I woke up thinking about Charles Kuralt, and the years he would get me out of bed really early on Sunday mornings. His show Sunday Morning captured moments of exhilarating life full of compassion that bolstered me for the week ahead.
And that is why I have become a Facebook fan.
Facebook is somewhere people I like gather and share the moments of joy, surprising discoveries, amazing photos, silly jokes and the upside of life. We tease and play somewhere far away from the sobering fear and ransacked value system media is trying to shove down our throats.
I like Facebook because it connects people I truly love and would not spend time with otherwise: cousins and uncles/aunts and friends in far away states. The rabid laptop warriors don't post on my page, thankfully. What's going on is a fun group of friends, some of them new but all of them real, who chat about what is important. Facebook is the modern version of an old fashioned social hour to swap recipes and pictures and hobbies, and even advice. We offer up ideas, and congratulations and even condolences.
Will they be part of my world anytime soon? That was never the deal.
And so to those saying FB isn't real, I have to disagree. Facebook is as real as any other virtual group of friends. But on FB, together we are able to create the spirit of the Sunday Morning show every day of the week, where we can play a while before heading into the day. That's what keeps me coming back. I think Charles Kuralt would be proud.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 22, 2015
Know Your Way Home
I sense the world is different. A paradigm shift in the Memory Makers.
I miss believing the illusion and comfortable arrogance of someday having my turn at circling a calendar date with the whens and wheres of retirement, and heading into the sunset with colors flying high.
It was different back then, wasn't it?
I miss the days of unending promise before I knew what old money was, and why it was important. I never wanted to learn why it was foolhardy to believe in the unlimited potential for new money.
The Generation of Change,
with blinkers to the right,
are sliding into the slow lane.
How can that be?
It seemed like such a never-ending life of busyness and energized chaos, with years flowing along like a river, and suddenly, unexpectedly the family was grown and gone.
So many wonderful things now.
A beautiful friendship that blossoms is easier to spot through the weeds than it used to be. Nobody really cares if I wear hats to the grocery store and put my feet in the fountain or stay in to finish that novel I've been obsessing about.
I hear the lessons of my parents clearer, and I realize I learned more than I thought I did.
Love has bloomed late in life and taken me on adventures I only imagined. What a great reminder that living every piece of your life is important, even the parts you didn't know where there. The beautiful tapestry of life is full and rich for those unafraid to start and fail, and start again.
I sit pondering all of this, and what makes a family strong.
Resiliency, I'd say. Fostering love and dispelling hate, facing loss and uncertainty, and pulling together no matter what.
Being open to new people even knowing they will change the family forever.
Believing in the stories and folklore, and the people who remind you where you come from.
Living life as a world traveler, exploring and learning and trying life on, but always knowing your way home.
But in the end, it is all about Love.
I miss believing the illusion and comfortable arrogance of someday having my turn at circling a calendar date with the whens and wheres of retirement, and heading into the sunset with colors flying high.
It was different back then, wasn't it?
I miss the days of unending promise before I knew what old money was, and why it was important. I never wanted to learn why it was foolhardy to believe in the unlimited potential for new money.
The Generation of Change,
with blinkers to the right,
are sliding into the slow lane.
How can that be?
It seemed like such a never-ending life of busyness and energized chaos, with years flowing along like a river, and suddenly, unexpectedly the family was grown and gone.
So many wonderful things now.
A beautiful friendship that blossoms is easier to spot through the weeds than it used to be. Nobody really cares if I wear hats to the grocery store and put my feet in the fountain or stay in to finish that novel I've been obsessing about.
I hear the lessons of my parents clearer, and I realize I learned more than I thought I did.
Love has bloomed late in life and taken me on adventures I only imagined. What a great reminder that living every piece of your life is important, even the parts you didn't know where there. The beautiful tapestry of life is full and rich for those unafraid to start and fail, and start again.
I sit pondering all of this, and what makes a family strong.
Resiliency, I'd say. Fostering love and dispelling hate, facing loss and uncertainty, and pulling together no matter what.
Being open to new people even knowing they will change the family forever.
Believing in the stories and folklore, and the people who remind you where you come from.
Living life as a world traveler, exploring and learning and trying life on, but always knowing your way home.
But in the end, it is all about Love.
Dec 13, 2015
God Be With Us
Today. On a crowded bus. On Michigan Avenue. On my way home from a great job in a city in a diverse country that I was born in.
A man screamed at me. Called me a sand ni**er. Told me I was the problem. That I need to get the fuck out of his country.
I may have been wearing my scarf higher on my head than usual because it was cold out. I may have somehow looked suspicious listening to Spotify. I am half Iranian, so maybe it was my skin or my eyes.
But 5 minutes of this at least went on with no one doing anything. Me telling him calmly to back off. Me telling him I would call the cops and me trying to get my gloves off to dial.
Then this man spits at me. A man in a suit and tie. Like anyone else I'd see. He spits at me and looks at me with these regular eyes now filled with anger and tells me to get the fuck off the bus, do what I'm told, because this isn't my country. This isn't my place.
That's when I screamed at the top of my lungs for him to back off. That's when people decided to maybe help and tell him to stop. That got the attention of the bus driver to kick him out.
I'm home now in my nice apartment in a nice part of Chicago with my fiancé and my cat. Sitting in a room looking out at the lights of other apartments. Wondering how many others out there got screamed at and told today this isn't their country, that they're worthless somehow, that they don't matter. How many?
My father was in the World Trade Center on 9/11 and survived. Days and weeks and years after that horrible day, I have been told somehow me or my mother's family are the cause, that we are evil and going to Hell. That Iranians, that Middle Eastern people, that Muslims are less than human.
I am a mixture like so many in this country today.
I was born in Boston, Massachusetts. It's one of the most patriotic cities in America. My ancestor Hugh Drury is buried in the oldest graveyard in Boston, and he helped contribute to the building blocks of what would become the United States of America.
And yes I'm also Iranian. My mother's family came here to seek incredible opportunities and they found them. They've become doctors and entrepreneurs and athletes and writers and singers.
I have family who are Muslim.
I have family who are Catholic.
I have family who enjoy laughing and talking and dancing and drinking till they're silly.
And I am American. and this is my country. I do belong here. My roots are planted here.
I'm here and I belong. I won't get off the bus.
A man screamed at me. Called me a sand ni**er. Told me I was the problem. That I need to get the fuck out of his country.
I may have been wearing my scarf higher on my head than usual because it was cold out. I may have somehow looked suspicious listening to Spotify. I am half Iranian, so maybe it was my skin or my eyes.
But 5 minutes of this at least went on with no one doing anything. Me telling him calmly to back off. Me telling him I would call the cops and me trying to get my gloves off to dial.
Then this man spits at me. A man in a suit and tie. Like anyone else I'd see. He spits at me and looks at me with these regular eyes now filled with anger and tells me to get the fuck off the bus, do what I'm told, because this isn't my country. This isn't my place.
That's when I screamed at the top of my lungs for him to back off. That's when people decided to maybe help and tell him to stop. That got the attention of the bus driver to kick him out.
I'm home now in my nice apartment in a nice part of Chicago with my fiancé and my cat. Sitting in a room looking out at the lights of other apartments. Wondering how many others out there got screamed at and told today this isn't their country, that they're worthless somehow, that they don't matter. How many?
My father was in the World Trade Center on 9/11 and survived. Days and weeks and years after that horrible day, I have been told somehow me or my mother's family are the cause, that we are evil and going to Hell. That Iranians, that Middle Eastern people, that Muslims are less than human.
I am a mixture like so many in this country today.
I was born in Boston, Massachusetts. It's one of the most patriotic cities in America. My ancestor Hugh Drury is buried in the oldest graveyard in Boston, and he helped contribute to the building blocks of what would become the United States of America.
And yes I'm also Iranian. My mother's family came here to seek incredible opportunities and they found them. They've become doctors and entrepreneurs and athletes and writers and singers.
I have family who are Muslim.
I have family who are Catholic.
I have family who enjoy laughing and talking and dancing and drinking till they're silly.
And I am American. and this is my country. I do belong here. My roots are planted here.
I'm here and I belong. I won't get off the bus.
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