Throughout the late summer months, for various reasons like fall TV schedules or the fact that is was the day after Labor Day, I heard the date September 5 a few times. And each time I heard it, the date resonated with me but I couldn’t quite place why it seemed to mean something. Was it someone’s birthday? A newly-married friend’s anniversary? Did I have some event that day.
Then I would sort of remember, it was the day my dad died. Last Tuesday, I woke up, went to Starbucks, ran errands and sat on the couch late in the afternoon with my best friend. I sat down to write a thank-you card to someone who gave me an interview (cause I’m polite like that) and wrote the date. I paused. “Is it the fifth?” I asked.
“Yeah,” my best friend replied.
“Huh,” I said. “Do you realize this is the first year I haven’t been sad or moody or anything? It completely slipped my mind.” And the thing is, that’s how I want it. Because I will always remember my dad, any given day of the year. But I have a lot of September fifths in front of me. And while it may be selfish, I don’t mind not remembering that day. I don’t mind not thinking about getting that phone call and driving to the ER and being too late and calling my friends in tears. I don’t mind not recalling that numb disbelief that clouds your very existence for days afterward. And I really hope he wouldn’t want me to either.
This year, even when I did remember, I wasn’t sad or angry or numb. I was just me. This year, I feel more healed than ever.
When We Were Young
Yesterday afternoon, I called my mom to talk about the mundane stuff like plane tickets home, school, work, eating lunch. As she hung up I blurted, “Thanks Mom.”
“For what?” she asked.
“For giving me a life where I didn’t end up here,” I replied. I was sitting in a lobby at the juvenile court. I’d spent the morning there. I will spend nine weeks there, reporting stories on juvenile justice.
I saw some interesting things down there. Dedicated people trying to get a message out. The justice system at work. And kids who seem worn down by life.
I watched as teenagers milled about the building and all I could think was that life had gotten the better of them. I sensed a feeling of defeat. I felt the absence of hope. All I could do was summon my own hope that one of these people–a probation officer or lawyer or judge or cop would get through to those kids and help them get a hold on life, a hold for the better.
The only other thing I could do was reflect on my own fortune. When I was a teenager, I was having sleepovers and talking about boys. I was watching silly movies. I did homework and went to cheerleading. I focused on getting a driver’s license. My main concern was where I would go to college–not if. Because the idea of college was as natural and real to me as air. A future was tangible, and my power to create it was just as definite.
Many of us were lucky to live that life. Others were lucky to get out of a life more like those kids. Some just don’t, and it’s reflected in moments like the ones I observed today.
In those moments I felt lucky and grateful and sad and ashamed and relieved and powerless. All at once. Emotions felt for myself, for them, for everyone. But in the end I still feel hope, and wish I could pass it on to them.