Hometown, Homesick Heroes: Albert Pujols

After several years playing in a Fantasy league, I’ve learned why baseball lends itself so well to metaphor. We may strike out at the bar or hit it out of the ballpark in the boardroom, but we can’t escape the game. These are my love letters to the sport. Dear Albert,

I sort of feel like being the best baseball player of the last decade entitles you to a Mr. before your name, but to me you’re just a Missouri boy who has found himself a little lost, too far from home and aching for the comfort of family and a hefty plate of barbecued burnt ends.  Or maybe I’m just projecting.

You and I both said goodbye to the Midwest last fall. You set out for one coast, I for the other.  You had a katrillion-dollar contract awaiting you with the Los Angeles Angels. I had a couple of months unemployment and a glossy-eyed dream for something bigger.

Are you happy Albert?  I sincerely hope so because you seem like the nicest guy. Of course, we like to do that in Missouri. We project kind and wholesome images on those we embrace as our hometown heroes¹.  For all I really know, you shish kabob puppies while using dollar bills as kindling.

I remember you from high school. Local sports fans started talking almost as soon as you arrived, 16 years old, barely speaking English, and already hitting 400 ft home runs. In our neighboring towns just outside Kansas City, MO, simply being a kid from another country would have been enough to make you stand out².

You took Ft. Osage High School to the state championship your first year there and probably would have done it your second too, if pitchers hadn’t just refused to throw the ball to you.

When you left Kansas City, you didn’t go far. Like thousands of Missouri kids also shooting for the stars, you didn’t even make it out of the state.  Only you ended up at 1^st base as a rookie standout for the St. Louis Cardinals, turned multi-year MVP and two-time World Series Champion.  Most of those others seem to have ended up tending bar in their college town or getting pregnant in the back of a Sonic parking lot.

While other high-profile sports figures would swoop in for their football or baseball season, reality-star girlfriends in tow, and party it up before returning to California or Miami or wherever they had rooted their McMansion—this was your home. You married a single mother, adopted her daughter, and proceeded to build a life, a family, a charitable foundation, even a restaurant in St. Louis.

And in return, you were loved. Not just idolized, but really loved. Kansas City and St. Louis have a long rivalry³ but fans on both sides of the state could agree that your story was pretty magical.

Real life movies never end when they should though. More often than not there is another chapter at best and an awkward postscript at worst.

You are one year older than me⁴. I’d like to think that head start is responsible for your paycheck of 12 million per year and my paycheck of…not 12 million.

Would I rather be you right now? The money would be nice, sure, but I don’t know. At 31, my career is only just beginning. I moved to New York eight months ago because I had an opportunity to work in film and things have been roller-coastering, but moving in a generally upward trajectory ever since.  I miss my friends and my family. I miss living someplace where being kind and neighborly is a central tenet of life. But in New York I’m doing things I spent my life dreaming about and I have no idea what’s coming next. I like that.

Your career definitely has several years left to it, but it’s hard to deny that your pinnacle is probably behind you. You left St. Louis in a blaze of glory, winning the 2011 World Series and then signing a giant $250 million contract to move to the Los Angeles Angels. Unfortunately, 2012 is a different year and a different story.

You’ve been on my fantasy team for two seasons now—my first choice each time. This year, though, things are looking rough. A slow start has turned into a painful first half. Not only are you not hitting home runs, you’re not hitting much else either. When you do, your new team doesn’t have the ability to get you home.

When do I give up on you?  At one point do you stop being THE Albert Pujols and just become another player who isn’t delivering the fantasy points I need?

Maybe let’s just pretend for a minute. It’s just you and me, back in those Missouri towns where the city just gives way to the country. We’re taking my dad’s old stick shift out to that field in Grain Valley. You know the one, it’s not far from either of our high schools and all the kids go there on clear, starry nights. You bring some snacks from the 7/11. I’ll bring the cherry limeades. You’ll still be the jock, practicing your English, and I’ll still be the nerd who’s obsessed with show tunes and pie. But we can talk baseball and barbecue and all the good things that come out of the state we love.

Always,

Anna

^1. We even tried that tactic with Rush Limbaugh, but some things are just beyond hope and optimism.

^2. The demographics of small towns in the Midwest have changed dramatically in the last 20 years, as immigrants have moved in, often stabilizing towns that were previously losing industry and population.  This has predictably generated both increased conflict and greater understanding. I am not qualified to really talk at length on the subject, but it would be interesting to learn more about how local sports and sports fans are impacted by, and are perhaps an impact on, this change.

^3. ahem, 1985.

^4. Because of your size and strength as a teenager, many folks believed your birth certificate was a fake and you are actually several years older. I think your accomplishments are extraordinary whatever your age.

Poor

Unbeknownst to me, I grew up poor. I had one doll and six colored pencils and, judging from class photos, an entirely rust wardrobe. “We were poor!” my mother explained, exasperated by that fact. Oh. Orangish-brown was cheaper?

I played Bakery all summer with fresh cow poop pies, scoured our gravel drive unsuccessfully for gold, and the only books in our house were on loan from the library. Someone paid my dad for a favor with a goat, and she became my very first and favorite pet and stayed that way until she was eaten by a wild duo of Dobermans from a neighboring farm and then my dad shot those Dobermans.

(This is the kind of thing that happens when you’re poor, you know. It’s quite a dangerous lifestyle.)

I remember all this at the oddest moments, raccoon sneaky memories scavenged only at my darkest. Sighing sadly as I step into my stuffed closet full of too many options in the same shade of black, and open our toy trunks full of far too much, already forgotten. Excess replaces exquisite so easily, I think, recalling line-drying our family of seven's clothes daily to save on electricity and extra clothing costs as I sit here with my windows open and air conditioner running. The daily clasp of my Rolex crushes me guilty when I think of my dad’s dress watch: a gold-esque Timex, rarely worn. His best wasn’t even my everyday. I don’t want that to be my truth.

I guess there comes a point in our lives when we realize that everything we own tells our story. There maybe sometimes comes yet another moment when you can’t look at all your stuff without feeling all of your yesterdays puddle and threaten to flood if you dare look down. I haven’t looked down in years.

We’re packing up our life again very soon, and I’m struggling with my story. I’ve too much stuff I don't need and too big a tale to tell and some very sad chapters that I don't want to remember and don't want to forget, and it’s gutting me to edit.

The other night, I took a blanket fresh from the dryer. It had been my sister’s, one of at least 20 gifted by our other sister, Jeanie, when she was dying. You would’ve cried if you saw how many of these blankets she bought, each one hand-picked because it was softer than the one before and this one a brighter red than them all. God, she just wanted to wrap up their yesterday and make it warm again, when life was good and simple and Lin used to ride no-handed down the hill in the sunshine and bite off chunks of green apple she’d swiped from the neighbor’s trees and hand them to her mid-bicycle ride so she wouldn’t break her capped front teeth. I swear, Jeanie would give up everything she had to get those moments back. But we all know that would be impossible.

Poverty, redefined.

It’s been six years without my sister Lin and longer than that with a broken-hearted Jeanie, and this blanket is torn beyond repair. And it smells, no matter how much fabric softener I use. And the red reminds me of unhappy. And so I announce to no one that there is just too much stuff in this stupid house and something has to go, and I walk out to the trash and throw away one of my most precious memories while I swallow sobs and look up at the stars, trying like crazy to keep that yesterday with all my others.

I’ve been sick about it ever since.

Write down everything you're wishing you had right now. Title it My Wish List. Now, cross out that title and write in its place Things I've Lost So Far. Same list, yes?

It’s not so bad to be poor, I think. You miss a hell of a lot less.

Images via here, here, and here.

Looking Forward: No Place Like Home (Wherever That Is)

“Where are you headed?” the cabbie asked. “Going on vacation?” He’d just picked me up at my apartment with instructions to deliver me to JFK.  This was just over two weeks ago, a sunny Friday afternoon. “I’m going to L.A.,” I told him, “Home.”

In college, “home” was where my family lived. My dorm rooms, apartments, and communal digs were temporary; my tenure in the sleepy, beach-centric college town I loved had an expiration date. When I graduated, I continued the transient life, making stops in Cambodia, New Zealand, Japan---and finally New York City.

I’ve lived here now for three years, and frequently get asked how long I plan on staying---can I see myself settling here permanently? Or will I move back “home” in a few years?

As with most big questions in my life right now, I don’t have answers. However, I do often tell people that New York feels like “The One"; that I love its noisiness and smelliness, its history and cultural mishmash. I live here and work here. Most of my friends are here. For all intents and purposes, my life is here. And yet, it still feels a bit funny to refer to New York as home. In fact, it's a strange concept for me to think of home as anywhere other than where my parents are.

Is home defined by family, I wonder? Parents? Friends? Or is it where you work? Play? Lay your head at night? I'm not sure. I have a feeling the answer’s different for everybody.

On my recent trip to L.A., I spent ten relaxing days padding around the house, chatting with my parents, sitting around the dinner table eating meals I grew up eating. This definitely felt like home. It felt familiar. It felt safe. And while I don’t feel the same attachment to the city of Los Angeles as I do to New York, most of my family lives in L.A. And that means a lot.

In some ways, my heart aches to set down roots somewhere, to feel like I have a home of my own. In other ways, I know I have the rest of my life to feel settled. As a fellow blogger said to me over brunch recently, “You have plenty of time ahead of you to sit at home in the suburbs on a Saturday night.”

Early last week, I boarded a red-eye flight back to New York that touched down a few minutes after 5 the next morning. The sun was just rising; I’d barely slept. As I climbed into the backseat of a waiting taxi, I could only think of one thing: bed. I closed my eyes.

“This it?” the cab driver asked, squinting up at my red brick building. Twenty minutes had passed. We’d arrived. I answered “yes”, thanked him, and paid the fare.

“Have a nice day,” he said, handing me my suitcase. “And welcome home.”

On Culling Tweets and Curating My Own Universe

My online world is composed of sub-worlds—primarily the universes of Twitter, Facebook, WordPress, Instagram, and Tumblr. Twitter is my favorite of these worlds, and the most carefully and heavily curated of all of them. For the past few years, I've followed less than 100 accounts, and my Following list is ever-changing, week to week—a flow of information, ideas, and chatter that mirrors my interests. Indeed, I could be less rigid about it all, follow more handles, and use Twitter lists to filter my feed. But I don't want to. And that's the wonderful but also odd and fascinating thing about Twitter, or really anything else on my Internet: I am the creator of this world.

On Twitter, I talk to friends, and also strangers who have become friends, as well as strangers who remain strangers—avatars kept at a distance because, well, that's how the Internet works. I use Twitter less as a social space and more as a network built on ideas, but there's a stream within Twitter, my Favorites, that I use in a specific way. While liking on Facebook, Instagram, and WordPress; favoriting on YouTube and Flickr; and clicking the ♥ on Tumblr are generally actions for someone else, favoriting tweets is a different process. I compile and save juicy, intriguing mental bits primarily from people I don't know, and personas whose identities are a mystery:

https://twitter.com/#!/TheBosha/status/176337455639830529

https://twitter.com/#!/DamienFahey/status/202211279191023616

https://twitter.com/#!/dreamersawake/status/201502841272143872

We all have different reasons for favoriting a tweet. It may be practical (saving a link to an article to read later), or swift and silent acknowledgement: you have nothing left to say to someone, but still want to nod.

For me, favoriting tweets is less about someone else and more about me. I don't view this list of favorites as a stagnant archive or Twitter backwater, but rather an active, evolving place that reveals my headspace. While some tweets I favorite are clear, complete thoughts, I notice most favorited tweets are fragmented and ambiguous, and I wonder if the people who write these tweets ponder why I favorited them, especially inside jokes and ones not meant to be understood. But that's the beauty of it: I sift through these mental bits, interpreting and appropriating them as I please. Plucking from this mind and that one, creating meaning and context, compiling a public list that only makes sense to me.

But as I peruse these favorited tweets, I notice many are negative, even contemptuous. And I wonder: Am I really the mean-spirited, pessimistic person reflected in these tweets? Where are the tweets about rainbows and unicorns, about love and hope, about the good in this world?

I *am* drawn to positive tweets, too:

https://twitter.com/#!/MosesHawk/status/191723185606107137

https://twitter.com/#!/forces2/status/202993566367227904

But a fair amount of my favorites are cynical or arrogant in tone, and ultimately depressing: bursts of bleakness, reminders of how harsh this world is. I'm not quite sure what this says about me, or the universe I have created by enmeshing the ideas, hopes, and flaws of others. Curating these tweets into one stream also feels like I'm molding a single being—each click of my mouse a divine action, a step further in shaping an übermind.

And this is why I have grown to love Twitter. In the beginning I ★ed  tweets, simply because I liked them, but the process has evolved into something personal, meaningful, and telling of something bigger—how I see the world, how I want it to be, what I accept about myself. I identify with a stranger's struggle, I accept his or her flaws, and in turn I embrace my own.

In a way, my favorited tweets reveal my own ups and downs and struggle to be a" better" person, whatever that may be: a list that somehow captures all of my successes and imperfections—a record of fleeting moments of empathy, of what it means to be human in a big, impersonal world.

Mom Space

I am a mom. But I occupy a funny space in the world of moms. My wife, Lauren, gave birth to our son in June 2011, mere hours after same-sex marriage was approved by our state legislature here in New York, legitimizing our Canadian marriage just in time for the two of us to become three. For all of her pregnancy, I was there. For doctor’s appointments, doula hiring, birthing classes, and of course the birth itself, I never left her side. For some of these things, my compatriots were dads. At the special buffet room in the hospital for new parents, I joined dads filling up plates to bring to the new mothers. At the birthing classes, I tried swaddling the baby doll at the same time as all the dads. In many of these situations, it didn’t feel odd at all. I was the parent-not-giving-birth, along with many others. So what if I was the only woman in that little group?

When we came home from the hospital, though, it felt different. The world of parenting media is clearly demarcated. There are “mommy blogs” and “dad blogs.” Parenting magazines may aim to reach all parents, but their content is clearly aimed toward mothers, ignoring the prospect that a father might want to spend time reading about being a parent. At the beginning of our son’s life, most of the decisions we were making on a regular basis circled around breastfeeding, and I often felt helpless as my wife and son struggled to find their groove, but also strangely empathetic in a distinctly feminine way.

There was some commiserating I could do with other dads, but the general tone of their observations had a certain masculinity with which I couldn’t keep up.  I didn’t have to go back to work immediately like many dads I know. After Lauren’s parental leave was over, I took mine (grateful to my employer for being flexible about when I took my leave, and for treating me like the equal parent I am). I spent close to three months as the primary caregiver during the day, often tooling around the mall or local parks wearing Hank in a carrier, proud as a peacock, but also feeling like I was masquerading as a mom. Being a mom felt simultaneously deeply natural and deeply odd. What was I to do with all I had heard from moms talking about the transcendence of giving birth? What was I to do with all of talk about the bonding that breastfeeding brings? Dads presumably can’t fully understand these things either, but I have never felt like dad, not for one second.

At times it felt like a performance of sorts, as though I were performing motherhood rather than inhabiting it. I do not feel this way at all about parenthood, I have felt like a parent from the second I knew the baby was coming. I prepared for it intellectually and emotionally, and I have embraced the responsibility, joy, and challenges as fully as anyone. Yet, as Mother’s Day approached, I felt a strange sensation. Lauren and I approach parenting as an equal enterprise, from being up together in the middle of the night, to coming up with elaborate schedules to share housework as best we can. Nonetheless, her role as the mom who was pregnant, gave birth, and nurses our son is so preternaturally maternal, on a day like Mother’s Day, it’s hard to know how best to carve out space for who I am as a parent.

After spending a lovely Mother’s Day having brunch, going to a park, and playing in the sunshine, I realized: she is Mommy, and I am Mama. As our son nears his first birthday, I am doing my best to reject the constraints of nomenclature and simply be Mama, and all that means. Mama is usually the first one to hear when Hank wakes up, and Mama feeds Hank dinner, and Mama and Hank watch baseball together. It is in these moments that terminology is wholly irrelevant, and family just is.

Spring Fresh: Cocktail & A Nibble

 

Who we are.

Asheville via Brooklyn + East Village, NYC.  We are two good friends fortuitously brought together by a common love of food, design and afternoon cocktails.  Marissa’s a nutritionist and food writer in NYC.  Jen is a photographer, writer and stylist in Asheville, NC. Creating an indulgent balance through fresh, healthful food, we inspire each other endlessly and hope to pass on that love for beautifully prepared and easy dishes to you. Together we’re a whirlwind force in the kitchen, behind the camera and beyond.  And we relish every minute of it.

What you’ll find in this column.

To keep things intriguing, we’ll be mixing things up in our posts.  You can expect a smattering of fresh, seasonally-driven recipes, breathtaking photographs, tidbits on how to make eating well an effortless part of daily life, and simple ways to source and cook more sustainably.  Oh, and we’ll surely be musing on various related topics--from travel to family and relationships to easy entertaining and more--because after all, lots of things whipped up with love and intention come out of the kitchen.

Easy, breezy springtime entertaining.

We couldn’t think of a better way to introduce our column and the launch of the Equals Project than with a celebratory seasonal cocktail and a market-fresh nibble to accompany it, perfect for a period of new growth.  Warmer weather, sunshine and loads of fruits and vegetables this time of year keep the options rolling.   Enough so that we’ll often volley ideas back and forth from north to south until we slam on something that gets our hearts racing just a little faster.  We love how food can do that sometimes.  Seasonal ingredients, which are inherently healthy and bring on bright flavor, are on the top of our “inspiration list” when we’re on the hunt for a new recipe concept—rhubarb, radishes, asparagus and strawberries made the pick here.  Jen picked up on Marissa’s memory of a fantastic rhubarb cocktail that hails from a trip to Copenhagen, and Marissa ran with Jen’s vision of emerald asparagus spears and ruby radishes.  And from there, we entered our respective kitchens and got to work.

Our schedules tend to be jammed (we’re guessing that sounds fairly familiar), so we generally seek out a balance between ‘easy, beautiful and delicious’ to keep things streamlined but exciting at the same time.   There’s nothing better than dazzling guests, or just yourself, with food and drink that looks more complicated than it is.  We’re all about ease and taking a few moments to kick back and enjoy yourself and those around you with a good cocktail or two.  Cheers!

~ J + M

Spring Smash

2 stalks of rhubarb, finely chopped 6 strawberries, de-stemmed and sliced 3 tablespoons organic sugar 1 tablespoon lemon juice

Combine rhubarb, 2 tablespoons of sugar and lemon juice in a bowl, toss well and place in fridge for at least two hours.  Combine strawberries and remaining sugar in another bowl, tossing well together and place in fridge for at least two hours or preferably overnight.

To assemble: Drain off liquid from rhubarb and discard. Divide rhubarb pieces between two low ball cocktail glasses. Drain off syrup from strawberries and set aside.  Divide berries between the two glasses, smash and muddle fruit.  Add 2 tablespoons of the strawberry syrup to each glass. Top w/ crushed ice and add 2 ounces of Bushmills Irish Honey Whiskey to each glass. Stir and drink.

Market Vegetables with Spring Onion, Bacon & Lemon Dip

1 bunch of asparagus

1 bunch of radishes 6 ounces low-fat Greek yogurt zest of 1 small lemon 1 teaspoon lemon juice 2 tablespoons minced spring onion

pinch of red pepper flakes sea salt to taste 2 tablespoons of bacon, finely chopped and cooked until very cripsy (from about 3-4 slices) radish flowers for garnish

Trim asparagus spears and blanch in boiling water for 1 1/2 minutes, plunge into an ice bath and set aside.  Clean and trim radishes and set aside. Mix the remaining ingredients yogurt through sea salt.  Make dip 30 to 60 minutes ahead of time to allow flavors to meld.  Sprinkle dip with crispy bacon and serve with radishes and asparagus.

All images by Jen Altman.

Find us at:

Jen - @fieryeyed | info@jeniferaltman.com

Marissa - @nourishnyc | marissa@nourish-nyc.com

Family Equality and the Legacy of the Struggle

The issue of marriage equality is one that's been in the news a lot lately, and therefore at the forefront of my mind. Obama's proclamation that same-sex marriage should be allowed, and then his discussion of his administration's refusal to uphold the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) is a giant leap forward for both the social view of marriage equality and hopefully for the continuing fight to legalize same-sex marriage. There are two issues at the core of the marriage equality issue that stand out to me at this juncture. The first is that I believe "marriage equality" is a misnomer. The issue is not about who can have a wedding; the issue is the right to family stability. The second is that while fighting on a state-by-state level may be necessary at this point in the grand scheme of things, the legacy of the battle should be a federal law that prohibits states from putting the rights of their citizens up for popular vote. While allowing same-sex couples to marry is framed as a marriage equality issue, it goes well beyond that. This is a family equality issue. There are over 900,000 same-sex couples in this country. I want to give you a statistic about how tall they would all be if we stacked them on top of each other, but that feels degrading and I don't know how tall they all are anyway. In 30 states, these couples are systematically denied rights that heterosexual couples enjoy, like hospital visitation rights, social security benefits, immigration rights, health insurance under their partners' plans, family leave to care for their partners, and rights to partners' pensions in the case of their death. I'm lucky to have found someone to whom I want to be married (and continue to want to be married, nearly 5 years after the fact) who is the opposite gender.

When I said "I do," I really meant for better and for worse so long as we both shall live. I meant that I wanted to become a family with him. Clearly, the most compelling reason for so closely intertwining my life with my husband's is that when it is time to do so, I get to delegate "the talk" with our kids to him, not so much because I don't want to do it, but because I want to laugh at him while he does it. A close second is growing old with him, and building a life with him without worrying about the structural soundness of that life if something should happen to one of us.

Happily ever after aside, I married my husband because heaven forbid anything happens to him, I want to be able to sit in his hospital room outside of visiting hours to hold his hand and whisper to him about our first date and the bike ride we took through the Vietnamese countryside on our honeymoon and about the time that he accidentally left me dead flowers for Mother's Day, but I forgave him because he spent the next fifty years showing me just how important it was to make it right. If it comes to this, I want to have the right to make the decision about when it's time to let go, and then I want to lie with him in his bed and stroke his hair (or his bald head—after all, I promised to love him no matter what) and reassure him that it will all be okay until he is gone and I am alone. And he wants the same from me, and will do the same for me, because we are two grown-ups and we love each other enough to laugh at the other person talking to an awkward teenager about condoms and responsibility and STDs.

Marriage to me, as to most people, is not about the wedding (though weddings are awesome and I cry at every single one I go to), or even about just the two people getting married. It's about the chance to start a family, to blend families, and the security of knowing that if anything happens to me or to my husband, my family, both nuclear and extended, will remain intact. If our kids are still young enough to be living at home (i.e. under 30) if something happens to one of us, marriage is our insurance that their lives will remain as stable as possible amidst the chaos of loss. Because we all know how hard it is to place a 26-year-old Humanities major in an adoptive family.

While publicly declaring our devotion to each other is important, the stability and rights that our marriage affords our family are more important. I would love my husband if we weren't married; however, I would not have hospital visitation rights, health insurance, the ability to take leave to take care of him if something happens to him, or rights to his pension to provide for our daughter if he dies. And let's not even start with the "different nomenclature for different types of families" thing, because that's just dumb. Seriously, what is the logical and legal basis there? If we're sure enough about our relationships (or our chances of being able to cash in on our wedding for our reality TV show) to get married, our relationships should all be called the same thing in the eyes of the government.

At its core, marriage equality is a civil rights issue. This week has opened discussions about whether same-sex marriage should be an issue left to states, or whether it is a federal issue. My strong conviction that marriage equality needs to be a federal issue stems from my discomfort with states putting the civil rights of a minority up for voter referendum. In each of the 28 states that have put initiatives on the ballot to amend their state's constitution as defining marriage as between a man and a woman, voters have approved the amendment. Regardless of what your view of marriage is, think about the consequences of this precedent. If you are doing something of which a majority does not approve, and you are not a suspect class (i.e. a racial or religious group) under the fourteenth amendment, your rights can be put to the whims and passions of voters in your state. Aziz Ansari has a particularly compelling point on this issue:

By default, everything that the president touches is going to be polarizing; I don't begrudge him hedging his first statements. Working incrementally to change the culture in order to change the politics is the least inflammatory move for Obama to make at this juncture. But this doesn't mean that the rest of us can't work at both state and federal levels to ensure that the rights extended to heterosexual families are also extended to LGBT families. While some argue that anti-miscegenation laws are not a viable parallel for the same-sex marriage debate, the Supreme Court ruling (Loving vs. Virginia) states:

Marriage is one of the "basic civil rights of man," fundamental to our very existence and survival.... To deny this fundamental freedom on so unsupportable a basis as the racial classifications embodied in these statutes, classifications so directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment, is surely to deprive all the State's citizens of liberty without due process of law.

At the heart of the aforementioned Fourteenth Amendment, in case you haven't caught up on the episodes of Schoolhouse Rock that you have stored on your DVR, is the Equal Protection Clause, stating that "no state shall ... deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws." If this isn't relevant, I don't know what is. Marriage is a basic civil right, and under our constitution, we all have equal protection of the law (though sexual orientation is not yet one of the categories of people granted special protection under this amendment). Legislating against same-sex marriage at the state level denies to gay and lesbian families the fundamental rights afforded to straight families. Even more abhorrent is states opening marriage rights to a popular vote. Opening a vote on the rights of a minority to an impassioned majority goes against what our country stands for. Isn't it about time that we set a federal precedent that states should not be allowed to open to referendum the rights of their citizens? This is the crux of why marriage equity is, and must continue to be, a federal issue.

Granted, a federal ruling like Loving may be some years off, as only 17 states had laws on the books opposing interracial marriage when the Loving decision came down. I can see that leaving same-sex marriage to the states (while working to repeal the Defense of Marriage Act) is a powerful incremental tool for change. Public opinion of the issue is changing and continues to change---even Obama calls this a generational issue---and it is tempting to work state-by-state and hope that all states will come to their senses. But let's face it. Those last states aren't going to tip without a push from the federal government. Further, I fundamentally believe that states should be prohibited from putting the civil rights of their citizens up for a vote.* This is why I refuse to believe that pushing for same-sex marriage state-by-state is the end push. After all, legislation is about evolution---evolution of thoughts, ideas, and policy. It is about putting into writing and into law our fundamental beliefs of what is fair, what is right, and what rights and responsibilities we have as citizens of our towns, states, and country.

As a secular and democratic nation, we have built into our governmental structure a tremendous power to evolve, and to plan for evolution. At this juncture in time, we as a nation have an opportunity to decree that no minority should have their civil rights decided by the vote of a majority. This could be the legacy of the movement for marriage equity. There will no doubt be social issues that come to the forefront of American policy in the next 10, 20, 50 years and beyond. When we have seen that leaving civil rights up to state referenda nearly always leaves states on the wrong side of history (see: school integration & women's suffrage), why would we continue to let this be an option? We may not all agree on policy, but we should all be able to agree that this egregious practice needs to stop. A federal ban on civil rights referenda would be a fitting legacy for the marriage equality movement, strengthening our democracy and protecting all families' rights from the whims and passions of the majority.

*If you want to see an exceedingly handsome man who saves people from burning buildings make essentially the same point, you can watch this:

A Series of Unfortunate Events, Sort Of

It didn't begin well, to say the least. The first time I traveled to Europe on my own, I started from Asia. I'd been in India for ten days, traveling in Mumbai and Bangalore for work. The best flights back to New York from Bangalore were all on Air France, which meant connecting in Paris---and since the price was the same whether my layover lasted an hour or a weekend, I naturally decided upon the latter.

My last evening in Bangalore was one of the best I've spent in India. We started off at TGI Friday's (apparently all the rage in 2008 Bangalore), but wound up at a divey outdoor bar, complete with picnic tables and ice cubes I that was forbidden by my colleagues from even thinking about---beer from the bottle only for me. We Americans are delicate.

At midnight, I hopped into the world's tiniest, rustiest taxi and headed for Bangalore's brand-spanking-new airport. So new, in fact, that a fresh highway had just been built to take people to it. A highway with which, sadly, my young driver was not familiar. When we passed the clearly-marked exit for the airport, I assumed he knew a better way; it was only when I found myself speeding backwards at 40 miles per hour that I knew he'd made a mistake. My life flashed before my eyes in concert with the headlights we were passing as we backed up past the ramp, then zoomed onto it and up to the airport.

After waging a fruitless battle for an electrical outlet (midnight is rush hour at international airports in India), I boarded the plane and settled into my cushy business class seat. I started perusing the copy of Le Figaro they'd handed me when I boarded, brushing up on my French ahead of what I expected to be a restful night of Champagne-induced slumber. It was when I went to recline my seat that I saw them: a hundred bug bites---at least fifty per foot---standing out in stark relief against my (let's face it) pasty white skin. The outdoor bar---while truly awesome---did not have mosquito netting. And having planned on spending the entire day inside, I hadn't sprayed my ankles with Off. And did I mention that I'd forgotten to lay in a supply of anti-malarial pills before the trip? Oops.

So there I was, one death-defying taxi ride and 100 potentially malarial nibbles into my wistfully romantic solo trip to Paris. I spent a decent amount of the flight determining just how much to tell my brother via email, lest I fall out of contact and have to be rescued from a delirious fever by the concierge. (As little as possible, I decided.) Eventually, calmed by calamine lotion from the flight attendant, Clarins products in the Air France lavatory, and, of course, champagne, I slept.

What had really relaxed me, though, was the knowledge that even if the worst befell me, even if my cab crashed in the Bangalore suburbs, even if I developed malaria alone in a hotel room in the Marais---I could handle it. I would be fine. I would figure it out. I was 29, independent, and flying to Europe on my own for the weekend---from Asia. I was a grown-up.

Seeing as Air France went on strike that weekend and I had to find a new way to get home to New York, I got to prove it to myself all over again really quickly. That's the thing about adulthood: it's a pretty permanent state, once you enter into it.

Looking Forward: No Mistake About It.

I read a passage from Charles Bukowski’s Factotum a few weeks ago that made me laugh. Then, when I finished laughing, I wrote it down, cut it out, and taped it to my wall. “If you’re going to try, go all the way,” it reads, “Otherwise don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail.” While I certainly have no intention of freezing on a park bench, going to jail, or, worse, not eating for several days, something about this quote—the first line, in particular—struck me.

For most of my life, I’ve put a fair amount of effort into avoiding mistakes. From big ones (should I move across the country?) to small ones (is that comma in the right place?), I’m something of an over-thinker. Sometimes it’s a tendency that serves me well. Other times, I worry so much about the potential consequences of an action or decision that I err on the side of caution - or don’t end up doing anything at all.

My blog is a good example. For two full years, I mulled over the idea of starting it. Part of me couldn’t wait; the other part was full of trepidation. Would anyone read it? What if people didn’t like it, or me? Was I brave enough to make certain aspects of my life—however small—public? 

At long last, on a hot summer day in the backyard of my favorite Brooklyn coffee shop, I wrote my first post. Again, this was two years after I’d first had the idea to start a blog. A lot of thought had gone into it, but still, I felt completely unready. It wasn’t perfect. I was setting myself up for a whole lot of mistakes, or so I thought. But the fact was, worrying about this had gotten me nowhere.

When I pressed “publish” on that post, my heart leapt. I thought I might faint. Nine months later, I can’t imagine what my life would be like had I not pressed that button. The blog is far from perfect, and, honestly, I’m still more or less figuring it out as I go. But the process has been so rewarding, there’s no way it’s not worth the effort that goes into it. It’s brought so many wonderful and talented people into my life. Creatively, it’s the best decision I’ve ever made.

From time to time, I remind myself of this whenever I feel hesitant about taking a risk. The nagging voice is still there: What if I fail? What if this is a huge mistake? My feeling, though, is that at this age—or any age, for that matter—very few decisions can be considered a mistake. Everything’s a learning experience. The bumps along the way are challenging, but challenges mean growth. Challenges mean experimentation. Challenges open doors.

Without a doubt, I’m often still guilty of choosing safety over risk. But I’m trying to remember to take chances—and not only that, “to go all the way,” as Bukowski writes. I want to look back at this time in my life and be proud of the things I did. I doubt I’ll even remember all of the countless things I worried about.

By the way, the Bukowski passage continues for a few more lines before spiraling into raving hyperbole. Somewhere in the middle, though, he repeats that first line—“If you’re going to try, go all the way.”  Then, he writes, “There is no other feeling like that.”

I’m just beginning to find that’s true.

The Quiet Moments in Between: Still & Solitary in Egypt

Egypt is a complex place: as a visitor, I found it beautiful but sad, and ever-evolving yet stagnant, post-revolution. I visited in November 2011 for three weeks and barely scratched its surface, but still got a taste of some of its layers and maneuvered parts of the country at varied paces: the street chaos of Cairo; the still, surreal landscape of the Sinai Peninsula, where the desert meets the sea; and the pharaonic temples in Luxor, where tourists and touts mingle among massive ruins under a hot sun. My first visit to the Middle East and first time navigating in a Muslim country, these weeks were challenging despite exploring with someone who called it home. While I never got used to the ceaseless cacophony of car horns and street noise of Cairo, by the final days I had become comfortable enough to weave through—and walk in front of—moving cars, as everyone else did: becoming one with the traffic, the movement of the city, the chaos itself.

Oddly, as I sift through my photographs six months later, I notice most of my shots capture the quiet moments in between—seconds of stillness and solitude, and of people alone, with their own thoughts, much like me as I wandered and tried to wrap my head around this new place. In this gallery, you'll find images from Cairo, the Sinai Peninsula, and Luxor.

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Happy Mother's Day (to the whole damn village)

The conversation might begin with concerns about whether motherhood and feminism are incompatible (I mean if the newspaper of record positions motherhood and feminism on opposite ends of a spectrum, where does that leave all the mothers who happen to think women are full human beings). Maybe it turns to a question about what the “Mommy Wars” actually entail.  We’re all busy, is it that we missed the latest reality show? Are there actual weapons involved? Other than the condescension and self-righteousness we’re told we wield like daggers, of course. There may even be some mutterings about whether it's healthy for motherhood to be elevated to such an exalted status. After all, not everyone dragged into the conversation is in fact a mother and no one wants to be left out of a debate that makes the cover of Time. The problem is this is a fictional debate that serves no one well. When parenting is a battlefield, it’s difficult to use each other as resources and learn from one another’s stories. When we’re told to be on the lookout for other mothers who are judging us, it’s easy to miss all the people who are supporting us in our endeavors to strengthen our families and our communities. And when mothers are put into a special box, we lose the other parts of our identity that make us complete and well-rounded individuals.

It’s not a matter of mothers versus other mothers (this Babble piece rocks that point). We’re all doing our best with the resources and opportunities at our disposal. And it’s also not a matter of mothers versus non-mothers. In a thoughtful essay on why she hates mother’s day, Anne Lamott takes issue with the idea that mothers are somehow superior beings.  Mothering isn’t an individual experience; it isn’t even a purely female experience.

The mothering that helps my children thrive on a daily basis comes from their father, their aunt who lives next door, a phenomenal nanny, a family friend who is practically a part of our family, my dear friend and business partner, and numerous grandparents, not to mention the various teachers, doctors, etc who play significant roles in my children’s health and development. That list would grow exponentially if my husband and I added all the individuals who mothered us throughout a lifetime of experiences.

On this coming Mother’s Day, I’m going to spend less time thinking about mothers and more time thinking about mothering. I’ll still write thoughtful notes to my mom, my stepmom, my mother-in-law, and my grandmas, but I’ll also do my best to thank the other mothers in my life—the best friends, the family members, and the mentors—who mothered me into the person I am today.

There’s no war here; there are enough thank yous, kind words, and lessons to spread around.

Erin Loechner: Stories I've Only Told My Mom

If you didn't already know the incredibly talented and just plain sparkly Erin Loechner from Design for Mankind, then maybe you recognize her from her HGTV home renovation column, or maybe it's from her brand new site Design for Minikind (it's just as smart and stylish as Design for Mankind, but for littles and their parents).  In any case, Erin is one of those people who exudes warmth and positivity.  She's also incredible at supporting people in becoming their best selves (case in point: resource parties), a mission we can fully get behind here at the Equals Project. In honor of Mother's Day, and mentoring, and the bravery it takes to claim the path that's right for you, Erin is letting us share this piece she wrote for Stories I've Only Told My Mom.  If you are a mom, you have a mom, or you've ever sought wisdom other women's stories, we highly recommend you download this beautiful anthology, edited by Sarah Bryden-Brown.

Stories I've Only Told My Mom by Erin Loechner

Dear Mom,

It was Tuesday and I think I was 7. I know it was Tuesday because I was wearing my day-of-the-week underwear and we both know how dutifully I relied on my unmentionables to celebrate the passage of days.

I don’t know that I was 7 for sure. They didn’t make undergarments for that sort of thing.

I told you I wanted to be a receptionist when I grew up. I had seen a classified listing for a receptionist in the newspaper that afternoon while we snacked on Little Debbie’s Zebra Cakes (my favorite) and Walnuts Brownies (yours). I’m not sure where my sisters were -- probably playing basketball at the neighbor’s house like normal children. I liked to read newspapers and eat treats littered with high fructose corn syrup, watching you grade your students’ English essays and circle typos with a red Papermate.

You peered over your Sally Jesse Raphael style glasses and smiled. “A receptionist for whom?” you asked.

It hadn’t occurred to me that this mattered. I would be typing, talking on the phone and greeting people daily. I would be The Gatekeeper Of The Office. The Hostess Of The Lobby. The Fixer Of The Fax Machine.  Every day. And I would get paid for it! $17,000 dollars. Every year. What else mattered?

“Who you work for always matters,” you answered as you corrected a 4th grader’s misspelling of the word “tomahawk.”

Do you remember saying that, Mom?

It changed my life.

I did, eventually, as you know, become a receptionist for a high profile music executive in Los Angeles. I was paid much more than $17,000 a year and was, indeed, The Gatekeeper Of The Office. But after four months of collating concert paperwork and babysitting Sharon Osbourne’s countless canines, I remembered your words.

“Who you work for always matters.”

I quit that day, Mom. Somewhere between papercuts and expense reports, I knew I wanted to live my life with integrity and do work that mattered, for someone who mattered.

Someone like myself.

Since that day, I’ve had many odd jobs as I attempted to supplement an income that could support the life I wanted to live --- inspiring creative artists, designers and writers to pursue their dreams.

As you inspired me to pursue mine.

And along the way, I never accepted a job from someone that I didn’t believe in, and in doing so, created a professional life of integrity. Your words of wisdom on that Tuesday have shaped the way I present myself as a business owner, entrepreneur and writer.

I am now, proudly, The Gatekeeper Of Encouragement. The Hostess Of My Life. The Fixer Of Un-Inspired Souls.

Thank you, Mom.

p.s. Want to know a secret? I made exactly $17,000 working for myself. Dollar for dollar.

p.p.s. I loved every Tuesday of it.

Mother's Day for an Infertile Woman

Mother's Day is very much celebrated at the church I attend in Brooklyn.  On those Sundays, a couple of people from the congregation are usually asked to speak on the subject of Motherhood.  Last year, I was asked to speak.  At the time, I don't think the person asking me realized that I had been infertile for 7 years.  I am glad he didn't know, as he may never have asked me otherwise.  My heart was just pounding out of my chest when I received that phone call because I was so grateful I would have the privilege to speak on a subject that is so near and dear to my heart.  I accepted the assignment immediately.

Here's some of what I shared with that congregation.  I couldn't hold back the tears on this one. They were tears of gratitude.  They came before I even said the first word at the pulpit.  I just felt so grateful that day to see how far I had come and to be able to share with everyone what motherhood has meant to me…….

Mother’s Day

May 8, 2011

I am happy to be able to speak on Mother's Day - one reason is I can stand and tell each one of you women how much I love you and admire you for all that you do.

Also, I'm just personally happy that I could feel so at peace with speaking on Mother's Day…even though I am not yet a mother.  You should know that feeling this peace is a miracle to me.  There were years when I did not enjoy this day and didn't even want to be near this building on Mother's Day as it was too sad for me to be around so many mothers when I couldn't be one myself.  But, because of the human ability to transform & overcome our trials and become something more than we are, I am not the same woman that I was back then.  I’m grateful that I can now celebrate this day, not because I am a mother, but because of what the desire for motherhood has done to my life.

Just like all of you moms who want to be the best you can be for your children, I do too.  And I’ve had a long time to think about what it means to be a good mother and to be a good influence.

I’ve come to realize learning to face our trials with strength is one of the greatest things I could ever learn in my quest to be a good mother.  Because if I couldn’t overcome my own trials, how on earth would I be able to teach my own children how to face theirs?

Overcoming trials is no easy feat.  But doing so is a gift to the world.  It’s a gift to your spouse, your children (born or unborn) and really, all humanity.  It allows you to live with more character & strength.  It allows you to be free of the toxicity & negativity & pain that you normally might send into the world.

Prior to figuring this out, there were a few other sources of great sadness in my life.  In addition to the infertility, my former husband had been suffering for many years with some mental difficulties, a situation that brought lots of anguish and uncertainty into our home & marriage.  At the time, I was barely getting by.  I was reacting to my circumstances with insecurity, fear & loss of hope.  But I began to realize that I was choosing to react that way – my pain wasn’t just a result of my unfortunate circumstances, it was a result of how I chose to react to my circumstances.  In the face of criticism, I was letting harsh words ruin my soul & self-worth.  In the face of an uncertain marriage, I was letting thoughts of losing my husband & being alone fill me with tremendous insecurity & fear.  In the face of infertility, I was letting the fear of not being able to conceive bring me feelings of inadequacy.  In the face of a life that was not what I had envisioned for myself, I felt a loss of purpose.  I looked at other mothers’ lives with envy.  And I wondered how I could ever have meaning or purpose in my life if I didn’t have a husband and a family.  For years, these reactions compounded and affected me so greatly that I no longer was living with peace & happiness.  I did not even have the strength nor the energy to help or think about others around me, because I thought my plate was already “so full” and I was already spread so thin because of my own unfortunate circumstances.

BUT, I was blessed to have a wake-up call.  Someone pointed out to me that if this was the way I chose to live my life, I would be teaching my children to live this way as well.  Once my eyes became open to the revolutionary idea that I had a choice in how I reacted to my circumstances, my long-time desire to be a good mother kicked in full force and I deliberately began practicing reacting to things in a more positive way.  And I mean it when I say I practiced!  I would actually look for little opportunities in my life where I could try to make changes & put this new way of life to the test.

And so, as I practiced, I worked to transform my usual fear and negative thoughts by surrendering my natural self/ego.  I didn’t always know how to do this.  But I realized it meant that my deepest thoughts and feelings & emotions of my heart needed to be turned around and fully aligned with a greater purpose – for me, it was surrendering to oneness with God.  That meant giving up the tendency to be full of fear, frustration, anger, selfishness, pride, judgment, doubt, or worry in my day-to-day experiences and instead – and surrendering fully & completely to the attributes of love, patience, faith, kindness, forgiveness, hope & charity.  Even in those awful moments!  Even in the face of infertility and divorce!  It is a huge sacrifice for most of us to surrender and to give up our natural selves.  Even though this was a hard to do, love for my unborn children literally fueled it gave it power and made it possible.  This turned out to be the greatest offering of love I have ever experienced.  This choice to live my life motivated by love has transformed my life more than any other decision I’ve ever made.  There is no force more powerful than love.

It didn’t come as naturally in the beginning, but little by little, I began conquering all that I had before me.  If there was a reason for me to be deeply offended & hurt, I remained still and took no offense as the offender simply clearly was not at peace, which is a sad place to be in.  If there was a reason for me to be angry, I responded with compassion for the pain someone else was in.  If there was a reason for me to be impatient, I remained hopeful and calm and whole.  If there was a reason for me to blame, I had compassion for another's state of life and forgave with no conditions, as I knew I would be fine, either way.  If there was a reason to feel hopeless about my future & the loss of my marriage, I trusted that trials of this life could be for my greater good and that adversity was necessary to build true character.  If there was a reason to feel insecure or humiliated by eventually being rejected by my husband or being newly divorced & single in New York City, I believed that it was my divine right to be full self worth and that I could face my single life with confidence.  If there was a reason to judge, I had sympathy for another’s weaknesses.  And if there was a reason to feel sorry for myself & my circumstances, instead I actually felt grateful for the privilege of learning from this mortal experience, no matter how grim my life seemed.  This time of my life was amazing and sanctifying.  My existence had changed.  And today I celebrate why this process began – it was because I wanted to be a good mother.

(Photo above taken by photographer Chris Lindsay in my home, 4 years ago.  At the time this photo was taken, I was just barely learning how to become completely at peace with my infertility & years of a hurtful marriage.  I love having this photo as a reminder of that pivotal & beautiful time in my life.  My first marriage ended unexpectedly maybe a month after this photo was taken.  I am now remarried to the most wonderful man ever, though we have not yet been able to have children - but we feel good things are in store.)

Playing the Field: From Fan to Fanatic

After several years playing in a fantasy league, I’ve learned why baseball lends itself so well to metaphor. We may strike out at the bar or hit it out of the ballpark in the boardroom, but we can’t escape the game. These are my love letters to the sport.  

Dear Curtis Granderson,

Our love was never meant to be.

You became one of my Wayward Soldiers by chance, the result of a poorly-timed and unfortunately-long bathroom break during the second round of my fantasy baseball league’s 2012 online draft.

I took too long making my selection because of aforementioned indelicacies.  When my time ran out, the auto-draft function kicked in and you were, according to ESPN, the highest ranked player still available. Your offensive output for the next six months now belonged to me, whether I wanted it or not.

You’re talented, to be sure. But you’re a New York Yankee.

The boys in my league might scoff at my hesitation. They are all very good at choosing players that statistically offer them the greatest chance of success. They have spreadsheets and long lists of statistics and analysis. Of course, I do too. And they would never mock my fantasy transactions or blame my gender for poor decisions. They’re good people—better people than that.

Actually, in practice, I think I do make more choices based on emotion than they do. Maybe it really is a girl thing, or maybe it is just my personality or my relatively limited experience playing fantasy baseball, or maybe it just means I am a better, more loyal, and all-round superior baseball fan than they are (go Royals!).

There are simple truths you learn early in this life and one of the simplest is this—the New York Yankees exist so people can hate them.  People who don’t are Deluded, Fools, Assholes, or All Three.

I have some beloved, deluded friends and some un-beloved, asshole acquaintances—all of whom have regurgitated long-winded justifications for being Yankee fanatics. Good god, I don’t care.

Simply, it’s just way more fun to hate on the Yankees than it is to love them.  They make it easy.

Actually, you aren’t the first Yankee to be a Wayward Soldier. I had a passing fling with Javier Vasquez two years ago that very nearly ended in tears¹.  Brett Gardner lasted a little longer last summer. His offensive numbers were steady, if a little lackluster.  But those guys were nobodies- insignificant blips that I picked up to fill holes in my roster when one of my trusted men went down².

You—you’re different.

There are plenty of bloated metaphors to be made here about you and I. From the star-crossed, six-day, child-love of Romeo and Juliet to Elizabeth Bennett overcoming her stubborn prejudice—this last month has certainly changed the way I look at you.

Through Wednesday, April 18^th, things were just ‘eh’.  But it’s been a season for slow starts in the league and as long as you were hitting better than Pujols³ I figured I might as well hold on until something more promising came along.

Apparently that something promising was Thursday. It was April 19^th, exactly 237 years after a different set of Yankees fired “the shot heard round the world” on Lexington Common, starting the Revolutionary War⁴.

You made history during that game, becoming the first Yankee to go 5 for 5, while blasting 3 home runs in your first three at-bats.

You made little kids become baseball fans for life that night.

I can sort of imagine what was going through your mind when you first stepped up to the plate. But the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after that—when history was suddenly on the line and every person in that roaring stadium was looking to you to step up and be the star.

They wanted you to be their baseball story, the story they pull out in bars to explain to non-fans why the game can be so magical, so heart-stopping.

And even I, who stubbornly rails against the Yankees at every opportunity, who lives in the Bronx 20 blocks away from your stadium and yet refuses to acknowledge its presence, who didn’t even want to draft you because of the team you played for—even I was on the edge of my seat, wishing and hoping that your last at bat wouldn’t let me down.

I didn’t want to just look at my fantasy stats the next day and be happy that you had a great game. I wanted to obnoxiously brag⁵ about how you had the game of your life and that I was watching.

I’m still not going to be a Yankees fan, and you’re probably not going to be the offensive powerhouse that propels me to win my league this season. But for one night, you and I managed to work past our differences⁶.

Unfortunately for you, I’ve moved on. I literally, physically⁷ ran into Jude Law at work on Friday and now I’m pretty sure we’re in love⁸.

Until next time,

Anna

--

^1. Unfortunately, not exaggeration nor hyperbole.

^2. Insert inappropriate joke about filling holes here.

^3. That’s not saying much. Albert’s batting average is currently .263 with NO home runs.  I’m sure that will change soon enough, although the Cardinal fans in my family will enjoy watching him struggle in the meantime.

^4. Also, coincidentally, the same day in 1946 that the NY Yankees honored their most famous slugger, Babe Ruth, with a plaque showing the world that he was, in fact, as awesome as he always thought himself to be.  Also, randomly, the same day that something called "4 Baboons Adoring the Sun" closed at the Beaumont Theatre in NYC after only 38 performances. I wonder why.

^5. Obnoxiously bragging is a critical component of fantasy baseball.

^6. I love footnotes almost as much as I love you, Curtis.

^7. Read: awkwardly and kind of uncomfortably.

^8. No we’re not.

Home.

If you want people to look at you like you’re mad, tell them you’re moving to Indonesia. Always, always, their eyes widen a bit and their first words in response are usually painted in some deep blue shade of why. There’s no escaping the inevitable yet ever-so-polite mention of tsunamis – sometimes with the t, even – and active volcanoes and earthquakes and vaguely specific bombings and, most enjoyably, a link to a YouTube gem of a chubby boy under three smoking like a fiend, accompanied by a pointed look at my six year old and raised eyebrows. As if I haven’t already warned Esmé against the dangers of performing shirtless around anything on fire. On camera. For free.

I really do always know what to say, though. I’ve had years of practice. First, before we moved to Oman, and then a few years later when we left for Jordan. With a slight wave of my hands and murmurs of nothing to fear but fear itself…and maybe also Dengue…we all usually swim away from the conversation safely to higher ground. Usually.

Because every once in a while, someone sweetly tries to drown me.

“Won’t you miss home?”

Home. That one word and I start to flail.

Shirtless summers catching frogs and singing Simon & Garfunkel  into the box fan, thinking that making love in the afternoon sounded lovely at the age of five and differently just as at the age of now. Whiling away entire afternoons with a pack of Juicy Fruit gum and a stack of library books, never far from the hose. Or my mom. Holding tight to my best friend named Grandpa until the night my dad picked him up like he wasn’t 6’2” and the strongest man in the world anymore, carrying him outside to meet the ambulance and haplessly slow paramedics in the driveway.

Gasping, I search for shore, but all I see is the piece of red velvet hanging from my attic door the year Santa ripped his pants, which was only a few years before all of my older sisters and brothers moved out and moved on, diluting my Christmas magic with every in-law they added.

I call for help, but all I hear is the telephone. My dad’s cancer is back, and it stays until he is gone. The next thing I know, my sister calls with the same news of her own. It’ll be okay, she promised. And she promised again and again and again with the births of my first and second and third girls. And two weeks after that, there would be no more calls. She stayed as long as she possibly could.

I guess she was right. It is okay. And so am I. Some days, flooded. Most days, afloat.

Home. I can’t for the life of me picture it. It still looks like my mom and smells like Oscar de la Renta and vanilla ice cream and chlorine and lilacs and cow manure. It’s in my daughters’ chandelier smiles, unbreakable wills, and their every move. Every. Single. One. It’s when he walks in the door, and I only know this because it disappears every time he leaves. It’s in the first haircut I gave my girls after my sister’s death, biting the insides of my cheeks bloody and drowning in tears. Is it even? I wondered. Not remotely.

It’s in the eyes of someone who has lost her world, someone who’s found it, and someone who’s trying her damnedest to get it all back. It’s in Sunday meatloaf and fish fries on Fridays and fireworks on the Fourth and the agony of annual exams that leave you feeling like you’ve just dodged a bullet. And also like you’ve taken one.

It’s in the babies who made it and the ones who didn’t and the ones who live on in your dreams every night. It’s in the love that brought you to life and the love that nearly killed you and the dandelion that’s destroyed with one wish that everything gets better.  At some point, you’ll settle for better.

It’s in the beginnings and endings and the to be continueds. It’s in the coming and going, but mostly in the leaving for good.

I get misty every time I read the phrase home is where the heart is. It’s almost impossible not to feel a little lost when your heart’s been broken by life.

Will I miss home? Oh…I already do.

Photos found, in order, here and here and here.

Welcome!

It was a dark and stormy night—no really, it was.  Our boutique creative agency YOU + ME* was in need of a retreat/vision quest/mini sabbatical/whatever you want to call it and we decided the perfect location was Salt Lake City in January.  We weren’t there to seek inspiration at Sundance or on the slopes (though that would have been a solid plan following the storm that blew through town).  Instead, we flew three quarters of the way across the country to attend the Altitude Summit, lovingly referred to as Alt, a design and social media conference that attracts creative powerhouses from all over the country. If you think boondoggle when you hear conference, it might not be obvious why we expected to forge a bold new path for our business from the lobby of the Grand America Hotel.  But forge we did.  It was time to step away from the glare of our computer screens and into the warm glow of shiny notebooks and neon pencils.   We wanted to liberate our brains from practical matters like business taxes and invoicing systems and let our minds wander toward our biggest dreams and grandest plans.  Most importantly, we needed to meaningfully connect—with old pals, new friends, and each other.

Over the course of our four-day trip, we had a blast (um, as you can see), extended our wheelhouse with a few new tricks, and figured out the next step on our never-ending quest to create a business that reflects our values and leads to fulfilling personal and professional lives. We stayed up late into the night discussing the fact that our internet circles are closing, rather than widening, comparing our experiences of the world, and chatting about our desire to connect women to each other in ways that extend beyond what our houses and weddings look like, what we cook for our families, and how we conceive of and present our outer selves. We downed coffee after coffee contemplating the fact that the online world has been one in which women have been framed as tearing each other down rather than building each other up. We lamented the dearth of online content for women that acknowledges that we are more than our outfits, our homes, and our consumption habits.

From that, the Equals Project was born.

And it looks like others have been thinking along the same lines. From the growing "Things I'm Afraid to Tell You" movement among bloggers, to the focus on meaningful gatherings in Kinfolk magazine, to people sharing incredibly thoughtful stories online with the sole intention of helping other people achieve happiness, it's clear that the internet is evolving from a place where we store and showcase our (often-unattainable) goals into a place where we can be real, multi-dimensional people. As we slow down and think about what we are really consuming on the internet, it seems as if we as a society are aching for meaning and process, rather than destinations and results. We hope you will find here a collection of stories, discussions, and art from women across the country (and across the world) that compels you to think, contribute your own stories and thoughts, and most of all, to act.

We are more than what we can cook, we are more than what we can create, more than our makeup, our jewelry, our aesthetic tastes. We are people with complex ideas, and conflicting thoughts, who read, travel, discuss, do, and make. We are people who are influenced and inspired by the women who came before us, and we aspire to create something greater than the sum of our parts.

After many months of work, tellingly accompanied by more grins than swear words, it’s finally time for us to make the Equals Project a reality.  We still have to pinch ourselves a little bit when we think of the talent, the stories, and the passion found among this amazing group of contributors and collaborators.  And we only get more excited when we think of how the Equals Project will be interpreted in print early next year.  We've also taken to jumping up and cheering on an hourly basis when we think about kicking off Equals Does, our philanthropic call to action--money is not the only tool for making a difference in the world.  In a short while, we’ll be announcing our first project representing Equals Does and featuring a series of inspiring projects that share a similar spirit. If you’re interested in supporting the Equals Project, you’re in luck:

• Follow us on facebook and twitter for regular updates
• Share The Equals Project with your friends, family, and every nice person you meet
• Contribute your writing, photography, or video (see submission guidelines)
• Send us a story of how you’ve used your skills, talents, or sheer gumption as a force for good in the world

Let's continue this conversation and get to know each other better, shall we?

Warmly,

Elisabeth & Miya

Taking First Steps

It’s a gift to be able to tell when something is ready. I’ve always admired people who can identify that perfect moment to quit their soul-sucking job and completely change paths, break off a relationship that leaves them feeling terrible about themselves, move to a far-off city where they don’t know a soul, take a class in something that scares the bejeezus out of them, or even just leave a karaoke bar before the mood deteriorates from Sweet Caroline to All By Myself. I’m terrible at that, all of it. I love supporting people who are on the precipice of change, who need some hand holding and cheerleading before they embark on a solo adventure to Nicaragua or run off to open a surf shop in Montauk (I don’t discriminate on goals though. If your dream of a lifetime is to become a real estate attorney, I will check out all the books on property law for you). You should hear my speech about how doors start opening for you when you’re following the right path. There may even be a part about how it’s like leaning into the yoga pose that you hate the most because the discomfort is a sign that something deserves to be strengthened.  It sounds cheesy, but it’s very inspiring; you’ll have to take my word for it.

When it comes to my own next steps, I’m much more hesitant (An image popped into my mind of my daughter poised to launch herself down a particularly steep slide when she had second thoughts, bolted toward me, and clung to my leg muttering incoherently about broken arms and bears waiting at the bottom. That’s pretty much how I feel about change.).

Given my commitment to the constraints of the known instead of the abyss of the unknown, it shocks me to think of how many times I’ve jumped right into something that truly frightened me. That person almost seems like a stranger to me. I guess I’d really like to be her though. I’d like to be someone who says “yes,” even—no especially—to things that give me goose bumps and an ache in the pit of my stomach. And so I pretend that’s who I am when it counts.

I don’t do it often (which is quite possibly a good thing given that a certain level of commitment to your present life tends to be an asset to things like marriages and parenting), but every couple of years something proves sufficiently inspiring to compel me to be another person for long enough to send me on my way. It’s like I close my eyes, hold my breath, and commit to being brave until I’ve gone too far to turn back.*

I’m holding my breath right now. It’s incredibly uncomfortable to release something into the world that really matters to me. My urge is definitely to hold this project close---to spend many more months trying to come up with the perfect way to describe it, to tweak the site until it’s all that we want it to be, and to reach a point where I don’t worry about sending it off to play with the big kids. But instead I'm being brave because it's the right thing to do.

*Apparently, pretending to be another person is a common theme in my life. I wasn’t kidding when I said that I have to give myself a crutch for any large gathering where I’m expected to be chat and mingle like someone who wouldn’t rather be at a quiet dinner with her nearest and dearest. I should figure out the appropriate bravery talisman and then we’ll sell them to pay for printing.

Hope & Childhood

"Mommy, Baachan and Jichan will come back tomorrow, and we will all go to the playground together." We've just left my parents off at the airport; they are making the journey back to San Francisco after a week visiting us and shuttling my nearly three year old daughter around Brooklyn. She calls them by the japanese name for grandmother and grandfather. "Oh, honey," I say, "Baachan and Jichan will be back soon, but not tomorrow." "They will! Tomorrow they will come." And she leaves it at that, nodding to herself. It dawns on me: she is wishing, or more than wishing — longing — something that I haven't noticed her doing before.

I've found that one of the most unexpected things about having a child is that it brings back so vividly my experience of being a child. Though she is still so young that there have been just hints and glimmers of her inner life, through my daughter, I am starting to remember how I lived seamlessly gliding between reality and fantasy for much of my day, every day. There was the strong conviction, even though I logically knew it not to be true, that if I hoped for something with my eyes shut tight enough or felt longing strongly enough, the impossible would somehow become possible. The possibilities, as the saying goes, were endless, unconstrained by logic or physics. I could reverse time, my orthodontist would decide to override my mother's wishes and give me hot pink braces, my little plastic figurines would really spring to life at night and carry on a life of their own. My hermit crab, Zeus (yes, I was that child), would decide to crawl back into his mighty shell rather than apathetically dragging his nubby stub of a body around in little circles, a hint at the surrender he was planning. My parents would finally agree that the our new puppy, who at that point had been responsible for the destruction of not less than sixty percent of the flooring in our house, was lonely and wanted a litter of friends to play with. I hoped for smaller things, too (ants on a log, a sunny day to go to the zoo), but it was as if the things that I knew I couldn't control, and perhaps more importantly, likely wouldn't get were the things for which I felt compelled to hope with the most conviction.

Though I hope for many things as my life moves forward, I don't hope anymore with the same conviction that I did as a child. I don't throw my entire being into hoping or longing; hope at this point is often guarded, muffled by reality, translated into drive and action.  I am not sure at what point hoping for hoping's sake fell out of my emotional repertoire. I remember hints of it in my adult life: sitting on my grandfather's bed after he had died and the body had been taken away, thinking about my husband the night after our first date, being pregnant with my daughter and waiting to hear the results of all of the routine tests. I'm curious about whether hope of this sort can be reintroduced, or even whether it has a place in my inner life as an adult.

These videos are so evocative of that hope in childhood. The first, Caine's Arcade, is a wonderful story both because the boy is so passionate about his arcade and because there was an adult who recognized that passion and became caught up in it. The second, a video for "Tuck the Darkness In" by the Bowerbirds, just captures that hope so profoundly.

"Tuck the Darkness In" by Bowerbirds from Secretly Jag on Vimeo.

Image at the top is a screenshot from the video above via the fabulous The Fox is Black.

Filed Away: On Pinterest and Dreams

I am a careful curator of my own digital life, a user and lover of many websites on the Internet. But my Pinterest account was short-lived. One evening, I found myself pining for Bogotá—for its lively, colorful streets—as I scrolled through a photo essay on a travel blog. I made up my mind. This place is next. And since I had recently joined Pinterest, all I had to do was click the “Pin It” button in my browser bookmarks bar—and voilà. My dream destination was pinned. Filed away. Captured. Done.

For a moment, I felt productive.

* * * * *

I had joined Pinterest to see what I was missing. Naturally, I created boards for my interests, from my own photographs of street art to deliciously decrepit abandoned buildings (a board I called “Elegant Ruination”).

But these images were largely ignored by other users: no repins, no likes, no comments.

From the beginning, I saw what people liked: Party ideas. Hairdos. Photographs of luxury bungalows along the sea. Yes, people liked other things too, but when I perused Pinterest in the weeks I had an account, I saw more images from gourmet cupcake recipes and wedding planning blogs than I’d ever seen. And there’s nothing wrong with cupcakes and weddings—I happen to love both—but from the start this visual paradise just didn’t seem like my thing.

But I wanted to enjoy it.

So, giving in to Pinterest’s aspirational world, and my own desires, I added a board of industrial-chic lofts and a complementary board of pretty designer things to put inside my imaginary million-dollar space: Overpriced honeycomb-shaped bookcases at CB2. Lamps and rugs from Room and Board. What the hell, I thought. Let the drooling consumer in me go wild.

Suddenly, I found myself searching interior design blogs for airy spaces with high ceilings, brick walls, and wooden beams; and indoor swings, hammock beds, and hanging egg chairs to pin. While my own photographs of gritty art and urban ruins got little to no attention, these images of my dream domicile were repinned and liked and commented on like crazy.

And so, I observed this process for several weeks.

* * * * *

On my blog, Facebook, and Twitter, I’ve constructed a persona primarily from my own writing and photography. From my creations. Yet Pinterest was different: it encouraged me to shape my digital identity by curating content that was not mine: Marketable representations of goods. Other people’s dreams. Things I will never have. Pixelated perfection, I suppose. And so I swirled in a community of repinners and dreamers, in a Stepford-wifesque reality.

I noticed many users creating travel bucket lists, and at a glance, their boards were shiny and tidy and vibrant. So one evening, I tried the same: I created another board for places I wanted to visit. But the more I pinned images of Colombia and Cuba and Morocco, the more I felt as if I was bottling up experiences that had yet to happen—and may not happen—shaping my hopes and uncertainties into concrete, clickable images and then filing them away.

I once read a piece about bookmarking articles to read later, with the help of tools like Instapaper. It talked about bookmarking as a form of anti-engagement—a moment of fake action, of swift satisfaction: “It provides just enough of a rush of endorphins to give me a little jolt of accomplishment, sans the need for the accomplishment itself.”

I thought about this as I organized stunning images on my boards, some of which were snapshots of cities I had longed to explore. The process was entertaining, but time-consuming and, ultimately, inert. Or, it felt as if I was moving backward—foraging and favoriting, then labeling and archiving. In a way, I was doing something. And yet the more I pinned, the more I felt further disconnected from doing itself—a step in the opposite direction from the image, the idea, the what-if I had pinned.

When I realized I had been sitting upright in bed, pinning and accumulating “things” for three hours, I deleted my account.

Sure, I was collecting things in an online space. But it still felt like clutter, fit for shoe boxes under my bed. And with Pinterest, my aspirations no longer floated in my head. They were right there: discoverable, pinnable, and recyclable by others.

Aren’t my dreams supposed to be elusive? Unable to be bookmarked?

I don’t doubt Pinterest is fun and effective if you use it in a way that works for you. But it felt strange, even meaningless, to compartmentalize and file away my dreams. Yes, I am a planner and organizer—and an active curator of my digital life.

But at some point, I just had to stop.

Being "Camera-ready"

I had just gotten braces when I went to Europe for the first time with my family. There’s an entire photo album---with acetate sticky pages and all---of me looking awkwardly lanky and oddly unhappy in four weeks’ worth of posed shots: beside the Grand Canal, in front of the Coliseum, atop the Eiffel Tower, and below ground in salt mines of Austria. I didn’t want to smile and reveal a mouth full of metal and I hadn’t yet seen Tyra Banks preach the value of the “smise” (smiling with one’s eyes) on reality TV. And this was at a time when only a handful of people would see the glossy prints we had to wait two days for and pick up from the drugstore. I sometimes wonder what fourteen-year-old me would have done if there were the promise (or threat) of family photos on Facebook.

To bemoan the pressure young people must increasingly feel to be “camera-ready” for social media risks falling in the category of “good ol’ days” nostalgia. And as an adult with a personal blog as well as my own array of social media accounts (and a compulsion to document life), it also risks condescension.  In other words, feeling self-conscious and controlling one’s public image is not a new phenomenon. And getting over that feeling or letting go of control are not challenges reserved for the young.

Even now, I look at photos of my beautiful mother with me as a baby, images so fondly ingrained in my mind, and catch myself trying to compose myself for family shots with my son---hoping that he too will one day look back and think "look at me and my beautiful mother." If I look at a photo of myself holding the baby, fresh from sleep, with bed-head and pillow wrinkles still pressed into my cheek, I am apt to cringe and tempted to say "delete"---always seeing the images through the eyes of an imagined audience. But with the passage of time (even days), I find that my vanity fades and I see how valuable these candid captured moments are.

What feels new is that these challenges of being "camera-ready" must be (or at least now tend to be) met so often, even hourly. With blogs and social media, everything is documented and shared. The playground and the cafeteria extend into the living room; and if you're not the one telling your story, somebody else probably will be.

The cynic points to the unsavory image of pre-teens vamping in Facebook profile pictures, hoping to get more “likes,” or the attention (or envy) of others; the optimist talks about things like community, memory, and hobby (and maybe mumbles something about phases and trends).

At its most benign, the hundreds of photos we take with our phones test the limits of our hard-drives, but there are other more troubling consequences as the reach and the size of one's imagined audience grows.

French theorist Michel Foucault talks about the Panoptican effect whereby the threat of being observed at any given time leads us to self-police (control, inhibit, regulate) our behaviors to fit social norms. Essentially he argues that we internalize the expectations (or desires) of others, with dangerous results for those who fall outside the norm.

There's no resolution to this. There's no "outside" from social pressure. So I suppose the only goal can be mitigation. I wonder sometimes what I might say to a daughter. How does one advise someone to put down the camera phone for a while and just enjoy the moment? To stop waiting for that imaginary audience's approval? It’s something I could be better at, too.

[image by Brooke Fitts]