Marsha Jacobson's Blog, page 5

Here’s Why

Why on earth am I wearing this at my age? Two reasons. One, “At my age” is a phrase I can’t decipher, and two, because I like it.

In and Out of Touch

Readers of The Wrong Calamity know about my best friend, Worth, and our hastily arranged trip to Vietnam. Our friendship started when we were schoolgirls and she tossed a note on my desk when our teacher’s back was turned. Since then, we’ve mostly been in constant touch, but there’ve been stretches when we hardly talked at all. Years back, we promised to tell each other immediately if ever anything was wrong—and we’ve both proved true to our word on this. So we each know that if the other goes out of touch for a while, we don’t have to worry. Our friend is okay, and so is our friendship.

Dumb Luck

The knife fell out of my hand while I was emptying the dishwasher. Fortunately, I caught it before it landed on my bare foot. Unfortunately, I caught it by pinning it against the lower cabinet with my thigh. Fortunately, it was point down and flat against the cabinet, so I was spared not only a deep wound but also the need to explain to an emergency room doctor how it happened. I don’t know what moral to draw from this story. Perhaps it’s “don’t be barefoot in the kitchen,” but somehow I don’t think so.

Ridiculous Me

These tissues are flimsy and scratchy. They fall apart when you reach for one and disintegrate when you try to use the remaining shreds. So why have they been on my desk for a year? Because you never know when you’re going to need a tissue so seriously that any crummy thing will do.

A Leap of Faith

In the isolation of lockdown, I thought a lot about two cousins I’d loved when I was a little girl but now didn’t even know. I was six, maybe seven, when a since-deceased relative who thrived on grievance cut off our connection to their family. Covid reminded me in the starkest way that the people in our lives are our lives, and I realized that throughout my adult years, I’d mirrored that relative’s actions: I’d stayed away.

Taking a leap of faith, I decided to look for those cousins and try to reconnect. I knew they might not be interested, but I also knew that if I waited for guaranteed success, I’d be perpetuating a separation caused decades earlier by someone else’s outrage.

Locating them was easy. They were both on Facebook, and I sent them friend requests. For good measure, I also sent one to their sister, who hadn’t yet been born when her brothers and I were playmates. They all clicked yes, and their sister went further. “I think I know who you are,” she messaged me. “You’re from the Lafayette family, right?”

Today we’re constantly texting, calling and FaceTiming. We grieved together at a family funeral, and on that sad Zoom they introduced me to others on their branch of the family tree. Some of us have met in person, in three different states. Travel plans are afoot for more of us to connect.

Reaching out to these cousins, I struck gold. Reaching out to another long-lost relative, I struck out. At least for now. The door is open, and maybe they’ll walk through it. If not, I’ll send another gentle hello at some point and respect whatever comes back, even silence. At least I’m now a person who tries.

Magic Onigiri

An errand took me to Industry City in Brooklyn, where I discovered Japan Village. Readers of my memoir, The Wrong Calamity, know I lived in Japan for five years and spoke Japanese fluently. And only a subway ride from my New York apartment, I felt I was back there. There were so many people speaking Japanese! I eavesdropped shamelessly but couldn’t muster the courage to use my Japanese, even to ask a simple starter-question, like directions to the restroom. I was so annoyed with myself. I’m always hungry for a chance to speak Japanese, and when I had the chance, I got shy.

I’m also always hungry for Japanese onigiri: a triangle or cylinder of rice, stuffed with tidbits and typically wrapped with nori for easy eating by hand. In Brooklyn’s Japan Village, my onigiri antennae led me to a stand where they were made on the spot and dropped into a plastic bag, so I could carry them to a table. I intended to eat one and take the other home. So much for that plan. I couldn’t resist. I ate them both.

As The Wrong Calamity makes clear, I went through some hard times in Japan, but wonderful times too. The Industry City onigiri were not only delicious but also magic. They summoned many memories of living there, but only the happy ones.

Witness To The Miracle

The three year old boy sitting next to me on the subway was working hard to sound out a word on an ad posted above the window opposite us. “Buh oh rrr ennn,” he said. He looked up at his mother. “Buh oh rrr ennn?” “Smooth it out,” she said. Over and over, he whispered to himself, “Buh oh rrr ennn.” Then he said, “buh orrr ennn.” And then, “Born! Mama, it’s ‘born!’” He threw himself on her, and while she hugged him, she and I grinned at each other over his head. “His first word,” she mouthed.

Right before my eyes, a new reader was born!

Putting My Birthday On The Map

I’d been single parenting for nine months, and now it was almost my birthday. My daughters were three and five, and it struck me that there was no one who would buy a cake, give me a present, or even know to sing happy birthday. 

I knew that over time they’d learn the birthday rituals from nursery school, kindergarten, and other people’s parties. But until then, I wanted to keep my own birthday from falling into oblivion in my own home. Even more than that, I wanted them to understand from the start the importance of celebrating each other.

Here’s what this single mom did: I bought a festive cake. I got myself a present and giftwrapped it with a glitzy bow. “Today’s a Very Special Day!” I said, in that singsongy voice we sometimes use with kids. “Do you know why?” Then the big reveal. “It’s my birthday!” 

Out came the cake, the present, and an old black-and-white photo of my first birthday. We sang happy birthday, each in our own fashion. “Help me blow out the candles,” I said, and they puffed up their cheeks and blew hard. “Now I make a secret birthday wish,” I said, and I scrunched my face and closed my eyes. When it’s your birthday, you’ll make a secret wish too.”

Eventually they learned the customs and the date of my birthday. Most important, they learned very early on that we celebrate each other to show our love. My birthday wish . . . granted.

Bravery And Its Discomforts

I thought a lot about protecting the privacy of people I wrote about in The Wrong Calamity so they’d be comfortable when it was published. I also thought hard about my own comfort if, say, my students read it, or my clients. Two recent conversations made me realize I hadn’t given enough thought to the impact my memoir could have on my friendships. 

One friend said, “You were brave to put your story out there.” I explained that, earlier, I’d been unwilling to share it but by the time I submitted it for publication, it felt fine. “By then it didn’t take bravery at all,” I said. When others had mentioned my “bravery,” I’d left it at that. This time, I asked a question: “Are you uncomfortable knowing so much about me?” She thought a moment, then said, “I’m comfortable because you’re comfortable.”

Later, another friend said, “I’ve read the first chapter. Should I keep reading? Do you want me to know this much about you?” I thought he was joking, and without stopping to think, I assured him that yes, it was fine with me.

When he’d finished the book, he said, “When we first me, you told me a bit about you, I told you a bit about me . . . over time, this was how we became friends. Now I know way more about you than you know about me.” 

In a flash, I realized that now our friendship was unbalanced. Did he feel obligated to tell me more about himself—maybe things he didn’t want to share? 

“I don’t think so,” he said, “but I’ll have to give it more thought.”

I’m giving it more thought too. 

Thinking About Elementary School Today

Readers of The Wrong Calamity often comment on the horrible meeting between Mr. Dalton, my sixthgrade teacher, and my mother. This wonderful teacher is very much on my mind today, and I want to share with you what he did after that meeting. This part isn’t in the book.

Mr. Dalton had a weekend side gig, mowing the huge fields that surrounded our school, and he invited me to join him. He’d previously asked me how I liked living in Indiana, and I’d been embarrassed to tell him the truth. “I like it,” I’d told him. “We have a new car, and I get to play with my Indiana cousins.” 

But there was something about sitting next to him, high up on the tractor, the rhythmic upandbackupandback of the mowing, the gentle vibration of the seat, the warm sun on my knees . . . I told him all about the shock of our running away without my father, about missing my grandmother, about my father not searching for me. I don’t remember what he said, or if he said anything at all. What I do remember is how safe I felt, telling him the truth. Up and down the fields we went, my secrets secure in the noise of the tractor and his quiet compassion.

For years, I wanted to thank him, but I couldn’t find him. A profile of him in a newspaper was the closest I got, but then the trail went cold. Now I learned he died in 2015. This photo from his obituary is of a much older Robert Dalton, but I see in his face the kindness and wisdom of this 29-year-old elementary school teacher and the comfort it gave me. Rest in peace, Mr. Dalton.