2 for 26
Whoa, happy December. Thank you for all of your love on the inaugural post.
The holidays give more ‘BOO’ energy than Halloween could ever dream of. HITMAN is not GRIEFMAN, but, oh, yeah. You’ll see some overlapping themes this round. In January, I’ve vowed to write about ‘something else.’
Until then, I hope you catch moments of peace and ease. And that you shout your favorite song at such a volume that your crush at the next table overhears and exclaims, ‘that’s my favorite band!’ School is out and I just watched it happen in real time at this coffee shop. We all deserve some version of it for Christmas.
WHAT I’M PAYING ATTENTION TO
The loss of Kenny DeForest is gut-wrenching and unfair. I saw him perform a few times early in my Chicago tenure and have been a fan ever since. Please consider donating to his GoFundMe.
Watch his special on YouTube and check out his work on Instagram. He was so funny. I didn’t know Kenny. I don’t know his friends. But I’ve been deeply moved as I learn how he lived his life and loved others. There are hundreds of poignant tributes but here are a few from comedians Clark Larew Jones, Alex Kumin, and Joel Kim Booster.
A DRIP on driving
It came as a knee-jerk reaction walking to my first lesson behind the wheel, ‘I’m doing it!’ I thought, ‘I’m living that play!’
‘How I Learned to Drive’ is a play by Paula Vogel that’s required reading at some point in your theatrical lifespan. I wondered if I returned to the script after ten years, I’d be surprised at the parallels between its plot and mine. There had to be a reason it came to me outside of the title. Wasn’t Vogel from Kansas? She’s from DC. Maybe the play was set in Kansas? Maryland. Maybe it’s about a woman who re-learns how to drive and has a personal breakthrough? It’s about a sexual relationship between a girl and her uncle through her adolescence, into college, and beyond.
Running on nothing but the title, I press on.
DriveSafe Colorado is within walking distance from my parent’s house. To use a sidewalk for over five minutes in Denver takes shame and rebellion. Very few people walk to commute. Your gait must carry an attitude of, ‘HERE I AM, WALKING SOMEWHERE! AND IT IS ALLOWED! ON THIS HARD GRAY STRIP BY THE SIDE!’ or, for me, ‘Here I am, walking somewhere. And it is allowed. On this hard gray strip by the side.’
I walked across Yosemite Parkway, into DriveSafe, and altered my posture. Farah was in her sixties. She wore the required royal blue polo and gave instructions like a metronome. After any mistake, she’d say, ‘that would’ve been an automatic fail on a driving test.’ I was not assertive enough which she pointed out repeatedly. Our only conversation topic? Driving. She cursed once. I cannot articulate how rare this moment was when I reflect upon our hour, but here is an attempt.
A chart:
We played one game. I parked on a side street. She explained she was going to stand in four different places behind the car. I was to give a thumbs up outside of my window if I could see her in the mirrors. Clearly, a game that would culminate in her standing in the blind spot prompting me to respond, ‘Ah! I could not see you there.’ We were at peace, yet the instructions continued. She would hold her left thumb up when she stood in range of the left mirror, both thumbs in the rearview, and her right in the right mirror. Was I ready?
Well, no, not quite. Why change thumbs? Am I supposed to give a thumbs-up at the sight of your thumb or the sight of you? If you’re holding up different thumbs than promised, am I to correct you? Am I to do this by putting my thumb down or should I yell, ‘NOPE! WRONG THUMB, BUCKO!’ from the car. The addition of this instruction was as if she’d said, ‘Finally, I’ll put on a funny, little hat before we begin. It might shake things up, but that’s for you to decide. You good?’ I did not understand the process but doubted it would change the outcome. At war, I replied, ‘Ready.’
She walked behind the car, shot both arms into the air, and the truth came full and bright. Based on where she had chosen to stand, and likely had stood in all games prior, no person in the driver’s seat, regardless of height, had ever, ever, seen her thumbs. My view was jean zipper to royal blue chest, strictly. A chart:
The instructions took three minutes, the exercise 15 seconds. I gave her a thumbs up, a thumbs up, a thumbs up, then leaned out the window and declared, “Ah! I could not see you there.” She snapped her fingers, “Exactly! I am in the blind spot. Good girl.” I blushed and ducked my head at an unexpected wave of pride.
The Year of Magical Thinking is required reading in your grief lifespan. Joan Didion recounts the death of her husband who died while their only daughter was unconscious with septic shock in the hospital. Didion adapted it into a play. The opening line, ‘This happened on December 3rd, 2003. That may seem awhile ago but it won’t when it happens to you,’ and a few pages later, ‘Life changes in an instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends. The question of self-pity.’
I bought it at a bookshop in Santa Fe a year ago. The barista at the bookshop had stood in line behind us at a bar the night before and said, “Everyone who is anyone in Santa Fe is here.” I looked around and decided it was not yet time to move. I did not want to be anyone’s anyone. I flew back to Chicago. Now, I’m in Denver. Some may call it flailing. I’d call it that, too.
The Stages of Grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. These stages are never referenced by any griever I’ve met. It’s a system that leads new grievers to believe their journey will be linear, that it can be charted. It’s guff. There are no stages. You’re in it and you’re alive. December 3rd, 2003 is always yesterday or it’s not. You grow with it or you turn. If you scour the Wikipedia pages of powerful people making cruel decisions you’ll see these turns. I did this obsessively in the first few months and have returned to it as of late. Mary Oliver was right in her poem, Wild Geese. You do not have to be good. A line that once brought liberation I now sit with quietly, hands folded.
It is a decision, every morning. Plenty of swings and misses but I’m doing it. I’m living the play (title). I could’ve told Farah that her encouragement had hit a different dartboard than intended. But that would’ve been way too sentimental. We had an hour together in a Honda Civic. I’m not a monster.
I’d made us proud, and dang it, now I wanted to make her laugh. She was so serious. Farah got back into the car and told me to stop whipping my body around to check the blind spot. Instead, turn my head and use my eyeballs. ‘Of course, my eyeballs,’ I said. I started the car and whipped my body to the left so hard my back cracked before pulling out. A thoughtless mistake. I had real jokes in the tank, but it worked. Farah cackled. Now, we were friends forever (remaining 16 minutes).
One week later, Jacko did not wear the required polo but a plaid button-up. He could not find Farah’s notes on our lesson so he started a new sheet. I explained my situation.
‘Farah didn’t think I was ready for the freeway, so if we start driving and you don’t think I’m ready-’
‘Let’s get on the freeway!’
‘Ok, what’s your name?’
‘Jacko. It’s pronounced Yacko, but people call me Jacko,’
‘I can call you Yacko.’
‘Call me Jacko.’
‘Cool.’
When I merged onto the freeway, Jacko was describing what game I should hunt the next time I’m in South Africa. I was having a panic attack.
A chart:
He talked about sausage so much that by the end of the lesson, it would not have been weird for me to ask if I could hang out and make some sausage. No innuendos were at play. The man is great at making sausage and he has a wife whom he loves. I know because he told me. When we parked, he made no notes on the grading sheet, folded it in half, and told me to try and enjoy myself. You know, just, in general.
It was foolish of me to assume a line from a poem by Mary Oliver would only ever mean one thing, foolish of me to assume it will not evolve again. She has another quote I’ve been turning to as I sit with her poem’s new argument and Didion’s question of self-pity. ‘You must not ever stop being whimsical. And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.’
In our final minutes, Farah rated me on a scale from 1 to 3 in ten different categories on the grading sheet. Her notes for the next teacher were, ‘decent driver, quick learner, needs confidence,’ on a piece of paper that would soon be lost. I agreed in ways she didn’t intend, initiated to confirm, and took the sidewalk home.
WHAT’S UP, HANNAH?
Hannah rips so hard. She’s a killer writer, director, and comedian. If you want to follow her work in podcasting, check out this Substack from her production company that tackles pop culture and critical theory.
She is a friend who has shown me how to be a friend. I have a thousand stories to prove it. On our most recent ‘last’ hang together, we met for coffee in Brooklyn. Our coffee lasted eight hours, 22K steps, and we rehashed the same situation I was dealing with 16 times. This dude will drive you to the ER, take a good photo of you when you’re not looking, and give you a ten-text-in-a-row pep talk that actually works.
What is something strange or cool that happened to you recently?
What advice would you give to yourself one year ago?
Thanks for hanging in. See you in two weeks. It’s not forever. So try and enjoy yourself, just, in general.
and now i need a cat chart for every human interaction moving forward 😭