Some people are celebrating Christmas today and some people are just experiencing another Monday. “Just” is one of my least favorite words. It pretends to indicate insignificance but really is often used to minimize pretty big fucking deals for many of us: “Just a short walk.” “Just a flesh wound.” “Just joking.”
So whether this is a symbolic holiday or “just Monday” for you, I hope you find joy and keep it somewhere safe.
In poetry: I keep Andrea Gibson’s You Better Be Lightning in my substitute teacher bag to read while students are working and to sometimes share out loud with them - last time someone asked to take a photo of the book cover as a reminder to get it for herself and I suddenly felt like a messiah. Gibson’s words are that beautiful + powerful; I occasionally have to stop reading in public because the weeping would be alarming to strangers. Even when the subject matter turns to things I’m not intimately familiar with - Lyme disease, living in the midwest, being a lesbian - I am startled and strangely glad at the new familiarity. Every poem reminds us to notice, to feel, to be honest and be present. It can feel heavy and exhausting but it’s never not stunning, and useful.
I’m posting the text of this marvelous work, though it really wants to be heard aloud by the poet with video of them & their dog.
Letter to My Dog, Exploring the Human Condition by Andrea Gibson
Dear squash
Aka squashy
Aka squishy
Aka squasharooni Gibson
Aka squish squash and you don’t stop
Aka miracle button
Aka little perfect peanut
Aka my beating heart with fur and legs
I know you think it’s insane that I still poop in the house
That I choose to wear underwear and pants giving no one the opportunity to smell my true disposition
That on the days I need to feel better about myself I don’t just pee on someone’s pee
Don’t worry. I am not fooled by my thumbs
I know I am not the tadpole’s final project
I know I am not the last species evolution hopes to become
I can’t even swallow my own pride long enough to let myself drool when something smells delicious
What must you think of my mirror face
Or how much of my day I spend practicing my butch voice
My baby-I’ll-fix-your-carburetor-with-my-tool-kit voice when you know full well there is nothing in my tool kit besides a massive collection of self help books that have helped me do nothing but feng shui the skeletons in my closet
Don’t you just love how that femur accents the sofa set, squash
I’m sorry I cry every time I take you to the vet
I’m sorry they take your temperature like that
I’m sorry I take you there when you’ve only got a bug bite
Humans hold so tight to the leash of life but you will roll in anything dead and wear it like perfume
I wish I had your nose for eternity
I wish I could see what you see
Where the squirrels satan your eyes
Where the postman deserves to die even when he’s not bringing bills
What’s with hating the shadow the peace lily makes on the floor in the living room?
I know I let you down everyday I choose not to murder the vacuum
Is it bad that I refuse to teach you to not be afraid of men
Is it bad that I want you to keep your bite and your snarl and your gleaming teeth
Is it bad that when they call you a risk, I call you a feminist
You never make fun of your friend Chloe’s underbite
Or your friend willow’s limp
Or your friend Harvey’s past trouble with the law
You never criticize me for being too uptight to let my hair down even though you can let yours all the way out
All over my black hoody, my black pants, the couch, the car, the chair, the online merch store that sells my books and tee-shirts wrote me a letter saying “we can’t continue to sell your products if they continue to be covered in so much of your dog’s hair"
I just assumed anything covered in you would increase in value
Remember when I told that woman I loved her and whispered in your ear “you’re my number one girl” it’s true
If I could I would put your beating heart in my mouth and suck on it like a piece of candy so I could finally understand how you got so sweet
I know my therapist likes you more than she likes me
And I still let you sleep on her couch
You taught me a good nap is the best therapy
You taught me to sit when I damn well want to sit
I don’t care that you never talk about capitalism or patriarchy or the heteronormative hegemonic paradigm
I know you’re saving the world every time you get poo stuck in your butt hair and you don’t go looking for someone to blame
Speaking of looking for someone
I can’t imagine what you think of sex
I can’t tell if you think it’s a slobbering badly boundaried belly rub or a poorly aimed fist fight
You just perch on the end of the bed and tilt your head back and forth
Wondering why I still haven’t taken my pants off
I have issues, Squash
Humans have issues
We dig holes to bury our own hearts
We chew on our own bones
We escape the predators but still can’t shake them off
Some of us wear our own bodies the way your friend Berlin wore that cone around her head, remember?
So embarrassed, but I never had a better teacher that came to my own spirit than you
Never had a reason to stop playing dead until the day I saw your little face at the shelter
Your little nose pressed against the cold glass, staring up at me like I was a gay Noah’s ark
My heart
My heart
My heart
Every time I give you a treat, you run around the house looking for a place to hide it until you finally come to where I am sitting and hide it directly under me
The most important thing I have ever built in my whole life is your trust
May you always feel entitled to more than your fair share of the bed
May you always tear the stuffing out of every toy I give you
So I can constantly be reminded to keep spilling my guts
To keep saying I don’t know how I will ever make peace with the shortness of your life span
But I promise to make sure you know you are so loved every second you are here
You know my hands will build the sturdiest ark they possibly can
To hold your holy howl and your holy bark and your holy beg
Squasharooni Gibson
My little perfect peanut
My beating heart with fur and legs
In food: Any holiday in my family, which can include birthdays or a Saturday when we’re all together, means Waldorf salad is on the table. I grew up seeing a bowl of it at every gathering so I figured everybody knew what it was and also found it delicious: apples, walnuts, celery [which I always picked out], marshmallows, and mayonnaise. When I say its ingredients out loud - and worse, type them - I realize how awful it sounds and know I would probably never make it if I stumbled across the recipe.
And yet, it is magically delicious.
When I was in college and discovered virtually everyone I met had no idea what this dish was, and they were slightly disgusted, I started to wonder if my grandma made it up. She was Dutch and a child of the Great Depression, so a fair amount of her cooking was based on whatever foods were available in the kitchen or could be bartered from a neighbor. Learning more about US history, I also thought maybe the “Waldorf” part was meant to be ironic, like calling poor folk food a rich person name. Later I found more details [bless Wikipedia!] and was a little surprised to find that what my grandma & mom made was basically the original salad created at New York City’s Waldorf-Astoria. They might have also included grapes at one point but eventually phased them out like the celery because some people [me] would just push them to the side of the plate. We also use whichever apples we find so the ‘color palette’ is more variable than only green. We are not really Waldorfs or Astors, after all.
Now there are bougie versions popping up because of course. Though as much as I relish trying all kinds of restaurants and would not want to suppress anyone’s foodie creativity, it’s the original simplest recipe I crave when I want Home.
In shopping: Since it’s a quick drive across the river to Portland, I can usually find plenty of quirky things that I never realized a) people sold or b) people wanted. There is a reason the city stole Austin’s motto about keeping things weird; it permeates everything from personalities to meals to shops (I do actually adore wandering around a place called Woonwinkel now & then, perpetually charmed + perplexed). When I want a truly unique gift that includes acute attention to the receiver and also some mysterious history, I browse around Camas Antiques for awhile. This creaky aging building houses dozens of independently-owned booths filled with the obvious, mildly intriguing old things - musty leather suitcases tagged in fading cursive; stacks of dishes, likely radioactive; cute rusted egg beaters with Bakelite handles - there are also inspiring pieces for people with specific interests. I’ve found a WWII-era heavy duty stapler [that I forget how to load every time it empties] for my classroom, a set of uncommon three-tined forks my daughter loves, a deer antler key chain made in Poland for one of my son’s groomsmen. I unearthed the Styx Paradise Theatre laser etched vinyl album with gate-fold sleeve for $8; there are a couple scratches but that only makes it feel more like my junior high dances when I listen to it. Sometimes I’m inspired to create my own things after seeing displays: ornaments using shreds of sheet music, framed wrapping paper as glass message board.
I will spend an hour or more wandering the stalls, upstairs and down, having to take off my coat (unless I remembered to leave it in the car to begin with) and shifting my basket of finds from arm to arm every few minutes. I take notes in my phone. I reassure the man who works there - a curious combination of caring and curmudgeonly, attentive but also a bit exasperated when asked a question - that I am doing fine; sometimes I let him take my basket to the counter so I can finish my expedition without torturing my tennis elbow. Usually I treat myself to one of the specialty chocolates at the counter when I check out, a reward for gifting well done.
I think most vintage or thrift stores provide lots of fun excellent choices if you have the time to peruse & consider.
This is my best wish for you, holidays and regular days: Time, Consideration, Excellent Choices. And some Waldorf salad.
I grew up with Waldorf salad and ours had grapes, not celery. I did not know about the mayo and am wondering if my grandmother and aunts changed the recipe or if I was simply blissfully unaware.