take on a new identity. Or maybe it will remain suspended, printed on a tiny bench in my soul as a day that should-have-been.

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My friend Anastasia sent this to me at the perfect moment a few weeks ago. I hope I don’t come off as a victim here but this is a reminder to all the IVF warriors out there…and the people who work with us, who may not understand why we are fine one moment and then angry, sad, confused, stoic, crying, weeping, the very next.

A Country Western Story

My mom travels with an old radio she plugs into bathroom outlets from the Atlantic Ocean to Lake Michigan. Its speaker’s metal lattice tells you more about its age than what pumps through it. Over decades of summers sharing various iterations of the “standard double room,” I’ve heard an eclectic mix. Right wing talk radio–to “get the other side”; local jingles burned into my brain forever–“Goin’ to the fair, goin’ to the fair. Goin’ to the Northwest Michigan Fair…”; and whatever regional music the now lethal snapped-in-half antenna will bring in.

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This week it’s been Froggy something-or-other. (Why are country stations called “Froggy”?) My mom singularly calls it “country western” and says she wanted to hear the stories. We’re not a pop country family, not that there’s anything wrong with it. “Country western music is made of stories,” she’s said a dozen or thousand times in the past week.

The other day as I was using my mom’s magnifying mirror to see the horrors of my pores in stereo-vision, I stayed for exactly one song, one story. Somehow Froggy sniffed me out and sent me its current (only?) social justice anthem: “Somebody’s Daughter” by Tenille Townes (a Canadian).

I drive home the same way
Two left turns off the interstate
And she’s always standing
At the stoplight on 18th Street
She could be a Sarah
She could be an Emily
An Olivia, maybe Cassidy
With the shaky hands
On the cardboard sign
And she’s lookin’ at me
Bet she was somebody’s best friend laughing
Back when she was somebody’s sister
Countin’ change at the lemonade stand
Probably somebody’s high school first kiss
Dancin’ in a gym where the kids all talk about someday plans
Now this light’ll turn green and I’ll hand her a couple dollars
And I’ll wonder if she got lost or they forgot her
She’s somebody’s daughter
Somebody’s daughter
Somebody’s daughter

Aside from those preppy white girl names, I felt grateful to Tenille for telling her country western story on Froggy and we are, this very week, staying on 18th Street in Ocean City. I laughed when I read Taste of Country’s article titled “Tenille Townes’ ‘Somebody’s Daughter,’ the Boldest Song on Radio.” Okay, country western, let’s calm down with the hyperboles. A dash of poverty and a sprinkle of potential opioid crisis does not the “boldest” make. Still, this is good. Art reflecting life.

Townes got at a few powerful themes in her song, a few that really drive me. Everyone has a story. There are an infinite number of circumstances that can bring someone to her knees. Assumptions about strangers are often ignorant and ill-conceived (I really need to work on this one with bros). Be grateful. And, you should always keep granola bars in the door pocket of your Toyota Corolla.

 

 

Update: This article tells the story of a man who pan handled on Roland Avenue near Hampden. This is basically the real-life version of the song above. The universe…she knows.

Give Me the Deets with Amanda Doran Eby (Me)

Image may contain: 1 person, sitting, bridge, shoes and outdoor

My friend Erin Drew (a comedian, writer, beacon of light, all around lunatic) has her own podcast. AND I GOT TO BE ON IT! Please listen to educate yourself about the school system…something that literally affects ALL layers of society.

Amanda is the Director of Scholar Development at Lillie May Carroll Jackson Charter School. She coordinates career days, college visits, mentor programs, and meets with every one of her 8th graders’ families to help plan for their daughter’s high school future and beyond. In this episode, we talk about first-time teaching experiences, urban education, race, secondary trauma, teacher retention, and the complicated lottery system for Baltimore City high school placements. Read more at https://givemethedeets.libsyn.com/season-3-episode-3-with-amanda-doran-eby#HmXEwEY5ZTi2ccCS.99

https://givemethedeets.libsyn.com/season-3-episode-3-with-amanda-doran-eby

Dear Young Lady, I See You

You will come of age with our young nation
We’ll bleed and fight for you, we’ll make it right for you
If we lay a strong enough foundation
We’ll pass it on to you, we’ll give the world to you
And you’ll blow us all away
Someday, someday
Yeah, you’ll blow us all away
Someday, someday

– “Dear Theodosia” by Lin-Manuel Miranda, Leslie Odom Jr. from Hamilton

 

Dear Young Lady,

Even though I saw you today for the first time in months, I see you all the time. I see you in children younger than you who walk the halls in pleated skirts. I see you strolling to school in West Baltimore, three feet tall, holding hands with a momma. I see you in the squeegee kids and their drive and lack of couth balanced out by their wide smiles. I see you when I pass a house with windows that’s among a row of vacants. I see you in red hair dye and abandoned binders and an old card you wrote me. I see you in faces and hear you in songs and imagine you turning on your heels so gracefully like when “Yip” is playing. When you texted me on Mother’s Day, my heart grew three sizes. You told me you knew I’d be a mother soon and that I’d sort of been one to you–I’ll take it.

When you told me what’s going on in your life, I hope you know I heard you. And that time you said you wondered what it’d be like if you grew up with parents like mine, I never stopped hearing that. When you smiled big enough that I could see the new tooth you’ve got poking through your gum, I was reminded that you are still a child. That although you just unloaded a set of stories most wise and well-supported adults couldn’t persevere through, you can’t vote or drive or buy a lottery ticket.

Those times I catch myself saying something like “Slow-close cabinets are a life saver,” you and your presence in my life, are among the factors that help me stay in check. You wouldn’t know this but you help me see my minutia and how trivial it can be. When you rattle off even a few of the things your mom has put you through, I lose my breath. And I get it back when I see in your face that you know you deserve so much more. More than someone who spelled your name wrong the day you were born or left you to raise yourself or doesn’t call or stops sending you money for food.

I asked you how you picture your life in September and you said you cannot do that. Not where you’ll be living or where you’ll start 10th grade. What pops into my head is that although you can’t imagine what three months away will look like, I can see what I hope for you in twenty years. And so I’m asking myself, is this something that growing up in a good family grants you? The ability to see the future? The agency to create it? The vision of the steps to get to a goal? So I try to keep my face neutral but I know the answers are yes, yes, yes, and yes. If only I could touch my pointer to yours and zap you with some of what I’ve got. If only I could stare you in the eyes and transmit how I imagine you as a happy, successful adult. If only we could enter some alternative universe where your name on your birth certificate matched the name you’ve always used and all the other good things, or just reasonable things, that followed that first act.

Young Lady, I will probably keep writing you letters I can’t show you. And to you, I will reveal a fraction of what I say in these. I try not to scare you when I tell you how much you’ve taught me and how amazed I am and how strongly I feel about your future. I’ll be seeing you…

Love,

Ms. Eby

See You Later, This is Not Goodbye

 

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Now THIS is a “Healthy Holly.” In our front yard. And if you don’t get why this is funny, read up on Baltimore’s mayor.

Dear Readers,

If you’ve ever been tubing, attached to the back of a speed boat you will know this feeling. You’re on the ridge of the wake, high up, you have to hold on extra tight. You don’t know whether your tube is going to slide to the left or fall to the right but it’s imminent. It’s like waiting for a balloon to pop or that feeling when you’re about to fall into cold water or rip a wax strip off your arm pit. It’s purgatory. The change is pending. This is where I am right now with my writing. I’m on the brink of a change and it’s time to slide left or fall right.

Thank you for being here, whether once or 104 times. The amount of love and support I’ve received for these pieces in the past two years has been incredible. It has buoyed me through immense anxiety at the start and most recently, through familial weirdness and unexpected life-altering sadness, through the forced patience of IVF. It’s helped me to speak things on the computer keyboard I couldn’t figure out how to say out loud, whether to myself, to anyone, to one of my girls. I’ve tried to be funny, I’ve tried to be emotive, I’ve tried to be helpful. I’ve planned how to help my most-challenged girls, I’ve pondered the arrival of my niece, I’ve spoken to family and I’ve spoken to strangers. I’ve attempted to garner more help for my beloved Baltimore. While writing these, I have both laughed at my own thoughts and cried at my own heart.

My next venture is to take some of this writing and to try to self-publish a book. Would you read it, even if you’ve already read it here? This is me, putting this down on paper, that I will work toward a book. Accountability.

Now, I still have this domain (I just paid to re-up for another year) and I want to actively write new things so I will aim to post at least once per month, always on a Friday. If you have a guest blog you’d like to post, please reach out!

So, thank you for your support. Below are some of my favorites in case you were late to the party or are looking for something to do on your work computer, other than work. Please, as always, comment, share, spread! I love having you readers and as humans in this world.

So much love to you,

Amandy

 

Dichotomy (yoga + West Baltimore)

Five Strangers Walk into a Bar (written by Shar)

A Hard Thing We’re Not Supposed to Talk About (IVF)

Ms. Renee Means Peace (Renee Buettner)

Dear Baltimore (a letter to the flawed city I love)

That Karaoke Singer from Hon Bar (about Bobby Ray, astronomer, numerologist, karaoke singer)

Perspective: Baltimore/Amandy (photos)

Anxiety and the Advice I’m Not Legally Qualified to Give (anxiety and healing)

Paint Baltimore Kind (ways to help Baltimore’s peeps and streets)

The Rose that Grew From Concrete (a Dear Young Lady letter)

Dear Niecephew Part II (a letter to Emma, when I didn’t know she was Emma)

Two Months is Not Enough (Dear Young Lady letter)

Humans of Hampden (photos)

A Modest Proposal: Compulsory Teaching (my idea of a societal advancement)

Be a Doer/Dreamer Like Erricka Bridgeford (about leader of Baltimore Ceasefire)

30 for 30 (30 thoughts near my 30th birthday)

Let There BMore Love (ways to help Baltimore)

Dear Young Lady (yes, another one)

Everything I Shouldn’t Have Known When I Was a Kid, I Learned from Seinfeld (implied)

To Gram, Mary Lou Lucskowski Lutz Papa James (a letter to my grandmother)

The World is Too Much With Us (commentary on the absurdity of the 21st century)

The Local’s Guide to Baltimore (what to do in Charm City)

Reinvention (repurposing of all kinds)

Welcome to Hampden, Hon: Old, Weird, Fancy (a present and past guide to my neighborhood)

A Sense of Place (being there, there)

Gratitude (no eye rolls)

An Urban Education Wishlist (what I want for our schools)

A Week in White Girl Hair (when all in one week I had cornrows, let my kids cut my hair in my classroom, and donated 12 inches to Pantene Beautiful Lengths)