The Art of Awkward

In high school, I was depressed. No further details are needed. I mean, I was in high school for four whole years. Of course, I was depressed. So when I was an angst-ridden teenager, I read The Catcher in the Rye. And it meant the world to me. While angst-ridden and teenager should be synonyms for each other, no other book captures that sentiment quite like The Catcher in the Rye. So thank you, J.D Salinger. For making me feel like someone got it. May you rest in peace.

The New York Times asked several experts and writers if “The Catcher in the Rye” is still relevant to today’s teenagers. They asked, “Does the Holden Caulfield version of alienation speak to a generation of Facebook?” As if, Facebook can prevent alienation. Facebook is mighty, but it’s no match against alienation.

Elizabeth Wurtzel, writer of “Prozac Nation,” essentially claims that today’s teenagers aren’t really teenagers. That they’re either complete trainwrecks or goody-two shoes, and there is nothing in between that would glean something from “The Catcher in the Rye.” She also refers to them as “Twitter Tribes.” Since teenagers don’t use Twitter, I’m guessing she understands teenagers as well as she did when she wrote “Prozac Nation.” Which is to say, not at all.

But, if today’s teenagers can’t find commonality with Holden Caufield when it comes to angst, I hope they can find it with Angela Chase, the Holden Caufield of my generation.

Before my nephew was even born, I decided on our first tradition. Everytime I went somewhere, everytime he had a birthday, everytime there was a special occasion, I would buy him a book to commemorate it. After all, his parents had announced his forthcoming arrival with the book The Giving Tree.

I figured what better gift could I give him then a love of reading.  It was what made my childhood and teenage years bearable. The ability to retreat into books. It was the gift my parents had given me. Enchanting stories of Babar and Madeleine, erstwhile lessons from the Berenstain Bears, scrappiness from the indefatigable Boxcar Children and independence from Nancy Drew. Oh, and the perfect size from Sweet Valley High.

So I came back with The Maestro Plays from the Opera at the Met, Mister Seahorse from the Chicago Aquarium and Then & Ben from the Franklin Institute. I gave him Lemony Snicket’s The Latke Who Couldn’t Stop Screaming for Hannukah. Because even if we’re not Jewish, every kid should understand that their holiday isn’t the only holiday. He received the Library Lion about a lion too loud for the library. It’ll be useful as being 1/2 Ellis, he’ll never have an inside voice.

I love picking out the books with the beautiful illustrations and the enchanting stories. I like the lessons they teach Bob-Saget-from-Full-House style. I know now to imagine reading the book out loud to him when making the purchase to spare myself boring reads.

And I think my favorite part is how much he enjoys my reading as well.

Xander on his first birthday. Me reading in the background.

I was raised by a stay-at-home Mom. As far as Moms go, she was the best. She had home cooked meals on the table by 5 pm. She made elaborate cakes for our birthday parties. She coached my Odyssey of the Mind teams, she drove car pools, she made lunches…but mainly she loved us. It was evident in everything she did and the way she lived her life.

Throughout my childhood and into college, I knew this wasn’t going to be my path. I was going to have a career. Run companies and do great things. Then I started my career. Careers suck. They’re draining and time consuming, sometimes playing out like a real-world Office Space. How could I ever fit a kid into a week consumed by a fifty-hour plus week? I figured if I went the kid route, I’d take a career detour.

Then two years ago I read the Feminine Mistake: Are We Giving Up Too Much? In the Mommy Wars, Leslie Bennetts takes a passive aggressive tone just this side of hatred towards stay-at-home moms. She is that person you hate. She seethes with a self-righteousness piety typically reserved for members of Focus on the Family. Her book tells story after story of women who were stay-at-home who then became financial trainwrecks after divorce or death or unemployment. Whatever the cause, you were going to hell in a handbasket if you took that career detour.

I seethed after that book. I was indignant and angry. But you know what? I think she’s right. Not working for a prolonged period is setting yourself up for some potentially scary financial situations. When my parents got divorced, it was pretty clear in my opinion who got the short end of the financial stick. The data is pretty clear and convincing that it’s a huge financial risk to leave the workforce and go to a one-paycheck house.

It’s not like every stay-at-home mom runs into financial problems. This is a gray situation, which Bennetts treated as if it were black and white. Every women whether divorced, married or single should have her own credit, savings, checking account and retirement funds. Bennetts never addressed financial acumen for women, which I think was the real point.

I loathe the Feminine Mistake, but it seriously gave me pause on some of my previously held perspectives. And no matter what path I take, I’ll consider it carefully and make educated choices.

Read it. Hate it. Think about it.

In one book, in two sentences, Joan Didion in the The Year of Magical Thinking, summed up life – my life – “Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant.” For Joan, her instant, is sitting down to dinner after coming home from visiting her daughter in the hospital and her husband dies of a heart attack at the dinner table. The ordinary instant of making dinner. Of enjoying a whiskey.

For me, my instant, was getting a call from my sister that Dad was in the hospital. Talking to him. Thinking it was a urine infection. Resuming work. Talking to my co-workers. Calling again. Finding he was no longer in the ER. Calling again. Finding out he had a massive heart attack. The ordinary instant of cubicle life.

Six weeks earlier, that instant was getting a call from my Aunt with news about my Mom. That the Dr. wanted to check my Mom into hospice. Which if you’re familiar with hospice, it’s the point of no return. Same cubicle. Another ordinary instant of cubicle life.

A lot of times we never see the bad stuff coming. There are no warning signs. There is no traffic slowing down to let you know there is a cop with a radar gun. And even if there are no warning signs, blinking headlights or giant red flares, it still feels like it comes out of nowhere. Six years later, and at any moment I’m always wondering, “is this one of those ordinary instants?” It’s living life waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Magical Thinking refers to the irrational thinking that comes along with grief. The belief that your loved one isn’t dead. That if you had done things differently they wouldn’t have died. The way I wish I had realized it wasn’t a urine infection when he went into the doctor three days before his heart attack. The way my sister wishes her last meal with him wasn’t a Big Mac.

The Year of Magical Thinking helped me with understanding the grieving process better than any of the self-help books I received. I also didn’t read any of the self-help books I received. Correlation? Perhaps.

Life changes fast.

Life changes in the instant.

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.

The question of self-pity.

When applying to colleges, one of my application questions asked: What piece of literature or artwork has changed your life?

Jesus. What a self-important question to ask an 18-year-old trying to make a good impression.

But at 28, that question becomes a little more intriguing. A little less ridiculous. While I can’t say that any book has changed my life, I can think of several that have seriously changed the way I think about things. That I reference in my thought process.

This whole line of thinking came up when watching Hamlet on Sunday watching an over-done Ophelia go mad. It is catalyst for a book that did alter my perspective. Reviving Ophelia.

Reviving Ophelia takes a look at the way adolescent girls lose themselves in their need to please others. How do I describe this without coming off as an Amazon book review? At a time when I was depressed and leaving for college (probably because I was applying to places that asked me pretentious questions), the book helped me understand a bit better the chaos around me. That the cultural expectations placed on females can be unattainable and unhealthy.

The book opened my eyes even at a time I didn’t realize they were being opened. The stories of depression, suicide, eating disorders, abuse and sexual assault made my little word bigger and more cognizant. When my friend’s boyfriend broke her car dashboard in anger, the book put it in context. That is wasn’t just an “incident.”

It shed light on the negative hidden messages in advertising and general mass culture about women and their bodies. And even if I could recognize those negative messages in the advertisements then, it would take years not to buy their bullshit. I remember fitting into size six jeans in college and feeling an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. If growing up in the nineties, you ever read Sweet Valley High, you might recall that Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield were described as the perfect size six. A book series mind you that is geared for sixth graders.

One of the most poignant examples in the book to me was looking at how we answer questions about our abilities. Ask a preschooler if they can sing, dance or paint, and they will enthusiastically raise their hands. The older we get, the less our hands go up. The older we get, the less we believe in ourselves. How hard you have to work to destroy that negative voice. How narrowly we define ability.

I haven’t picked up Reviving Ophelia since college. But I’m thankful for a book that it brought a little understanding into my life.