CREATING A SPACE

Dear Spike, 

I didn't want to frighten you. I knew that Rigby's kidneys were failing and that she didn't have long to go. But this had happened with Emma, too, and we'd given her many more months of comfortable life in hopes that you might meet her. She didn't get that far — a shooting star, that one was — but those extra months were worth the effort, the money, and the sadness we had to hold in the knowing of what was soon coming.

So, with Rigby, we asked the doctor to try, and he said he felt confident that trying was worthwhile, that we could get her stable and bring her home again, and that she was healthy in enough ways that it wasn't simply false hope — though he made no promises. And then I called you to let you know that Rigby would be staying overnight in the hospital.

We were promised an update around 9 a.m. The vet called four hours ahead of that. And I knew what that meant before I even picked up the phone.

We hurried to the vet, but we didn't make it in time. Our last goodbye turned out to be the one we gave her the afternoon before, when I kissed her head and told her I'd see her again soon. The vet tech who cared for Rigby — who was, I want to accentuate, with her at the end — sobbed as she brought her body to us to hold for the last time. Her name was Cassie. She said that she never does that. She even apologized for "not being professional," though we told her that was nonsense. "I don't get it. I just can't get control of myself this morning," she said. "I didn't even get long with her, just this one night, but she was so special." 

Yes.

Rigby — of Eleanor and Rigby — came to us just about 12 years ago. She was the timid one. We knew that from the start. But that was no reason not to bring her into our home. She belonged with us.

A few hours before we got them, you told us you didn't know if you were ready. You still missed Coletrane, who had died about eight months earlier, having been with us since long before you were born. "The hole in my heart isn't closed, yet," you told us. "It never will," we told you. 

And it never has. And nor will this one. That is how life is.

And how life is, as the Rolling Stones warned, is that that you can't always get what you want. And I couldn't get those extra few months — the ones I was hoping that would give you time to finish up the semester and come home and be with Rigby for just a little while longer before she left us.

I don't know if sometimes, as the Stones also pledged, you get what you need. It sure doesn't feel like that today. But I suppose we'll see. Life tells us slowly.

What I am realizing today, though, is that you didn't wait for there to be a hole in your heart to add to your family. I know that it was wrenching to leave Eleanor and Rigby when you headed off to school, but you did so with a cat carrier slung over your shoulder, and Daisy inside.

I know that Daisy took good care of you after I woke you with the terrible news. I'm so grateful for that.

I worry now about Eleanor. She and Rigby were bonded in a way that I'd heard of but never seen in cats. We know (thanks to Daisy) that Eleanor doesn't particularly like kittens, but I'll be eager to see how she gets along with Daisy, "the tank," as we now call her, when you come to visit next.

Whatever we do next, whenever another creature comes into our life, we know that we are not filling a hole. We are, in some ways, creating a space where we know there will be another hole, someday. Shooting stars, these precious things are. And yet we do it anyway. 

Because it's worth it. It's so very worth it. 

Love,
dad

MORE ABOUT YOU

Dear Spike,

You became an adult long before you were an adult in the legal sense that adulthood happens to us. You were smarter than the vast majority of us, for one thing. Wiser than most, too. I don't write this as a father enamored by his child, but as someone who knows lots of adults. Lots and lots and lots of them. And most of them — of us — really suck at it. 

So it goes. The bar was low. 

And now that you are an adult of the legal sort, as well, I can also see quite clearly the ways in which you are still a child. I don't mean that in any sort of critical way. I'm still a child, for goodness' sake, in many embarrassing ways. Your ways have more to do with the childlike awe you still have for the world and the emotional rawness that young people have before they calcify this and hide away that and create the adult who the world expects, instead of the child who looks expectantly at the world.

And at least you look the part. You will for a long time, and that's a good thing, I reckon, for someone who has spent a lot of their life on stage and might want to continue doing so. There's an old Hollywood trope — a good piece of advice, I reckon — that suggests that directors, producers, and fellow actors — if they have a say in the matter — should "never work with children or animals." And what that means on the Shakespearean stage, on which you have already spent considerable time, is that the casting folk will always be on the lookout for adults who look like children. Bully for you, that. 

You're a small thing. You always have been. In one of first letters I wrote to you after you were born I said "tiny but tough" and you are that in many ways, but the tiny part has been very consistent while the tough part has taken on different shapes over time, and in some ways you're tough like a grizzled old warrior and in other times you're tough like a person who simply knows what they can handle and knows how to fill that cup with plenty of space under the brim. You can take a punch, a ball to the face, a slide tackle to the knees; you have felt those things, at least. You can also watch a friend drift away, lose someone you love, fail at something you hoped for; you have experienced that, too.

Last year, I told you that I knew you would be leaving home, soon. Now it's true. And it's even more clear that you're ready.

I suppose that your mother and I can take some credit for that. And we do. But now you are adult, and the thing we have done and will do — the advice we give, the values we seek to pass along — will assume a smaller a small part of the responsibility for what you are. It will remain — fractions of our beings can diminish but never disappear, for better and for worse — but what happens now is so much more about you. 

Bully for you, that, too. Because I'm not sure anyone has ever been more qualified to be themselves.

Love,
dad

ARBITER OF YOU

Dear Spike, 

You're 17 now, and lately I have found myself in a slow-motion sort of mourning. A year from now you'll be old enough to strike out on your own, and whether you decide to do that or not, the mere knowledge that it could happen is enough to make my chest feel heavy. 

Eventually, of course, it will happen. A year from now or a little more. Maybe a lot more, if your mother and I are very lucky. But eventually. And that's OK. This is how it is supposed to be. We get you for 18 years or so. We do the very best we can in that time. And then you get to be the final arbiter of you. 

Oh, we'll be here to offer advice when you want it. Sometimes when you don't, too, I suppose. But we'll no longer have a veto, or even a vote.

You'll be ready, though. Or as ready as any young adult ever is. There's still a lot about the world you need to learn, but that's true of every adult. Nobody who tells you otherwise should be trusted.

You're going into your adulthood way ahead of the game. You graduated high school when you were 14. You're on track to finish your bachelor's degree before you turn 18. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that. But educational precociousness aside, you're ready in others ways. 

A half century ago, Robert Heinlein wrote that "a human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly."

That's not a bad list. And you've got quite a bit of that down. But you can also make friends in many languages, crack a joke, shovel snow, sprint a mile, write a play, find your way in the woods, use public transit, shine on a stage, lead a team, be an observer, stand up for yourself, throw a punch, accept criticism, quote Shakespeare, analyze a film, sing in harmony, leave your phone in your bag, be comfortable with stillness.

You'll add to that list as you go along. And I am eager to watch you do so. You've been a better child than we could possibly have hoped for; you're going to be an even better adult.

So, yes, my chest is heavy. But that is because my heart is so full. 

Love,
dad

NOTIONS OF FREEDOM

Dear Spike,

Today you turned 16 years old. 

There is a question that just about everyone asks when someone reaches this age. It is a question that, at least in past generations, has been tied to notions of freedom, responsibility, and emerging adulthood. 

Did you get your driver's license?

You did not. And you seem to have no plans to do so any time soon. And that's OK. It does not mean you are not interested in freedom. You are. It does not mean you are not an exceptionally responsible person. You are. It does not mean you are not emerging, quite healthily, into adulthood. You most certainly are.

When my dear friend, Stephen, moved back to England last year he sold us his Mini Cooper at the "family rate." I'm not actually sure what he could have gotten for that vehicle, but I'm quite certain he took a loss on the deal to ensure that his family's cherished little car would go to a good home. I bought it with the intention of it being your vehicle, but your mother drives it for the most part, right now, and that is fine. It will be yours if and when you wish for it to be so.

Sometimes, when the parking lot at the high school stadium is vacant, or something close to it, I park the car and tell you to switch seats with me, and you drive it around the lot, neck straining to see over the hood because, alas, you are quite small, even for a Mini Cooper. You're a good driver. Or, at least, you are a good driver in a parking lot. And I have not pressured you much to do much more than that. When the zombie apocalypse commences you will know how to operate a vehicle, and there will be no one to ticket you for not having a license in any case. Thus, I have done my job as your father. 

Life is different now than it was a generation and two and three ago, when a license and a car were a rite of passage in middle-class America that everyone from Dinah Shore to Woody Guthrie to Nat King Cole to Chuck Berry to Bo Diddley to Bob Dylan to Janis Joplin to Tom Waits to Bruce Springsteen to Roger Taylor to Smokey Robinson to Aretha Franklin to Tracy Chapman to Billy Ocean to Cyndi Lauper to Melissa Etheridge to Taylor Swift has written and sung about. And it's not just that rideshares and public transit apps and work-from-home and doorstep delivery has made having a car a little less necessary than it seemed once upon a time. It's also that the world feels more stressful, and while driving isn't much more dangerous than it ever was, it's still The Wind in the Willows out there and everybody is Mr. Toad.

All of this brings me to a point beyond driving — and something I'm so proud of you for. Like a lot of people your age, and for perfectly valid reasons, you deeply feel the stresses of this world. I don't need to enumerate the ways in which life as a teenager in the 2020s — looking out into life as an adult in the 2030s and 2040s and 2050s and beyond — might feel fraught, with a new trauma not-so-well hidden around every corner. These things can go without saying. But you're figuring out, a little bit here and a little bit there, how to coexist with all of that stress. Imperfectly, sure, but nonetheless, you're learning to weather these storms — making decisions that I was not mature enough to make when I was 16 and, indeed, that I was not forced to make for the sake of my mental health. One of those decisions is that you've opted not to drive, at least for now. And, I'll be damned, in many ways that's actually given you more freedom. In may ways it's a sign that you are more responsible. In many ways it's one of the most adult choices you've made. It's funny how things work sometimes.

And honestly, it's been good for me. Because I'm often your driver, for now. And sometimes we drive and talk and talk and talk some more. And other times we cruise in silence. And I'm OK, either way, because I know how precious time with a teen-aged child is. And maybe somebody should write a song about that, you know? 

Because there you are, in my passenger seat, 16 years old and so very smart and so very funny and so very wise and so very hardworking. You know words I don't. You speak of Shakespearean characters as thought you're talking about friends and neighbors. You describe the human experience in ways that I think about for days and weeks and months thereafter. You tell stories, rich and vivid and sad and funny and so very true. You stare out the window and pick apart the world and put it back together in such fascinating ways that I can't help but marvel at that glorious brain inside your head. And I can't wait to see what adventures this year brings for you, as you get more and more comfortable in the driver's seat of your own life, metaphorical though it might remain.

Love,
dad

BOTH OF THESE

Dear Spike,

Today you turned 15. 

We encouraged you to celebrate with your friends, but you had other plans. You stayed home. You wore pajamas. You made a nest on the couch. You binged on a show that you've been hoping to watch for months. You ate amazing food. 

Not a bad way to mark another turn around the sun. Not bad at all.

Perhaps I'd be worried if you always wanted to be home, loafing as you did so gloriously today, but in the past year you've grown into a remarkably social person. You look forward to school each day. You play soccer and lacrosse. You were asked to be a teacher's aide in both Chinese and French. You act in school plays. And I cannot begin to describe how proud I am that you have found friends who are — like you — smart, funny, compassionate and supportive. 

So today you took it easy. You spent the day mostly by yourself. You gave some attention to the introverted side of your psyche. I think that was good. In fact, I think it was wise.

There's a silly thing humans do — something that seems as though it might be wired into us. We turn almost everything into a binary. There are masculine things and feminine things. There are cat people and dog people. There are liberals and conservatives. And there are introverts and extroverts.

How very ridiculous this is. For none of these things are so simple as either-or. The ambit of all that is before us is wide and varied and ripe for the picking. You never were simply an introvert. And you are not now an extrovert. You care for both of these parts of your identify. And that is healthy.

It's actually quite easy to lose yourself inside a label, because once you have a name for something — a epithet, for instance, like "introvert" or "extrovert" — then your brain forever has a shortcut for that conceptualization. You don't have to think as much. 

In some ways, I suppose, this can be good. Why spend time reflecting on something you know to be true about yourself, right? You can spend that energy on something else. But when we stop thinking about these qualities that we have adopted and simply accept that they are what we are, we lose an avenue for growth and exploration. 

This is all to say that while there is absolutely nothing wrong with being introverted, I'm glad that you didn't decide that was who you are. And while there is nothing wrong with being social, I'm also glad that you have not decided that you need to be connected to others at all times. Your life is richer for the balance.

And mine is richer — so much richer — because you are in it.

Love,
dad 

IT'S A LOT

Dear Spike: 

You turned 14 last week. You took the past year to work ahead in school (because, as you said many times, "what else am I going to do in a pandemic?") and you worked really hard, and so you're a few years ahead of schedule. You recently finished up your first year of your first college course. (You've been taking Chinese and you're doing great). Last month you began rehearsing for a community musical. It's Matilda; you're Lavender. Tomorrow you begin training with your high school soccer team. It's a lot. And I think that sometimes, lately, you've been feeling overwhelmed.  

It is fine.

You're as close to a perfect child as I think there has ever been. You are thoughtful, kind and respectful. You work hard in school and sports. You exceed our expectations on a regular basis, and as we have always had quite high expectations for you, that is no small feat. 

But sure, sometimes you fall short. You forget to do something you were supposed to do. You say something without thinking it through. You stumble. You fall. 

And it is fine. 

You get frustrated with yourself when these sorts of things happen. You get down. You get angry. You wrap yourself into emotional pretzels. And in doing so, sometimes, you make things worse.

I swear to you: It is fine. 

Tonight I told you some stories about when I was about your age and just a bit older. I told you about the trouble I got into. You looked at me a few times as though you thought I was kidding. I was not kidding. And there are more stories where those came from. I'll tell you some in time. And some I probably won't. 

There's trouble and then there's trouble. I never got into the latter. Rather, I think, I was a lot like you. I got into trouble when I was trying so hard. Trying to be brave. Trying to be smart. Trying to be funny. Trying to be more than I was. Trying to meet someone else's expectations for me. Trying to meet my expectations for me. 

But, as it turns out, I was always enough. I was brave enough and smart enough and funny enough and everything enough. It's taken me a very long time to understand that. Too long.  

There's a lot happening in your life right now. It brings me great joy to see you succeeding at so many things, particularly those things that bring you joy, too. But yes, it's a lot. And you're not always going to balance all of those things just perfectly. You're going to feel overwhelmed. You're going to stumble. You're going to fall. You're going to feel frustrated. You're going to get into some trouble. 

It is fine. You are fine. You are enough. You are everything enough. 

Love,
dad   

AN ENTIRE YEAR

Dear Spike: 

It's been a year, now, since everything hit the fan. Since travel stopped and schools closed. Since friends stopped hanging out and families stopped getting together. Since we stopped going out to eat and started wearing masks everywhere we did go.

It's been a tough year. And while we have been very fortunate — we have not gotten sick and we have not lost our sources of income — I wanted to acknowledge that good fortune does not make this hardship easy. Especially not for a 13-year-old child.   

I can see how difficult this has been for you. I can imagine myself at your age, and ask myself how I would have felt in this circumstance, and realize that it is a terrible thing for a young teenager to be more or less stuck with their parents for an entire year. 

But you've handled this with aplomb. You have not complained. You have not thrown a fit. You have not lost sight of the fact that the sacrifices you are making are for the benefit of our community and, in particular, the most vulnerable people in that community. (Not everyone sees things in this way, but you do.)

I have been hesitant to suggest there is a light at the end of this tunnel, but it does seem that we may be coming nearer to a place where something like the normal we once knew becomes the normal we will know. We will travel again. You will go back to school. You will see your friends and extended family. We will go to our favorite restaurants. We will explore the world with our faces exposed to the sun. 

Hold on. This has been very hard, and it may continue to be for some time to come, but we are getting closer. I do believe that.

It's been a tough year. But you are a tough person. You always have been. And I am very proud of you.

Love,
dad

THEY STOOD BY

Dear Spike,

I was 11 years old — a few years younger than you are now — when the protests in Tiananmen Square took place. That moment in history is my first vivid political memory, and I remember feeling quite inspired by the young men and women who were risking everything to demand greater freedom.

I also remember feeling very fortunate to live in a country where people can exercise their right to assemble without risking militaristic reprisals. I felt that way when I was 11, and still when I was 21, and still when I was 31.

Now I am 41, and on the 30th anniversary of the liùsì shìjiàn, I no longer believe that my nation is much different than the nation that quashed those protests in Beijing, all those years ago, for it is happening here, too.
   
Our president has threatened to use the military to quash nationwide protests — the vast majority of which have been very peaceful. He has, in fact, already used military police officers to clear peaceful protesters from the streets in Washington, D.C., so that he could stage a photo op in front of a church that he doesn't attend.

Even before this, though — and even before this president came to power, our nation's police forces had been militarizing for many years, to the point that it is becoming difficult to see the difference between warfighters and law enforcement officers. Wearing kevlar helmets, decked out in fatigues, holding assault rifles, and riding in mine-resistant armored vehicles, the men and women who are supposed to protect our communities increasingly look like occupiers.

There are good people in these uniforms. There are some damn good ones. This is true. Yet there do not appear to be enough good ones to stand up to the bad ones — a fact painfully revealed in the video that ignited these recent protests, in which three police officers stand by as a fourth kneels on a man's neck. The man begged for his life. "I can't breathe" he cried.

Nine minutes later, he was dead.

They stood by. I cannot get over that they just stood by.

But this is not surprising. Just a few weeks ago, in our hometown, it was revealed that an officer who was supposed to help a young woman who came to his department seeking protection instead exploited her. Other officers knew, and they did nothing. They stood by. The young woman, who used to attend church with your grandparents, was later murdered by the man she had begged police to protect her from.

And so it goes. The videos are endless. Police pushing protesters. Police hitting protesters. Police pepper spraying protesters. Police shooting at protesters.

In one video, from Florida, a police officer violently shoves a woman who was kneeling nearby him. Kneeling.

That one is different, though. In it, the officer is immediately and angrily confronted by another officer.

Her name is Krystal Smith. And she would not stand by. She screamed after the officer, chasing after him to dress him down — a strong black woman confronting a pathetic white man.

We don't have to accept brutality and militarization as the cost of doing law enforcement. We don't have to accept that the blue wall of silence is an inevitable and immoveable force. We don't have to live in a world in which what happened in Tiananmen Square, in the capital of China, is repeated in Lafayette Square, in the capital of the United States.

We don't have to stand by.

Love,
dad

STILL A YEAR

Dear Spike,

Today you turned 13.

As I have on every one of your birthdays, I took an inventory of the past year, worried that it would suddenly be moving so very quickly, as everyone has told me it does, more and more, faster and faster, as our children age.

But no. A year is still a year. And thirteen feels as long from twelve as twelve felt from eleven, and eleven from ten, and ten from nine.

Thank goodness for that, for there is nothing from this year I would have wanted to speed through.

Oh, to be certain, it has been a different kind of year, a once-a-century-global-pandemic kind of year. A close-down-schools kind of year. A don't-hug-your-grandparents kind of year. A school-play-has-been-cancelled kind of year. A no-party-for-your-thirteenth-birthday kind of year.

Yes, these things have been hard.

But this moment in our history also forced our family to slow down. We ate three meals together, each day, for months. We baked and baked and baked. We played jigsaw puzzles. We took walks.

So, if there was indeed a risk that the world might finally feel as though it was spinning faster, maybe we beat it back.

And maybe, if and when the world gets back to normal again, we won't be so quick to embrace that normal. Maybe there will be school and soccer and school plays. Maybe you'll get to hug your grandparents again. Maybe, by 14, you'll get to have a birthday party again. I imagine those things are coming soon enough.

But maybe we'll keep trying to eat together more than we did before. Maybe we'll keep baking and baking and baking. Maybe we'll play jigsaw puzzles. Maybe we'll take more walks.

I wouldn't mind any of that. For even though it's never seemed to me as though "it all goes by so quickly," you are a teenager now, and will be an adult soon enough, and even though you will always be our baby, I am keenly aware of just how few years we have left in which you are a child.

And that is OK. I do welcome it. You just keep getting better, after all. So smart. So funny. So passionate. So hard-working. So thoughtful. So scholarly. So tough. So kind. So earnest. So brave.

So you.

So, yes, today you turned 13. And it was a very good day.

Love,
dad

NO SMALL PARTS

Dear Spike:

The middle school production of Newsies was two and a half hours long. You and the other mill girls were on stage for about five minutes. (And by "on stage," here, what I really mean is "on the steps of the stage or in the theater walkways.")

You didn't have any lines, just verses in the chorus. And from where I was sitting, I couldn't even make out your voice.

There are no small parts. Only small actors. And small parents, I suppose, because I would have loved to see you in a bigger role.

Truth be told, I've been a bit annoyed by how much time you've been asked to put into this thing. You had to miss other obligations for all-day Saturday rehearsals, then came home to report that you didn't really do much during those practices. After the first one, you started bringing card games so that you and the other mill girls would have something to do in the hours — hours! — in which you were just sitting around, waiting.

But, as I should have expected, a lot was forgiven when you came into the theater.

Now, I'm no about to tell you that you stole the show, or even a scene. What you did do, though, was what you've taught me to expect of you in every facet of your life: You threw yourself into it. Every little bit of choreography. Every facial expression. Everything that could be mustered by a mill girl singing "Seize the Day," you mustered.

And I think you had fun. Which is the point, after all.

Maybe next year you'll have a bigger role. Maybe you won't. If you're OK with that then I'm OK with that.

Seize the day. Or whatever little part of it you can.

Love,
dad