I notice them before I notice the car. They are a sight. A guy, tall, thin, short dark hair, thick beard, pierced septum. He’s wearing a leather vest with nothing but tattoos underneath. Short, dark-haired girl, also tattooed, in a short, filmy white dress. Red-haired beauty with a long black dress revealing yet another set of matching full-body art.
Then I notice that the guy is pushing a little blue car. You know, like the kind I use for the baby. Kid aboard, thrilled with life. Awesome.
My five-year old graduated from preschool today. They had a little ceremony and marched in to Pomp and Circumstance, received diplomas. It was sweet.
My son, Gabe, is ready for kindergarten. I’m excited for him to start full-day school in a few weeks. He’s on the brink of learning to read, which is so great to witness. I love that he almost, but doesn’t quite, know how to put the letters together to make words, or how to translate the letters that are there into sounds. But he tries so hard.
The teachers at Gabe’s preschool speak Spanish. All are native Spanish speakers, and most of the kids in his school have parents who are native Spanish speakers. My daughter also went to this preschool, and now attends a Spanish-immersion program in our city’s public school system. Gabe will start there in August. He already speaks and understands lots of Spanish, thanks to preschool. He and his sister speak to each other a little, and I look forward to them sharing it more as they get older. Neither Geoff nor I is fluent in Spanish, so for the kids, it will be like their own secret language. I like that. I love the sounds of Spanglish floating around my house, and I love that my one-year old calls all cookies and crackers galletas.
I love that as my kids grow, the sounds of Spanish anywhere — here in our city, or in any other place — will always bring them back to being a kid in preschool. There is something so magical about the memories of early childhood, and how a sight or sound or smell can take you back instantly. Childhood seems somehow more vivid than the rest of life, and I like that my kids will have a whole language as signifying fodder.
I also love that the Hispanic teachers at my kids’ school treat them like family, that the kids know what it’s like to have a huge family with lots of cousins even though we don’t. The kids in Gabe’s class are relaxed, and no one is forced to make art projects or complete other tasks. They play. Parents can come and go in the classroom as they like, and the kids seem genuinely happy. Singing is nearly constant.
When Gabe starts kindergarten in six weeks, he will be comfortable with being on his own in a classroom. The sounds of Spanish around him will calm him, and he will be ready to learn. I’ll bet that he’s reading by October.
Crossing the parking lot with you, I see it before I recognize it. I’m not a car girl, so it’s easily the oldest car that I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s rusty white.
You are beaming. This is your moment. A vintage ’66 Mustang and a date with your long-lost girl? What more could make your dreams come true?
You want me to get into this? I think. Is it safe? I wonder. I am so clueless on the coolness factor.
You, bursting, hold the door open for me, help me into the worn vinyl bucket seat. That old car smell, so evocative, sears into my memory. That smell, it’s you. The you who could be anything, the you who could do everything, the you that I knew so long ago and did not yet know.
To you, this is your moment in the sun. This is really, truly it for you. Your last first date. You are shining. And that car, that terrible, awful car, is everything to you. It tells your story writ large and symbolic. You’ve done it. You’re out, you’re free. You’re an adult, and this car proves it. And my existence here in your car proves it. So I settle into my bucket seat and hold on for the ride.
Edit me.
I can’t exactly explain how this concept came to me. You’ll have to content yourself with the knowledge that it arose from deep within my subconscious.
I will admit that I’m drawn to the way “edit me” sounds vaguely dirty, sexual. It’s true, right?
Why the mixture of languages? Why edit moi? It opens the toolbox of language(s). It complicates, it captures a certain sense of everythingness. It includes. Mixing fights the limits of language.
Last week, a friend shared a post from this blog, coincidentally on the same subject. The blogger is quite religious, and on those grounds he rejects the necessity of editing himself. I’d describe him as radically self-acceptant and I’d lie if I told you that I wasn’t envious. But I just don’t have that much certainty in any single religion.
For me, editing is a process. For those of you who don’t know me or have never read my resume, I worked as an editor for a number of years. The company I worked for is old and venerated. I learned from the best. I know what I’m talking about when it comes to editing.
The editor takes the raw material and corrects it of course, but she does more than that. She shapes the narrative, ensuring that each concept flows logically to the next. She knows roughly what she wants to produce, and she teases the writing to create that reality. She is a gatekeeper to understanding, pushing the limits of language to guide the reader on the path that she has chosen for him.
So what do I mean by “edit me,” and how can a blog accomplish this? A few months ago, I confided in some friends about my recent inner turmoil. One commented, startlingly, “You always seem so perfect.”
I’m not perfect. But I’ve so carefully created a singular version of myself — in opposition to my father, my sister, my aunt, my grandmother (people I’ve written about and will write of). This version is incomplete. Yet if you glance at the facts of my life as I usually present them, that glimmer of perfection shows.
This presents me with many difficulties. It’s hard to hide so much about myself. It goes against my open nature. To preserve the singular version of perfection, I’ve denied myself a lot of fun. I’ve never allowed myself to mess up, to break the rules. And what of those hidden truths? I’ve realized that hiding parts of myself, or locking out people I love, only redoubles their power over me.
Everyone needs an editor. It’s a job that you cannot accomplish on your own, even on paper. An editor must bring an objective eye to the writing, to the material, and no one has that much self-awareness.
So, edit me. I’ve gotten it right, but believe me, I’ve also gotten it wrong. I want to put some of the parts back in. I want to mix up my narrative and see what that creates. I want to reconnect with what I’ve denied about myself and my history.
I need help. If you’re reading this, maybe you know a thing or two about what I’m saying. Maybe you see things differently. I’d like to hear your thoughts. Don’t worry that you’ll hurt me. This is a collaboration. I’ll fill you in on the cast of characters, the settings, the plot twists and turns. Then I hope that you’ll chime in. I’d like to hear similar stories and opposite stories. I want to find the cracks in my narrative and tear them open to see what’s inside. It will be productive for me.
So, come on, edit me.
The first time, we missed it. I took photos of the mountains beyond.
The second time, we whizzed by its jutting head. “Look!” We all shouted.
Finally, the third time, we pulled over.
Let’s go in the rain-wet air
Why do I always write in poetry?
My step is my meter
I like the dead trees
Their black gray white permanent
Against the temporary greenness.
Walk with me
See the goose on the water below
Cross the bridge with hollow footsteps
Come quickly now
There’s a black dragonfly
A white moth
The field of coneflowers so elusive
Like you
Can you see it, set back from the trail?
Never speak only listen
Hear the birds and the silence
Hear our footsteps
Sun on the muddy forest floor
Spots of light in darkness
Do you see me?
He’s slouched in a red adirondack chair, mirrored sunglasses banded over his black bandana. Gray ponytail draped over his shoulder. Denim shirt, jeans, black biker boots with silver buckles. He looks like he’s sleeping but he laughs when the hummingbirds descend on the feeder, flitting like children.
