Reinvention
15 hours before my dad died, my mom asked me to make a pact with her. It was 4am and we had been up for over 30 hours, keeping my dad calm and comfortable.
Only minutes before had we realized that he was never going to wake up again. Every hour or two, I had been inserting a syringe of a morphine and other things into his mouth as he was in a deep sleep.
I wasn’t sure how quickly he would pass, but this was it. My mom, struck by the reality, walked out and into the living room.
I knew this moment couldn’t be ours alone. He loved so many and so many loved him. I called his siblings so they could say their goodbyes. Each time, my voice breaking as I whispered, “I think he’s going to pass soon.” And every time I put the phone next to his ear, I quietly sobbed listening to his loved ones say I love you one last time.
The hospice nurse said that his hearing would be the last sense to leave. I wasn’t sure if this was true or just a comforting notion to help with the grieving process, but when my dad’s eyes opened and he tried to speak when one of his siblings said goodbye, I knew the truth.
My heart felt broken and strong, all in the same moment. I was a transformed person in only minutes. Tending to the dying body of a person who had been my life-long pillar of strength, guidance and protection for 41 years. Comforting others who loved him. All while cradling my own pain.
I walked from his bedroom into the living room where my mom sat, staring out onto the moonlit lake. The darkness was so quiet and consolatory. I was grateful for the dark hour because in this hour my dad was still alive with me.
My mom, on her own mindful journey in the dark hour, looked at me.
“Make a pact with me. In this next chapter, let’s reinvent ourselves.” She was smiling through her tears, knowing that the next hour would bring brightness and colorful vibrancy, but it would also bring a heartbreaking end to her 43-long marriage. This was a pact for herself, not me. In my own life, I have been reinvented a thousand times over. But I said yes, so she wouldn’t feel alone in her new life and turned my wet eyes onto the lake that looked like a sea.
When would the sun break? I didn’t want to look at the clock. Time was too precious to count it like I normally did every day.
Before I knew it, the horizon has a glow. The sunrise was beginning, a new day was breaking along with my heart.
In this space, next to the deepest grief I’ve ever felt, and an epic display of natural beauty, I felt another shift. If today is the day my dad dies, I will record it forever in my memory along with a beautiful sunrise. What a gift.
Little did I know this theme of paralleled dichotomy was the seed that would sprout my own reinvention. An internal shift that would activate my mind, body and soul. I was keeping my agreement to my mom’s pact. I was being reinvented.
I took my phone, propped it up in the window and started a time lapse of the sun breaking. There was no other need for my phone.
In the next minutes, hours, days, and weeks, I will not want to be free from my phone and free from time-wasting connection.
Ghosts
Native Americans have inhabited New Mexico for more than 2,500 years, with some of the earliest permanent settlements, now known as pueblos, dating back about 1,500 years.
Humans settled over 37,000 years ago, in the region that is known today as New Mexico. They have found human footprints that are 23,000 years old. Even to this day, you can find pueblos that date back to 1,500 years ago.
This could be why everywhere feels a bit haunted.
Or maybe it’s just the feeling of smallness when you stand alone within such a vast and immense landscape. It could be the awe of ancient rocks and mesas that make you wonder what life looked like so long ago.
Perhaps it’s the remote and isolated towns, that look like ghost towns but are surprisingly well populated. Or the intriguing and diverse types of people who each prefer this dramatically remote lifestyle.
Native Americans, artists, farmers, hunters, ranchers, hermits, and outlaws. Neighbors with conflicting life perspectives, yet comrades in community support, pride and love.
My aunt, the reason why I’ve gotten to know some parts of New Mexico, was one of them. All her life, she felt like a black sheep. But in New Mexico, she found her people. Humans who desired to live in a far off land, side-by-side with ghosts from an ancient human past.
Perhaps their own inner ghosts found comfort in the ancient ones.
You don’t need to believe in ghosts to feel haunted. Sadness. Grief. Trauma. Rage. Unresolved conflicts. Addiction. All these things have the supernatural ability to haunt.
I felt haunted by my aunt for a long time. Dense and heavy with shame and anger, my heart closed off to her. She had hurt too many people, many of whom I loved.
I hadn’t always felt like that. She had been of my favorite aunts. We shared a passion of feeling wild and free. We would ride her newly broken horses up and down mountains. We would drive to random places and make up stories about who we were. For me, she was the ultimate play date. Getting to do things that no one “normal” would approved of.
But she also taught me a lot. She taught me how to safely shoot and clean a rifle. She taught me how to make a fire without a lighter. She taught me how to catch fish, clean them and cook them on a fire.
During all these decades of playfulness and learning, I didn’t realize how heavy my heart was quietly growing. Slowly and unknowingly, a dark ghost was being born inside me.
When I was 13, I realized that I was more of an adult than my aunt. I knew social cues and when to goof off and when to button my shit up. She didn’t. Even when she was clean and working her recovery, her behavior was unpredictable and adolescent. Like a mom, I would discreetly scold her when she would inappropriately behave. She would happily obey and apologize, almost like it made her feel safe that I knew some kind of special social code.
The older I grew, the more I did for her when I would visit. When I was in my 20s, I started paying for her groceries, cleaning her house and taking her out for meals.
Why would I do this? Because we had a liking for similar ghosts. Because she loved so big. Because she wanted to be close to me and our whole family. Because she was so accepting and loving to so many people. Because she craved an untethered feeling of lone abandonment. Because she was hilarious. Because she was wild and fun. Because she was protective of precious things like animals and our earth. Because she was painfully sensitive. Because she was a seeker of life. Because she was sick. Because she didn’t have certain tools or abilities. Because her capabilities didn’t match her ambitions. Because she never felt safe. Because she was lonely. Because she never felt loved in the way she loved others. Because I loved her.
Up until November, I had had a blazing inferno of rage in my body towards her. Enraged by all the manipulation, lies and irreparable pain she had caused our family, I had zero empathy for her. In fact, I had the opposite. I thought and spoke so apathetically about her and her addiction. I strongly believed that she deserved catastrophic consequences for what she had done.
Then I saw her in a hospital bed.
She had been found unconscious on the floor of her home. My brother, cousin and I flew to Albuquerque to see her and how we could help.
It was like seeing a ghost. And since we had to go into her hospital room one at a time, it was jarring to be alone with her ghost.
Her eyes, wild with delusion and fear. She couldn’t move any of her limbs, but jerked her torso. Her words were difficult to understand at first, and sounded like an animal grunts.
It was so haunting that it literally spooked my rage away.
It didn’t slip away slowly. And it didn’t get pushed aside or down. I hastily threw it away, surrendering it as fast as I possibly could. Like I had been caught red handed with something illegal. Because deep deep down, I thought that maybe…just maybe, my rage had been a silent, guilty player in this awful experience. Perhaps my horrific desire for her to be accountable for the destruction she had caused had finally manifested.
And just like that, my ghost was gone. I wasn’t scared or angry or ashamed.
I was just sad.
Healing Together, Yet For Ourselves
After a few years of fear, my mom and I are just taking a little staycation to help heal ourselves and the ones we hold near and dear to our hearts. This personal essay is a little bit about death, a lot about love and profound importance of positive behavior.
Just your everyday mom (who also happens to be super cool, ever-evolving and full of love).
Just over a year ago, my mom’s mother died alone in her apartment in San Diego. While she didn’t die of Covid, I strongly believe it was the isolation, loneliness and hopelessness from quarantine that prevented her from having the balance she needed to keep living at 86-years old.
Within days, my mom and one of her brother’s strategized a safe way to travel from Michigan to pack up my grandma’s apartment in San Diego.
Although I was only 2 hours away in Los Angeles, I hadn’t been 100% quarentinning. As 1 out of 3 execs, my role was crucial in maintaining operations of an essential manufacturing company. Not to mention, as a single middle-aged and childless woman, I felt that my work was my identity, my main purpose and my only joy amidst a global crisis. So, just like everyone in those early days of Covid, as the dominos of pain and fear pushed forward with great force and momentum, I simply clung to the only things I could trust: myself, my own safety and my job.
However, when my grandma died, I knew I needed to be there for my mom and family. So, instead of taking some time off, I chose to keep working and just add a little more to my plate. After quarantining, I was able to go to San Diego and say a profound goodbye to my elderly best friend with my mom and uncle. We packed, we shipped, we moved and I Zoomed with all different departments, employees and the President of my company to ensure all kept moving fluidly without hiccups or bumps in the road.
My mom and uncle went back to Michigan and I was now alone again, in my cozy, safe home. Yet this time, the grief settled in. Now that I was allowed to work from home, I clung to a few more things: spirituality, painting, therapy, family friends that were “safe,” and of course, still work.
Then, a few months later, my dad had a procedure that wreaked havoc on his body. As a Marine Veteran who had served in Vietnam, his body has always had severe pre-existing health conditions. All my life, he had candidly spoke to my brother and I about his death, trying to prepare us for something that no parent can ever prepare their child for. To say that we were terrified by his body’s reaction to such a “simple” procedure, is the understatement of 2020.
Do I go home? What if I catch Covid on my way?
Since my parents had rented a non-refundable home in Palm Springs for us all to spend Christmas and the winter with each other, we decided it would be best for me to just keep working from home and meet them in Palm Springs. The doctors were reassuring and optimistic that his bad reaction was just temporary.
So, we trusted the doctors and I got OCD about being careful not to get Covid because all I wanted to do was hug my dad on December 20, 2020.
By December 15, it was clear that he was not improving and should not travel. My parents insisted that I get out of the city, a hotbed for Covid, and enjoy some desert sun and fresh air.
I packed my plants in my car like they were my children, Christmas decorations and photography equipment. If I couldn’t be with two of my favorite people in this world during the holidays, then I wanted to have a creative reset. I was ready to finally unplug from work and take some time to connect with my writing and photography.
Life had other plans; I got Covid and it was horrific.
Alone, in a beautiful desert abyss, I nurtured myself with vitamins, solfeggio frequencies (aka “angel music”), organic foods that I prepared myself and lots of liquids like tea and water.
Meanwhile in Michigan, my mom sank her feet deeper into her personal Catholic faith and found herself in a scary new role as a caretaker, to the man she had admired all her life.
Long before this ever happened, she has always said, “I am not a Nurse Nightingale.” Much of this was due to her own boundaries she needed to create for her relationship with her own mother.
She also was forced to release her fears over me, her one and only daughter, dying alone on the other side of the country. Not only did she trust me to take care of myself, she trusted that God would also keep watch. Along with my own personal “safety circle” that consisted of my doctor, therapist, boss, and soul-mate friendships.
Soon enough, she also found herself in awe of Nurse Nightingale’s history, impact and legacy.
Now, as we come up on a year, she is finding herself in need of a little balance. Coincidentally, I also could use a little help, too.
So, we decided to have a safe little staycation, here in California. We are CLEANING, organizing, cooking, laughing, watching old movies, taking long talks and talking about the past with insight.
Life is way too short and we are seeing that every single day. It’s so important to slow down, embrace our loved ones and take time to just bask in the simple pleasures that life has to offer.
Thank you, mom for kicking off this journey with me.
Speed Limits
Last year, a friend told me an interesting fact. The gist of it: humans haven’t evolved enough to be biologically comfortable driving over 30 mph. While airplanes fly at a much faster speed, we don’t see clouds fly past us as we do trees, people and buildings when we are in a car. Basically, regular amounts of high-speed driving triggers primal fear alerts and can cause fatigue, physical tension, and emotional stress.
This made total sense to me, so I didn’t fact check it before believing it.
Just the thought of my weekday commute made my heart race. If I left my house by 7 am and took the quickest route (the 10E to the 110S to the 91E), I would avoid traffic. Awesome. But not really because that would mean that I would start my work day at a ripe 7:28 am. Yet, if I waited until 7:01 am or later and took the same freeways, I would have to deal with brake-gas-brake driving for 45 to 60 minutes.
People love to complain about LA traffic - especially those who don’t live in Los Angeles. Oddly, even after almost 10 years, the traffic has never really been the issue for me. Instead, it’s the drivers that have led me to spin myself into a wild, irrational tizzy.
Drivers who don’t look before they change lanes or use their turn signals. Drivers who tail you even when there’s a mile-long traffic jam. Drivers who cruise at dangerously s-l-o-w speeds…in the carpool lane. Drivers who go 10 miles s l o w e r than the flow of traffic and are STARING AT THIR PHONES while driving in the left lane of a 5-lane freeway!
This fiery rage inspired me to “draft” (aka yell angry voice memos at Siri) a hypothetical OpEd piece for the LA Times that would “educate” these recklessly selfish drivers who needed a few lessons on civilized order and road ettiquette. Pass on the left, go with the flow of traffic, use your turn signals, and don’t touch your brakes unless you absolutely have to stop. To make matters worse, this was also a time that I used to catch up on all the news and commentaries about crime, climate change, politics and everything wrong in our world.
It may come as a surprise, but this problem didn’t actually start with LA motorists. It’s a sad fact, but I’ve had issues with semi-truckers, minivans, mopeds, Uhauls, porsches, priuses, Fords and Hondas from sea to shining sea. There was one time, in my mid-20s when I was driving across country by myself and I come upon a conversion van, full of men. I had been the bigger person, when I didn’t tail them during the 30 minutes they steadily drove the same speed at the other car in our two lanes going one way. When they finally passed, on their own time, I regretfully honked at them as I passed. And, not the “oh-hey-i’m-being-polite” kind of short honk, but rather the “f-you-and-f-everyone-in-a-50-mile-radius-because-i’m-insane-with-rage” kind of long honk. I threw in some hand gestures that were more passive-aggressive than overtly angry, which only made me look crazier. I wish the story stopped here. But, it doesn’t.
The van full of men chased me for 4 miles, going 90-100 mph. Panicked and terrified, I was grateful when we flew past a patrol car. Pulling us both over, we were stuck there for an hour as the county officer took statements from both of cars. While I was grateful he didn’t ticket me, I was much more grateful that he had safely stopped a potentially catastrophic event from happening.
This event was jarring. So jarring it was something I talking about in therapy. I’ve never been an angry or rash person, yet the road was a place that took over my rational thinking. The therapist’s words stuck with me throughout the years, “Can you try to just follow along? Allow yourself the freedom to not have to lead or teach anyone on the road? It may be liberating for you.”
Then I moved back to Los Angeles.
So when my friend shared this scientific “fact” (I’ve had a hard time finding the support material on this), my brain was like, “yes, we already have a gigantic file on that!”
I began asking myself, why am I so tense? Because I was anxious. I wanted to get from point A to B as fast as I could, so I could be done with driving. I was also nervous that I hadn’t checked my emails or responded to a missed call. Additionally, I was resentful that I had accounted for 20 minutes to prep for a meeting, but that slowdown had stolen it from me. And then I was feeling guilty for not prepping yesterday. Ugh. And what about the news? That opioid epidemic story was overwhelming. What about that Michael Cohen interview? All the school shootings, xenophobia, misunderstandings and white men making all the decisions. How am I not having a panic attack?
It was as if I floating outside my body and not in control of anything, a perfect state of mind for someone operating a large weapon.
Then it hit me, just like that 25-year-old driver who allegedly intentionally hit another car because the car had a Donald Trump bumper sticker.
You know that saying, about throwing stones and glass houses? I felt like I was guilty of so much hypocrisy.
I needed to change. ASAP. Obviously, I couldn’t just not drive to work, but what if I changed my route and slowed down?
As an experiment, I told myself that for1 month, I would let go of caring about how much time it took me to get to work. I wanted to treat my morning commute like I treated leisurely road trips, listening to music that made me happy and keeping my eyes peeled for photo ops.
During that month, I calmly coasted past trees, shops, schools, churches and people at a speed that felt innately comfortable. Yielding to bicyclists, eager students and hurried pedestrians, my eyes were met with so many people who were starting their days, just like me. This scenic route, through South Central Los Angeles and Compton, had me hoping for traffic jams and red lights. Not only did I capture ordinary, yet spectacular snapshots of people, but I shared countless smiles and many pleasant greetings.
Sharing a city with more than 4 million people can unfortunately make strangers feel like obstacles, rather than other humans. While it is a very primal instinct for us to be wary, competitive or unforgiving to strangers, that doesn’t mean it’s okay. These strangers, who we have unconsciously labeled as enemies, are experiencing all of life’s challenges. Grieving over the death of a loved one, raising children as single parent, moving to a new state or country where they don’t have anyone to trust, getting diagnosed with a severe health condition or being laid off.
Life is heavy and we are all traveling at biologically unnatural speeds. Perhaps, if we put our mind to it, we can be a bit more evolved than our archaic ancestors.
Driving (and anger) issues come in all shapes and sizes. And they don’t actually get resolved by taking a leisurely drive to work. While meditation, mindfulness and empathy certainly help chill out reactionary behavior, understanding how and why these impulses occur are key to ending meltdowns for good. Here are a few items that I liked:
Invisibilia podcast episodes Entanglement, True You, Future Self, Reality, The Pattern Problem…(and so many others)
HOW NOT TO BE SWEPT UP IN DRIVING ANGER via The Daily Mail
– Watch out for the illusion of control. Remember the old saying, 80 per cent of drivers believe their driving skills are above average – a statistical impossibility
– Remember our common humanity – everyone on the road, ourselves included, are merely human beings with good bits and not so good bits trying to do the best they can. We are all in this traffic together and it can be frustrating for us all
– Consider other drivers might not be malicious – we often jump to conclusions about other drivers and assume they do things on the road to affect us personally. Usually, the person’s actions are caused by benign motivations
– Avoid blame and punishment, and be forgiving – we can accept that negative events happen and that as human beings we all make mistakes. Maybe they were distracted in that moment, maybe they are in a hurry, maybe it was just a case of human error, which we’re all guilty of
– Let go of the struggle – red lights, traffic, delays, inconsiderate drivers – struggling with any of it will only make matters worse for you. We can accept and tolerate the inevitable frustration and provocation
– Breathe – slow it down, find a way to breathe that soothes you such as finding a slow, controlled rhythm, and reduce the physiological arousal associated with anger
– Speak to yourself in a friendly voice, with reassurance and validation. ‘Oh, that was a close call. You’re safe and all is OK. That person made a mistake, and we all make mistakes’
– Focus your attention on safe, calm driving, ensuring you get yourself to your destination safely and without incident
Capturing the Realities of Parenthood + Free Photo Session Offer
If you're a parent, chances are that you've been told to appreciate every moment because kids grow up too quickly.
Depending on where you are, this advice can be hard to swallow. Especially if you’re in the throes of nighttime feedings, sleep schedules, potty training and endless loads of laundry.
This past summer, I took a week off work to help two of my best friends who both needed a little extra help with their families.
I mistakenly confused this as a staycation pour moi. A week away from the office would surely give me the chance to catch up on work, work out every day, prepare healthy food, and live my best "mom" life with coffee in hand.
That slight misunderstanding was corrected on Day 1, when I learned that hot coffee is not baby safe and me is a toddler-only kind of word.
Now I love my friends’ children as if they were my own. They are the sweetest, smartest, most charming and beautiful natural disasters I’ve ever known. That said, these unstoppable tornadoes that swirl through neatly-folded laundry stacks with food-gritty finger and wildfires that jump from furniture are in constant need of emergency support.
Being a constant rescue squad is beyond EXHAUSTING, disgustingly messy and sometimes very dangerous.
Parenting Is Not Pretty. Or Is It?
The reality is that raising children, being a good partner, and showing up for your family in all kinds of ways, EVERY DAY, can feel a bit repetitive and also overwhelming. From preventing crises to being the sanitation crew, it’s probably difficult to see how you and your daily life could be photographically beautiful - without a set designer, stylist, hair and makeup team and a flaw-fixing post-production expert.
Understandably, this may be a reason why the term “candid photography” has gotten a little skewed by the family photo biz. See not many families actually want candid family portraits. Sure, they don’t want a generic studio backdrop or maybe they don’t want to be looking directly at the lens, but they still want to be posed, directed and for their hair flyaways (and double chins) to be “photoshopped.”
After that one week that I spent on the front lines, I completely understand why a photograph of a well-dressed, smiling family in a crisp autumn scene is certainly a fitting trophy to hang on a wall; a reward for all the unsightly duties and hard work. A flawless snapshot to remind one of how beautiful their life is, as they wonder when was the last time they showered?
But what about that flawed, sometimes smelly reality? The yoga pants that you’ve worn for 3 days straight, your toddler’s unbrushed hair that has dried Mac & Cheese in it, and the old couch that you hate, but won’t replace until your kids are older and less prone to spills?
How can we find the reward in that photograph as well?
So Soon You Forget.
Just as your little newborn grows into a baby, then a toddler, then a first-grader and then a…high-schooler right before your eyes, you realize exactly how quick they (and you) grow up. You can hear the irony in your voice as you retell that same phrase to new parents, that had once made you want to scream.
This is when the wisdom really kicks in and you stop yourself from wishing your teenager, who just got suspended for a stupid prank, to grow up faster.
Every stage has its unique nuances, crazy moments and different routines and those all create your family’s history. In fact, there will be so many of these, that one day you won’t even be able to remember all of them.
A kitchen table with kids doing homework as a dad cooks dinner in his boxers, a family packed in the car heading to a soccer tournament, or a mom playing video games on the floor with her son. The overly worn jeans, the favorite baseball hats, the pacifier obsessions, or the lego pieces that are constantly causing foot pain. What about the neighborhood friends who are always over, movie and popcorn nights in bed or lazy Sunday mornings that last until nap-time?
It’s boggling to think that behaviors so ingrained in your regular life today, will eventually become distant memories tomorrow.
The Bigger Picture.
Though time does not stop, it is not impossible to capture those momentary rainbows that quickly pop up, in between all the flash storms. To me, these are the scenes that are most precious, fleeting and deserving of high-quality preservation.
A few years ago, when our political landscape shifted and fake news began to buzz around, I couldn’t help but wonder if something, ever so small, like a perfect family photo could somehow be connected.
While this is just one tiny trend, I still believe that it carries a tremendous amount of influence - both culturally and personally.
I’ve unfortunately witnessed a horrifying amount of bullying, competition, judgements and critical assumptions between from PARENTS.
Even without being a parent, I’ve hypocritically sold my own fake news, while also scoffing at another person’s perfect Instagram feed.
It’s so easy to fall prey to it.
However, I want to try and change that. I want to help parents feel beautiful in their reality and proud of where their family is right now - whether they are in the midst of a severe ice storm or witnessing a rainbow. These are the moments that make a parent and a child who they are and I want to photograph them - for free.
What’s the catch? There’s always a catch.
No catch!
If you are a parent and open to allowing me to photograph your family candidly for a few hours, I would be honored to do this for free in 2019.
You will be given all the final images for free. Though, I will ask you to sign a release, allowing your participation in this photography series on family realities.
So, if you’re interested in taking a stand against fake news and doing something to promote a positive shift within your family AND community, contact me and I would love to chat!
Midwest Misunderstandings
When you travel back to the place where you grew up, it can stir up all kinds of feels - to say the least. For me, home is a state of mind. However, when I find myself back in Michigan, a place that I struggled to call home for a long time, it’s not that easy to say goodbye.
I was an angry little 5-year-old when my parents moved our family from a sunny, beachside life in San Diego to the carpeted-basement floors of the metro-Detroit area.
My parents had lost all their money in a bad business venture and were completely broke. In desperate need to find free shelter and a good job, the only option was to turn back to their roots in Michigan. To them, home meant life-long friends, a big Lebanese-American family, and a place where kids ran free until the street lights came on.
I had another plan. My dad had been living and working in Los Angeles during the week, while my mom, baby brother and I lived with my grandma in San Diego. Since we only saw him on the weekends, why couldn’t he move back to Michigan - alone?
Even I knew that he was not welcome to live at my grandma’s, his mother-in-law. My bluestocking, Swedish-American grandma had never been afraid to share her harsh opinions regarding my dad, his background and my parents’ marriage. In fact, she had already told me that I would need to be careful in life because I had “his genes,” and not my mother’s. She also explained to me, ever so kindly, that no matter how much money my father would make, we would never be considered wealthy due history, ethnicity, Catholicism, and education - or lack thereof.
Being only 5, I decided to trust her because I liked how she and her life looked. Plus, she never made me angry. And I liked how she hard she made me work to win her approval. It felt like the kind of challenge that would probably give me a trophy, if I won.
Leading up to the move, I argued, cried and pled with my mom to let me stay with my grandma alone. She tried to be patient, but eventually, she snapped. Curtly, she said, “you belong with us; end of discussion!”
My beady eyes glared with a fresh coat of tears, watching her board the plane back to Michigan with my baby brother. My parents could only afford one plane ticket, so I had to drive across 9 states with my dad in a U-Haul. And, unable to afford motel rooms, we slept in the truck for 3 nights in a row. Thinking of the irony, but unable to name it, I felt angry. So this was where I belonged?
One night while we were on the road, we pulled into a gas station to sleep for the night. I ranted while my dad made a bed for me in the gap between the seats and the truck wall. Hysterical, I told him I was scared, that I wanted to live with my grandma, that I missed my best friend Ilana, that I wanted a hotel, that I wanted to fly on the airplane, and that I hated him and Michigan…
It wasn’t in my dad’s nature to be calm. But without my mother there to do the nurturing, he remained patient and comforting; reassuring me that we were safe, he would never let anything bad happen to us and we would be “home” soon.
That only made me whimper more. Home? We weren’t going to be “home” any time soon, as far as I was concerned.
When we arrived, we stayed at a cousin’s home. A year later, we lived with our good family friends. I liked their home, but it wasn’t ours. The next year, they rented an apartment. It was fine, but it didn’t feel like the home I remembered feeling in San Diego. The next year, they rented a house with a pool, but compared to all of my private school peers’ homes, it was shitty. At 10 years old, and 13 moves, my parents bought a house and finally unpacked all of their boxes.
Finding home, for me, has been a long, winding, pot-hole-ridden, dirt road ride without any rest stops.
Eventually, and due to the many privileges my parents provided, I was able to learn that home was much more than a place. Home has been whatever I’ve needed it to be - my career, a home cooked meal, a loving a boyfriend, or the feeling that you get when the plane lifts from the ground.
Had my parents not moved us back to Michigan, or into so many other people’s homes, perhaps I wouldn’t have learned that lesson.
There are loads of reasons to criticize places like Grosse Pointe, Detroit and Michigan. From the Flint water crisis and the poverty-porn of Detroit’s streets to systemic issues like historic racism and unequal distribution of wealth, the state is full of easy-to-vilify targets. As a person who dedicated their entire childhood to judging all of the things, all of the places and all of the people, I get it.
Yet I cannot deny my positive experiences and overall outcome. It was a place that gave me an exceptional education with rare opportunities, surrounded by a well-intentioned, trustworthy community. I had early exposure to history, renowned art collections, dramatically-contrasting economies, racial tension, and differing societal nuances. I was able to witness the beauty that came with every season and experience the small character shifts that they inspire within a person. And, the biggest privilege of all, I was never far from my ever-loving, overly generous, multi-generational family who never made me feel like I had to do anything to win their approval. Well, except for maybe a few of the uncles who didn’t believe daughters should leave home, unmarried…but, that’s beside the point.
All I can say is that I’m sorry for my sweet, hateful grandma who clung to so many misunderstandings. As much as I love her, my parents have always been wealthier than she ever could have been.
An Ignorant, Yet Curious Documentary
For the past year and a half, I’ve knocked around the idea of doing a documentary on Lebanon.
My curiosity was peaked when a Lebanese-American friend began teasing me. Telling me that I was a fake Lebanese-American who had never visited my grandparents’ country.
“Why haven’t you been to Lebanon?”
“Because isn’t it dangerous? Especially as a woman alone?”
“Amelia. Who told you that?”
“For starters, the news and the U.S. government. But, also my relatives…who haven’t actually travelled there, either.”
After losing the debate, I did some “research” - aka watched YouTube videos and began to follow beautiful Lebanese people on Instagram (kidding, partially). Reading about progressive initiatives, historic achievements and personal stories made me feel…so many things.
My biggest takeaway was shame over my offensively ignorant perspective. Who knew that I was actually the basic white girl that I had always wanted to be? Luckily, I am very comfortable with ignorance and shame as long as there are a few dashes of curiosity and motivation.
Since overthinking is one of my best talents, I sat with my ignorance for a little while. I also sat with my anger over other Americans’ ignorances. While the details may be different, I realized I was in the same boat as them. Perhaps, my boat was even more dangerous than their’s as I was discriminating against my own genetic history.
Feeling charged to do something positive for the current state of multiculturalism as a whole, I decided that I needed to go to Lebanon and share that story.
My initial idea: a feature that would address the misunderstandings that people, specifically Americans, have about traveling to the “Paris of the Middle East” and examine the reality behind their fears. I figured I could easily make that documentary with a very modest budget, 1 DP, 1 sound person, 1 fixer and 10 days traveling in the country with my dad (a first-generation Lebanese-American who has never been to Lebanon and is definitely scared to travel there).
However, that modest budget would still require financing and producing such an ambitious project on top of my all-consuming day job, it could not be a short-term reality.
I lied to myself and promised to be diligent with pitching the idea to media outlets and see if any interest or support would come from that. Unfortunately, I got stuck in a dark hole of discouragement.
#I haven’t produced a film in 4 years.
#2 I haven’t written a screenplay in 4 years.
#3 It’s been 5 years since I’ve steadily worked journalism.
#4 I have 0 connections and no representation.
#5 No one is going to hand me money to tell my little story.
Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s a trick!
The reality was that my grandiose dream was just a big, cozy excuse for me to hide behind. And I LOVE hiding because I am terrified of everything - like traveling alone throughout Lebanon.
Fear and anxiety have kept me from doing many things. When I share this with people I know, they laugh and think I’m joking.
“But, you go backpacking by yourself.”
“Only to places I know and feel comfortable.”
“But, you do stand-up comedy.”
“Because I’m not afraid of speaking; I’m afraid of engaging.”
“But, you’re a 36-year-old single woman and you don’t seem desperate to get married.”
“Was that a back-handed compliment?”
This whole fear thing has really affected me in ways that I didn’t understand until a few years ago.
From owning my own home and dating men I actually love to pitching myself for bigger jobs and taking career risks, I haven’t just avoided these scary milestones, I have run away from them at full speed.
Oddly enough, worry and fear also run rampant in my Lebanese-American family. Perhaps there’s a connection.
All I know is that after 13 years of hiding behind my work where I create other people’s visions, I am finally ready to take the plunge and create my own. Btw - I promise not to use the "word” vision (often) from here on out.
There isn’t any financing or a crew, so I’ve had to change some bits and come to terms with the fact that it’s not going to be a cinematic gem. And since I’m not doing this for my career, that’s perfectly okay and production will be as simple as possible.
This week, I’m heading to Michigan where I will interview a few relatives about their knowledge of Lebanon, my grandparents, Maronite history and the ways in which the Lebanese culture has been passed down through our American family.
As of now, this is the story plan:
Story A: My grandparents’ emigration and assimilation, along with their 11 children (loss of language, historic and regional misunderstandings, cultural-identity, etc.)
Story B: Making the documentary and why
Story C: Addressing the misunderstandings and fears of Lebanon by traveling there
(Heavy sigh). Yes, this is a very large undertaking, especially, on top of a very hands-on job.
This why I am making myself write about it, every step of the way. If you are interested or no someone who would be interested in participating (interviewees, sharing info, travel tips, contacts in Lebanon, etc.), I would love to connect!
Thanks for reading and stay tuned for some video clips!
An Unconventional Cleanse for 2019
I am alive and well, world.
After a very unsexy mé·nage à trois with a sinus infection and a stomach flu, I feel like 2018 really had its way with me until it harshly slammed the door on December 31.
Although this kept me from getting a lot of things I needed to get done, I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to not fight the resistance and allow yourself to just go with the tumultuous flow. And when it gets too choppy, hold your breath and swim beneath surface until the storm passes.
In the end, it was a great way to start the new year. Between work overload and holiday madness, I took it as an unconventional and inexpensive sort of staycation retreat. Not only did I lose 7 pounds and detach from unhealthy habits (yeah, I’m looking at to you Instagram and Netflix), but I had the chance to truly unplug from everything, everyone and reset.
Most miraculously, I was even able to hone my mental surge of motivation and use it for my own work, as opposed to my work, work.
From the solace of my eucalyptus-scented room, I began making plans for my biggest project of 2019 - a video documentary. From figuring out logistics and travel details to researching, writing and creating the structure, I’m proud to report that the groundwork is off to a productive start.
Truth be told, even though I’ve been thinking about doing this project for over a year, up until this point I had been quite anxious and unsure about it. How? What’s the real story? Do I try to get financing so I can hire a crew? Can I tell the story myself?
Yet thanks to a few nudges from people around and a very perfect Christmas gift (given by someone who had no clue this would be such an important piece to the film), I have decided to step up to the plate and start swinging.
Even with the small amount of work that I’ve done, I already feel much more focused and capable to accomplish such an ambitious feat all by myself. And if I miss a hit (or, more likely, get hit by the pitch), so what? That’s life and I’ll figure out…
Maybe.
The most intimidating part, and the reason why I chose the above image for this blog post, is that I decided to have Story A’s plot center on the actually making the documentary. This means it’s going to be a long journey of filming, scanning, editing and, most nerve-wracking, recording myself (insert: a very wry grimace).
That’s all I will say for now about that, but keep a lookout for more info; I’m excited to share.
Feeling such a dramatic shift in my attitude and energy, I wondered if I wasn’t alone in this new surge of ambition. So, why not check 2019’s numerology forecast? I’m not sure how much I really believe in it all, but I was surprised to learn that my initial feelings of the new year were inline with a variety of projections from numerologists like Felicia Bender.
“The universal energy for 2019 invites us into the sandbox, onto the stage, and into the spotlight, and reminds us to play, to laugh, to find lightness in the shadows and to shine our light into the dark crevices in order to bring creative solutions to the global table.”
The most intriguing part: 2019 is a “3” which just so happens to be my favorite number and coincidentally the Life Path Number of four of my best pals.
Who knows if any of that is true, but the boost of optimism can’t hurt. All I know is that 2019 has already earned my trust.
I hope everyone is also feeling a positive shift in this new year and if you have an interesting story you’d like to share, I would love to hear it!
Happy 2019!