On Why You Should Watch Jim Jarmusch’s “Paterson”: Part Two of What Are You Watching, Listening to and Reading These Days?

“You must change your life,” the German-language poet, Rainer Maria Rilke urges us in the final lines of his poem “Torso of an Archaic Apollo.”

Great art does that to us–it urges us to see our lives and the lives of others in a different way. It drives us to think, love and feel more deeply. It is not polemical or preachy–great art doesn’t tell us what to do or even how to do it. It simply gets into our head, or maybe our heart, and points us in a new direction.

Right now, American culture looks and feels more art-less and art-ificial than art-full and that’s why I’m writing a short series of blogs on art and thought that urges, guides and makes us stop to consider things we are too busy or to angry to consider.

In that regard, then, Jim Jarmusch’s latest film, Paterson, qualifies as great art because beyond it’s quiet beauty and attention to the inner and creative life of its main characters, Paterson, works as an unusual tale about what’s gone wrong with America and how we might recapture the part of ourselves we’ve lost.

Jarmusch has been turning out small, poignant art house films that go against the grain of the mainstream American film tradition for the better part of 30 years. Jarmusch’s films are in some ways like Hemingway short stories: nothing really happens in terms of plot and there is a low-level tension running through the narrative.

 

The film is about a city bus driver (Adam Driver) in Paterson, New Jersey whose name happens to be Paterson and who also happens to be a pretty good poet. Paterson, New Jersey was the home of the great American poet/physician, William Carlos Williams, who, like Paterson, the bus driver/poet, drew his artistic inspiration from the streets and the people of Paterson, New Jersey and whose direct, conversational, koan-like and Whitmanesque poems, in turn, inspire Paterson.

The film is episodic in structure; it takes place over the course of six days (Monday through Saturday). Each day of the film begins with a tender shot of Paterson and Laura waking up in the morning and then proceeds to Paterson eating breakfast (cheerios over milk), walking to the bus depot, driving his bus, walking back home, eating dinner with Laura, taking the dog, Marvin, for a walk, stopping in at the local pub for exactly one beer and then heading back home to sleep.

On the surface, Paterson and Laura lead quite mundane lives, exactly the opposite of the kind of distracted, fast-paced, anxiety-ridden, overwhelmingly busy lives that most Americans currently lead. And, in the hands of just about any other writer or director, the shape of Paterson’s and Laura’s life would be portrayed as monotonous and void of meaning. Under Jarmusch’s care, though, Paterson and Laura and the good people of Paterson, New Jersey inhabit a world that sparkling with creative energy and care for others.

Paterson and Laura live in a tiny, concrete-block house that would be considered more of a pre-starter home. They have little money, they rarely eat out or go to the movies and they don’t talk about their next big vacation getaway. The outside of the home needs serious attention; inside, though, Paterson and Laura have created a world buzzing with creativity and emotional closeness.

After work, Paterson retires to a small room in the basement that’s lit by a single reading lamp. Surrounded by, at once, tools, flashlights, cans of paint thinner and masonry paint as well as rows of books of poetry and prose that includes Emily Dickinson, Frank O’Hara, David Foster Wallace, Luc Sante, a biography on Monk, and, among others, the collected works of William Carlos Williams, Paterson sits at a makeshift desk where he writes verse after verse of direct, conversational poems that filter the stories and voices he picks up from passengers on his route and that synthesize the shape of his days and the tenor of his thoughts.

Upstairs, Laura, (Golshifteh Farahani) is a dervish of creative activity as she busily designs her own clothes, decorates the kitchen cabinets and the drapery and even her cupcakes with bold, Miro-like swirls and swishes. They meet around the kitchen table or on the sofa and talk of their dreams (Laura’s are funny and bizarre), Paterson’s poems, music, art and poetry.

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Laura (Golshifteh Farahani) amongst her creations

The world of Paterson is enmeshed in a long line of mid-twentieth-century American poetry, prose and music that tried to get at the heart of what it meant to be an American. The larger literary context for Jarmusch’s Paterson are the short stories of Sherwood Anderson’s short stories of rural, pre-World War II Midwestern lives, Thornton Wilder’s pared down, understated dramas, Philip Levine’s poems of working class life, William Carlos Williams’ poems and short stories of the enchantment and humor of everyday life and, of course, undergirding all of it, the arms-wide-open-to-the-world poetry of Walt Whitman. The background music of all this is, of course, tunes of Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis and Charles Mingus.

In one of the best scenes of the film, Paterson is walking home from the bus depot one afternoon when he happens upon a young girl sitting on a loading dock outside an abandoned factory. It’s a rather dodgy area, so Paterson approaches the young girl and asks if everything is all right. All is well, she tells Paterson, explaining that she’s just waiting for her mother and sister who have gone in the building next door. Paterson, concerned for the girl’s safety, asks if it’s okay if he waits with her until her mother returns. The girl readily accedes and when Paterson sits down on the dock, he looks down at the girl’s notebook, which is full of lines of poems that she’s working on. “Are you interested in poetry?” the girl asks and when Paterson says he is, the girl asks if she can read him a poem she’s written. It’s called “Water Falls” and Paterson listens intently as the girl reads her poem.

It’s a gorgeous moment: two strangers, a young girl and a thirty-something man meeting by happenstance and reading and discussing poetry. When she is finished reading, the girl’s mother and sister appear from the building. As the girl packs up her notebook she asks Paterson, “Do you like Emily Dickinson?” Paterson says, that yes, he likes Emily Dickinson very much and as she’s walking away, the girl looks over her shoulder and says, “That’s cool, a bus driver who likes Emily Dickinson.” Why not?

paterson2The whole movie goes on like this. Strangers, friends and lovers meet and their conversations drift from everyday concerns like “What’s for dinner?” and “When will you be home tonight?” to ruminations on Petrarch, Walt Whitman, the nature of anarchy and, of course, Paterson, New Jersey’s finest son and poet, William Carlos Williams.

 

Paterson doesn’t hit you over the head with polemics, but it is, in many ways, a meditation on how technology has driven us apart from each other and even from our better selves. Jarmusch has basically scrubbed all forms of screens from the film. Aside from a few moments, the film is devoid of hand-held devices, televisions, laptops, E-readers, Ipads and computer screens. When the digital and televised world does show up in the film, Jarmusch gently reminds us how our lives have been overrun by data.

The point, though, of scrubbing hand-held devices and the like from the film is to examine what our lives can be like when the buzzing in our pockets, backpacks and purses ceases. Many of us pick up our phones to find out what we are missing, but Jarmusch seems to be reminding us to put down our phone to find out what we are missing.

When there’s nothing, in other words, to distract us from our lived lives, what’s left? Quite a lot, Jarmusch seems to be saying, because as digital connectivity recedes, at least in the world of Paterson, opportunities for emotional, communal and artistic creativity increases exponentially.

Had the young girl sitting on the abandoned dock been using social media instead of writing poems, she would have missed the opportunity to read her poem to a stranger. Instead of checking the scores on his phone before he begins his driving shift each morning, Paterson sits in his bus and quietly writes in his notebook. At lunch time, he drives to Passaic Falls, the Paterson landmark that William Carlos Williams extolled in his long poem, “Paterson,” sits down at a park bench, takes out his lunch as well as a worn copy of Frank O’Hara’s poems and continues to write.

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Paterson (Adam Driver) writing before his shift

 

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Contemplating Passaic Falls

Throughout the film, Jarmusch seems to be quietly reminding us of the damage the digital world has wreaked on our emotional and communal lives. We all know this to be true. Despite the fact that we go to the digital world to feel connected, the whole enterprise makes us more lonely and depressed. Even the social scientists say so and Jean Twenge, in a recent Atlantic essay, demonstrates how this is especially the case, dangerously so, for young adults.

In this regard, then, Paterson can be viewed as a kind of thought experiment that begins with this question: What would our lives be like if they were not so heavily mediated by technology? Or, to put it another way, what would our lives look like if they were not so heavily medicated by the incessant stream of digital information we consume everyday?

There is a deep-seated struggle in America right now about what it means to be an American and who the “real” Americans are and what they want. The truth is, of course, that there are no “real” Americans any more than there are real elephants or red-tailed hawks. They are all real. What Jim Jarmusch has done in Paterson is paint a portrait of a group of Americans who may not represent all of us, but who, surely, we would all do well to model our ever day lives after.

And in this regard, Jarmusch has crafted a story that can help us to navigate our way through the rocky shoals of contemporary American life. It’s easy to blame the current state of the American republic on Know-Nothing, backward politicians. But as I was watching Paterson and as I was attending to the quiet, creative, lives its characters lived I couldn’t help but think that it’s not just #45 and his crazed regime that have overtaken our country as they busily go about trying to empty the republic of its joy, diversity, compassion and, yes, art.

We have all, in some ways, done this to ourselves and to each other and #45 is the baleful, sorry expression of our retreat. By burrowing, as we’ve done, into our identity groups, our class and race divisions, into the satellite shouting matches on the cable networks and into the digital sand of our Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and god knows what other social media apps, we’ve lost something of private and collective selves.

I know there is comfort there, but on the flip side of the encased and digital world that beckons us at every turn is the call of the Sirens, tempting us, further into a private, lonely world that’s cut off from what, if anything, truly makes America great and that’s its diversity of thought and experience.

It doesn’t have to be as it is. We must and we can change our lives. Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson is a welcome and gentle reminder to these things.

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Jim Jarmusch

In Which I Break a Beer Bottle and Receive a Pen, Search for Cream of Wheat and Ride Mountain Bikes in Rotorua

Over the course of the past year we have travelled around the world and now we are settled in New Zealand for one year. One of the great joys of traveling the way we’ve been traveling has been getting to know people who live in the cities and towns where we’ve done long stays.

In Timisoara, Romania, we became fast and forever friends with Emil and all the good people at Viniloteca. Also in Timisoara, we forged a rich and what will be a lasting friendship with Rob and Dana and their son, Sebastian. They came to visit us in Paris before we left Europe in June and when we get back to the States we’ll visit them in Illinois. My students at the University of the West—The Roxis, Diana, Deni, Isabelle and many others—still send us emails and social media messages, wishing us well and asking about the children. I hope to see some of them, some day, back in America or wherever we, and they, might find ourselves in the same place. In a craft brew pub in Lisbon, we struck up a conversation with a lovely British couple, Jon and Betty, and ended up spending a day with them in London when we visited their great city. Victor, a sweet and thoughtful young man we met on a bike ride in Siem Reap, Cambodia met up with us in his hometown of Seville, Spain over the holidays and we spent a wonderful Saturday together sipping vino naranja and exploring modern and medieval Seville.

We are three weeks into our one-year Kiwi tenure and over the course of that short time, I’ve made more friends, talked to more strangers, and felt more welcomed than I could have ever imagined.

Part of this is my own frame of mind. Since I’m not working or officially associated with anything here, I didn’t want to become an isolated expat wandering the streets and beaches alone and pushing my nose in a book to keep out the world. So I contacted the local newspaper, The Beacon, and arranged to write a few travel pieces as well as short profiles of Whakatane and Ohope Beach community members. Here is a travel piece they published about a baseball game we saw in Japan. I’ve done two interviews with community members—a founder of the Whakatane community garden and a famous rugby player who coaches here in Whakatane—and those pieces should be published shortly.

I also make a point of talking with anyone who is willing to chat, and it has been my good fortune so far that Kiwis love to talk. I chat with the librarians at the public library about their public exhibition and I ask them for good books on New Zealand history. I met a Belfast woman in a coffee shop and we chatted about Ireland and what it’s like to live here in Whakatane (the weather is 100% better, for one). I met a couple who run the Whakatane Historical Society and they invited me to their house to look over past publications of the Historical Society and examine archival material they keep at their home. I walked into the local music store and ended up staying there for an hour, playing guitar and chatting with the owner about surfing and stand up paddle boards. I am friendly with the manager of the aquatic center, where I swim, and she’s told me stories about the recent flood in the neighboring community of Edgecum where she is a firefighter. I talk with bank tellers, baristas, grocery store clerks and even passersby.

It’s not really my natural inclination to be this friendly, and as I get older and the more calcified and distrustful the culture of America becomes, the more inward, cautious and suspicious I have become. New Zealand, because it is a more open, trusting and civil society than America has helped me to open up a bit to my surroundings. I’ve met other Americans over here who feel the same way.

Here are a few short vignettes on some of the interactions I’ve had with some of the good people in Whakatane and Ohope:

The first week we were here in Whakatane, I popped into one of the local bike stores, Bike Barn, to look at some mountain bikes. I started talking with Johnny, the owner of the shop. As I was getting ready to leave he said, “Come by sometime and we’ll go have a coffee,” so a couple of days later, I took him up on his offer and stopped by the shop. We talked a bit more and he asked, “What are you doing tomorrow? How about we go for a bike ride?” The next morning I showed up at the shop. Johnny had his truck loaded with two mountain bikes as well as snacks, energy drinks and lunch for both of us. We hopped in the truck and drove an hour down the road to Rotorua, chatting the entire way about family, the landscape, flower and fauna of New Zealand and life in general. Rotorua is the mountain biking capital of New Zealand and we rode in a Redwood forest that boasts 200 km of single track trails and that include a combination of gnarly, root-infested trails that nearly gave me a heart attack as well as long, sloping, loamy trails that snaked through dense forests and made me smile.

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Johnny and me after our ride through the Redwoods

 

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Rotorua trail

Yesterday I had a fun adventure looking for Cream of Wheat in Whakatane. Before we left America in July, we stopped to see my in-laws in the Bay Area. My mother-in-law knows that I love an Indian dish called Upma so she very kindly made it for me everyday we were there (thank you, Aji) and even spent a morning in the kitchen teaching me how to make her Upma recipe. Sujata has told me that every time she has spoken to her mom since we’ve arrived in New Zealand, Aji asks, “Has Eric made Upma yet?” I haven’t as of yet because I haven’t been able to find Upma’s primary ingredient, Cream of Wheat, in the grocery store. Yesterday, though, I promised myself that I would find Cream of Wheat in Whakatane so after I got the kids off to school, I got in the car, and started my search.

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Aji’s Upma recipe

I stopped in at the Pack-N-Save in the Kope district. No Cream of Wheat. Ditto at the Countdown in the city center. Anxiously walking through the streets at mid-morning, I decided to duck into a store called Bin-In. “Man,” I thought, “if they don’t have Cream of Wheat, nobody does.” I walked in with my head held high and my shoulders back and approached the clerk, whose name was Julie, “Hello, Do you have Cream of Wheat?” Julie looked up from her register and quizzed me back, “Cream of Wheat?” and then cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted across the store, “Darla, Cream of Wheat?” Darla looked up from what she was doing and trotted over, “Cream of Wheat? Cream. Of. Wheat.” Never heard of it. Hang on. “Joshua,” Darla queried to a young man walking by. “Cream of Wheat?” to which Joshua replied, “Cream of Wheat? Huh.” Customers with handfuls of bags gathered around and everyone was muttering “cream of wheat.” I thought for a second that I could probably get everyone in the store to say it in some form or another so I just hung fire in the middle of the huddle, affirming the question, “Yes, Cream of Wheat.” “Is it moist, or is it dry?” an elderly woman asked me, “Because the ‘cream’ part suggests it’s moist.” I told her it was dry and she looked at me, sceptically. Joshua, in the meantime, had waltzed to the back room and approached the huddle with a satisfied smile, “Semolina!” he cried, and everyone in the huddle threw up their hands with relief and then promptly left the store.

Me, too, after I purchased a big bag of semolina. Upma for brunch on Sunday!

Earlier this week, I stopped by the liquor store in Ohope to grab a six-pack and when I pulled the package of Mac’s Rockhopper off the shelf, two of the bottles slid out and crashed to the floor. One of the clerks, Jim, who I’ve become friendly with because he, like me, is a craft brew fan, walked over, as I apologized profusely. Jim looked at the glass and beer all over the floor and then looked at the case and said, “Not your fault, Eric. The case was ripped. No drama.” I got another six pack, paid for it and on my way out, Jim, feeling bad, I suspect, because I felt bad that I broke the beer bottles, waved me back. His arm was extended toward me and he was holding a pen. “Here, Eric, take this.” “Thanks, Jim,” I said, and then added as I was walking out the door, “What a country, you smash some beer bottles on the floor and they give you free pen.” Jim laughed. I’ll see him again in a few days.

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Tree pose, Ohope Beach

What Are You Reading These Days?; or, How Albert Camus Can Get You Through the Next Four Years

Shortly after the 2016 presidential election, many Americans did two things: First, they googled what it would take to move to Canada or New Zealand and second, they stumbled into their local bookstores searching for books to help them figure how their fellow Americans could have turned against all of our best interests.

I imagine what it must have looked like at any given independent book store in any given American city during those dark days following the election: A sea of tear-stained faces gathering in front of the “Politics” and “American History” sections, mournfully gazing at the book spines and looking for titles to answer their most pressing question: What the hell just happened?

In the ensuing weeks, apocalyptic fiction that we read in college and that had suddenly turned prophetic–Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, George Orwell’s 1984, Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon–started flying off the shelves.

Later, a panoply of books attempting to explain the origins of American and European populism as well as the nature of the American citizens who voted for #45 (who were these people?) emerged, and progressive Democrats snapped up books with titles like Hillbilly Elegy, White Trash, Strangers in their Own Land, On Tyranny, What is Populism? and The Populist Explosion.

Perhaps you have perused all these books and you have come to a position of understanding and acceptance regarding the state of our republic. If you haven’t, though, I suggest you set aside Hillbilly Elegy, White Trash and (god help you) The Origins of Totalitarianism.

Because if you really want to find literary and political succor in these dark days of the republic, Albert Camus is your man.

Camus was an Algerian Frenchman, a pied noir, who was born in Algeria in 1913 and died in a tragic car accident in France in 1960. Camus wrote novels, short stories, plays, nonfiction and political and philosophical essays. No matter what genre he was working in, though, Camus focused on two central questions that are relevant to many of us in America today. The first was how we as individuals can create meaning in our lives in the face of an absurd, violent and irrational world. The second central concern for Camus was related to our obligation to others: given the absurdity and violence of the world, how can we create just and fair political systems that protect the vulnerable, the poor and the oppressed.

Living in France during the second world war, Camus had a first-hand look at violence and absurdity. He spent the better part of his life trying to figure out how to live in the midst of a furious, irrational world and, more importantly, how to make it more just and equitable. He did some of his best writing in the early 1940s as the dark cloud of Nazism was descending across Europe. Camus finished the manuscript of his most famous novel, The Stranger, in May of 1940 while he was also busy writing for Combat, a French magazine with an aim to defeat fascism and inspire ordinary French men and women to stand up against the dark forces that were sweeping across the continent.

When the Nazis smashed through the Maginot in June of 1940 and as their war machine sped toward Paris, Camus, along with the editorial staff of Combat and thousands of other Parisians, fled the City of Lights for the French countryside. Before he left the city, Camus threw the manuscript of The Stranger into the boot of the car and didn’t stop until he reached Clermon-Ferrang where he promptly restarted his work with Combat. After the war, Camus became deeply involved in the Algerian war for independence, taking controversial and provocative positions that managed to infuriate both the French and Algerian nationals (it was the final nail in the coffin of his tenuous friendship with Sartre) but that were always about extending the rights of French citizenship to Algerians, especially the politically disadvantaged Berbers.

I first came across Camus during my sophomore year of college in a general education class called “World Views.” Camus was presented as an existentialist, one of a loosely knit group of European thinkers who argued that humans were on their own, that there was no god to save us and that it was up to us, not a transcendental order, to create fulfilling lives and an equitable world. Nineteenth and twentieth century European existentialists from Kierkegaard to Nietzsche to Heidegger held a wide range of views, but it’s probably safe to say that all of them were committed to maximizing human freedom and amplifying human agency. Although he chaffed at being called an existentialist, Camus, felt strongly that it was our duty as human beings to find ways to be free from the shackles of church, state and popular opinion, and he forged a deep and abiding faith that human beings had the power and the ability to create a better world.

Sign me up.

I came from a fundamentalist Christian home and I attended a fundamentalist Christian college, so there was no talk of existentialist thought around our dinner table and there were no worn copies of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche or Heidegger stacked up on our bookshelves. At the college I attended, Camus was presented in a fair but pitying manner: I think the professors at my college admired his attention to social justice, but they disapproved of his atheism.

That said, when Camus was pushed under my nose at 19, I was shocked, surprised and attentive.

Over the years, I’ve continued to read Camus, like a tonic. Every few years I’ll re-read The Plague, a novel that uses a plague that descends on an Algerian town as a symbol for the rise of fascism in Europe, and when I’m feeling especially bad about the state of the world, I’ll turn to Camus’ essay, “The Myth of Sisyphus.”

So, it makes sense that shortly after the 2016 American election, I returned to Camus. One cold and cloudy January morning, I cast aside the latest edition of The Nation, threw The New York Times in the recycling bin, slammed shut the open copy of The Origins of Totalitarianism, and opened a copy of Camus’ essay, “The Myth of Sisyphus.”

Sisyphus was a Greek king and, in the eyes of the Greek gods, he was a little too cheeky for his own good so the gods condemned him to carry a boulder to the top of a mountain, over and over, for the rest of his life.

Before Camus, nearly every reader saw Sisyphus as a victim of the gods’ ill and capricious will and nearly everyone read the Sisyphus story, to varying degrees, as nothing short of a tragedy.

And, it’s no wonder that most readers interpreted Sisyphus as a helpless victim of the gods. On its surface, the conventional interpretation of the Sisyphus story conveniently maps onto traditional Christian thinking: Sisyphus, a mortal, is punished by the gods for his transgressions and condemned to a life of meaningless and hard toil. So, to someone coming out of the Judeo-Christian tradition, Sisyphus looks a lot like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.

Camus, an atheist who believed that humans are obligated to solve their own problems, was having none of the notion that Sisyphus went gently into the good night of his punishment. To put it another way, had Camus rewritten the Adam and Eve story, it would have concluded with the guilty lovers flipping off god, plotting to capture the serpent and figuring out how they could kill all those damn weeds in the garden.

By the same token, where Sisyphus distinguished himself, at least according to Camus’ interpretation, was in the manner that he refused to allow his sentence to define him. In Camus’ interpretation, Sisyphus revolted against his sentence. It’s not that Sisyphus refused to push the rock up the mountain. He had no choice except to obey the will of the gods. At the same time, though, according to Camus, Sisyphus never bends to the will of the gods. They took his body but Sisyphus refused to give them his mind.

Re-reading this on that cold January morning after the election, I found more inspiration and hope in this idea than I would have in, say, listening to “Give Peace a Chance.”

At the early stages of his sentence, I imagine Sisyphus pushing the rock up the hill, over and over, and ruminating for a long time about his fate. He’s vacillating wildly between despair, anger, resentment and fear—feelings that many of us in the sane, rational, anti-fascist world feel every day. But you have to remember that Sisyphus was clever, so at some point he must have realized that while he was condemned to push the rock, revolt was still possible. In fact, I imagine he came around to thinking that revolt against the absurd position the gods had put him in was the only possible response.

Maybe it was days, maybe it was years of pushing that rock up the hill and watching it violently and mercilessly roll back to the bottom, but at some point, I imagine Sisyphus getting to the top of the mountain, standing erect, lifting his head high and regarding the gods above him. I see Sisyphus point his finger to his head and shout with all his passion and intelligence, “You don’t define me!” and bouncing his finger off his head now, screaming, “And you aren’t allowed in here! I will do your bidding because I must, but I refuse to abide!”

And that brings me back to America because if there’s anything we need right now, it’s the will and the controlled revolt of Sisyphus who refused to be defined nor cowed by his sentence and who labored on, against everything.

It’s hard to pick up a newspaper, turn on the television or just walk down the street in many American cities and not be confronted by waves of absurdity. A sitting president with a weak grasp or reality and an even weaker moral drive leading an administration that routinely trots out alternative facts. Neo-Nazis demonstrating in American cities. Elected officials who refuse to govern. Underneath it all are the rest of us, ordinary people helplessly watching the dizzying loss of cultural, political and economic capital. And, like Sisyphus, we go on almost in spite of ourselves.

Camus ends “The Myth of Sisyphus” with a powerful statement that might resonate with you in these dark days of the American republic.

 I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

Camus speaks to us today because, like us, he lived and worked during anxious and violent times and through his writing Camus found ways to understand, resist and make sense of a world that seemed like it was coming apart at the seams.

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French men make khaki look cool

I probably think slightly more about fashion than the average middle-aged American male.

That said, I feel like a slob in Paris.

When I met Sujata in 2000, I looked like a holdover from the late 80s with my pegged jeans, baggy shirts and weird, faux-mullet haircut.

There are a number of critical junctures that can make or break any romantic relationship. There’s the first kiss, the meeting of the parents, the first argument and, at least for us, the first time Sujata critiqued my sartorial choices.

It doesn’t matter how well or how poorly you dress, the shirts and pants and sweaters and ties and blazers and whatever else that you choose to cloak yourself in everyday say something about who you are or who you think you are and pretty much no one wants to be told, in blunt or even gentle terms, that the clothes they are wearing look stupid, or out of date or, worse, ugly. In other words, even if you profess to not care what people think of your sartorial choices, you actually do, and you will be (even slightly) offended should someone/anyone raise an objection to anything that you might choose to wear.

That’s partly why fashion as a topic of discussion (or critique) rarely comes up in normal adult conversation and that would especially be the case with dudes. Imagine strolling down the sidewalk with your best friend and offering, “You know, you look like you are on your way to Applebee’s, man, why don’t you change that shirt before we head to the pub?” Because unless you sleep next to the person who is leveling critiques at your sartorial choices, you should really just not go there, unless you are trying to derail the relationship/friendship in the first place.

That said, one of the critical junctures in our relationship was the first time Sujata verbally turned her nose up at my fashion sense. I think her first shot across my couture bow was directed at my jeans, which she declared to be too tight and high-waisted. This was in the early to mid 2000s as low rise jeans were coming into fashion. I, stuck in the mid-80s, still thought that the jeans Springsteen wore on the Born in the USA tour were in fashion and I wasn’t aware of the low-rise craze. Next, came derision cast at the houndstooth blazer that I’d been wearing for upwards of 10 years and then from there, there was a protracted assault on my denim shirts.

I grudgingly took her advice and, over the years, acquired at least a modicum of fashion sense. It’s not like I have a fashion coach, subscribe to GQ, or read the Style section of The Times, but I will go out of my way to find a stylish shirt, a nice pair of dark wash denim jeans, a pair of smart shoes and a few nicely-fitted blazers.

At my age and given my subject position (white, male, middle aged) the object is, at minimum, to not look like a denizen of the American suburbs, which, as it turns out, isn’t that hard to do. You just have to stay away from baseball caps, cargo pants (or shorts!) or t-shirts emblazoned with “Just Do It,” “No Pain No Gain,” or “Go Hard or Go Home.”

And I have to say that as you get older, it’s a lot easier to look older simply based on your fashion choices. A baggy pair of jeans or khakis, a schlumpy collared shirt (or worse, a polo shirt!) and suddenly 50 looks like 60. And I’m not ashamed of admitting that I’m slightly vain enough to care.

We’ve been living in Europe for nearly nine months now and, over time, I’ve figured out European fashion. I bought some beautiful wool sport coats and fashionable European-cut slacks in Italy and a pair of Campers in Spain. In Saigon, I found a tailor who made me three beautiful shirts and, of course, I have the classic sweater that Sujata made me in Ireland.  I’ve purchased a scarf in just about every country we’ve visited. So, I felt pretty fashion forward throughout most of our European journey. Well, at least I didn’t feel particularly fashion backward.

European men favor slim-fitted slacks with an inseam just above the ankle, a style choice which allows them to show off their shoes as well as their socks. Most men over 30 wear a European-cut blazer (fitted, shorter in the sleeves than most American blazers and shorter at the waist as well) with an open-collared shirt. You rarely see ties. Soft leather or suede chukkas or (better) pointed, high-top, wing-tip leather boots (very cool!) are popular as well.

If you had to characterize European men’s style you’d say it’s quite minimal and close-fitting. The lines in the shirts, blazers and pants are straight and smooth and there is no taste for baggy or oversized fits. Colors are, by and large, muted, earth toned. There’s no room for loud plaids or paisleys and forget about wearing plaid on plaid or plaid with stripes.

French men, though, are at the top of the pile of European fashion. In Dublin, for instance, dudes walk around with skin-tight spandex jeans–they look like they just got off the boat from Queens. Romanians dress like guys on the Atlantic City boardwalk, Spaniards dress like San Franciscans and the English dress like they just woke up and couldn’t remember if they were going to the rugby match or the office. The only European men who can compete in a fashion sense with the French are the Italians, whose taste for fine wool blazers and trousers is impeccable.

French men, though, can make khaki look cool.

The other day, as we were walking through the Luxembourg Gardens, a very fashionable young man walked by us. Dressed in his spring fashion blazer, open-collared cotton print shirt, perfectly creased trousers and pointed wing tip boots, he appeared to have leapt from a catwalk. “Look, children, a flaneur,” I whispered, to which Atticus quipped, “He seems like the kind of guy who should have a television crew following him.” Well played, young man!

All this is probably making you wonder, “How can I look dress more Parisian?” Or, “How can I get my partner to dress more Parisian?”

Well, if that’s the case, then read on. As I’ve been admiring French architecture, the Seine and French Impressionist paintings, I’ve also had my eye on French fashion so here are a few tips on how to look as cool and fashionable as any Parisian man nonchalantly waking through La Marais:

  1. Get a scarf. I started wearing scarves when we were in Cambodia last summer. The Cambodians (perhaps because they were colonized by the French) love their scarves and Cambodian scarves are made of a light cotton that you can wear throughout the summer. I bought about 10 of them when we were in Phnom Penh and Siem Reap and hardly a day has gone by since then when I didn’t have one wrapped around my neck, even in warm weather. In Paris, though, a scarf is simply required.
  2. Get a pair of high-top, wing-tip leather shoes. If you are in the States you may need to special order these because I don’t think they sell them at Cole Haan, but, it’d be worth the extra postage and, anyway, get a pair of French boots so you are at least supporting the French (who voted the right way in the last election) and get them before #45 levies import taxes on European goods because after that happens, everyone will want them.
  3. Keep at least two buttons of your collared shirts open. I know, this is hard for American men, but, you know what, you just have to do it and then, eventually, you’ll get used to it and you’ll feel free. In the week that I’ve been in Paris, I’ve not seen one Parisian man wearing a collared shirt that wasn’t opened at least from the last two buttons. Since we’ve arrived, it’s been getting progressively warmer and I’ve noticed that at the temperature rises, fewer buttons get clasped. You just have to try it and then it starts to feel normal. Today, for instance, I left the flat with three of my top buttons undone while kept looking around to see if anyone was staring at me on the walk to the Metro, by the time we got to the Musee D’Orsay, I completely forgot about it and just melded in with all the other Parisian men.
  4. Wear v-neck tshirts. You will never, ever see a Parisian man walking around with a crew neck tshirt. C’est horrible! V-necks are way cooler and fashionable and if you are really freaked out about keeping the first two buttons of your collared shirt open, the v-neck will make you feel safer and more secure.

If you are feeling fashion adrift, I hope this little bit of Parisian advice will get you through the spring and summer fashion season.

 

 

 

 

Paris and the Unexpected

After five months in Ireland, it was time to move on. The semester at Maynooth University came to an end, the Regis students all dispersed across Europe and back to the States, the children finished their school work and our Irish visas were about to expire.

Paris seemed like as good as any of a place to end the first part of two-year hiatus from 45’s reign, so we boarded a flight early this morning and landed in the city of lights before noon.

It’s a miracle we got here at all.

A few days before our departure, I walked into our living room in Maynooth only to find Sujata staring at the computer with a look of complete horror on her face. “Um . . . I think I made a big mistake,” she declared and then informed me that the Aer Lingus flight from Dublin to Paris that she thought she purchased never really got submitted and we didn’t have a flight. After a frantic search, she found us reasonably-priced seats on Air Transavia (it’s not that bad!) and the crisis averted.

I wasn’t actually that excited about visiting Paris. I really like beaches and although we have been traveling for a year, we have spent probably about two days at the beach so I really wanted to finish up this European part of our adventure in Cadiz or some quiet Grecian island. Plus, it’s been so cold in Ireland–I felt like I needed to bake a bit in the sun to get all the cold and dampness out of me.

Those dreams were roundly outweighed by a nine-year old’s dream to climb the Eiffel Tower and Sujata’s dream to spend her fortieth wandering through Parisian arrondissements, munching on croissants and sipping wine. Besides, they blithely informed me, we’re on our way to spending a year on the beach in New Zealand and you don’t even have to work! So I set aside my ocean dreams for at least two months.

But, I have to say, after Emmanuel Macron’s white-knuckle handshake of 45, I was ready to come here and support the man, and the country, that is willing to fight to make the planet great again.

Plus, it didn’t take long for me to fall for Paris. We usually take public transportation from the airport to our hotel or Airbnb, but we left Dublin with more luggage than we would have liked so we took a cab to our flat in La Marais. I was glad for the ride, though, not just because I didn’t have to lug a 15kg duffle bag as well as my backpack (although that was nice), but because I got to see the city as we sped along the surface streets.

In some ways, Paris’ cathedrals, haute couture shops and outdoor cafes reminded me of Vienna and Rome, and I even saw a little of Barcelona in the way the sunlight glinted off the white stoned buildings along the Seine and among Paris’ many lovely plazas.

We left our flat with a clear set of objectives: 1) find a creperie, 2) stop by the Notre Dame cathedral, 3) walk over to Shakespeare and Company and 4) find a nice outdoor cafe to relax and watch passersby.

Objectives 1 and 2 went swimmingly.

We wended our way from La Marais, across the Seine and over to Isle Saint Louis where we stumbled upon a quant creperie.

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Ice cream apres crepes
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On the Saint Louis Bridge

Afterwards, we found our way to Notre Dame and admired the flying buttresses, the ancient stained glass and the absolute grandeur of the place.

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It really is a marvel

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Everyone was excited for Shakespeare and Company, but for different reasons. For her part, Sujata wanted to get a book by an American expat to Paris (she was thinking James Baldwin or Richard Wright), get a classy Shakespeare and Company stamp on the inside cover and then retire to a cafe (preferably by the Seine), order a glass of wine and begin reading. The children just wanted another book to read and I just wanted to walk around the bookstore that published Ulysses and served as a lending library to the likes of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dos Passos and other members of the Lost Generation who made their way to Paris following the first World War.

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Water fountain outside Shakespeare and Co.

It was at Shakespeare and Company, though, that things went a bit awry and we found ourselves caught up in that very thing you think will never happen to you, namely, a terror attack.

I was standing in the middle of the store reading Leonard Cohen’s Beautiful Losers (they have like five copies–try finding any Cohen book in any US bookstore), Sujata was at the register with an armful of books (she chose Wright’s Native Son) and the kids were somewhere in the store, I wasn’t exactly sure where.

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The Shakespeare and Co stamp inside Sujata’s copy of Native Son

I was really enjoying the first few pages of Beautiful Losers and even contemplating getting my own copy when Sujata sidled up to me and asked, “Did you hear that?” No. I didn’t hear anything. “Gunshots.” Oh. I carefully put the book back on the shelf and looked around the front of store where an employee was calmly shutting the front door. He turned around and in a voice as calm as the Seine, he announced that there was a shooting at Notre Dame and could everyone please stay in the store?

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The scene after the doors were closed

No one said a word.

There was some scuffling of feet and of course everyone whipped out their cell phones. We didn’t get SIM cards at the airport so we had no data and of course there was no wifi in the store so we just kind of moved to the back of the store, looking for the kids. We found them in the back, quietly reading in the kid’s section, so we sat down with them and waited it out.  I, bizarrely, picked up a copy of Eric Hobsbawm’s The Age of Revolution (don’t ask!) so to take my mind off whatever the hell was happening outside, cracked the spine and tried to read.

You could hear sirens in the distance, but the people in the store, just stood in groups, chatting quietly and flipping through books.

Some people in the store started quietly narrating events: a man with a hammer attacked a police officer in the plaza in front of the cathedral. Later, we learned that the assailant was “neutralized” (dead? handcuffed?”) but the area was sealed off and folks were under no circumstances to go near the cathedral.

I’m not really sure what I was thinking. I wasn’t scared and I certainly wasn’t thinking that the store would be stormed or anything like that. I figured that we’d be okay, but I do remember worrying for the people who were at Notre Dame (we were just there!) and hoping no one was hurt.

Then I just got disgusted.

Here we were, holed up in a store, listening to sirens pass by, following the news on phones and wondering what exactly was going on. Plus, we have been wandering around the world for the past year. I have seen exponentially more acts of kindness and grace then I’ve seen or been a party to acts of stupid bullshit like attacking someone with a hammer and I just became internally furious to think that in my country a semi-elected cretin (not Cretan!) is holding us (and the rest of the world) hostage and now here, in Paris, we’re held hostage by idiocy on a whole other level.

After a time (it felt like around 30 minutes), the back door swung open and an employee told us that we were free to leave the store, if we wished.

Minutes before we were allowed to go, the skies opened up, delivering a tremendous Parisian thunderstorm. It rained earlier in the day, in fact, on our walk from Notre Dame to Shakespeare and Company and as we stood under oak trees, watching the rain bounce off the sidewalks, I remarked to Sujata that these are the things they used to write songs about. Despite the rain, we walked out of Shakespeare and Company, away from the cathedral and on a roundabout way back to our flat. I opened our umbrella and Sujata noted that that probably wasn’t the best time to leave the store (on account of the rain), but I just wanted to get out of there at that point.

The mood on the streets was cautious. Mothers were still out there pushing prams, but they were walking with a purpose, heads down, home on their minds. Couples sat at the outdoor cafes, sipping wine and smoking cigarettes, but the sips seemed like gulps and the inhales seemed like long drags. We walked quickly and quietly, looking back over our shoulders periodically.

Later that evening, as we ate dinner in our flat, the children said they were nervous, but definitely not scared.

Our friends from Denver came to visit us in Ireland last week. After they left us, they flew to London so they were in the environs when the terror attack happened on the London Bridge.

I guess this is the new normal. As we were walking back to our flat from Shakespeare and Company, I watched the kids as they walked ahead of me, arm and arm with Sujata. What will this world look like when they are my age, I wondered? Will they even be able to bring their children to Europe and retrace our steps?

I hope so. It’s just so damn beautiful here.

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Walking home, across the Seine, on streets wet with rain

Mike Pence and the Commencement Season

It’s not an easy time to be a college student with a political conscience.

Emboldened by the racial, gender and economic provocations of the current administration, Right Wing conservatives like Mike Pence are happy to use any microphone they find themselves standing in front of to rail against what they consider to be a virulent form of political correctness that’s sweeping across college campuses, turning them into so many cauldrons of overwrought liberalism.

That’s certainly what Pence was up to this past Sunday when he addressed graduates of the University of Notre Dame and, after congratulating the students and wishing them the best of luck, launched into an attack on so-called political correctness on college campuses.

Pence’s very presence at the ceremonies, his role in the current administration and his long history of anti-gay rhetoric and policies precipitated about 100 of the Notre Dame graduating class to walk out of the ceremony.

Conservatives looked at the students who walked out on Pence and cried out, “See, we told you! The fascist left can’t accept free speech on campus when that speech challenges their own beliefs.”

In context, though, the peaceful and orderly walk out by the Notre Dame students looks tame compared to a few campus incidents that occurred earlier this year and to which Pence was no doubt referring to in his comments.

Last March, students at Middlebury College disrupted a talk by the controversial sociologist, Charles Murray, and even went so far as to rough up one of the Middlebury faculty members who invited Murray to campus. Earlier in the year, protests against a scheduled talk by Milo Yiannopoulos turned violent at Berkeley and, more recently, Ann Coulter cancelled a scheduled visit to Berkeley because of threats of violence.

The reality, though, is that most college campuses are wastelands of political involvement and most students, cowed by ever-escalating costs of higher education and anxious about getting ahead in the business world are more interested finance and marketing than they are in violent or non-violent resistance to a corrupt political system.

Only 100 of the nearly 3,000 graduates at Notre Dame chose to walk out on Pence.  What do you think kept the rest of them in their seats?

I’m sure Facebook feeds, Twitter accounts and the blogs of the conservative media are filling up with exclamations about the disrespect that Notre Dame students showed to Pence. The truth, though, is that it’s the administrators and faculty members at Notre Dame who made the decision to invite Pence to commencement who are to blame.

Administrators at elite institutions have come to treat commencement as a kind of showcase of their own purchasing power. Commencement season has become a time of chest thumping as universities jockey for the most sought after speaker. What’s worse, political, cultural and entertainment luminaries are trotted out on the stage to speak the same old shibboleths. And, they are paid quite handsomely for their saccharine words.

What’s lost in this model of commencement invitations is the more civic-minded purpose of the commencement address. More than anything, commencement (or, the beginning) should be a time for university communities to come together, to celebrate the achievements of their graduating class, to thank the students, their families, staff and faculty for their work and dedication and to set the institution on course to fulfill the democratic mission of higher education in America.

Fat chance, though, of anything like that happening in the current American climate.

And it’s not that controversial ideas and people don’t have a place at commencement ceremonies, which are whitewashed enough with their inspirational platitudes. A strong and vibrant democracy accepts a wide diversity of political thought and astutely uses its collective acumen and wisdom to parse out alternative facts and heavily-laden ideological pronouncements.

Confident and mature people (and by extension, nations) actually seek out criticism as a way to get better.

No matter what you think of Mike Pence, by virtue of the fact that he’s aligned with #45, he is a divisive political figure who has a greater chance of offending audiences at a place like Notre Dame than he does of compelling them to think deeply and act in the world with a sense of justice and grace.

In that regard, it makes sense for a place like Liberty University to invite someone like #45 to its commencement ceremonies. Eighty percent of fundamentalist Christians who participated in the 2016 presidential election voted for the sitting president and given that the students who choose to attend Liberty are overwhelmingly evangelical Christians, why shouldn’t Liberty invite him to speak to its graduates?

For Notre Dame, a Catholic and purportedly global, outward looking and relatively ethnically diverse campus, to trot someone like Pence before the graduating class and its families seems like tone deafness at best and provocation at worse.

I’m still in Ireland, so I did not get to attend graduation ceremonies at my home institution, Regis University. Aside from seeing my students receive their diplomas, meeting their families and saying goodbye, I generally don’t look forward to commencement ceremonies. I was disappointed, though, to miss commencement this year because Regis invited Father Greg Boyle to address the graduating seniors.

Father Boyle, a Jesuit priest, founder of Homeboy Industries and the author of the great book, Tattoos on the Heart, is the kind of American we should set out to become. He’s funny, smart and worldly in his outlook, but more importantly, Father Boyle, through his long-standing commitment to serving communities of color and working on the front lines of gang violence in Los Angeles, is a paragon of decency and compassion.

Hats off to Regis for inviting Father Boyle and for demonstrating respect and compassion for our graduates and their families at this exciting time in their lives.

The children are too loud in a fancy restaurant in Kinsale

My folks are in Ireland for a week, so we rented a car and drove to County Cork from Maynooth for the weekend. This was the first time I visited Cork and I was looking forward to our stay mostly because one of my favorite Irish writers, William Trevor, was from Cork and many of his novels are set in Cork townlets and villages so I was looking forward to seeing the country side, if only to visualize what I imagined from my reading of Trevor’s novels. Cork is the rebel county of Ireland in that great republican leaders like Michael Collins hail from Cork, so I was excited to see some of the sites related to Collins and republican Ireland as well.

We stayed in Cork city the first night. Cork is rougher around the edges than we expected and my folks wanted something a little more quaint, a little more “Irish,” so we hopped in their car on Saturday morning and drove to Kinsale, a little fishing village 20 km south of Cork city.

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Kinsale is a picture-perfect harbor village. We checked into a gorgeous hotel right on the water and walked to Fort Charles, a sixteenth-century English military stronghold designed to keep the French and the Spaniards from landing on the island. It turns out, though, that the French and Spaniards did indeed land in Kinsale although they did it through the figure of King James II, the Catholic king of England who landed here in 1789 with funding from the Spanish King and with French and English soldiers by his side. James made it ashore and fought his way about Ireland with his army for a year until he was ultimately defeated by William of Orange at the famous Battle of the Boyne and expelled from Ireland just a year after he landed at Kinsale.

We had fun walking through the ancient fort, enjoying the scenery and imagining the military scenes that took place here so long ago.

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Kinsale Harbor from Fort Charles
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Exploring the tunnels at Fort Charles
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Guards on the wall–don’t mess with them!
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A panoramic view of Fort Charles

We made reservations at what we were told was the best restaurant in KInsale so we showed up on time, were seated by the maître d’, ordered drinks and appetizers and everything seemed to be going okay.

The restaurant started filling up and it was a small space with low ceilings and hardwood floors, so it started getting busier and louder as we finished our first bottle of wine and happily waited for dinner. We hadn’t seen my folks for some time so we were enjoying catching up with them and telling them about all the adventures we’ve had over the course of the last year.

Our children don’t use electronic devices at the dinner table. They join in the conversation with us and they are, generally speaking, good conversationalists. And, despite the fact that they had walked nearly eight miles that day and hadn’t slept much the previous night, they were animated and engaged with the conversation at the dinner table that evening in Kinsale.

We were all enjoying ourselves and laughing about something when I noticed the maitre d’ approach our table, lean toward the middle and ask, “Could you all keep it down, you’re a little too loud and we’ve had complaints.”

We have eaten in restaurants all over the world and we have never been asked to lower our voices, even in places like Japan which, relative to Ireland, have a lower threshold for public noise and garrulousness.

I was, then, taken aback by the request, especially given that we were the only table with children and, frankly, the only brown people in the restaurant. It was hard not to read something into the message the maître d’ delivered.

Ironically, just before we were asked to quiet down, my father had just related the following story: He was in a restaurant in Florida one time and a family sat down next to his table. The parents were chatting and the children took out their electronic devices and were either playing games or reading but shortly after the kids took out their devices, the host; walked over to the table and asked the children to put their devices away because they were too bright and were disturbing the patrons. The father went nuts, started yelling at everyone in the restaurant and then the whole family got up from their seats and left the restaurant.

We can agree, I hope, that going ballistic in public is bad behavior and should be discouraged. That said, maybe, though, the parents had a long day and just wanted to relax and talk with each other. Maybe the kids were exhausted themselves and just needed some time to check out.

I had my father’s story in mind when the hostess in Kinsale delivered her news to us. I wanted to snap back that we were really sorry to be enjoying ourselves and maybe they should issue an Ipad to all the children they let into the place so that the kids remain passive and quiet and we are so sorry for having fun and enjoying each other’s company.  I looked at Sujata and she clearly had a similar message to deliver. We both, wisely, held our tongues, acknowledged the request, politely said, “No thanks, we’ll have dessert somewhere else,” paid the check and walked out.

The place didn’t get any quieter, by the way, as we got up to leave.

And the thing is that it wasn’t that great of a restaurant. The waitress used her fingers to move the appetizers from one plate to the next and as I was walking down the hall from the toilet back to my seat the very hostess who within minutes would ask us to quiet down pulled me aside and asked if I’d reach up to the top of the wine rack and grab a bottle that was out of her reach. I was, of course, happy to oblige.

All that said, my children are not shrinking violets, either. My daughter, in particular, has one of those voices that you can hear across the room and her laugh, a rollicking, full-throated chuckle, is unique and evident when she is enjoying herself. I suspect that whoever complained was hearing her laughter over the din and perhaps assumed that others in the restaurant were raising their voices in order to compete with the nine-year olds. Who knows?

There are many things to love about my daughter–she is funny and quirky and, as our friend Cath says, “full of beans.” It’s her voice though–both the physical projection as well as what she says and how she says that is one of the things I love the most about her.

When she was five years old she told us that she wanted to be in a play so we enrolled her in a community theatre production of The Little Mermaid. We weren’t sure how it was going to go but she stuck with it and secured two minor roles for herself. On opening night I found myself volunteering behind the scenes–I was assigned to the boys dressing room where I was charged with helping the boys change get into their proper costumes and it was the closest I think I’ll ever get to being on the set of a Wes Anderson film.

Just before the play started I walked around to the front of the auditorium to watch the opening number because I knew my daughter was in the first scene and I wanted to see her maiden performance. The curtains parted and there she was, leading a phalanx of war-torn sailors, marching to the front of the stage and launching into the opening number, “Fathoms Below.”

She was five at the time and she was surrounded by six or seven other five-year olds and as they opened their mouths, all I could hear was my daughter, off-key and shouting the lyrics with the energy and confidence of a seasoned veteran of the stage” “I’ll sing you a song of the kind of the sea/An’ it’s hey to the starboard, heave ho!/The ruler of all of the oceans is he/In mysterious fathoms below!”

My eyes were like spigots. I had to wipe the tears away and I thought to myself, that’s my daughter, that’s my daughter.

She’s secured minor roles in two other community theatre productions and when we get settled in New Zealand, I’m sure we’ll find another community theatre for her to be a part of.

I’m proud my young daughter doesn’t act like the girl that the larger culture expects her to act. She’s strong and opinionated and she doesn’t let anyone mess with her. That’s how we raised her. That’s how she is, and that’s, I hope, how she’ll be for the rest of her life.

So, I don’t like it when strangers ask her to be quiet, especially when she’s not even being excessively loud.

I thought about that first night of my daughter’s young acting career tonight as we quietly left the fancy restaurant in Kinsale. I also thought about the poor people who were in the restaurant and were agitated by a young girl’s laugh. What’s wrong with them? But, then again, who knows? Maybe they were struggling with relationship or health issues and just wanted a quiet dinner away from their troubles. But beyond all that I also worried about the message that was being sent to my daughter. She heard what the hostess said and because she is respectful of others, she quieted down and actually said very little the rest of the short time we were in the restaurant.  When we left, I grabbed her hand, told her I loved her, and told her to not worry about what happened back there.

We bought them cheap, overly-preserved ice cream at the corner store, walked back to our hotel and went to bed.

I thought I’d could put the experience behind me, but when I woke up in the morning, the hostess’s words still grated against me.