Shirley McShane Sillars

I scan the crowded room for a familiar face. It’s a big room, outfitted with the type of couches and chairs that swallow you whole, heavily ornamented light fixtures, and emotionally neutral paintings. At the front is the box surrounded by floral sprays on stands. Nestled between blooms and leaves are little white cards delivering personal messages. Some of the bouquets have gold and silver script letters labeling the deceased: dear father, beloved husband, dear son.

Beloved. Why is that a death word? Do we ever say that in life?

Is it the flowers or the picture collages that make it hard for me to swallow? Here before me is a Cliffs Notes pictorial of the parts of a person we will miss: the chubby cheeks lacquered in pureed yams, the diaper-clad butt and dimpled knees of babyhood; the gap-toothed smile of elementary school portraits, the sand castles and sunburns of summer days at the beach; the parade of sports team pictures and scouting banquets; the proms and weddings; the chrome-wheeled muscle car parked in mom and dad’s driveway; cheesy tourist shots; hugs and kisses, suit-and-tie days, and, oh, that dear sweet first-born child. We gather like flowers the good parts that happened before the end days, when only scraps are left. Absent are pictures of the medical clinic waiting rooms, the son and daughter crying themselves to sleep, the unhealthy habits, the bar fights, the bad tattoos, the post-chemo haze, the last days in hospice care.

We die and if we are lucky, no, strike that, luck has nothing to do with it. We are born and we die. No one knows why the bastard molester alcoholic chain smoker lives to  100 and the selfless sweetheart is hit by a bus at 22. If we live our lives well, and by that I mean we give from the heart, and give all we have, and think of others before ourselves, and let our lights shine, we will touch lives. Maybe many lives. Maybe millions. Maybe only one. When it’s our time, maybe we blow out of here on a cyclone blast so powerful it brings our survivors to their knees. Not that we want to hurt anyone. But with loss comes pain. If you do nothing in life to make anyone miss you, you miss the point of living. The goal is to love.

And that right there was last Friday’s lesson.

Out of this world is another good person who touched my life and so many others. A person I’d long forgotten until I heard the news. As I left his funeral, I remembered another service many years earlier:

This time a small room, no bigger than a vestibule, with furniture slightly more stiff than the people. When I approached the survivors, I said what we usually say at these things. They said in return, ”Don’t be sorry. We’re not. She was a miserable old shrew every day of her life and now she’s gone.”

Mortified, I didn’t know where to direct my eyes. I looked toward the full box of tissues on the table, the chairs which bore no weight, and the lone basket of carnations.  How could anyone say such a thing at a funeral? Eighty-something years on this rock and all she gets is an unattended wake arranged by duty-bound, bitter survivors?

Forgive me if I sound preachy; it’s not you I’m telling this to but me. As I hurtle toward 50 my biggest fear is that I’ve not lived enough, not loved enough, not done enough of anything with 100 percent of my self. I dole out small portions, saving the best for something in the future.

My second biggest fear is coping with the increasing frequency of funerals of my contemporaries. Apparently I am at that age.

LIfe and death remain a mystery to me. One is a gift. The other a lesson.

We all do it.

The brain issues the statement and the mouth broadcasts it faster than the censors can hit the bleep button.

Then, my friend, you are in the throes of an awkward moment.

A while back, I found myself in the midst of one while engaged in a community volunteer effort.

In case you are new here, my youngest child was born in China. She is an American citizen through adoption. She means the world to us.

We became a family in 2006 when she was just under 11 months old. Everyone who knows us well knows our dynamic. Although we cannot shield her from the ignorance and hate of the outside world, we are fortunate to travel in fairly educated and enlightened circles. Our community is a little melting pot of skin colors, beliefs and lifestyles.

But when something changes, like starting a new school, traveling to other parts of the country, or joining new groups, we have to start fresh. We have to go through the shit — again.

So it came as a kick to the gut during this so-called community outreach project when one of the volunteers uttered an insensitive statement for everyone to hear, including my then-6-year-old daughter.

Apparently upset that a piece of equipment would not perform as well as it should, he began banging it about and cursing.  Then he stood up, set down the equipment with force, and said something close to this:

“Another useless piece of crap from China.”

OK. I know. We are in tumultuous times. The anti-China rhetoric is blowing around like trash in the streets. We, especially those of us in the Rust Belt, gripe about the outsourcing of manufacturing to overseas factories. We all grumble that things are not made to last.  I’m just as upset about it as you are.

As I mentioned, my daughter was made in China, quite possibly to hard-working farmers, or severely overworked and under-compensated factory workers. It is not the fault of the collective overseas workforce that products are inferior. Look to the greedy corporations, suppliers and governments. Many of these factory workers travel hundreds of miles away from their home villages to earn wages to support their whole family. Some have children they never see.  Even the best-paid factory workers in China live lives we would consider totally unacceptable. It is an ugly situation. We all suffer the consequences of it through low-quality and sometimes tainted goods as well as job loss right here in the United States. It is a huge problem.

Please direct your anger where it belongs. Boycott products and companies that take part in these practices. Buy products made in the United States. Write letters. Start a movement. Please do not China bash, especially in front of my daughter or your children or anyone of Asian appearance.

Telling me, Oh, I thought she was Korean, does not make it OK.

My daughter is proud of her roots. She is too young to understand the complicated relationship between the United States and China (heck, I don’t get it, either.)  She is too young to understand things like Communism and the Cultural Revolution and emerging capitalism and outsourcing. She’s just a kid.

We teach her there are good and bad people. Good and bad businesses. Good decisions and bad decisions. We must take things on a case-by-case basis.

I haven’t forgotten that day or those words. I’m still wondering what to do. I started to write a proactive type of letter that I could send to local newspapers, the school district, or publish online. It doesn’t seem like enough.

Why didn’t I call him out? Why didn’t I pull him aside afterward? I’ve done that before to little satisfaction on anyone’s part. Perhaps I’m not the most diplomatic. Perhaps those who say such things are firm in their beliefs and are just twitching to engage in debate.  When I approached an offending parent at toddler play group a few years back, she vehemently stood behind her words, asserting that there is no correlation between statements of inferior products and the people of a nation. She suggested I grow thicker skin because the issue isn’t going away.

I’m not going anywhere, either. The day I held my youngest daughter for the first time was the day I knew I’d taken on extra duties, ones that require added defense and offense for the inter-country adoption community.

So, please, take a moment to think about the source of your anger. Think about your audience. Think about the innocent people you might hurt with your uncensored remarks.

Thank you.

I found your writing.

You call yourself a writer but where are your words? Why are they hidden?

Writer is a big word in my book. You don’t just throw that around lightly.

When I was in college, learning about writing by real writers, they said you aren’t a writer until someone pays you for your words. That one stuck with me over the years.

I admit it: I’m worried about this writer business. What if you’re better? What if you are
a painfully bad writer? Where do we go from there?

Some writers dwell within the neatly spaced paragraphs of their published work and others just make a mess of their keyboards.  Do the good writers even know they’re good? Do bad writers realize they are bad? Is everyone really just a scared kid on the inside?

I think It’s like that with painters and piano players, too.

They all turn themselves inside out to show you their guts. Sometimes it too much to bear, all this beauty and blood.

I found your writing.

It scared me it was so good.

Now, 

I’m twisted inside out.

I feel as if I’ve taken a secret lover. I can’t breathe. I know too much, too fast.  

I feel your pain, I said out loud.

But I don’t feel your pain.  I don’t know your pain. What I mean is: Your words made me feel my pain. That is the only pain I know. And I wanted to take that hurt child — was it me or you? — into my heart. Maybe that’s what they mean by compassion.

 Maybe I can trade jealousy for admiration. Maybe I can break the wild horses that run uncontrolled across my mind.

I want to take a picture of this moment so I can see myself with open eyes.

I’m ironing a new pair of pants. New-to-me pants. In between puffs of steam I wonder the reason they were cast away: weight gain? weight loss? they were *gasp* so last season? an impulse buy?

I’m happy to have them. I only paid a few bucks at one of the local resale boutiques. There was a time in life when I’d cross the street and hold my nose if I saw a resale shop ahead. And the thought of using or wearing something that touched someone else’s skin? Well, that was one step above the bottom.

Not now. I’m reformed. Financial hardship and the local ethos have influenced my thinking. If I have to buy new I hang my head in shame. It’s like a reverse failure. I like the treasure hunt aspect of second hand. I like the shops. The people working in them seem to genuinely like their jobs. They always play good music.

Within the last year, I landed a pair of gently worn Durango cowgirl boots for $10. Another reason I love resale is the endless possibilities. If I want a red sweater, I just go to the racks with all the red garments grouped together. So easy.

Recently I suffered through a trip to the mall in search of a red garment and left in utter frustration. There was no logic to any of it. The offerings seemed as contrived as the piped-in music and the corporate-ordered decor and employees. And not a stitch of red. Apparently red is the color of losers this season.

Do I care anymore? The answer is mostly no.

It’s part of middle age, I think. It’s a place in life you earn. I no longer care all that much about high fashion. Not that I was ever a style maven.

Speaking of pants, which I was not wearing at the gym last night, and thereby exposing my legs to the unforgiving overhead lights. I once had very shapely legs. Next to my eyes, my legs were my second-best feature. No more. They’re thicker and a bit saggy around the knees. Worst of all are the scabs and scars. Some are old scars from hiking and biking injuries. Some are the result of chronic hives. The itching makes you reckless about what you use to answer its call. The aftermath of blood, pain and burning is a relief compared to the itching. When the welts recede, you’re left with a crime scene of scabs and bruises.

I’ve caught side glances at the gym, mostly from young men but sometimes women, too, as my legs are an attention-getter. I’m sure they shudder once I’m out of range. Why don’t I wear yoga pants or capris would be the obvious question. On my worst days, I do. But sometimes I just don’t care.

Head to toe I am a collection of second-hand parts.

I’m inspired by a 70-something woman I see around town. She proudly wears her hair in a fuchsia mohawk.  She has prominent tattoos. Sure it looks crazy, but wow, to be that free.

That’s what I want. Not careless, but carefree. Not looking like I let myself go, but like I can let go when necessary. Like I have great stories tucked away in secret pockets.

I forget myself and walk by his house today, head down against the knife-sharp wind. Then I remember and furtively glance over at the trio of white lighted trees glowing in the front window, the weary plastic carolers leaning a little to the east, the sagging garland bearing the weight of seasonal duty. I look away in embarrassment.

I could have predicted he’d be the type to extend Christmas into January. It takes one sentimental to know another.

Did he do it for her? Was it she who delighted in all this twinkling, flashing ornamentation? Did he do it for himself, to fill in the empty spaces that surely must echo through that household of one?

“I lost my Irene this year,” he says to me, a stranger on the street, on that brisk fall morning when we first meet. As his eyes blur with tears, he wipes them away, and tells me of his wife. How he lived in this town all his life, how he and his Irene built this house. They were high school sweethearts, he says, back when the high school sat on the property that now holds the SuperMegaMart.

The two of us stand a foot apart on his corner driveway, amid the blowing leaves, a few footsteps from the bus stop. He in varsity jacket and skull cap. Me, obscured by dark glasses and hat pulled down low, on my way home from morning drop off. I listen and zip my jacket up to my chin.

He’s been watching me and my little girl, he says, and wants to know something.

Words like that don’t go down smoothly. They bounce around inside my head like a pinball, hitting various fear and panic buttons. I want to flee.

He’s lonely, of course, which explains his morning sentry in the front window, waving at passers-by, and his maybe-not-so-random offers for companionship.

“Coffee?” he says on a glowing September morning as I pass his yard. He leans out his kitchen window, hoisting a mug in one hand and pointing toward his back porch with the other.

“Good morning!” I say, waving as I keep walking, my face reddening. Does he really expect me to stop? Am I more embarrassed of my dishevelled state or his bold offer?

What he may not realize is that my morning trek really is an extended walk of shame. The hat, glasses and coat are a cover for a person who deems it acceptable to roll out of bed, slurp a cup of coffee, and race to the bus stop, child in tow, underwearless.

Two weeks later we meet again. This time on his driveway. He isn’t going to let me get away this time. Me? I’m still underwearless and sleepy-eyed. I wonder if he pities me.

“Do you like dolls?” he says.

Inspired by “Lars and the Real Girl” I imagine he has a high-quality blow up doll propped in a chair at the kitchen table, one made up to look like his late wife. She has a kind smile and wears a flowered apron. Maybe her cross stitching basket is nearby.

“Well….”

The rest of the story is that the cancer took Irene last summer. The kids are grown and gone. There are a few grandkids around but only boys. His wife collected dolls. He has a lot of dolls. He sees my little girl skipping by each day and wonders, naturally, if maybe she wants one or more of the dolls.

Across the space between us, the tendrils of despair reach out, twist around my ankles, work their way upward. I think of a man living alone in a house filled with the sound of ticking clocks and the stare of ornamental dolls. Hundreds of soulless eyes following his every move. Hundreds of little hands reaching out in endless need. The dark blanket slips over my shoulders, wraps around my throat. I feel the weight and I don’t want to go into that dark house and look at those empty-eyed dolls. I want to run as far away from it as possible.

I tell him I’ll think it over, that it is an extremely nice gesture, and I’ll get back with him. I continue walking home, knowing I am a liar. I hate those collector dolls. I want to hug that man and burn his dark blanket, watch the inferno fill every corner of his house with happy light. I wish sad people would leave me alone.

The next week, my girl suggests we take a new route to school and I oblige. She doesn’t know my reasons for being so agreeable but I know she wants to walk to the bus stop with the children who live on the next block.

The man and his dolls are forgotten.

Today, as I glance at the tired carolers and limp garland, I remember everything and I wonder:

Does the lonely man still wait at his front window for the dishevelled woman and her little girl to walk by? Does he wonder why he never saw them again? What did he say to all the waiting dolls? What story did he tell them of why the little girl never came to get them? What did he tell Irene?

Spring:
Natural order is in disorder.
Problems crack open like chicks from eggs.
Gardens wither in the shadow of neglect.

I cast the problems to the wind
thinking nature takes care,
who am I to interfere?

Summer:
I flee west to dance on mountains,
where the gods’ gardens grow without my help.
Sun bleaches clean, rain rinses despair.

At home on the flat land,
vines choke delicate blooms,
weeds squat in empty beds
of nutrient-starved soil.

Stooped in defeat, the plants curl into themselves
and break my heart.

As payment to sun and rain
the healed becomes healer,
tending with tools, rich compost, and the sweat of debt.

Heal me, nature,
so that I may heal my garden of neglect.

Thirty days’ penance: dig, pull, yank, trim, turn, prune, nudge, drench, wait

Harvest:
Stalks and vines, heavy with fruit, offer thanksgiving and reward.
Leaves reach upward to caress the sun and cup the rain.
I collect the offerings in gratitude.
I thank the sun and wind and rain for nourishment and restored health.

I remember the day I first discovered the magic of Maurice Sendak.  Intrigued by the dozing monster on the cover of this slim volume tucked away in my elementary school library, I pulled its taped spine from the shelf and cracked opened the well-worn pages.

Trouble begins on the first page. A little boy in a costume, acting naughty, goes to his room without dinner. Then, strange things happen. Trunks and foliage sprout from the floorboards and bedpost, stretch skyward, knocking away walls and windows.  The ceiling retracts, exposing stars and clouds suspended above “the world all around.”

What luck: A private boat with his name on it sails him far away across a choppy sea to a land of monsters, which he tames with his staring trick.

What an amazing — and scary — thing to have happen to your bedroom, especially when you are a kid in trouble. Nothing like that ever happened to me. The story reminded me of a time when I was young and I thought I’d have a solo adventure in the woods. When I was too far to run to safety or call for help, I heard the sloshing and branch-snapping of a large animal in the swamp. I stood still, heart bouncing in my chest, breathing heavily but quietly, until the sounds receded. Bear? Deer? Swamp monster? I’m sure I couldn’t tame it with my staring trick, but I did wish for a magic vehicle to sweep me away.

Much like that swamp encounter, my heart races as I thumb through the pages of “Where the Wild Things Are” ignoring the words at first in favor of drinking in the mesmerizing illustrations, which are neither too cheerful nor overly terrifying. As I sit cross-legged on the little carpet, I flip back to the beginning over and over, to carefully study the metamorphosis from tame to wild to tame again. I decide which monster is scariest: it’s a tie between the one with the rooster beak and the one with the bull horns.

There is danger but there also is power in this tale. I believe in monsters of all shapes. Some live in the shadows behind the attic door in my upstairs bedroom, others lurk under the bed. Some live in the bright light of day, visible to all, but only scary to me. I have no power.

It didn’t take long for someone else in the library that day to notice I was hoarding “Where the Wild Things Are.” He stomped over and demand I turn it over for his perusal. Reluctantly, I handed it to him and watched as a crowd of boys gathered around to follow Max’s journey. From that day on, it became a game of who’d get to the book first.

I’m sure I thought about Max’s adventure that night as I lay under covers, gazing at the sturdy walls, wondering if they had the potential to transform into something wild, or if my roof might retract to show the heavens.

I thought about it years later when I had my first child and the book was gifted to us. She loved it so much she called it “Wild Rumpus.” I’d read it and we’d jump up and down in her room, roaring our terrible roars and gnashing our terrible teeth, making our own wild rumpus. I still have the framed print I made for her third birthday. It now hangs in our downstairs bath, an homage to the power of  imagination.  My husband, also a fan, brought to our marriage two copies of the book, along with soft cover collection of Sendak’s art.

So it was with surprise today that I learned Sendak died. I wasn’t sure I knew he was alive.  NPR aired an interview with Terry Gross from the ’80s.  He was a brusque, to-the-point kind of guy. I listened with pleasure and interest.  l liked how his mind worked, how he marched to a different beat.

A little reminder to us all: our children are wild and they have incredible imaginations. Let us tame the former to reasonable standards and the latter to no extent at all.

When we meet at a formica table in that echoing hall, I do all the talking. He sits in silence, studying something in his lap, his hands neatly folded and out of trouble. I’ve known him only a week. He is an unexpected mid-year replacement. The last relationship spun far out of my reach; I wonder where this one will lead.

In spite of the sudden change, I find this new one’s demeanor soothing to my psyche, which is in recovery. How could the last one, who was such a charmer, have been so unreachable? That blinding white smile. That great booming laugh. Those linebacker shoulders and arms that pulled you in but never answered your questions. Not a one.

Minutes into our second meeting in the hall, the new guy begins fidgeting in his chair as if he’s sitting on something alive. Every noise, passing person, draws his eyes away from me. Last week’s silence was really a swollen reservoir on the brink of bursting. Today, the dam gives out, gushing thoughts, feelings, ideas, opinions, and how much he likes robots. He really likes those robots.

Touching his hand lightly, I ask him to look at me. I ask him to listen.

Let’s make this work, I whisper. Let’s be a team.

He stops. His brown eyes lock with mine.

Is this going to work? I ask myself. Will I be able to shine a bright light through the fog?

I look away and count to 10, studying the beige ceramic tiles racing toward a vanishing point. I give him time to compose himself, to settle his hands and feet.

“I have something for you,” he says.

He leans to the side, digs into his navy blue pants pocket and pulls out a small, opalescent object. He sets it on the table.

“What is it?” I say.

“It’s a gem. I found it on the gym floor. It’s for you.”

You know what? I’ve been at this for almost three years now, tutoring children who, if they had a chance and a prayer, could work their way through the dense fog and shape something of their lives. I hope they do with all the hope in the world. I hope in spite of the odds against them.

I pick up the gem, which is really a sweater button, but I’m not going to say anything to him about that, and tuck it in my pocket.

“Thank you.”

He nods.

“You know what?”

He shakes his head, brows lifting in anticipation.

“You are the gem. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

by zitona via flickr

I went to the library the other day.

I walked away with two books for me, four for my girl, and a life lesson tucked in my pocket.

So, here’s how it happened: I was hoping to find a room full of children to occupy my youngest daughter, who’s on winter break from school and bored. Instead, I found one woman and one child in a children’s department roaring with silence.

First thought: Oh, look at the cute little blond girl with the Asian woman. She’s the nanny.

Second thought: Shame. Shame. Bad. Bad. As a caucasian mother of an Asian child, where do I get off jumping to conclusions?  I hate it when strangers give us the once-over and draw conclusions about our family dynamic. Why judge at all? Yet, there it was, a judgment.

Third Thought: Truth is, I live in an area where it is fairly common to find nannies and au pairs taking their charges to the library for story time. Many times I’ve started talking to who I thought was the mother only to have her  wave off my questions explaining: “I’m the nanny.” Sometimes that means: No further questions.

Fourth thought (after I learned they were mother and daughter): We are the exact opposite, yet we have much in common.  Although I didn’t ask, I’ll bet she gets a fair share of nosy questions and double-takes about her family dynamic.

Then I stopped thinking and started talking.

It began like this:

“Is your  daughter from China?” the woman said from across the room.

“Yes,” I said.

“I am from China,” she said, moving closer and pulling up a chair.

This opened the gates to a flood of questions and answers: What province in China? What city? How long have you been in America? Does your daughter speak Chinese? What is your name in Chinese? What do you do for Chinese New Year?

Before long, we were deep in stories of China, raising multi-cultural children, the best Chinese markets in the neighborhood, and other moms-of-school-aged-children stuff.

At one point, our girls mistook the library for a playground and began running and shrieking between the stacks. The librarian on duty quickly stepped in. I’m sure she had an awkward moment when she attempted to match girl to mother. At first she directed my daughter to the Chinese mother and the blond girl to me, then sensing an error in judgment, quickly switched the girls again.

There was a time when that move would have bothered me deeply. But today, we exchanged knowing glances and shared a good laugh. We had a bonding moment: this wonderful woman from Beijing, me, our two girls and a big empty room filled with books.

Then the two of us mothers gathered our things,  slipped into our jackets, and headed our separate ways. She, a dark-haired woman with almond eyes and a yellow-haired child, and I, an American woman with a Chinese-born daughter.

Two books who cannot be judged by our covers.

Photo by Shirley McShane Sillars

My car trunk is brimming with things I don’t need.

My baby is no longer a baby.

My house is cluttered.

My neck is bare on this blustery morning.

I’m on my way to purge the trappings of a babyhood gone by.

Along the way I meet a woman with a beautiful scarf.

It is so beautiful I stop to tell her how much I like it.

So she unwinds it from around her neck, unfurling its swirled colorfulness. It’s like a great butterfly flapping about  in this autumn landscape.

Keep it, she says.

Oh, no, I couldn’t, I reply.

You must have it, she insists, it complements your dress.

We dance this way a few times before I lift it from her open hands.

An unexpected outcome.

Awkwardly I cradle its cottony softness. I listen as this woman tells me the story of the scarf.

She created it and many others. She sells them.  She has so many scarves, giving one away is nothing.

What’s your craft, she asks, because these days it seems everyone has some special gift.

I’m not sure yet, I admit.

We part with a handshake and a promise that I will visit her store. As I walk to my car I slip the wings of turquoise, indigo and emerald  over my shoulders. The colors caress my neck and cheeks as the wind tugs the scarf’s fringed ends.

On the way to the community outreach center in a scrappy part of Detroit, I steal glances of it in the mirror while stopped at red lights.

As I heft the stroller, car seat, safety gates, and bags of odds and ends onto the curb, the wind slaps my hair and face. I pull the scarf tighter around my neck, up to my chin.

It’s not that I needed another scarf. I have a closet full, a veritable rainbow of neck coverings. But I don’t have a scarf like this one.

This is an extravagance. This is a serendipitous scarf.

I start thinking about giving spontaneously. It’s one thing to hand off used items to charity. It’s quite another to relinquish something new and hand-made. I consider the idea that I am free advertising for her work. I also acknowledge that I meet creators of  beautiful things all the time and I don’t walk away with freebies.

I think some more about how much easier it is to give than it is to receive. Or is it the other way around?

It’s hard to receive randomly, to quiet the barrage of inner questions that follow the gifting moment.

I wonder what of mine I will give to a stranger.

My trunk is empty.

My heart is warm.

My mind is racing.