A slow drum beat mixed with a cymbal tap,

Soft lyrics crooned over electric guitar,

Or is it a slow piano entry?

 

Do you talk it out? Gush to a friend or to anyone who will listen,

Pour out your heart’s thoughts and your brain’s feelings,

Blurt and ramble and blab and let it all go.

Or do you keep it wrapped up,

In your belly like your sternum is made of ace bandages?

Say, “Oh I’m fine,” and “No, nothing’s wrong,” and “Yes, I’m sure,” and “No, I don’t need anything.”

Hold it together for your sake or for theirs, or maybe it’s for no one’s and you don’t even know why you do it.

Maybe you find some mixture of the two. You cry silently while someone asks repeatedly, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Does it eat away at you because you do want to talk about it but you don’t but you do but you also don’t?

This is my way of saying goodbye
Because I can’t do it face to face
I’m talking to you after it’s too late
No matter what happens now
You shouldn’t be afraid
Because I know today has been the most perfect day I’ve ever seen

-“Videotape” by Radiohead

 

That’s my healing song when I need to cry it out to my Corolla–but I also demand to listen to it on every road trip, right, Lochdawg?

Also, I’d say I do all of the above at one point or another. I spent the end of the school year hearing my 8th graders discuss their growth, both in character and in academics. Along with their growth, strengths, and struggles, they discussed their coping mechanisms, and how they expect to deal with the pressures of high school. They can actually articulate, “When I am mad, I….” and “If I get angry, I…” It’s something that many adults would not be able to do, like ever.

What I also realized is that they really know how to deal with their feelings, or at least how to present they do so that a room full of adults believes them and rates them highly on their rubrics. When I was 13, I don’t even know if I realized I felt feelings. I can’t imagine being able to verbalize my character growth and my methods of dealing with my emotions.

The past week has been oddly full of incredibly difficult things happening to people I love. And in each case, the person going through something hard has been absolutely graceful and strong and vulnerable when she or he needed to be. (I’m fanning myself in amazement at my friends–though not at all surprised.)

Follow a loss, an illness, a disaster, a break up, an economic hardship, a legal hurdle, or any other awfulness, there’s such a wide variety of reactions.

For some people it seems like the healing process just happens automatically, they just face it, do it, done. But I’d argue that without some really deep dives, those quick and seemingly peaceful recoveries can lead to eruptions or latent bubbles of anxiety, fear, or melancholy later on. And I’m sure there are those rare people who just become okay after sad things and they really are just okay. I am not these people.

Being an adult is significantly easier, or at least more smooth, if you know what heals you, know how to accept help, and know how to pursue help. Twenty-five year old Amandy was a collection of fire, tears, intense anxiety, joy, and chaos. My only coping mechanisms were getting angry at my mom or Chas (though they were faultless), listening to sad music, crying, and running.

Now, at 30, I have a portfolio of healing tools. I have therapy, acupuncture, a strong yoga practice, Cymbalta (does that count?), significantly improved communication and apology skills, meditation, a backyard garden, and an assembled team of the best human beings on the planet, including the most loving Chas. But I’ll still blast “Videotape” when I really need to.

I think if there are just a few things I have taken away from this and can give out as unsolicited advice (you must know by now that I love giving unsolicited advice), it’s that we are dynamic creatures. What heals us will evolve with us and it’s crucial to allow oneself to be open to healing in various ways. We also have to recognize that other people heal in different ways and to respect others’ processes. Very selfishly, I immediately want to act to “fix” someone’s issue. I’m working on it–we’re dynamic, right?

 

Here’s a list of recommendations you didn’t ask for.

1. Meditation in Baltimore. The Shambhala Meditation Center in Charles Village has meditation classes that last about a month in which one can learn different methods of meditation. Classes are donation based. They also have drop in meditations called “group sittings.” Many are free. The Kadampa Meditation Center in North Baltimore City offers guided meditations daily. It’s a buddhist temple but don’t be intimidated. They’re wonderful.
2. Therapy. Psychology Today has a great search engine in which you can search for therapists by zip code. I left everything up to chance, called a bunch of people and left messages, and went with the nicest person who actually called me back. I’ve been going to Erica for five years now (hey, girl!).
3. Acupuncture. If I had a nickel for every time I told someone that I receive acupuncture and he/she replies, “Ooohhh I’ve always wanted to try that!” I’d own my own wellness center. I started acupuncture for general anxiety and my acupuncturist has really become a life coach for me. I know that’s an extremely first-world sentence and for that, I am sorry. She just makes my whole world better. There are plenty of acupuncture sites in Baltimore, including sliding scale pricing for acupuncture and acupuncture through Johns Hopkins Medical. You can get as crunchy as a homemade paleo granola bar or as sterile as a white room.
4. Put that energy into helping others. 
5. Yoga. I know. I know. You’re sick of hearing about yoga but seriously, it just makes things better. The first week is free at Core Power but if you have eyes, you know that there’s yoga all over the place. Here are some other options in Baltimore with varying levels of fitness, spirituality, crunch, and diversity of classes.
   1. YogaWorks super diverse set of classes.
   2. Yoga Tree good variety (now) and right in Hampden.
   3. Lift is in an old church. It’s brand new, super cool, woman-owned and run. And they have a very restorative Yin class I’d highly recommend.
   4. Baltimore Yoga Village is a more wholistic experience for breath, meditation, and crunch. Warning: if you click on the website, you will hear monks chanting.
   5. Here’s Baltimore Magazine’s Wellness Guide. 
6. Run. Here are some ways to run or work out with a group.
   1. Baltimore Running Festival. Ranges from 5K, to relay, to half marathon, to full marathon. It’s Christmas Day in Baltimore.
   2. Back on My Feet. Running group that meets four times per week (you don’t need to go all four days). Non-residents run with residents of shelters or treatment programs. This should also be part of #4 above. Run between one and four miles on weekday runs.
   3. November Project. Work out with a zealous group of people on Wednesdays at Rash Field and/or Fridays in Patterson Park. Free, no judgement, no need to sign up, just show up.
   4. Call me. I will run with you.
7. Create art. Pinterest some shit and just get to work.

I also want to acknowledge that some wounds will never completely heal and that’s okay too. We just find new ways of living with our scabs and scars and when all else fails, there’s always Radiohead.

 

PS: The photo is the triple foam phase of the deluxe car wash on Falls Road at Cold Spring Lane. But it looks like an impressionist painting, doesn’t it?

Have you been watching Queer Eye on Netflix? A.K.A. Have you had a conversation with me in the past week? The answers are either “yes, yes” or “no, no.” Because I straight up cannot. stop. talking. about. it. 

For the not-yet-enlightened, Queer Eye is a reboot of a 2001 show on Bravo called Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. In it, five incredibly attractive, hilarious, and talented men (who happen to be gay) assist a previously hopeless man get his life back on track. The Fab Five cover grooming (beard oil, hair cuts, eyebrow shaping, and beautification routine), food and wine (moving away from the microwave), fashion (throwing away some horrifying things such as Crocs and bowling shirts), culture (helping the man believe in himself and also treat his partner right by caring for himself), and design (renovation of a space that’s important to him to make it reflect his personality and be more functional). 

I think something I love about Queer Eye is that these men (the clients) are a blank canvas. At first glance, a lost cause. They’re underdogs, they’re humble, they’re open books with blank pages, at least in the Fab Fives’ categories. When each episode is over, I’m laughing, I’m crying, I’m laughing again. I believe in growth! I believe in…anything! 

Generally, being a lifelong Baltimorean, I’m already rooting for any underdog. Who should win the World Cup? Hands down: poorest country (or the one Trump hates the most). World Series? For sure: the most crime-ridden city (come on, Orioles!). Superbowl? Duh: whatever team has the most Cinderella stories. Stanley Cup? Absolutely: Detroit. 

I’ve been all over East and West Baltimore lately. And I feel like I’ve been seeing my city in a new light. Instead of just the place I’ve lived for 30 years and where my friends and family are and where I live, work, and play (not always in that order), it’s been looking more and more like a canvas. Here are some reasons:

1. The Daily’s Baltimore mini-series
2. The Cook Up: A Crack Rock Memoir by D. Watkins
3. My kids.

     4. through 937.938. Humanity.

So enough proselytizing about why you should love Queer Eye and why the Yankees are irrelevant. In the words of Jonathan (in charge of grooming), reapplied to Baltimore: “There is a diva in there, but all she needs is a little bit of a bold lip.”

Another list. So here’s how you can help with that bold lip. 

1. Read the first version of this blog.
2. See the first list above. #1 and #2. Listen. Read. Trust.
3. Join. The. Ceasefire. Start by watching Erricka Bridgeford’s Ted Talk if I didn’t already convince you blogs ago (or in person). Listen, I’ve got posters in my trunk–one has your name on it. Follow the movement on social media. And then tell other people. Yes, I know most of you reading this don’t need to be told, “Nobody shoot anybody.” But. Peeps gotta talk about this. That’s how movements thrive. So be a peep. Talk about it.
4. Donations.
   1. Make Space.
   2. How to Donate Almost Anything in Baltimore.
   3. Donate men’s suits!
   4. Professional clothing drives.
   5. Check out THIS wish list for Baltimore Outreach for women and children. 
5. Volunteer at Club 1111 to benefit adults with physical disabilities. Bonus points: The League for People with Disabilities is where I early vote and where Nancy and Dick met. There are a slew of ways to help The League.
6. Here’s a place where you can do all of the following: meal service, educational tutoring, professional services, and one-time events. Also hot damn! Helping Up Mission for the win!
7. “Paul’s Place is a catalyst and leader for change, improving the quality of life in the Southwest Baltimore communities. Paul’s Place provides programs, services, and support that strengthen individuals and families, fostering hope, personal dignity and growth.”
8. Run with Back on My Feet. This is a nonprofit located in cities across the U.S. Through the empowerment of running, Back on My Feet helps clients re-launch their lives through addiction services and job placement assistance.
9. Project PLASE (People Lacking Ample Shelter and Employment) has a wide range of volunteer opportunities. For example, if you’re hosting an event (a gathering, book club, sex toy party, whatever), why not also turn it into a mini-drive? Project PLASE, House of Ruth, and AWE are always seeking donations of simple items such as diapers, personal hygiene products, feminine items, and much more. How simple would it be for everyone to bring an item? Plus, hello, advocacy and spreading the damn word! 
10. AWE is also seeking tutors, drivers, and space to host tables at events. 
11. As usual, selfish plug, help a Baltimore City school! Such as: Lillie May Carroll Jackson Charter School! But there are schools all over this city that need your love. Such as Reading Partners.
12. Here’s a way to prioritize your own comfort (in your car), while making a difference. Best car wash in Baltimore is at McVet every Friday and Saturday from 8a-6p. Regular cars are $10. Right near the Farmer’s Market under 83. 
14. I may add to this list above, in which case, this one would be moved down. Doesn’t matter. Please feel free to send me suggestions. #13 is blank for YOU. The coolest thing about Baltimore is that it straight up is your canvas. Drive around. Look around. Walk around. Choose your own mission here. Paint something. 

We want Baltimore to be the opposite of, in the words of Jonathan, “Struggs to func. That’s struggs to function.” And we’re far from perfect.

So in the words of our criminally convicted former mayor Sheila Dixon, “Various things have to happen in Baltimore that are not just related to police reform. How police deal with the public is one variant, but we also have to deal with how we treat each other. We need to look at taking more responsibility for ourselves.” …and each other. 

Even typing this piece feels a little scary, a little close to the vest for me. It’s less scary to write about topics that are not controversial. But I don’t want fear to guide me. And I don’t want it to guide you either.

If you say the line “be not afraid” in a room that contains at least one Catholic or recovering Catholic, expect that person to burst into song. If you say it in a room full of Catholic school kids, current or former, you’ll get a chorus. I dare you to try. Be not afraid.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.”

I first heard the above line from Marianne Williamson’s poem in the movie Akeelah and the Bee, a movie that’s much more about spelling than it is about fear. I saw Akeelah in the theatre and I remember going home to google the source of those lines. I don’t think I fully understood Williamson’s message at the time but I knew I felt it in some deep way in my heart. I honestly, and this will sound melodramatic, didn’t start to stand in my own greatness until very recently. And the cause? I would say that it was fear. Fear of rejection, of looking weird, of being perceived in some way I didn’t want to be perceived, of not being taken seriously, of being taken too seriously. Just fear. Amanda four years ago wouldn’t have taught yoga or written her own job description or driven all over Baltimore City to take kids to birthday parties or sung karaoke or written a blog or done a lot of things I’ve leapt into recently. So fuck fear.

More than ever, I am now realizing just how much humans are driven by fear and I don’t exempt myself from that. But I’m working on it, and this isn’t about me, for once. No, this is about Mitch McConnell. Kidding–sort of.

Lately our nation and our world have seemed utterly obsessed with what haunts us. Maybe “lately” isn’t even right. But fear feels like it’s running higher than usual. This fear bubble, and that could be a hopeful way of seeing it, feels sweaty and hot and there are mosquitoes inside and and we’re trapped. Rather than the people in power in our country recognizing that they are being driven by fear and that they’re playing on the fears of constituents when they campaign, they’re pretending that their decisions are based on ration and logic and law.

When we hear the cries of the children ripped from their parents at the Mexican-American border, when we see Trump’s random and polarized (both ends) tweets about nuclear war, when we hear Mitch McConnell say…anything, all we’re hearing is fear, fear, fear. When we block human beings pleading for asylum from entering our country because a tiny faction of them are potentially dangerous, when we say “Nope, not you” to those fleeing war and things we cannot fathom here, when we look in the eyes of someone saying “My husband is beating me” or “A gang is trying to kill my family,” and say, “Nah, maybe some other time,” this is fear, fear, fear.

So that’s the macro level. I could write dissertations on the fear that is driving our country and our world in 2018. But on the slightly more micro level, fear is powerful here too.

I found this from Psychology Today: “In 1971, George Johnson, a New York City policeman, arrested a man who was in a Times Square office building rifling through coats looking for money. Rather than call a paddy wagon, Johnson walked the man ten blocks across town to his precinct. The suspect accompanied him peacefully. As they walked, they smoked cigarettes and talked amiably. When they arrived at the station, Johnson learned that his arrestee was a wanted criminal with a history of attacking police officers. When asked by fellow officers how he managed to get the man there, he attributed the perp’s placidity to having been treated with respect.”

The author says he can’t imagine that happening today. And frankly, can you? Imagine the decline in police involved shootings if cops were able to take a beat and just talk it out with the person before shooting. In almost all of the cases I’ve heard about, fear is the officer’s reason for shooting. Some may have been legitimate threats–albeit no judge, no jury, no due process, no weapon–but overall is it fair to let one’s personal fear drive a decision? Whether or not that fear is grounded in reality, people are dead. Cops are sometimes shot for the same reason, but the fear’s on the other end.

One of the podcasts I’ve been listening to lately is Embedded. The host, Kelly McEvers, has been featuring police officer body cam videos recently. In this episode, a patient in a mental health facility is sitting in the middle of a street in Miami holding a toy truck. His caretaker, a black man, is trying to get him to return to the facility and get out of the street. Why on earth would that end in a shooting? Well, it did. I’ll let you guess, or just listen.

Some of the stories we hear about over and over again are the exception, right? So they’re broadcast and repeated and analyzed by talking heads because they’re rare or they’re “out there” rendering them interesting and useful for the news cycle. But let’s admit that these exceptions are becoming pretty freaking common.

Well, here’s another exception. In Toronto a police officer is face to face with a perpetrator he believes is holding a gun. And he talks him down. Peacefully. He takes his fear, just guessing, and prioritizes life.

On more micro level, how often does fear guide our lives, even our daily lives? Does it guide where we live, whom we befriend? Does it guide the interactions we have, the people we greet, whom we’ll let in?

Sure, there are times when fear is important. Maybe a security system is a smart buy, a car with certain safety features, avoiding suspicious people, not walking alone at night. Fear is part of our biological make up for many reasons. Our fight or flight response is part of the sympathetic nervous system because we need it to be. We needed it when we were hunters and gatherers dodging lions or any range of now extinct creatures with sharp teeth. And now we’ve taken that physiological need and applied it to one another–yes, sometimes for good reason.

But.

I think it’s worth stopping and thinking: Am I avoiding this person because he/she/they is different from me and that scares me? Am I saying no to this opportunity because it’s not something I’m used to and that’s freaky? Have I said no to a tough conversation because I’m afraid of what I might find out? What am I missing out on because of fear? What power is there inside of me that I keep there because I’m afraid to let it out?

From the perspective of humanity and being a member of the community of planet earth, I think fear serves us much less often than compassion and love do. But it’s up to us which to listen to.

When Aubrey was little she had a large collection of stuffed animals and gave them all names. They each deserved her love, equally (except for Simba and one of the Ernies, they were slightly more special). She made a list of the animals because she found that she was unable to snuggle with all of them in her bed at the same time–not enough room and I’m sure she didn’t want to risk someone falling out of bed and then feeling even worse. The list was the order in which she’d snuggle with her animals so she could keep track and make it fair. Aubrey’s the most empathic person I know and she was already at it when she was a tiny little thing. When I’m staring at and cooing to my one month old niece who looks like a tiny doll version of Aubs, I half expect her to look at me with those Aubrey doe eyes and say, “And how are you?” 

Empathy is obviously not limited to women. Nothing is. None of the traits and wonderful things I will discuss are. And I’m not trying to make some statement about gender roles imposed by society or not imposed by society. I just wanna tell you about the reasons I love the people I know who identify as women. And really because my women blow me away so often, this blog is limited to those I interacted with in just the last week.

Last Friday I cried in a room full of women (and just one man who has seen me cry countless times). To the room, my tears were probably a little confusing, maybe a little much or strange. But that afternoon, two of the women in that room came to take my yoga class and checked on me. Three texted me to check to see if I was okay and coach me through my bizarre episode. And I had one wine-assisted emotional conversation that evening with another. Women don’t shy away from feelings. They face them, embrace them, and then follow up later on.

Last Saturday I happened upon a post online announcing Houndmouth‘s tour and that very night they’d be in downtown Baltimore. Impulsively I went for it and bought three tickets. Within two hours I had Sierra and Emily to attend with me and they’d already Venmo-ed me for their tickets. The show was fantastic and all hovering just above five feet tall and tiny-footed, we were able to wiggle up right in front of the stage. Women say “yes,” pay you back right away, and then easily wiggle up to the second row.

On Sunday I got to see Emma’s great grandmother, Chris’s Nan, cradle her and was able to take a four generation photo. Longevity.

Monday was Chas’s and my two year anniversary. Almost all of my female relatives and several of my girlfriends wished us a Happy Anniversary. I have male friends and male relatives and while I find pretty much all “Happy _________” pretty meaningless and I appreciate people remembering, I do not judge people based on remembering wedding anniversaries. Still, women are thoughtful, have great memories, and want you to have a “Happy ______________.”

On Tuesday I met with the Education Committee of the Baltimore City Women’s Commission. Six of us maximized 90 minutes, totaling three pages of minutes that plan out our goals for the next two years. We deferred to one another, spoke openly, explained things when someone had a question, complimented one another, laughed, and created a list of 9 priorities that quite frankly, if carried out (when), Baltimore will actually change. The meeting was invigorating.

NPR once aired a fictional radio drama in which all of the world leaders were women (can’t find it online). In it, the leaders go around the table and say things like, “China, how’s everything going?” A female voice says something like “Peace and prosperity over here.” This repeats throughout the entire group. And the point is made. Women know how to get things done.

After my meeting, my mom, Pilar and Diana came over for beers and conversation. In two hours we covered the world, each of our lives from Baltimore to Colorado to South Dakota and back again. We covered love and procreation and school and I went to bed with the fullest heart. We build each other up.

On Wednesday I taught two women-filled yoga classes and then hosted the 38th Street Book Club. Six of my neighbors came over. We tackled I’ll Be Gone in the Dark and the murderer and his ripple effects. We talked about the problems in our city and our world. We gracefully discussed and emoted and didn’t shy away from tough conversations. Women have real talk.

Thursday morning began with a “Women on the Run” run. Becky and I started our day off on the pavement and beginning my day with exercise and conversation sets me up for three things: feeling energized, an awake brain, and a promise of a nap later on. We support one another.

After work, a pretty boring first stint at campaigning for a state senate candidate, and my pre-destined nap, I headed to the meeting of my other book club: The Book Blub. Now it’s not typical to have two book club meetings in a row but that’s how things shook out. Book Blub is comprised of essential women in my life. We typically spend about 12 minutes on the book that some of us have read some portion of, 1:37 on life, and 11 minutes selecting the next book. There’s wine and there are snacks and bodily issues and love conundrums and immigration issues and the most laughter. And this time, there was Emma.

Another highlight of this meeting was following Erin Drew’s journey to find true love via video. Erin tried out for The Bachelor last night. To learn more and hear her marvel at the 22 year olds who “have so much hope,” follow her on Instagram @eedrew. One of the best parts about being a woman is that we laugh with one another.

This is a very incomplete list, because it’s really just seven days of being a woman among women and it doesn’t include all of the incredible women in my life. But in just seven days, I can see my good fortune in being born female and being surrounded by a set of strong, intelligent, caring, and hilarious other females.

 

 

 

In my 14 months of writing this blog, this is a welcome first. My dad has been asking to “guest blog” for months–I won’t reveal which one of us procrastinated until this week, not important–so here we are. I am particularly excited about this because my dad comments on my blog faithfully and many people tell me that they look forward to reading his commentary. 

My dad is one of those really instantly likable people and that seems to bleed through his comments too. He’s friendly, kind, thoughtful, incredibly smart, and as you’re about to read, quite funny. As I am typing this, I am just remembering that this weekend is Fathers’ Day, making this a very appropriate time to force one’s father to write one’s weekly blog in her stead. 

Take it away, Dick…

 

Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiickie Dickie dambo,

Oh so Rambo,

Air air buschke,

Mische mische pom pom…

-Anonymous singsongy chant*, possibly a Detroit/Michigan anomaly (spelling entirely a guess).

OK, let’s get this out on the table right away…I was not born a dick.  Some of you, hopefully not all, may choose to disagree but my full given name is RICHARD Patrick Edward Doran.  Don’t ask me how Richard birthed the nickname “Dick” but it’s a tradition that is at least 64 years old, since I’ve been called Dick all my life.

Two exceptions.  When Mom was mad at me it loudly became “RICHARD P!!!!”.  Confession: sometimes I did, because she was fierce when in anger mode.  And when I went to college I told the first people I met that my name was Rick.  I’d just spent high school enduring every dick joke ever conceived and thought I could avoid that ignominy.  Rick didn’t stick, although there are a few old college buddies who still call me that.

Let’s go back even further to three famous Dicks.  Search for “Richard Tracy comics” and what shows up is all about Dick Tracy, a comic strip launched in 1931 by Chester Gould.

100 BONUS POINTS FOR GUESSING WHICH RICHARD IS ACTUALLY A DICK

Talk about your heroic visage!  Tracy couldn’t have a squarer jaw if Chester had used a T-square to draw it.  On the other hand, ski-slope nose Richard “Tricky Dick” Milhouse Nixon is infamous and in my view, hugely responsible for the negative connotations of Dick.  He took the 800+ years of the 12^th century noble name of Richard the Lionhearted and dragged it down the toilet.  I do have to admit I’m stretching things a bit there.  It’s unlikely anyone called the latter Richard “Dick.” He was the king after all and his subjects would never risk the wrath of Dick!

By the way, did you know detectives were called “dicks”?  Maybe some still are but certainly not as a name when they catch the culprit.  The Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang traces the noun “dick” in the detective sense to the 19th century (around 1864) criminal underworld slang verb “to dick,” meaning “to watch.” This “dick” came in turn from the Romany (the language of the Gypsies) word “dik,” meaning “to look, to see.”  Give me lionhearted over being a creepy watcher.

These days I often try to confront the issue head on.  When I introduce myself, depending on the social situation and participants, I say to people “Dick Doran, or if you that makes you uncomfortable you can call me Richard.” If I’ve read the situation correctly I’ll get a few chuckles and sly glances.  That’s when I add, “No worries, I’ve heard every dick joke ever uttered”.  If I get it wrong the conversation gets stilted and ends quickly.  The latter happens most often when I inadvertently meet Christian conservatives.  They have no sense of humor when it comes to body parts.

And there’s my own family.  Nancy, my lovely wife, bless her heart, never uses either Dick or Richard.  She just starts talking to me and then complains that I don’t listen to her.  So I tell her that if she starts with my name I’ll listen better because that will draw my attention and immediately open my ears.  Thirty-two years and we’re still having the same discussion/argument.  When forced, she will use Richard though.  Does that mean she doesn’t use Dick because it makes her uncomfortable?  Or more worrisome, does the person who knows me best harbor secret thoughts about the relationship between my nickname and my personality?  We’re still married so I’m left to guess.

My male siblings use Richard when talking directly to me unless they introduce me to someone.  Then it’s Dick.  Are they sending a subtle message to the introductees?  Whereas my sisters only use Richard when they are flabbergasted by something I’ve said to them.  Which happens quite often since we have widely differing views on many things.

Thankfully my daughters call me Dad, Pops or Popsicle (don’t even go there!).

What’s in a name?  From my point of view certainly not inherent personal characteristics.  However, many nicknames are descriptors.  Think Squinty, Four Eyes, Scarface, Big Man, etc., etc., etc.  Others are anti-descriptors such as the seven-footer who is called Shorty or the XXXXL guy called Slim.  And some people do look and/or act like their name/nickname.

For anyone named Richard/Dick though, please do not make the obvious association.  All the Dicks I know are great, kind, hard-working people with a well-developed sense of humor.  We’ve learned to laugh with you and at ourselves.  We cultivate those qualities by choosing to believe people calling us Dick are using it in the anti-descriptor sense.  In fact, I have yet to meet a Dick who is also a dick (I never personally met Nixon).  The truth is the rest of you with less pejorative names are much more likely fall into that category than those of us who have thrived despite the potentially negative associations of our name.  It’s a little-studied but well-known survival mechanism.

Now I’m wondering.  What if all parents gave their kids names that have humorously negative connotations?  I think we might be able to achieve world peace because everyone would learn to laugh at himself or herself.  Do I dare hope…?

*The longer you drag out the first Dickie the happier you are to see me.

I told you to be patient
I told you to be fine
I told you to be balanced
I told you to be kind

– “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver

Dear Young Lady,

Here we are. It’s June. And you’re in 8th grade. This is the bottom of the 9th inning. The 18th hole. Fourth quarter with two minutes on the clock. The last horrah. Farewell is Tuesday and there will be music and laughter and words and hugs and tears and final remarks. And we’ll say bye for now and maybe you’ll say, “Thanksss” like you do with more than one S and it’ll bother me because I will want you to say so much more. But I will take it and I might watch you walk away just to torture myself a little because I’m extra like that.

Yesterday when I overheard that mean thing you said about me, it felt you’d taken a sword through my chest. And then I cried the whole way back in from the fire drill and after that too even. You apologized but I still don’t know if I believe you. I think it hurt so much more because this is it. This is really it. I’ve had my chance to lift you up and to teach you not to say mean things about people, especially not when they can hear you and especially not when they care about you. I’ve had three years to show you how to be and how to act and how to get to school on time. I’ve been able to model forgiveness for you and also how to apologize because I do it all the time. And with all of this time, it’s not enough. But I don’t know if it ever would be enough.

Part of me wonders if you wanted me to hear, “Fuck, Ms. Eby,” because then you get to push me away and maybe get me to back off, get me to care less, get me to ask less questions, expect less answers. Deep down, though, I don’t think you want that at all. What a piece of work is a [young lady], how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals– and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? (Don’t worry, you’ll learn that play someday and you’ll probably hate it.)

Today when I watched you leave the school building and you left crying after the conversation we had, I wanted to rip my heart out of my chest and toss it to you and say “Here take this one, it’s much more whole, and you need it more than I do.” I wanted to run after you and keep giving you advice, keep telling you it would be okay, even though I don’t know if it will. I wanted to remind you of everything you’ve been through and we’ve been through in three years and assure you of your resilience and your support system and your inner light. But instead I just watched you walk to the bus stop and it felt like you were walking away from me for always.

The other day when we talked about your sister’s boyfriend and how he’s in the Rollin’ 60s Crips, I said like a privileged idiot, “Aren’t there other things he can do? And his mom knows? Can’t he find something better that would help the world?”

Then so quickly, I knew we both realized it. So I beat you to the punchline, “I know, that’s not fair to say because I was born with opportunities.”

“Right,” you said. Like you were being interviewed on 60 Minutes and I’d fed you an answer you already had and you knew absolutely everything but you didn’t want to make me feel bad. Because in just 14 years, you’ve lived 100. But at the same time, you’ve lived maybe four or five of the life you’ve actually deserved.

So when I ask you if you’re worried he could get shot or she could or something could happen to the baby, you answer like a 100 year old and tell me, “Of course.”

But I stop there. I don’t tell you that I’m so worried about that for you, too.

It was crushing to watch you be sad today because your future is so uncertain. And I can’t help pointing a finger at myself, even when I don’t know what else I could have done. When I saw your tears, I thought, this is what it must feel like to be a mother and to watch your baby hurt. Because although you’ve got 9 inches on me and the equivalent of 70 years, I can’t help but feel maternal.

So I will just hope you know in your head all the things I’ve been saying for three years–I hope my annoying voice is your inner broken record. I will hope you know I’m here even if I’m not there. I will hope you still call me, even if it’s just because you need a ride from one place to another. I will hope that it all clicks and that you “get it” one day soon. I will hope with my whole heart that you keep holding your head up and stay out of the mess our city tends to pull people into. I will hope you get through high school with your degree and college credits to boot, and your intact dignity and an empty uterus, with a smile, and with a “look what I just fucking did” attitude. And I really hope you invite me to see it. I really hope you invite me to see you bloom fully as that rose that grew from concrete. Because even if you don’t see yourself as that yet, that’s who you’ve always been to me. The rose that grew from concrete.

Love,

Ms. Eby

Last weekend Chas and I went car-browsing. The whole experience feels like one giant cliche. You walk in, some guy with comb lines in his hair slinks over to you to ask if you’ve been helped. You, convinced he’s Satan in a shinier form, don’t return his smile in favor of raising one eyebrow and pursing your lips to allow “No” to escape. He says something about “________________ taking care of you” and you think, Oh I’m sure he’ll take care of us.

This continues to a desk and a crowded parking lot and a car and an “I really like you guys” and, “You’re so funny together.”

You test drive a couple of cars the salesperson plays tough about a lot of things and makes a few jokes that fit neatly into gender roles. You hear several acronyms that are meaningless (well, not to Chas) and when you’re spinning from the GLT and the TDL and BSP and LTD and the DSL, you’re back at that desk again. Then come the “figures” written down on paper–aloud will not do. “Are you a nurse? Are you a firefighter? Did you serve in the military prior to 1954? Are you the type of person who dresses up as a banana on occasion?”

Of course, you’re none of those things but somehow when the salesperson returns from “the back,” you qualify for four thousand dollars worth of “discounts.” She or he assures you that you haven’t yet seen what Tavon can do when he “sharpens his pencil.” Yes, this is the number we can give you before Tavon “sharpens his pencil.” So maybe you will return when the pencil has its pointiest point. Maybe, you say, “I will come back after I send an email to another dealership.” And you both keep your eyeballs still and locked as your heads make circles like you’re drawing mutual lines around one another’s skulls with your noses. And then you leave your information and say that you’re headed for Subaru. Gotta see how sharp their pencils are.

These types of exchanges are hilarious to me for their predictability and for the use of meaningless language. I actually hate/love this kind of thing, maybe I just love to hate it. This silly turn of phrase “sharpen a pencil” is more than just a cliche. It’s code. It’s silly to me because the salesperson could have just said what she meant. She meant that he could get more of a discount for us. So just say it. And then just do it.

One of my all time favorite Seinfeld episodes is “The Dealership.” George plays me.

GEORGE: Look at these salesmen. The only thing these guys fear is the walk-out. No matter what they say, you say, “I’ll walk out of here right now!”

(A salesman approaches)

SALESMAN: Can I help you with something?

GEORGE: (Threatening) Hold it! One more step and we’re walkin’!

The entire episode plays into my lunatic thinking via George Costanza and he believes nothing. I’m actually surprised the phrase “sharpen a pencil” doesn’t pop up.

These weird little unspoken agreements we have in order to be vague and unclear to one another are so odd. In Morocco, we (Chas) learned through research that there, bargaining is welcome. But you have to play the game. The seller gives a price. You counter with a price that is low but not insulting. If the seller counters again, then he/she will make a deal with you. If he/she says “Nope” on that first offer, then just go. It’s not worth it. The seller does not like you and feels disrespected by you. This version of “pencil sharpening” I respect more than these weird American versions, though, because they seem more agreed upon. Like we all get it. And by “we” I mean those of us who read Lonely Planet and also Moroccan nationals.

But wouldn’t it be funny to look at a leather handbag that’s labeled at the equivalent of $30 American and hear from the seller, “I am willing to sell you this for $10 but I labeled it at $30 in case you’re a sucker”? Or if I approached the seller and in broken Arabic/French said, “I want this badly and it would cost about $200 in the US but I would pay no more than $12 here, so what’s your limit?”

Maybe at the car dealership we’d say, “Hey, we’re really cheap. We want a GTI manual transmission and we ideally want to pay no more than $22K.” Then the salesperson could say, “Listen, we get a gajillion dollar bonus if you add to our total of 129 cars by the end of the month so we’ll actually give you the GTI you want for $21K if you just shell out the cash and then just get the hell out of here so we can have a celebratory beer with the mechanics in peace.” The best view into this world is here. Literally (and I mean this for real) one of my favorite podcast episodes ever. In this episode the line “Buyers are liars” is said to be a catchphrase in the “bizness.” I think the line should be “Everyone is a liar.”

There are plenty of things we say in the U.S. that we don’t really mean, and I’m not even talking about “I literally died” or “I can’t even” or “That’s hilarious!” (but with a straight face). I’m talking about “How are you?” or “How have you been?” and other meaningless pleasantries that people spew out just because they think they’re supposed to say them.

What do you think the percentage of “How are yous?” you receive is genuine? I’d bet it’s pretty low. So I propose, you answer it, no matter the asker, honestly. Someone in the grocery store says “How are you?” Launch into the truth about the clogged toilet in the basement leveled out by the fact that someone at work shouted you out in front of the group this morning. Skip the “fine” or the “well” and go right for the jugular. Hey, if someone asked it, doesn’t that person deserve the real truth? That’ll make that person think twice before a insincere question!

Another one is “It’s nice to meet you.” But is it? Is it nice to meet me? Did I make your life better in this awkward 30 second, obligatory interaction? Will you remember my name? Or my face? Or my aura? Did you even realize that I believe firmly in “No dead fish” for a handshake? Do me a favor, if you meet me, and it’s not “nice” to meet me, just don’t say it. Or tell me that it’s been “mediocre” to meet me. That kind of honesty would really impress me, and then it would be nice to meet you. 

I think what I’m realizing is that 30 is too old to be playing along. I want to speak the truth in all circles and I don’t really care who’s around the perimeter. It’s a waste of time to play along and life is just too damn short. Leave the acting for the actors and be straight up.

Honestly, just be honest. It’s legitimately refreshing. And if you’re going to comb your hair like Christian Bale in American Psycho, don’t expect me to trust anything you say, especially if it involves pencil sharpening.

“We don’t have a word for the opposite of loneliness, but if we did, I could say that’s what I want in life.”
― Marina Keegan, The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories

Marina Keegan was a 22 year old recent Yale graduate (three days, recent) with a future of creative writing ahead of her when her boyfriend fell asleep at the wheel in a crash that instantly killed her. Now that the sad stuff is out of the way, her book, which is a collection of essays and stories, is beautiful. The essay for which the book is titled, “The Opposite of Loneliness,” is a description of Keegan’s life at Yale and her friends and the family she loves and how she feels whatever you call the opposite of loneliness. I read this book years ago but that concept has stuck with me and my own version just occurred to me the other day. Why don’t we have a word for the opposite of a victim? What do we call it when someone walks away from us better?

I’ve been reading my book club book late at night: I’ll Be Gone in the Dark: One Woman’s Obsessive Search for the Golden State Killer. Even if you aren’t familiar with the book, you can tell by the title, it’s perfect for late night reading for a person with above average anxiety. The book chronicles the victims of the Golden State Killer, also known as the East Area Rapist, who terrorized California in the 1970s and 80s. It’s victim after victim and when I think about his ripple effect, I’m horrified. When one person is a victim of a crime, be it rape, murder, armed robbery, whatever, that person is not the only victim. A partner, friends, family, offspring, they’re all affected by that act. So while the Golden State Killer has stats on paper of how many lives he ruined, really, he ruined hundreds more. When an adult is murdered, let’s say a 35 year old female, imagine the life-long weight that places on a family. The financial burdens, the parentless children, a widower, her parents burying their child, her employer, her friends’ heartbreak, the stray cat she fed, the dog that expects her to come home, the kids she carpooled, the coffeeshop dude she greeted on Fridays, and ripples and ripples and ripples. Victims straight up abound.

So that’s the large scale. But I also imagine the victims we can create so easily, maybe without even realizing it, on a small scale. This is pretty easy to do when you spend your days in a middle school. Maybe I’m too snarky when I ask someone to take off her massive hoop earrings. Maybe I edit an essay and my comment comes off just a little too harshly. Or a girl looks sad and downtrodden and I make the mistake of not asking what’s wrong. She might read my small action, internalize it, and then snap at another teacher or slam her mom’s car door, or pick a fight with a sibling and so on and so on. Again, victims abound.

On Saturday night when I left the hospital after visiting Emma (my beautiful, wonderful, adorable, brand new niece), there were three women in the patio in front of Hopkins just sobbing. They were shaking and crying and swinging and doing things you do when someone young dies. In the 8 seconds I saw their pain, I could feel it. Was it a shooting victim? A son, brother, and friend? In Baltimore City that’s often a safe leap to make. So then where do they go from here? If it was gun violence, did that shooter picture these young women openly mourning that night on Orleans Street? Did he visualize the pain of a community? Did he imagine how hard it is to concentrate in school or at work when you’re so sad? Did he picture a funeral for a teenager? Or how the victim will stay framed in photos stuck at 18 for eternity? Did he foresee the ripples created by his act?

So it’s easy to make a victim on a spectrum of scales. And it’s easy for that victim to then spread that hurt inadvertently or advertently (should be a word). So, shouldn’t our goal be to make the opposite of victims?

When you look up the opposite of a victim, basically you just get synonyms of “perpetrator.” But that’s not at all what I’m aiming for here. I’m aiming for a word for a person who feels lifted and lighter and happier and more at peace from the action of another. And there is no word for that, as far as I know. But if anything should be a world-wide goal that anyone can get behind, it has to be that. Right? I imagine it like pixie dust. You hold the door for someone who’s at that far enough distance where you’re thinking, “Do I hold it? Or do I let it go?” You give a sincere and unexpected compliment. You leave a kind note. You carry up your neighbor’s recycling bin. You share your garden tomatoes. Or send a postcard, walk a new mother’s dogs, put away all of the laundry, tell someone she matters, share a novel that makes you think of a friend, buy a coffee or a ticket, nominate a colleague for an award, tap a shoulder and say “How are you?” with eye contact and love. Maybe you offer an essential oil or tell an old lady she looks nice or come to my yoga class (hint). Every act, even the tiniest ones, can create the same amount of ripples as victim-making. But for good. Sprinkle it here and there, and it grows.

So why don’t we have a word for this person who has been positively affected by the actions of another? Beneficiary? Too financial. Recipient? Too transactional. Victim comes from a Latin word for “denoting a creature killed as a religious sacrifice.” Vic means to conquer. So Latin for lift up is “leva” and help is “aux.” The best I got is “auxlevatim.” And to my loyal reader, yogi, and friend, Tim, I’m sorry you got wrapped into all of this. English for the Latin “tim” is “Tim” so I don’t understand. Today, make some auxlevatims. Let your pixie dust spread all over the worlds of those you lift and help.

 

We don’t have a word for the opposite of victims (except for auxlevatims), but if we did, I could say that’s what we should all hope to create in life.

In Dad’s first Honda Odyssey, the most played “album” (maybe it was a cassette, possibly a CD) was hands down Cracked Rear View (1994) by Hootie and the Blowfish. Most played song: “Time.” In it, Hootie talks about time, talks to time, denounces time, defriends time, and repeats the word time, well, a lot of times.

Time, why you punish me?
Like a wave crashing into the shore
You wash away my dreams
Time, why you walk away?
Like a friend with somewhere to go
You left me crying

Can you teach me about tomorrow
And all the pain and sorrow, running free?
Cause tomorrow’s just another day
And I don’t believe in time

Time, I don’t understand
Children killing in the street
Dying for the color of a rag
Time, take their red and blue
Wash them in the ocean, make them clean
Maybe their mothers won’t cry tonight

 …

Can you teach me about tomorrow
And all the pain and sorrow, running free?
Cause tomorrow’s just another day
And I don’t believe in time

(Time, time, time, time) You ain’t no friend of mine
(Time, time) I don’t know where I’m goin’
(Time, time) I think I’m out of my mind
(Time) Walkin’, (Time) wasted
(Time, time) You ain’t no friend of mine
(Time, time) I don’t know where I’m goin’
(Time, time) No, no no no

 

And as many millions of times as I have heard that song and even sung along to it, it wasn’t until just now on http://www.lyricsfreak.com that I thought about the message Hootie is trying to tell us (I think). He’s filing a complaint to time. Why does it vanish so quickly? Where does it go? And if you can’t beat it, then just don’t believe in it. Horrid cliches aside, Hootie speaks for many of us. Where does the time go? Grabbing it, trying to hold it and keep it is a futile, winless task.

But then he sort of loses me at “I don’t believe in time.” After all, our lives are largely dictated by time. We want to save it, not waste it, maximize it, enjoy it, get paid for it, pay for it, count it, check it, stare at it in disbelief. So when I imagine riding in the Odyssey #1, windows down, cruising on Loch Raven Boulevard, waiting for “the heat to work,” and singing like a hopeless trio, I know time was not actually on my mind. I was just giving back to Hootie what he was giving us. “Time, why you wallga-wayyy?”

I remember my parents when I was little talking about how time went by so fast and I recall disagreeing. I felt like they must have never been to school before because time just crawled in school. How could they possibly believe time moved slowly? Outside of Christmas Break and Summertime, life was creeping by at a snail’s pace. And then I hit about 13 years old (which can only be about five years ago, right?). Everything seemed to speed up at that point. Was it being more aware of the world? Less involved with myself so I became occupied looking at and observing others? Was it because I discovered boys? Hormones? My menarche (I dedicate that word to Erin Drew)? Whatever happened, it’s flown by ever since.

As an adult, I love observing and comparing others’ perceptions of time on a small scale. It’s amazing what others think they will or will not have time for–it’s amazing what I have the audacity to think I will have time for. Some people “don’t have time for all the magazines that come to the house,” while Stacey always says, “I love a good glossy” and on top of an active social and work life, tears through her shiny-covered monthlies. Some people can’t squeeze in working out, while for others, who could be even more “involved,” working out is a mandatory part of life.

What it comes down to is that time is relative.

For example, my friend Jimmy Markakis (no relation to Nick Markakis) sleeps about four hours per night, works more than full time, is heavily involved in Greek things and techy clubs and groups, travels constantly, owns a 3D printer, and then pursues multiple advanced degrees all at once. Now, he’s a bit extreme. But for some, even just one of his lifestyle choices would be too much.

I imagine we’ve all got a little clock inside of us that dictates what we believe we have time for. I am definitely closer to Jimmy on the spectrum but it took me about 30 years to realize that even I have limits (Jimmy still doesn’t).

Chas has been asking me for years to read The Time Paradox by Philip Zimbardo and John Boyd, and for years I have tried and then fallen asleep. Luckily, Zimbardo and Boyd have distilled these ideas to three paradoxes.

“The Time Paradox is not a single paradox but a series of paradoxes that shape our lives and our destinies. For example:

Paradox 1
Time is one of the most powerful influences on our thoughts, feelings, and actions, yet we are usually totally unaware of the effect of time in our lives.”

This is a little above my level but I think he’s saying we think about time constantly, we feel it, and we act based on it but really, we can’t see how it affects us in large-scale ways.

“Paradox 2
Each specific attitude toward time—or time perspective—is associated with numerous benefits, yet in excess each is associated with even greater costs.”

Find a balance between appreciating the past, relishing in the present, and planning for the future. Living only in the past is depressing. Living only in the present is reckless. Living only for the future makes you miss out on what’s happening now.

“Paradox 3
Individual attitudes toward time are learned through personal experience, yet collectively attitudes toward time influence national destinies.”

Your experiences greatly affect your time perspective. But collectively, the society you live in gathers up the perspectives of its people and that effect is great enough to determine a country’s fate.

On the website for the book, you can also take a Time Perspective Inventory to determine how you perceive time.

For transparency’s sake, my time perspective results are here:

Past-negative: 2.60
Past-positive: 4.22 (a little on the high end)
Present-fatalistic: 1.89
Present-hedonistic: 3.73 (close to balanced)
Future: 3.69 (perfectly balanced)

Eastern cultures and Western cultures view time differently and it’s found that even countries that share a border do not share their perceptions of time. The US and Mexico differ greatly. And the US is to Mexico as Switzerland is to Italy. According to Business Insider, “Thais do not evaluate the passing of time in the same way that the Japanese do. In Britain the future stretches out in front of you. In Madagascar it flows into the back of your head from behind.”

We all know that in the US, time is money. On a good day, I can get $80 an hour for tutoring. Our time/money value is reinforced whenever I am outside of the US. In Morocco, artisans spend hours and eardrums on beautiful pieces and then pass them off for mere dollars. As I’ve mentioned before, when I needed to see a doctor in Marrakech, I was able to do so within 8 minutes of arriving in a clinic and for $30. So is our way the right one? Yes and no. Time is relative. The only answer is to savor it, enjoy it, and to know, deep in your heart, that it is also completely finite.

Dear Niecephew,

This is the last time I will be able to call you Niecephew because soon you’ll be here, in the world, and they’ll drape you in the color that society has selected for your sex. I can only assume, since your momma and your dadda have decided to make your name a surprise, that in a few short days we will call you something like SnuggleMuffinPieSquishLoveSoSweet. I can’t wait to call you by your name, and oh so many nicknames. (Speaking of calling you by your name, when you’re 18, you must see Call Me By My Name–it is the most beautiful love story but too mature for a little boo.)

Since you’ll soon switch from a fetus to an infant, I think it’s high time we get you into some literature. So here’s my favorite poem. Eat it. Let the juice run down your chin. I’ll add my own commentary–you’ll get used to it–Aunt Amandy always has commentary. Just ask Uncle Chas.

 

The Desiderata

by Max Ehrmann

(Commentary by Aunt Amandy)

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Before we get going here, little boo, placidly means peacefully. When you’re ready to know about Greek and Latin roots, I will teach you that plac comes from the Latin word for “to please.” 

I love this stanza for so many reasons, including the appreciate silence. As you grow up I cannot imagine how loud the world will be. Find silence whenever and wherever you can. It’s a commodity these days.

When people make you angry, when you make people angry, find a path to resolutions. Life’s too short for animosity. Sure, your Aunt Amandy often jokes about her nemeses, but they’re just people who need to be called out on their shit. Also, don’t say “shit.”

When you listen to others, look them in the eye. Show people that you’re listening. For the love of all that is holy, do not look at your cell phone while someone is telling you a story. See also this.  

One of the most important lessons of living is that everyone has a story. Listen to it. Really hear it. Default to compassion. There is no way of knowing the burden someone is carrying silently. Even meanies**. They might be meanies because life does get hard and sometimes you’re just not sure how to spit that back out and it ends up landing on other people, maybe you. Assume positive intent and help those people if you can. 
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

As I said above, even meanies have a story but that doesn’t mean you need to hang around them. Model your peace for “loud and aggressive persons,” don’t join in. We want your spirit to remain vexation-free.

Comparisons are a fruitless pursuit. It’s amazing that Ehrmann wrote this before social media because at its root, it seems that the stuff it’s really made of is comparison. Be proud of who YOU are. Be proud of who others are too. Life is so much harder if you make everyone else a competitor. Let your only competitor be yourself and you’ll always continue to grow.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

For the foreseeable future, your career will be tummy time, then learning to eat on your own and then potty training, then it’ll be school for 22 years. Find times to celebrate yourself. And when we say that school is your job, know that your learning and to a lesser degree, your report card, are your paycheck. Earn them. 

Find the heroes that surround you. Start with your grandparents. They’re pretty kick ass. While you should hold things close to the vest, look for the good, the great, in others. 

Money is important for some things but do not let money drive you. Let passion drive you. I want you to wake up everyday and feel like, “Yes, this is what I get to do!” You’d be surprised how many people are never able to say that because money is what drives them. Make enough to pay your bills. But be happy everyday. 

Also, to that end, it’s always just easier on your psyche in big parties to ask the waitress for separate checks from the beginning. If you want to enjoy the meal, get the financials out of the way at the beginning. 
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

“Feign” is one of those words that is an exception to the “i before e rule” and it means “to pretend.” Don’t worry, I will teach you that soon. My niecephew will not misspell “receive.” 

Love openly, but no need to fake it. Your heart will be broken. And then again. And then more times. I will give you a great playlist of sad songs and we can eat ice cream from the container. But don’t let those heart breaks break you. Love wins.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

Welcome aging, you’ll know more as you grow. Inside you, in your spirit, you have everything you need to weather the letdowns that will surely happen. Acknowledge the power inside of you. Breathe. Face feelings, even the painful ones. It’s the only way to really heal.

Sometimes we are the hardest on ourselves. Learn how to forgive, not just meanies, learn how to forgive yourself. Apologize to those you’ve wronged and then open your clenched fist and let it go.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

The above is my most favorite stanza. Read it whenever you need to. 
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive her to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

This poem was written in 1927 so I had to make an edit. If god exists, we all know she’s a she. If you believe in god, great. If you don’t, great. You can decide that for yourself. But don’t be afraid of spirituality and the powers of the universe. You’ll find throughout life that something or someone is at hard at work to ensure that whatever is meant to be, will be. 
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

You’ll encounter many pessimists in your life. Don’t be one. Show them how to be an optimist and they’ll be better for having known you, Niecephew. Sure there’s hurt and pain and sorrow and awfulness, but there’s so much beauty. Default to joy. See the pink blanket under the cherry blossoms that have dropped their petals. Find the only cloud in the sky on a blue day. Fold over your legs and enjoy a stretch at least once a day. Smell what’s baking. Listen to the song of the birds who woke you up too early on a Saturday. 

We’re all so ready to meet you. You know how I mentioned “placidly” above? Please, for the sake of your momma, enter the world placidly. Also, soon.

Love,

Aunt Amandy

**meanies = ass holes, but I don’t want you to have a potty mouth