Oprah baby
At some point during Oprah’s recent farewell saga, my mom sent me a text message.
“You’re an Oprah baby.”
It was one of those moments when my head actually pivoted, turning to the side. Huh? Perhaps her comma was missing.
“You’re an Oprah, baby.”
Maybe she had adopted Oprah’s name as a new brand of person. I was going to be the equivalent of Oprah one day? The thought has passed my mind a few times, so why not? But this was unlikely.
Then, in a matter of moments (it came and went quickly) I clung to the reality that perhaps my mother was, in fact, Oprah.
But alas, I was wrong on all counts. It didn’t take long to realize what she meant. Oprah’s first season on the air was the year I was born. The Oprah show followed soon after, on September 8th, just a few days before my birthday.
Aligning stars aside, my relationship with Oprah is strong. Anyone who knows me knows this. They can attest to my ongoing defense of her antics, my special edition DVD of her 20th anniversary (which, I might add, many people have borrowed over the years), and my fond recollection of her advice. I love her. I just do. I mean, I’m not alone, so it’s not as if I’m novel or anything. I just happened to develop a strong rapport with a television personality who happens to be really charismatic. Not out of the ordinary.
As a young kid growing up, I watched Oprah on a daily basis, coming home from school and hearing her listen to people’s stories, sometimes giving advice, but often just listening. I think I learned a lot from her. Empathy, compassion, emotional intelligence. She, along with my family, gave me a solid footing when it came to relationships with people. I saw people’s mistakes and triumphs on television and understood the importance of what she was doing for those people, and for me.
I was exposed to people’s stories from a young age and didn’t seem so surprised when the reality of adolescence set in. Divorce, poverty, coming out. All these challenges, wherever I saw them, were not unfamiliar or isolating. I had seen them all before and knew I was not alone in facing them. And that’s gotta be her appeal for most people. She made connections when we often are forced to do it alone, or not at all. For all that, I’m grateful she exists. Like many historical figures of importance, Oprah isn’t perfect or alway right or a saint but I can take from her what is useful and leave the rest.
I haven’t watched her show in years. Since college, she has become just a portrait or headline, usually accompanied by a story about her give-aways or proclamations. But despite this distance, she has remained relevant.
I think of her, among others, whenever I’m faced with challenges. How would Oprah handle this? How would she react? I don’t really know, and don’t really care. I find the fact I’m even asking the question means I’m on the right track. If Oprah inspired anything in me, it was to think, to consider, to ponder.
- Jeff
Little man
I got some hard news this weekend. It’s never easy to hear sad things about people you care about, especially when there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m hoping everything’s ok, but your mind kind of makes up its own story, if you know what I mean. You try to be positive, but there’s a part of you that kind of knows how things are gonna turn out.
If I spend too much time inside my own head, everything just starts to get even more fuzzy and confusing. So I tried to find something to relate to, or an experience to give me some perspective.
I thought of one of my students, Nadir. His dad died last year from cancer. I don’t remember which kind, but it had been killing him for a while. In the end, he died from a flu or something. But I guess they still blame it on the cancer, because that’s what he told me.
He was 12. And his mom tells us that he does everything his father used to do. In the winter, when it snowed, he went out front and shoveled the sidewalk clear. When his little brother got sick, he sat with him and checked his temperature with the back of his hand.
“He’s like a little man,” she told us.
In times like these, when I can finally relate (even if on a completely different level) I want to take him aside and just ask him some questions. I want some advice.
How did you get through it?
Did you cry a lot, or did that make it worse?
Do you still think he’s around sometimes, and then remember he’s not?
What do you wish you had done with him before he got sick?
But I wouldn’t. He’s 12, after all, and I know he tries to be strong. Underneath it, he’s just a little boy and I know it wears on him.
I’ve just got a feeling that he’d have some really good advice.
- Jeff
This is it
And it’s not going to be much. Or very deep. And I’m not explaining why I’ve been absent for so long. You’ll understand soon enough.
For now, I just spent my first day of the year in shambles.
Cut to 5:40 am and Andrew nudges me awake. My flight, as planned, departs at 6 am from SFO. Twenty minutes, give or take, just wasn’t going to be enough, no matter how hard I wished it. A bit delusional, I dressed as quick as I could (mumbling obscenities under my breath, and wondering aloud why I’m always the target of conspiracies). Interestingly enough, we were by the airport by 6:30 – a faster turnaround than expected.
The teller had an accent I couldn’t really understand. His name was Jaz. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that name. I wanted to call him Jay-Z, but I didn’t. I thought that wouldn’t help the situation. Jaz ended up getting me rerouted onto another flight just an hour later, landing me in Philadelphia just 3 hours after my original itinerary would have gotten me there. Not bad. $50 penalty fee later, I booked it to the gate.
Middle seat, damn it. But who was I to ask for anything more? I sat between two really nice and quiet Asian ladies who knew each other. Part of me wondered if they wanted to sit next to each other. I should ask, I thought to myself more than once. Then I could get an aisle or (even better) window seat. But I didn’t, mostly because I also thought that perhaps they planned it this way – to have a stranger sit between them. That would be odd, wouldn’t it? But I figured if that was the case, I’d better not force them into an uncomfortable moment, when they’d either have to bite their lips and switch seats, or say no and risk seeming estranged, or worse, just strange.
Five hours later, I landed in Newark. Almost home. I had checked my carry on bag at the gate in SFO because the plane was too full. So I waited at the tarmac stairs to pick it up until a man approached me and explained that the bag was checked to my final destination. Easy enough.
Upon arrival, however, the bag was nowhere to be found. Unfortunately I was too slow to realize it and got stuck behind a Spanish-speaking woman who also lacked her proper luggage. The language barrier wasn’t helping anyone and their slow conversation took about 30 minutes to get through. She didn’t annoy me at all. What annoyed me was my inability to help. I wanted to jump in and rattle it all out in Spanish, saving the day and getting on with our lives. Instead, I just stood there, as frustrated as her. But when it was my turn, I had the words to get what I needed in a jiffy. It wasn’t long before we figured it out that the little bag had never left California.
And by that time I wanted nothing more than to switch places with that bag. To be sitting in that airport, close to my family and friends, close to the future that is awaiting my return in five short months. I’d wait in a room full of lost luggage to have that feeling again.
But before I could give it much more thought, I remembered something. My keys. My house keys. They were in the bag, in California.
Happy New Year. And if this is it, then it’s gonna be one hell of a year.
Might as well write it all down.
- Jeff
Self help
I have a bad habit. More than a bad habit, it’s an ugly habit.
Some people bite their nails. Others can’t stop shaking their legs sitting down.
I do this to my thumbs. (and yes, that is me)
It’s a combination of picking your cuticles and biting your nails. I’ve been unable to kick the habit since the 6th grade. I actually remember the day it started. I was showing off some weird hand trick with my fingers and a group of kids started making fun of me. And at that moment, I retreated and it began.
Over the years, it started to actually feel good – a repetitious movement that could both distract me from something nerve racking and provide a sense of control when I was out of it. Sometimes it gets so bad I bleed. Pale skinned band aids are my hallmark product. I’ve probably worn out thousands since middle school.
But as embarrassing and annoying as it is, I still do it. I’ve tried to stop so, so many times. I’ve filed the rough edges of my skin, carried around lotion to keep things smooth, used band aids and gels to cover them, and tried to develop other, less harmful habits to take its place. I even made it a challenge for one of my students to catch and stop me in the act. Nothing has worked.
For 12 years, half my life, I’ve been doing this to myself. I want to stop. I need to stop. And I’m coming to you here for some help. While I welcome any advice and tips you have, by simply making it public I’m hoping to face it like I never have before. My thumbs are usually shy around others – you won’t catch a glimpse unless you’re really looking. But hiding isn’t giving me any inspiration to stop.
So, there it is. I said it and I showed it. And while you might be a little disgusted, I hope you can take part in helping me overcome whatever it is that’s causing me to do this. If you’re a friend, bring it up. If your a stranger, check in with me. I’ll be posting updates every now and then through the summer in an effort to stay conscious and work toward breaking the habit.
If this is sounding like a cry for help, it is.
- Jeff
I graduated
I’m looking forward to, for the first time in a long time, not being a student.
It won’t last long, I’m sure.
- Jeff
Spring
My mom’s visit last week was hectic and fun and way too short. We managed to accomplish a lot in the house, but the most memorable thing my mom left behind were her photos of our beautiful street. Spring has sprung, and with it our street was in bloom.
So dramatic, isn’t it?
And then we played in it for a while.
- Jeff
“Mrs. Manassero”
Spring has sprung. Spring break has begun. And my mom is here. It’s been a while since she paid a visit last year, and I was excited at the thought of having a restful break without too much traveling. I made sure she arrived a few days early to catch a glimpse of my classroom and meet some of my students. So, for the last two days, we made the rounds at Discovery. The kids were eager to ask questions about life back in California and kept asking about my most embarrassing childhood memories. It was fun to see my students so curious and excited to meet her, and equally as satisfying to share this part of my life with my mom.
For the rest of the week, we’ll be adventuring into wild Philadelphia – touring, enjoying the sun and redecorating my house. More updates (and stories) to come.
- Jeff
Listen up
As a history teacher, I’m always telling my kids about the importance of using primary sources in their learning. And when I teach about them, I usually reference things like diaries, photos and documents as places to look for information about the past. In my slavery unit this past month, I taught about the experience of slaves on Southern plantations using interviews of former slaves that were taped and transcribed for the Federal Writer’s Project in the 1930′s. They are amazing resources for my students to get insight into the daily lives of these important historical figures, but this type of rich and (practically) unfiltered primary source is rare.
During one of these lessons, all this talk about primary sources got one of my students thinking about the primary sources that we’ll be leaving behind. In other words, he wanted to know what the people of the future will be using to understand our history. It’s a fun thought experiment to consider – what are you leaving behind that will be around for someone to sift through, dust off and make conclusions about how you lived your life or what you thought? For me, it’s this blog, a few knick-knacks I’ve left around and probably some news articles that have quoted me. Not much, really – and probably more than most.
Even before I was a history teacher, and got on tangents about primary sources, I was interested in leaving behind something more. And I’m not the only one with this instinct. StoryCorps started as a small non-profit venture that set out to record the everyday stories of Americans from across the country. They wanted to capture the folklore of our day and cement it in the Library of Congress for all of posterity. I thought it was a fun idea, and I especially loved the idea of sharing our personal narratives with someone else. Check out the website for more information about how it works, but it really is quite simple. The website even gives little snippets of select interviews, like this one.
What started as a stationary booth in NYC has blossomed into a mobile listening booth that travels around the US and a second and third booth in DC and SF. They have expanded their mission and have collected tens of thousands of stories. And of those stories, I account for three. I’ve interviewed my closest of friends Diana and Gina, my grandparents Ed and Helen and my dad Mike. Over the last three years, I’ve gone to all three booths in NYC and SF and just recently interviewed my dad during the holiday. He wasn’t nervous at first, but I could tell the pressure was on – especially when I asked about his first kiss. The point of the interviews aren’t to role play Oprah or Dr. Phil – it’s more about revealing than revelations. I want to leave something behind that explains where my family came from and the people they were. My interview questions range form childhood memories to life regrets, and my partner can take it as deep or shallow as they want. If you are in any of the cities StoryCorps visits, I recommend making an appointment (hurry – they run out quick!) and picking a friend or loved one who you want to interview. It’s a great experience for both – and they give you a copy of the interview to take home – something you’ll have forever.
I just imagine the school kids of the future, listening in on these interviews, learning about our lives and the ways we thought and interacted. And the teacher who so eagerly uses the stories we told to teach his students about the past, a little more knowledgeable because of we left something behind.
- Jeff
Bridesgroomsman
I’ve been in weddings before, but it’s always been traditional. I’ve done the role of the groomsman, and it was fun and all. But now, I want to be a bridesmaid. Totally strange to write. Probably stranger to read. I get it. But to be honest, I’m a lot closer to Diana than Harry, so why can’t I stand on her side of the aisle? Thankfully, Diana agrees.
But if I’m going to be in the wedding, standing with Diana, what should I be called? Originally, we called it a bridesgroom, only to find later on that the bridesgroom is the name of the groom (that would be Harry). I am certainly not the groom, so bridesgroom is out. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that I’m officially the “bridesman.” My spellcheck is currently underlining all of the above terms in bright red, informing that these are, in fact, not real words. But I’m going to just ignore that.
A bridesman, according to several sources, is a close male friend or companion of the bride and has no prior affiliation with the groom. They stand with the bride during the ceremony and participate in all of the bridal activities prior to the wedding (well, maybe not all of them). Now, I know what you’re thinking. Totally non-traditional. But what is tradition anyway? Usually, traditions maintain their stature not because they make our lives better, or because they even make sense – but because they are accepted. I say to hell with it. When it comes to people, I want to do what feels right. And this just feels right. I’m actually pretty proud of her for not bowing to the pressure of this genderized tradition.
Ok, so spellcheck is telling me genderized is not a word, either. To hell with it – I’ll wrap this up.
And my favoriate line from the wedding planner website:
“Men who fill the role of a bridesman usually do not want to wear a bridesmaid dress.” Usually.
- Jeff
Diana’s getting married
One of my closest friends through the years just got engaged a few weeks ago, and I’m all a jitter. The story of Diana and Harry is actually quite an old one. They met nearly five years ago this summer, in a hostel in New York. Diana and I were travelling up and down the east coast during our summer of love in D.C. We were both interning at agencies and made our get away every weekend. It was a summer I’ll never forget – and one in which I learned a lot about myself. It was also the summer Harry met Diana.
Well, technically Harry met both of us at once. He was an English tourist on his leap year during college and he was tall and he had a cute little accent. I remember it all very vividly. I even remember when Diana got his email address. It was harrythepimp. And yet despite that, Diana fell in love. In the weeks that followed, they hit if off. We planned to all meet in Philadelphia for a concert, and they shared their first kiss. Then, he visited D.C. and the rest….well, the rest is history. They stayed in touch over an entire continent and ocean and maintained a transatlantic relationship for three years. An impressive couple, we all knew this day would come. Now, the fun part: a wedding in London!
Congratulations, Diana & Harry, I love you both
- Jeff
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