Twisted Fairy Tale

My Italian grandmother walked around the house in her old age and her old age was the only age that I can remember, whimpering. I've written this before, but I carry her in my cells. Pray that I die, she muttered in her thick accent, pray that I die. She fingered rosary beads. True. She was always of old age but not always old. She also pinched the skin on the top of your hand and played a sing-song game whose words I've forgotten as they were in Italian. I knew the Lord's Prayer in Italian, but I've forgotten it. For a moment I forgot the Lord's Prayer in English, and lord knows her meatballs and spaghetti were hallowed. I twist language to avoid what I avoid. It's unbelievable that I still can't deal with Sophie's bad days in a way that I believe I should be dealing after twenty-one years. I leaned over and wiped a drop of drool off the floor, a trail of drops from her bedroom. I had walked her out and down the hall to put her in her chair. I propped a pillow under her fragile elbow so that she didn't bruise her arm. She has tiny bruises on her arms and legs, the skin so fragile over bone. My grandmother was strong in body but looked soft. She carried bags and bags of groceries through the streets of Harlem and up the stairs to the apartment over the firehouse. She had burns along one arm. We were told they were scars from tomato sauce that had spattered while she stirred it as a child in Calabria. She never went to school. She was illiterate. I look soft but am strong in body. I read all day long for a living and because it keeps me alive. I read an article today about a black firefighter in upstate New York whose home was torched and burnt to the ground along with everything in it, including the two family cats. The man, his wife and two children weren't at home and are alive. The arsonist was a racist, a fellow fireman who had written him an ugly note a few days before. Niggers are not allowed to be firefighters. No one wants you in this city. And so forth. What do we do with this information? Who are these people who live amongst us? I feel a whimper at the back of my throat, and it burns. I felt it earlier when I leaned over to wipe the drool off the floor, the trail of drops like crumbs, my grandmother's rosary. I have scars, but you can't see them. Why do I feel fragile, like skin over bone? Why can't the drops of drool be crumbs that I can use to find my way back?

The Italians

I've had two very long conversations with my father recently when we've discussed, among other things, the new PBS four-part special The Italians. I've only seen the first part which chronicles the years in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries when millions of southern Italians immigrated to the United States. I confess to being ignorant about the incredible contributions Italian-Americans made to this country. I was even ignorant of Italy's history -- how it really wasn't a country until Garibaldi "united it" in the late nineteenth century. It's a fascinating documentary and confirms many of the stories that have been handed down to me from my father and his brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles and cousins. I've posted the photo above of my grandmother Josephine when she was a young woman, and I'm struck again by her penetrating gaze, her eyebrows, the carefully-placed choker and long strand of beads or rosary (I can't tell) hanging down her dress. My nonna was illiterate and came to this country with two children. She'd have three more (my aunt, father and his twin brother), and she'd never learn to read or write or even become a United States citizen despite living here for more than fifty years. Yet, she so very much lives on in me, in my children, in the stories that we continue to tell and even see on specials like The Italians. It's amazing to me how much has changed in such a short time -- that only a couple of generations before mine, my family was tilling other people's fields, scrabbling by on literally nothing, making grueling sacrifices and setting out on journeys to places utterly foreign to them and then making new lives. I found myself scanning the photos and video footage of the documentary, looking for "people I know." My father joked that many of the people were his mother. We spoke about la famigilia, about secrecy and mistrust of authority that linger even today in parts of our extended family. We talked about the similarities of immigrant experience today -- how vilified certain immigrant groups continue to be. I look forward to watching the rest of the series and learning more about my family's immigrant experience and the history of Italian-Americans. Even if you're not Italian, I encourage you to watch them.

Fried Green Tomato BLTs, Rending Your Garments, Whimpering and the Beach

I ate a fried green tomato, bacon, and lettuce sandwich today, after cooperating and doing the right thing by getting a mammogram and taking care of my daughter, even when I'd rather not. The tomatoes were thinly sliced, lightly breaded and not greasy at all. There was also an egg with a perfectly cooked yolk on the sandwich, neither runny nor hard-boiled. And instead of regular, there was some sort of wasabi mayo, but not so hot that you felt it, and the bacon was thick and crispy. I suppose that was the extent of my not being cooperative today -- it wasn't exactly healthy, this sandwich, and Lord knows, I should be eating healthy so that I can continue to cooperate with life's vicissitudes. One of those vicissitudes is the frustration of not having the higher ratio Charlotte's Web to give to Sophie to see whether we can regain the seizure control we had when she last had it. The good people at Realm of Caring are working on it, though, so I haven't lost heart, even as Sophie's hands are clammy and she drops glasses and shatters them, looks to the right and freezes, jerks for a moment or two and then looks forward and continues whatever it is she's doing or thinking. She's being.

I also took Sophie to the beach this afternoon because I felt my dead grandmother-self coming on. As you know, she was prone to moaning and whimpering and praying that she'd die, and I was feeling a bit of the same -- especially the whimpering part. I know ya'll think I'm doing a kick-ass job most of the time, and I agree with you only if you recognize that under that resolve is a whimper, a tiny, high-pitched in and out take of air. The days of rending my garments are over, as are the tearing out of my hair or the sliding down the shower wall and crouching under the spray. The whimper, contained below the surface yet close enough to fuel some of my days is the new rend and tear.

Until you go to beach in Santa Monica on yet another glorious summer day --

Bare Arms, Not Bear

The woman in the black cardigan is my Italian grandmother, and she's standing next to her sister outside of their ramshackle house in the small town of Cosenza in the Calabrian region of southern Italy. I imagine it's nearly 100 degrees outside despite the heavy clothing, but they're all protected from drafts, the kind of wind that grabs the neck and kills you if you're not careful. I have lately begun baring my arms after a period of many years. My attitude is a sort of screw it, I'm fifty years old and who the hell cares if they look like my Italian grandmother's? Covered or uncovered, my grandmother was a very strong person physically, if not mentally. Legend has it that she carried bags and bags of groceries for many blocks in New York City and then up many flights of stairs unassisted. I, too, have pretty decent upper arm strength which has come in handy with the disabled child, but my arms are just not cut in that sinewy way that comes from exercise or genetics. They look soft, and they are soft and their strength is buried deep, like the plastic king in the middle of the dough of a King Cake. How's that for metaphor? This summer I was inspired by a friend of mine at Expressing Motherhood who made an amusing video about baring one's arms, and for three days in a row I've worn three different outfits and bared my arms and am now crafting a post about the act.

That leads me to something a bit more substantial -- or should I say as substantial as my bared arms?

Anywho.

Last night, Cheryl Strayed, the mega author of Wild, posted an interesting article by Katie Roiphe on Facebook. Listen, I'm not really friends with Cheryl Strayed, I just "liked" her Facebook page, and every now and then I'll "like" what she posts along with tens of thousands of others. Roiphe's article was about the very hot (both literally and figuratively) Karl Ove Knausgaard's new series of memoirs that are slowly being translated into English. Her article basically proposes the question "what if a woman wrote it?" Knausgaard's memoir evidently outlines in minute detail his every personal struggle, including the minutia of his daily life as father. He talks about diapering his babies, I think (I haven't read it), along with philosophy and whatever else is going on in his life and mind. The books are a huge sensation. I want to read them, frankly. But, yes, what if a woman wrote it? Roiphe makes an amusing case that a Karla Ove Knausgaard would probably receive a far different response than her male counterpart were she to publish the same, and much of that negative response would come from women.

Generally, I'm beyond bored by things like the mommy wars and the work vs. nonwork stuff. I think the extreme parenting I've done has given me a sort of trump card that I admit to periodically over-using, but this article by Roiphe really struck me, particularly in the context of my own recently published ebook. Now, I'm not comparing myself to these fancy pants writers. I have a $2.99 ebook that is about 36 pages and covers roughly one and a half years of my life. I've gotten a great response to the book from people of all persuasions, and I've also gotten some criticism that I believe was considerate and worth absorbing. However, one person made the comment that she (a woman!) didn't see it as a book, really, for a literary community but rather as a "passionate article for a mother's community." I've been thinking about this statement for days, actually -- not in any obsessive, upset way but more in a curious, cud-chewing way. There's a tiny ding in that statement, a criticism not so much of my writing's literary quality (which is always arguable) but rather in the suggestion, however faint, that a mother's community holds nothing literary.

Like I said, I'm chewing on this quite placidly. With bare arms.

The Entrepreneur, Halloween, Christmas and The House of Crazy

If I told you the past week chez House of Crazy was crazy, it would be an understatement. Raymond Chandler and Santa Anas aside, between the Seizing Marijuana Chronicles and The Teenager and The Dyslexic Entrepreneur, I've been hard put to remain not just calm but even somewhat collected. I won't even go into The Husband. I've been wearing sunglasses all week to disguise my tears and have walked around the house whimpering when they're all at school. I've told you over and over that my Italian grandmother used to do so all day, whimper, sigh and mutter under her breath pray that I die, pray that I die. Last night I made a valiant and last ditch effort to cheer the Dyslexic Entrepreneur who had finished a horrific week of school that included about 5,321,789 emails back and forth to The Powers That Be at the school and the passing, Santa Ana-induced thought of homeschooling. He had just climbed into the car after baseball practice and begun another historic rant of negativity, how I suck at baseball and just about everything and how I'm just going to give it all up and be a giant loser, I'm really not supposed to be in this world, and while my eyes glazed over and my ears dripped blood, the tiny thought entered my mind, the valiant thought that I then actually voiced:

Why don't we go to Cost Plus World Market and get you some stuff for your lemonade stand?

If you're familiar with Los Angeles on Friday nights, and particularly with our local outdoor shopping mall called The Grove on Friday nights, you'd know just how outrageous this suggestion was -- how it was more the last ditch effort of a dying woman (pray that I die, pray that I die) than of a reasonable or even good enough mother. We went. We nearly killed ourselves wrestling a giant Exxon Valdeez SUV for a parking spot, and we walked the Christmas decorated clogged aisles (pray that I die, pray that I die) until The Dyslexic Entrepreneur decided that he'd use some of his earnings from last week's lemonade stand to buy a cotton candy maker for this week's stand. And given that I was dying, had contemplated buying some admittedly adorable silver-flecked Santa ornaments and wouldn't be spending the money myself, since the Dyslexic Entrepreneur has actually made about three times as much as it cost,  I said yes.

What's really cool about the cotton candy maker is that you can throw candies in the top to flavor the sugar.In fact, that photo of The Dyslexic Entrepreneur was taken at about 10:00 this morning, and his product became his breakfast. In addition, we're going to start decorating for Christmas early this year at The House of Crazy by putting silver flecks on the pumpkins and draping spider-webs over the life-sized Santa Claus that's sitting on my porch, a "gift" from my parents. The weird thing is that I'm no longer praying to die but actually getting excited.

Reader, what are you doing?

LARB, Heather McHugh, Jeneva Stone and Getting through a Saturday

Heather McHugh, Butchart Gardens, Victoria, Canada 2013

Imagination makes me large. The constraints of duty make me small.

Jeneva Stone

This morning, the telephone rang too early and the voice of my Saturday caregiver gave me the death knell words that she wouldn't be able to come in today to take care of Sophie. I confess to irritation. I confess to snapping. I confess to internal dramatics -- the I can't go on and I hate my life and This is only the beginning -- before I pulled myself together and got out of bed with a big, grandmotherly sigh (Pray that I die, my Italian grandmother used to mutter, while fingering her rosary beads. Pray that I die). When I later opened my email and saw that my friend, the great caregiver and writer Jeneva Burroughs Stone, had an essay published in the Los Angeles Review of Books, and that this essay was a tribute to Heather McHugh, the extraordinary poet who gifted me with my recent respite week in Victoria -- well -- I took it as a sign. While my literal week away in Canada, when I was taken care of with exquisite attention to detail  -- good food, beautiful nature, the ocean, cultural excursions, solitude, real rest and sleep, massage, baths, brilliant conversation, (the only thing lacking, sex) -- is receding, the memory of it is clear, and that clarity is a glass door that leads to possibility. Because of Heather and Caregifted, I now know that respite and the concomitant return to my self is possible, my self is indeed intact. That glass door might be closed to me today, and I might walk around fingering my rosary, pray that I die, but I can certainly look through it. I'm also going to make a peach pie.

Read Jeneva's essay here.

Communiste

My Uncle Tony (Anthony Romano, on the left) and my father, (Michele Benito on the right) are talking to their Sister Mary in New Jersey. Uncle Tony and my father are fraternal twins, and they like to mess with her. They sound so much alike that she thought she was talking only to my father. Henry and Oliver thought this was hysterical, but my mother and I just rolled our eyes.

Fun fact: My father and Uncle Tony were born the fourth and fifth children in New York City to my grandmother Josephine who was a recent immigrant from southern Italy. She could neither read nor write in Italian or English, was a devout Catholic and retained her thick accent until the day she died at nearly ninety years old. Her surprise twins (she didn't know she was carrying two until she gave birth) were named after Benito Mussolini, a hero, at the time, to southern Italian peasants. Romano was Mussolini's youngest son. Evidently, anything bad in the world was quickly called communiste in my Noni's thick Italian accent. Bad actions were all those things that went against the norm: not going to mass, late garbage pick-up, etc. I have only fond memories of my grandmother, although I'm certain I would have been called communiste if she were alive.