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...and Mary

Back in the seventies, my Mom wore her hair long and straight - kind of like I do now - usually in ponytails, one on each side, or sometimes in a bun when she wanted to be fancy, or, rarely, just long and straight.

And of course, she was big on liberal causes, feminism, and protest songs.

In case you wonder why I liked Mary Travers so much... partly I always thought of her as my Mom... if my Mom sang. There she stood, in between Peter and Paul, a calm, magnanimous presence, calmly sharing her words of wisdom for all of us to hear. It was the smile that always got me - that sort of Mona Lisa-ish, half smile that let you know she was doing what made her joyously happy: singing, with conviction, about the things she loved and believed in most.

She also made protest music seem very approachable and friendly. I liked that. Still do.

My favorite memory is of the time J and I went to hear Peter Paul and Mary on one of their summer tours; this had to be back in the early nineties. In the middle of the show, each of them would come out and do a solo turn, and you'd discover that Peter was, well, pretty passionate about his causes, and Paul was a secret romantic... and Mary really was an Earth mother.

She came out, and addressed all of us as old friends she hadn't seen in a long time, and then she announced that she was very proud to be a Grandmother. And then she said, "and I brought pictures!" And she proceeded to unroll a 20 by 30 inch poster of a close up of her - very lovely - granddaughter. You could see it all the way out on the lawn, where we were. It was sweet, funny, and touching.

Mary Travers was one of those remarkable performers who transcended her work and became a cultural touchstone. For years she really was the female face of folk music, and she wore her unique kind of celebrity with an unmatched dignity, authenticity and an impressive unpretentiousness. And that voice! Never mind all the passionate songs where she embodies the cause... go back and listen to Leaving on a Jet Plane. Kiss me, smile for me. Tell me that you'll wait for me. Oh babe, I hate to go. The emotion, genuine and from the heart, is what made Mary's work so special... and all she wanted was to do was be part of something. Don't we all?

Patrick Swayze, Dancer

It's a world I don't really recognize, this world where Patrick Swayze captured our hearts and imaginations and had such a brilliant career. I don't mean to seem callous... but we are talking about Patrick Swayze... not Patrick Stewart. At least Stewart's decision to play to commercial success over art seemed to involve a choice.

A lot of people are talking about Dirty Dancing and how transcendent it was, which is kind of true... but also not: it was a slow summer, no one had made a successful musical - never mind really featured dancing as central to the plot - in years, and Swayze was, yes, wildly attractive. It helped that the script for Dirty Dancing was literate and well put together. But we shouldn't overstate what it was - a real classic summer popcorn pleaser - and raise expectations too high. The real power of Dirty Dancing is in the first word, not the second; it's not "nobody puts Baby in a corner", it's that Baby is a grown woman and the story of her summer fling is about dancing as sex, sex as dancing, and both being pretty damn enjoyable, if you do it right.

Dancers and swimmers... the real secret is in the powerful legs.

I always admired Patrick Swayze because he was an unabashed, unashamed dancer; he was well trained (by his mom, for starters) and good at it, and he was straight and butch and he had nothing to prove. There's nothing wrong with being gay and a dancer (that's me)... but it's the one profession where the two kind of get assumed together, and it's more than a little unfair to straight guys who dance. Swayze went a long way to demolishing preconceived notions, without being arrogant or defensive about it.

He was not a great actor; nor was he a particularly exceptional singer, and had he been either, I suspect he'd have made an effortless transition to Broadway star, which never quite happened. As it was, he was a fairly unique combination of beefy good looks, stolid presence, and graceful physicality. All of that is showcased most effectively in Dirty Dancing... and rarely after that. Though I have to admit... I've never seen Roadhouse. But trying to shower accolades on a career littered with Point Breaks and Ghosts and all sorts of B-list business... it's too much labor to try and dress it up.

In some ways he was too early and peaked too soon - the world of show dancing that's appeared in recent years (So You Think You Can Dance, Dancing With The Stars) would have loved him, in his prime. They might even have embraced now, after all these years, had he been well enough and strong enough. I wish he'd danced more, in public; that's where I think we missed out, where Hollywood never made the best use of his finest skill. And I suppose that's why I don't think of Swayze as "gone too soon" - the lives of dancers are just not as long as everyone else; it's hard on the body... and the heart, I think. The dancer is gone. The celebrity survives.

This Day, The 8th Time

MSNBC is rebroadcasting the live coverage of 9/11 from NBC that day. Still riveting.

Notes From A Death March

1. I'm beginning to realize that the problem in cable news is not a particular event - like a death - but the cavalcade of pseudo-events that follow. Today Ted Kennedy's body is moved from Hyannisport to the Kennedy Library, prompting hours of live (i kid you not) coverage and endless discussions among people who essentially have nothing left to say. And it's only Thursday... and the actual funeral is Saturday. This same mass of nothingness attended Michael Jackson's death, and one could expand it to the Inauguration of Obama, I suppose, and work backwards from there. And I'm not sure how we can ever get past it.
2. These are the days when I'm grateful for CNBC.
3. A real quick measure of whether to take a particular observer seriously, I'm realizing, is how they try to minimize or explain away Chappaquiddick.
4. Oh, and by the way: Liberalism is not dead. Just Ted Kennedy.
5. I don't mind the political rush to rename health reform "The Ted Kennedy Health Reform Program" or some such... but let's just admit, up front, that it's cynical trying to use a cheap sympathy ploy to solve an enormous structural PR problem.
6. Likewise, the fairweather voices of poitical rectitude who suddenly realize that 145 days is to long to wait for a replacement... don't have my sympathy either. And, as I said before, I think "Because Mitt Romney is no longer Governor" is a fantastically lame excuse to change the Senatorial replacement process... and really, who wants Deval Patrick picking the next Senator? Does that soudn like anyone's idea of a good plan? He's no Rod Blagojevich, to be sure... but he's not exactly exceptional, either, is he?

The Dream Never Dies

I suspect that, for anyone under the age of forty, finding the significance in Ted Kennedy's death will be less a direct experience than the received wisdom of two generations of older folks: those like my mother who are of Kennedy's generation; and liberals of the baby boom, the ones who truly canonized "the Kennedy mystique" into some sort of religious fervor.

The latter, especially, probably deserve their moment to elevate Kennedy's life and work and celebrate what was best about him. He is one of the longest serving US Senators ever. He crafted significant pieces of legislation. He carried on his family's traditions of service to the community. He was, most certainly, a defender of the basic ideas of liberal thinking at a time when those principles - helping the less fortunate, believing in government, finding equality and justice for all - were under attack and in decline. For all of this, and more, he deserves to be remembered as a great man.

But that is not all of who he was, and it was never the whole story. More than his brothers, or sisters, Ted Kennedy embodied the tensions of the storyline that elevated the Kennedy clan into American royalty: too much, too soon, the good and virtuous living side by side with the failures and the excesses... and all so very, very Catholic.

It's hard - very hard - now to remember the barriers that Catholics, and the Irish, had to face in society. How much resistance there was, really, to John Kennedy, as a Catholic, running for President (the first, we should recall, Catholic President - and, actually, the only one so far). That was Ted Kennedy's experience, the world he helped to change. And it is yes, within living memory. But for a younger generation... that story is going to seem awfully far away, and that kind of discrimination - between and among white ethnic groups, between Catholic and Protestant - has been relegated to the low end of perceived outrages. For those who lived it... I doubt it ever became less significant.

I prefer a more holistic kind of memory, one that embraces the person as he or she was, flaws and all, mistakes and successes. Ted Kennedy wasn't a monster... but by the same token, his greatness as a legislator should be tempered by remembering his failings - certainly Chappaquiddick, probably his role in the Palm Beach rape case, and the messy personal distractions. It was all part of who he was, and all of it impacted a national, larger than life story, in all its complexity.

Without the temperance of his flaws, it's too easy to overstate who Ted Kennedy was, what he did, why it mattered... and to still compare him, unfavorably, to the greatness of his brothers. Beyond that, it remains too easy to deify the Camelot fantasy of the American left, which really serves no useful purpose anymore, if it ever did. For Ted Kennedy, perpetuating that storyline both elevated the left wing and also undermined it; "the legacy of the Kennedys" was his mantle and his burden. The dream never dies. The person does, and did. And the myth of the Kennedys... probably should. Seeing Ted Kennedy for who he actually was - and what he wasn't - does him the best service, by preserving his humanity.... and lifting him from the shadow of his siblings to let him be seen for himself, good and bad, flaws and all. He deserves that, and the chance to rest in peace.

If You Leave... Don't Leave Now. Please Don't Take My Heart Away

Perhaps the most obvious thing to say is John Hughes made Molly Ringwald a star.

Oh, there were others - Andrew McCarthy should probably be especially grateful - but if you want to understand what John Hughes did, it can be summed up, most readily, in the Ringwald triptych: Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, and Pretty in Pink (which he wrote and produced, but did not direct).

Like many a kid from the eighties - I was 16 when 16 Candles came out - Hughes defined and saw my world. And he reopened Hollywood to the idea that the teen market was a commercial force on its own; there had been a distinct lull in films aimed directly at teens with an "adults just don't get it" vibe.

And no, it wasn't somehow a great leap - really, Hughes just found the right voice and the right stories to illustrate age old truths: the cliques and cruelties of high school life, the subtle ways money and social class play out in American culture (and our dream, really, of erasing class boundaries, or at least pretending that such things don't matter).

In The Ayer

At the airport, getting ready to fly home... as difficult as the past few days have been (on top of the funeral, there was plenty of work drama as well, and frantic travel plans), the big relief was that the gathering of friends and family for Bettie provided the kind of affirmation of a life that many talk of having, but rarely get. We came together simply, respectfully, and put the important things - family, supporting one another, and honoring our elder - in front of smaller considerations.

The past couple of days have put closure on a difficult period for me, reunited me with people I care about, and allowed me to let go of some lingering issues and concerns. I'm not sure anyone could ask for more. On top of which, spending time with my mom, taking in the familiar Boston experiences we've shared for, well, my entire life, was pretty much icing on the whole thing. And on a tangential note, I'm beginning to admit, however reluctantly, that Boston is able to provide some awesome food experiences - returning to Stella in the South End was a treat, and finding another great Chinese restaurant, this time in Chinatown, was a pleasant surprise.

Of all my elder (grand level) relatives, losing Bettie may be the most profound I've had thus far - her reach and influence into my life, and of those closest to me, was hugely significant. It was a relief, then, to see I was not alone, and that as she gave to us, all of us most wanted to honor her and give back. It's not about what you get... it's about what you are able to give. And it's in the air... all around us. Give a little.

More when I get home.

Why Can't Be Ourselves Like We Were Yesterday?

There was a death in my family this week.

My Great Aunt, my Grandmother's sister, died Tuesday of pancreatic cancer. It was all very fast - we'd just gotten the diagnosis a few weeks ago, and there was, apparently, little to be done.

my Aunt was an amazing, wonderful woman. She was very accepting of my Mom and Dad - a black man and a white woman, together, in the fifties - from the beginning; my father, her nephew, lived with her while he went to college, where he met my mom. Bettie was my god mother, and my earliest babysitter, and she delighted in telling stories about me as a small, precocious child. She was also always, always, there for me... until she couldn't be.

When I started this blog, I was living in her house in Boston, and she was succumbing to dementia, more than we realized at the time. By the time I left, she was having trouble recognizing familiar people, or distinguishing between real and factional details - she became fearful of crime she saw in dramas on television, just as one example. Losing her that way was slow and painful, and ultimately, other relatives had to  assume responsibility for her. After I left, she moved into a nursing home, and she had only been there for some months before the cancer diagnosis.

Losing Bettie has been more profound than I would have imagined. My mother is devastated, and I find myself sometimes too sad to breathe. I'm not a big believer in wallowing in grief - it's the New England stoic in me - and sad events usually sideswipe me with the intensity of emotion. I've never loved our cultural fascination with death and dying; I'd prefer if we were practical, and dealt with loss in a practical way.  And yet... here I am, terribly sad, and unable to do more than write this.

The funeral is Friday, and Mom and I will be in transit for much of the time, so probably little blogging for a while.

Who Would Imagine A King? Or Le Petit Prince?

So, apparently, they were serious when they said "Memorial Service."

It was easy to expect that the Michael Jackson farewell would be something of a Vegas Lounge Room of schlock... but instead it was a non-denominational service in the Church of Everyone.

The Church of Everyone is that secular notion of "religion" we have in our public consciousness. It's the reason the "religious right" can never completely win - because in one sense they already did, and in another, everything they try to accomplish is immediately co-opted. When a televangelist becomes more concerned with makeup and hairstyles, or the design of the set, or making the musical program more tuneful and upbeat... that's the Church of Everyone taking over.

The Church of Everyone is vaguely Protestant, vaguely Christian, but tends to include new-age elements meant to cover outlying elements like Buddhism, Muslims, and the less religious. If there are bible quotes, it's usually something you knew about anyway, but often Old Testament, where Jews and Christians can all agree. The Church of Everyone covers your general events where some nod to religion is needed; it's especially good for weddings, and mass events... and Memorial Services.

I hadn't expected a Church of Everyone service for Michael Jackson, but now, it seems clear, that it was the right way to go. The Memorial to Michael Jackson had, of course, it's uncomfortable, even tasteless, moments.  But at its best, it did actually provide closure, and befitted Michael Jackson's legacy... as the enormous celebrity with the very public life.

The Golden Girl

You have to understand... Charlie's Angels was the world to me.

And I couldn't watch it - I was too young; my parents took "family viewing hour" very seriously, and the idea of watching the "racy" ten o'clock shows... just wasn't happening. But I knew about them. We all did. Three beautiful women, daring adventures... sign me up.

By the time I was watching Charlie's Angels regularly, Farrah was long gone (it was the Shelley Hack year). And yet she was always, for me, the original golden girl, the one who made it. Even when what she made - the odd kind of celebrity she had - was never entirely clear.

Farrah Fawcett was the proof that archetypes exist - she really was the head cheerleader, friendly, beautiful blonde who made it big. A Texas gal who married the top jock (when she was an Angel and Lee Majors was the Six Million Dollar Man... worlds aligned), Farrah was all the stereotypes made flesh.

And she was proof that no one wants to be a stereotype; she never coasted on those looks alone, on the lowered expectations that came with being a cheerleader turned model turned "TV actress." Indeed, she wasn't, really alone: Farrah was part of a generation of very similar women, who'd bounced around the late sixties/early seventies modeling scene, made forays into acting, and often surpassed the artificial boundaries of society's expectations. Beneficiaries, in a way, of feminism's opportunities, they made their own way.

Never mind the Angels (for a moment:) consider Susan Anton, Lindsay Wagner, Lynda Carter, Suzanne Sommers, Linda Evans... even Bo Derek. Then go back, and add in Cheryl Ladd, Kate Jackson, Jaclyn Smith... even Shelley Hack (I'll admit... Tanya Roberts, not so much, as an actress). I could go on. Farrah Fawcett may have gone farther, faster... but she was a part of something bigger: a moment when women really, for the first time, could up-end traditional expectations, and for some beautiful, talented women... a shot was all they needed.

Fawcett was a better actress than many give her credit for being; like all the Angels (again, except Roberts, probably) she made so-so material shine, made an absurd premise believable, and even, somehow, made a show with especially creepy overtones (women doing just what a male's disembodied voice tells them to) into a surprisingly upbeat showcase of what professional women could do, as professionals, to get the job done. And Fawcett's other work - The Burning Bed, Extremities, her various other vehicles after The Angels - tended to show someone who believed in strong women, and wanted to show what they were capable of doing.

If her personal life was messy - she never seemed to get away from the ideal of a big strong man, deeply flawed - it also tended to show her refusal to be something other than a free spirit (for my money, she's the one who keeps Dr. T and the Women from completely dissolving into easy formula). She was the real California Golden Girl, and it's why her doll was so redundant; the blonde doll with the tan and the Malibu playset... she already existed. And you could always dress her up to pretend all sorts of careers.

I never wanted to be Farrah (or Jill, when we pretended at home); me, I didn't wanrt to be such an obvious blonde superstar... I preferred the quiet, mysterious, yet smart and calm persona of Jaclyn Smith. The one who stayed. The one who honored her full commitment. But Farrah didn't have to - she burned brighter, shot across the skuy, and made the dream real. And clearly, it also took a lot out of her, a lot of energy to make a star shine. Let's not leave her memory to a stereotype, or a suggestion of weakness. She was a heck of a strong woman, and she went out like she lived - brave, beautiful, vulnerable, but still surprisingly resilient, smarter and more aware than many expected. We may never see that again; and we're poorer for it.