Avenging my dad

I told my dad after we saw True Grit together (the Coen brothers version & in theaters) that I would avenge him if someone ever killed him.  And he laughed a little and was like, “Okay!”

So now that dad has died and it doesn’t feel at all natural or “well-timed,” I wonder sometimes how exactly I’m supposed to do the avenging.  I don’t really feel very “avengey” towards suicide itself.  It’s very personal and, by the time you’re trying to prevent someone from taking their own life, you’re in a total state of emergency.  I do feel more passionate, however, about preventive mental health care, especially for men around my father’s age. (White males accounted for 70% of all suicides in 2013.)

So I want to be preachy but I don’t.  I want to say: understand the mental health history in your family. Talk to people around you. If you feel at risk, make sure you have a strong network of health care providers–access to good therapists, people who know their mental health shit, and a solid GP who understands mental health issues.  Be educated.  Read.  Talk to people. Don’t be afraid of it. Don’t dismiss it. People kill themselves and you can’t always stop it. But you can do a whole lot to cushion against that risk.

It feels obnoxious, but I did it anyway.  I don’t know how to avenge dad.  But this is my blundered and heartfelt attempt.

Here are also a few resources I found inspiring over the past few years:
this article from WBUR on suicide prevention for men, which led me to this organization’s site as well as the the delightful “man therapy” website
-and of course, this, from sassy gay friend
-I also read about this service, mostly targeted to teens, this year.
-I always feel pretty wound up when I read this and the follow-on, but it’s very good.

And you can always call me if you need to, and you can probably call a lot of other people who love you very much, if you do feel that emergency hit. Don’t even think twice about it.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

two e-mails about shoes and apparently I always want shoes in May

Hi, Sarah —

I just now transferred $100.00 to your savings account.  Get yourself those shoes!

Love ya!

— Daddy

Hi, Sarah!  I transferred $525.00 to your checking account.  That will cover the vaccines, and help toward some running shoes.


P.S.  Let’s talk tonight, if you have time.  Or give me a call when you’re going to bed – no matter how late.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

a season of mourning

This feels like a season of mourning.  I already have thoughts about dad running through my head.  I feel like there is all this lead-up to the anniversary of his death, in a way I did not feel last year.  I was busy dealing with too many other things, presumably.

I feel like punching him in the face and hugging him.

I feel like screaming at him and telling him how much I love him.

All at once.


I have been thinking about how mourning sometimes seems to drive people apart instead of bring them together.  It should be our shared human experience, but instead, it often puts us into our own siloed places.  You talk about your dead daddy and I can’t help but start talking about mine.

In a recent medium article I shared, the author describes grief like this:

When you experience a loss like this, you get to see a really wild new amount of life. Suddenly the range of the type of sad you can feel, to the type of happy you can feel, is busted open. The spectrum from happy to sad isn’t a foot wide anymore — it’s as far as your arms can stretch and then to the edges of the room and then up the block and over into the next neighborhood.

And that feels so true.  My boyfriend is the best human, and probably some of it is because he has this grief.  But I feel like I haven’t really had the time to reap the advantages of it.  And I worry I won’t ever will.  I’ll just have a bigger capacity to feel, but I won’t ever fill it up.

I don’t know what this is to say, totally.  Just that I might be an asshole this month, but I still love you all.  And can’t we all just grieve together?  I don’t really know.


Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Protected: Nappy hairball of feelings

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Posted in Uncategorized

Crap I like to eat

Inspired by Molly Wizenberg, yet again:

“Sometimes I want to make two types of sauce gribiche, and other times, I want to claw my eyes out and then call for a pizza delivery. I know I should try to find some sort of happy medium in this, and maybe I will someday. But in the meantime, I have found that it’s useful to sit down and make a list. I call it The Crap I Like to Eat (CILTE) List, and it really does help.” — Molly Wizenberg


Crap I like to eat
lentily/beany (salads)
roasted chicken w/ tomatos and onions
salad (plus cheese, plus nuts, plus fruit/veg)
tomatoes (roasted, or…?) on bread
cheese on
chicken salad on bread/crackers
fish many ways
poached/scrambled egg
avocado (on bread optional)
chips and salsa (w/ cheese and avocado and beans an option)
garlicky greens
ice cream
cauliflower candy
with stuff
like tomatoes
or capers
and cheese
and let’s not forget olives
baked sweet potato
don’t forget pesto
anything/everything on a saltine (or toast)
cabbage (as coleslaw w/ peanuts or sautéed w/ carrots and green onion)

new ideas!
brown rice with toasted pecans
angel hair pasta with tuna, etc.
lima beans w/ feta and parsley (maybe tomatoes too)
ten minute couscous

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

I had received so much, that all my thoughts were steeped in feeling

“Where is it we were together? Who were you that I lived with—walked with—the brother—the friend? Darkness, light—strife. Are they the workings of one mind? The features of the same face? Oh, my soul! Let me be in you now. Look out through my eyes. Look out at the things you made—all things shining.” –from The Thin Red Line

Adapted from this!!!

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

We don’t believe because we don’t recall

“Voluntary memory, the memory of the intellect and the eyes, [gives] us only imprecise facsimiles of the past which no more resemble it than pictures by bad painters resemble the spring…. So we don’t believe that life is beautiful because we don’t recall it, but if we get a whiff of a long-forgotten smell we are suddenly intoxicated, and similarly we think we no longer love the dead, because we don’t remember them, but if by chance we come across an old glove we burst into tears.” –MP

Bike ride

Bike ride

Voluntary memory: this is where I have spent a lot of my time, purposively thinking, under an illusion that I can drive my thoughts like horses.  I remember trying to write stories this way in college.  Running around the LSU lakes and thinking thinking in order to create a story and move it forward.  Which is a strategy that works for creating the structure of a story, raising its bones, but not for reifying the beauty that the bones contain.

When I was in high school I wrote thoughts on little scraps of paper that I’d find later in my car or my purse.  I wrote a sentence once about waking up with ink on my sheets from writing all these little things down, sleeping with my head where my feet should have been.  Which says a lot about how I was at the time.  Thusly, most of the things I wrote ended up being these little lights of thought, strung together.  It worked out alright.



Voluntary memory is me looking at pictures, looking for the feeling I need and looking for something specific.  But the specific, needed thing is always the meeting of so many tiny stitches and patches that you can’t ever precisely recreate–and you know that.  Still, if you get only a few of those pieces back together, or truly, if they come to you, involuntarily, you get something imperfect, blotchy, but clear enough to be important.  And that’s where I don’t ever want to ask too many questions.  I don’t want to ask questions like: “Whence [does] it come? What [does] it signify? How [can] I seize upon and define it?”  Because the questioning is where it starts to fall apart again.

In my youth, I spent a lot of time in a very physical space, and by that I mean that I felt my best a lot of the time doing something to resist my logical, analytical side, like riding my bike, running around town at dusk followed by riding my bike, tearing down the soccer field like a half-lunatic, singing on-stage.  That athletic catharsis is a place where I’m really okay, but it’s also a place very much on the edge of something.  It’s a place where I can pour my feelings in translation, but a place that can never hold them all.  So I get to the very edge of it, where I’m running, running, into something like midnight, but I can’t run fast enough to accomplish the real thing I want to accomplish, so I just stay there, in that tense but beautiful place (er, running into midnight) which holds (almost) all the feelings.  Now that I run less, it’s like this when I’m mid-lunge, lactic acid flowing, and swimming; especially swimming, since it’s an activity which encourages twin pillars of calm and strength.

But the real point of all of this is the involuntary memory.  For me, a stronger version of that phrase would be a “trigger,” i.e., a thing that explodes when it greets the air.

Abita Springs

Abita Springs

Before dad died, I spent a lot of time in Zanzibar mid-panic, but in a still functional, hidden way.  I did a lot of really normal-seeming things.  I only slept poorly, had nightmares, did illogical things like google dad’s obits, as if he had already died.  A friend messaged me on Skype one evening to tell me she’d had a nightmare about me and dad the night before; she’d wanted to make sure I was okay. I didn’t ask what it was about since I knew knowing would have only impeded my functionality.

I listened to “The Ship Song” a lot.  The version I listened to was a cover by Lissie that’s even more dreamlike than the original.  It takes a lot of the reality out of the original, and when I hear it now, I really think of and borderline-feel the horrible calm that was Zanzibar before dad’s death.

The path that led me to “The Ship Song” today isn’t that convoluted, but the real point is that I ended up listening to it a lot, the original real/dreamy Nick Cave version and the dreamy/dreamy Lissie version.  (I only wish the Martha Wainwright version were better.)

And listening to it steered me to that place of horror and sadness and longing.  That trifecta is not one you can really lean into or settle into when you’re in public because it’s a feeling that can make you cry, triply-bad.  It’s a feeling that can make you wail and rattle the closest things nailed to a wall or attached to a floor.

When this feeling suddenly happens–because it’s “happened” before–I wonder, well, how I am functioning.  And it goes back to that passage I initially quoted.  A lot of the time I feel like I’m living as if dad never even existed because that’s the only way to tolerate the loss.

Logically, I know he existed, but emotionally, I can’t totally grapple with it.

But when I’m in the other place, the triggered place, and I start to sift through the old e-mails, even the mechanical ones, I can feel broken upon reading things like: “Yes, call AAA.  It may be covered as part of our membership.  You have your card.” These e-mails almost always end with: “Let’s talk tonight.  I love you.”

Louisiana being pretty

Louisiana being pretty

After I got the news that dad died, a few things happened.  I made a movement or two in my bed and, almost efficiently, wailed, “No!” knowing that the wail signified: “Something has broken.”  Then I called Rebecca to tell her I wasn’t coming to class.  Then I called Julie to tell her what had happened.  Then Julie came over, even though I’d said, “No, it’s okay, you don’t have to come.”  But obviously, it was perfect that she came, since I was moving through things more slowly than I ever had and would, before and after those moments.  Mwalimu Omar had followed Julie in shock to my host parents’ house, so at a certain point, there was basically a party in my room, with Mwalimu Omar insisting we all continue to speak and grieve in Swahili.  Julie and I laughed at his earnestness.  Then Julie and I walked and had lunch and that’s when I started having the “moments.”  In the moments, I’d think something about dad, and want to say it, but feel unable to without breaking and crying.  Yet, now, I can say these things with great detachment; there isn’t any crying about them because maybe you only cross that bridge of horror once or twice.

The thing I really wanted to do, though, after I got the news about dad, was to go to my pool and swim.  I swam at a pool at a hotel called Mtoni Marine, a bit outside of town, and though I usually took the daladala, Julie and I took a taxi, joking about how we were going to get kidnapped for being lackluster in our security-related decisions (though we weren’t really; we’d taken all the normal “precautions”).

This was when I was still swimming arms-only because of back/hip pain, and I swam pretty furiously that afternoon, did my normal 1800 or so, took my time.  And I continued having the “moments” in the water, where I felt like I was both literally and, uh, metaphorically drowning.  Feeling waves of total panic which, when translated, read: “Oh, hey, you’re never going to see dad again. Oh. Hey. Oh.”

All of this means that some weird things happen when I swim now.  Involuntarily I’ll cry out, “Daddy!” mid-lap.  It comes out in a small, literal voice or a whispered wail in my head.  Like a child, but I can’t even laugh about it.  Because that’s the feeling; that’s the wailing that is still strangely making its way out of my mouth.

This involuntary remembering explains a lot about my dreams since dad makes it into them so often.  It seems like that’s the only way I can tolerate thinking about him, or the only way I can think about him in a way that feels whole and respectful of the memory and true.  (Not real, but true.)

I dream about Kayla this way too.  I won’t think about her for ages, and then suddenly she’s there, in the dream, and it’s the truest thing that’s ever “happened.”  And I have memories of these dreams now that feel like part of the story of my real memories with her.  Nothing really important needs to happen in these dreams, since the action is the part where you see the person, and are seen by them. You sit together or stand together; you’re just together again, and that’s literally the only thing that matters.

It says a lot that dad’s favorite book was Brideshead Revisited.  The commentary about all of this is obvious and initial and strong: “My theme is memory, that winged host that soared about me one grey morning of war-time. These memories, which are my life—for we possess nothing certainly except the past—were always with me. Like the pigeons of St. Mark’s, they were everywhere, under my feet, singly, in pairs, in little honey-voiced congregations, nodding, strutting, winking, rolling the tender feathers of their necks, perching sometimes, if I stood still, on my shoulder or pecking a broken biscuit from between my lips; until, suddenly, the noon gun boomed and in a moment, with a flutter and sweep of wings, the pavement was bare and the whole sky above dark with a tumult of fowl. Thus it was that morning.”

Dad's gazebo

Dad’s gazebo

Dad spent a lot of time in this space of voluntary remembering.  He visited his old homes and schools and dorms and walked around in the rubble of them or stood out in the street looking at the numbers his dad had fastened to the facade of the house.  After his mother died, he went with Uncle Charlie to find a lot of people from her past, to these old Louisiana places.

Uncle Charlie

Uncle Charlie

I’ve been thinking about how I literally can’t do that sometimes.  I can’t go back to my grandmother and Papa Bill’s acadian house because it’s no longer theirs.  I can pass by it and around it and linger in the memories which are the grass racing around its perimeter and the knowledge of the garden that lies out back, the garden that I thought of for some reason when I first saw Wild Strawberries.

So since I can’t do the literal visiting, I have to do something else, and based on today, and today’s feeling more than today’s thinking, it seems like that something is waiting.  I have to wait?  That sounds awful.  But it also seems true.  I sit here, and I do the things that put me in the place where I am most myself–in that athletic or artistic catharsis or calm.  Either is pleasure.

I’m not totally sure what I’m left with after today, but I at least know that I can read the following sentences and feel surprisingly heartbroken: “Yes, call AAA.  It may be covered as part of our membership.  You have your card.”



Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments