A Beauty-Appreciating Barista: Jesse

"Is it hot in here..." he said, leaning in toward
me with narrowed eyes and a sexy smile, "or is it just
you?"

I rolled my eyes, wise to his ways and turned to the
other barista behind the counter.

"He says this to all the girls, doesn't he?"

She just shook her head. "No. Jesse makes every one
of us feel special in a different way. He
makes us all feel beautiful. Because he thinks we're all
beautiful..."

And that's why I gave Jesse Auguste a gold star!



It wasn't Jesse's first gold star, not by a long shot. I have given him many and he probably has deserved many more! He serves me Americanos or very special Soy Matte Lattes with beautifully-designed foam nearly every day with a beautiful smile and a quip.

He reminded me of when I gave him his first gold star, many months ago, on a day when he had received a parking ticket, actually a more severe parking sticker, on his car. Instead of staying angry, letting it get him down, he had decided to own it, peeling the sticker off and sticking it on his white t-shirt. When I saw it, I had laughed uproariously and handed him a gold star. Nice work, turning something upsetting into something funny, something you could laugh about with customers and friends. This kind of thing is why people wait in long lines at Naidre's, why everyone loves Jesse.

A Star for a Smile...

Andrea spreads sunshine with her bright smile.
"Part of my Hinduism is an obligation to be happy," she said.
It shows, her efforts to "make the world a more noble place."

That's why I gave her a gold star...

I met Andrea a few months back at the corner grocery, where her exchange with the clerk could best be described as exuberant. The clerk had noted how Andrea always made her day with her smile and her optimism. I had to step in and give her a gold star. After all, she was obviously giving everyone she encountered so much. She remarked to me then that she herself had thought often of giving out gold stars, especially on the subway, when people seemed to need one so badly. She loved the project, loved her star. She needed it more than I knew, having just been laid up in her apartment for quite a while after an injury.

I invited Andrea to a party I was having the next day and she came, and she lit up the place. Everyone kept telling me, "I met your friend Andrea, she's great!" We tried to get together a bunch of times after that, to no avail, but today it finally worked. As we sat at Naidre's, she talked of one of her favorite blogs, Maitaispicturebook.blogspot.com, a glamorous site focused around a sophisticated French woman's love of all things Hermes.

But still, despite such aspirations, despite her beautiful elephant bracelets and her funky designer frames, she said, "the gold star you gave me is at home, it is one of the things I treasure most. I can't sell it on eBay for even a penny," she laughed, unlike one of Maitai's Scarf Fur Collars. "But it has intrinsic value, it reminds me that I was acknowledged for being myself, for doing something I do naturally."

I love that! And now, Andrea has another gold star, this one right on her P.D.A., a mobile reminder that being her fabulous self should be always be its own reward!

Word Play...

I am never more reminded of why I live where I live, why I live in the Big Bad City, than when I ride the subway. Take yesterday, for example. I picked up my kiddies from school a bit early for a doctor's appointment in Manhattan. Don't ask. I have been remiss at making Well Visit appointments the year in advance necessary to get in at the Brooklyn office and camp health forms are due, so...I am forced to travel. No matter. I like the excuse to get my kids into The City from the Brooklyn burbs every so often.

We stopped at the deli for snacks and Eli had his book, Oscar the iPod I had brought along, just in case of boredom. I actually had the chance to read on the subway with my kids...Man, I love that they're getting older. I couldn't read, though, distracted by the many people and conversations all around me. One in particular stood out. How could it not? The kids were yelling across the crowded subway car at one another, joking and trying to get attention, as young punks are wont to do. As a few girls got off, one, who had stayed on, shouted at them a word that, luckily, my kids, if they'd been paying attention, would have thought was referring to a fluffy kitty cat...Of course, I knew better, was mildly shocked at the usage of it, by a girl no less. I looked around, as usual when I need to share, to see who else had been paying attention. A young girl sitting across from me met my gaze and smiled. I laughed.

"Well, I'm glad my children don't know that term yet..." I said. She laughed.

I thought about it, though, about how the subway always provides an important reality check on the way kids talk, on the words they think are okay to use. If she had checked Wikipedia, this young girl would have seen that her use of the common cat reference, her use of it as a shout out to her girlfriends, could be considered rude, or, to quote, "Most dictionaries mark the anatomical meaning as 'vulgar' or 'offensive' and its use is frowned upon in polite company."

To be fair, however, I'm sure she didn't care. Quite the opposite. But it made me think. Why was she using this term? As I watched her, plugged in to her music, her face held up high and proud, her eyes closed, pretending not to know the boy down the car who kept prodding her with false nicknames, it occurred to me: words are power. And, in many cases, when you have so little power, it is words you can turn to. They are cheap, cost nothing in fact, and by using them in a new way, in a way that shows others you will not be cowed by anything they call you, by any particular body part people might define you by, you can own what you are. Or, at the very least, pretend to in public.

I went about my business, making sure my kids' baby Goldfish didn't spill all over the subway floor. I had told them they could eat, even though it was against the rules, as long as they didn't make a mess. I am a bad mother that way, always allowing rules to be broken when I understand that my careful actions will avoid creating the problem the rule was meant to address. Oscar, at 6, always chastises me for this, like when I cross against the light, even when I see it's safe.

As I sat there, another girl got on and began to speak loudly, clearly for the benefit (or so she thought) of others, of us. Before too long, she too used that powerful P word in easy reference to a female pal. I shook my head and looked over at my friend across the aisle.

"Really?" I said. "This is why I ride the subway, to see what new words are newly popular, how they're being used..."

She laughed. I'd like to think these girls are hearkening back to the 1500s, finding it in their hearts to tap into the historical definition of the word they're using as it might have been first used, as "a term of endearment for women." I'm going to say it's that, see the cyclical nature of language as a positive, hope that the use of this term gets them somewhere good. Words can get you somewhere, I think, if used well.

I gave my new friend, the one who listened when I had to talk, a gold star as she got off the train. "Thanks!" she said, excited. I never fail to be surprised by the happy unsurprised response people have to receiving a star. It's nice to have an ally and, in this case, I took a pass on making it my kids. Eli, for one, has enough words in his current arsenal to bleep. He is like a censor, choosing the phrases most likely to be loathed by me and bleeping out the really bad ones. But there is no mistaking his meaning. I can imagine, before too long, he'll know this one that's being bandied about freely. It will enter his universe. Whether he will understand its meaning is unclear. After all, do I? Apparently not.

Far-Sighted Failure...

It is so easy to stop seeing the people right around you. I am guilty of that, and my choice of gold star giveaways has underlined that the last few days. As it turns out, I had failed to reward neighbors and friends who have been standing on the sidelines, hearing about the project, reading the blog, telling others about it. They, in fact, had never even received a star.

A friend turned to another friend at coffee the other morning, as we sat on the corner in front of Colson's on a beautiful blue-sky day, and asked her point-blank, "Have you gotten a gold star?" That friend had, she hadn't.

My jaw dropped. "Is it possible I haven't given you one?" I asked, incredulous but realizing it must be true as I reached into my bag. No, I hadn't, ever, not once in the year-plus I have been talking incessantly to this friend about it, asking for her counsel as a mover and shaker, a get-things-done gal.

"Wow! I'm sorry..." I said. She almost didn't take it, didn't want it if she felt she had asked for it. But I hadn't really thought she would want one somehow, or I thought I had given her one and would look silly giving her one again...Either way. I rectified it, forcing it onto her hand. She definitely deserves it and I had been horribly remiss.

It is a common problem, I'm finding. Another friend and neighbor who has told me she reads my blog and likes it, after hearing that another neighbor had received a star and had been asked about it by a lot of people, looked at her and asked, with a slight tinge of envy in her voice, "What did you get a star for?" She had received it because she is trying, of course, I see her every day helping out at our kids' school, rushing around in the same swirls I am, making an effort to be both person and parent, to make it work. I hadn't ever given her a gold star.

It occurred to me that this other woman, this other hard-working mother of two, a songwriter, wife, daughter, always rushing like mad to get all she needs to get done done, always trying, hadn't received a star. Here I stood in the lobby feeling amazed. How had this happened?

So many people right around me have not received stars. I find that it is an easy metaphor for what happens in real life, not just in this project: we forget about what is right under our nose, we fail to notice it and appreciate it. Pathetic.

It is fitting that this idea should arise on Mother's Day. My family has just served me oatmeal and a smoothie and coffee on a tray in bed as I write this blog. I have demanded these things, made sure to voice my desires after last year's debacle where I joked that "I got nothing for Mother's Day, but my husband got a nice long lecture!"

The point of days like these, silly Hallmark holidays, is that they force us to stop and take notice of all the things that people do that we take for granted. I teased Oscar, my youngest, that I was going to play the role of him on Mother's Day, whining, "I want...I want...Gimme, gimme, gimme..." all day so he could see how it felt. I want him to stop and take notice of all the things I do, not to make him feel guilty, I do (most) of these things because it's my pleasure, but because it will be an important thing in his life to recognize the efforts of others, especially efforts made on his behalf.

Sometimes, I think, it is easier to be kind to strangers. It is, at the very least, far less complicated than figuring ways to reward those around you all the time. I'm glad I have had a reminder of that. I guess I needed it. As I drag my kids around the park to find birds shortly, a gift I am demanding they give me, I will certainly spend time reminding them that we have to remember those close to us in our lives, those that we see every day, and not take them for granted. Giving out even proverbial gold stars to people in your life is so, so important! Happy Mother's Day Moms! Enjoy your moment in the sun...

A Thank-You to Great Writers' Children...

Good literature, at its best, lets us in to the real thoughts in a writer’s brain, offers us access to the imaginings a regular non-writer-person might never admit, even to the dog.

I have been saved by such literature, by the mere notion that those things I think sometimes, the things that might be dinner-party-don’ts, might in fact be shared by others. These books, those of Erica Jong and John Cheever and William Styron and James Baldwin and Jerzy Kosinski and Susanna Kaysen, have allowed me on many occasions to breathe sighs of great relief that all is not always what it seems, that the facades we often face are simply that, that I am not the only “crazy” one.

I have been thinking about this notion a lot as I attempt to create my own honest work of writing, to put together my own novel. I have been appreciating even more what it takes for an author to acknowledge their thoughts and feelings, even the seemingly unseemly dirty details of their lives, and been amazed at their perseverance despite the toll such admissions might take on their families, their husbands and wives, their children.

So it was with great interest a few weeks back that I came across a direct display of that toll right on my Facebook page. A number of months ago I had come across writer Molly Jong-Fast on Facebook and, seeing that we had some mutual friends, I did what any aspiring writer does these days: I friended her. To my great delight, she friended me back. I have, as of yet, been too wimpy to friend her mother, Erica Jong, as I am still getting my sea legs networking with writers whose work has greatly affected me, fearing…I don’t know what.

Well, on this particular day, April 20, Ms. Jong-Fast had written on her status that she “apologizes for her mother’s comments…” I had to look it up to see what she was apologizing for, given that Fear of Flying, the 1973 bestseller that belied women’s supposed frigidity, had likely long ago ceased to be an embarrassment. I found it relatively easily, the media world being what it is. Clearly, this reference was to some comments Ms. Jong had made about Oprah in a blog post about Kitty Kelley’s new book, comments that were pretty harmless if not at all PC.

Nonetheless, I could understand how a daughter might indeed want to separate herself from such comments, to ensure that her own “friends” and friends might see that the thoughts therein expressed did not reflect her own. As I read through the comments to the post, it got even more interesting. There in front of my face was another daughter of one of my favorite authors, Susan Cheever, who posted her own complaints of parental word-permissiveness.

Ms. Cheever noted: “And I apologize for MY mother’s and my father’s too…”

Among the other 10 or so comments were a number from Erica Jong herself, including one in response to Ms. Jong-Fast’s admission that “I love you Mom!” that said, “I love u too. We can disagree and still love.”

I shook my head. This was more than slightly surreal for me, a weird window into what it is like to make one’s feelings public through the written word, in all the many forms available to us writers these days.

Despite wanting to enter the conversation, I kept quiet. Who am I, after all, but a fly on the wall of these more well-known writers’ trials and tribulations and triumphs? It did warm me quite a bit to know that these women whose lives are so affected by their parents’ honest admissions are themselves writers, bound, if they are at all honest, to put their own progeny into a quite similar bind. It is not at all unlikely that their children will be likewise commenting on Facebook or whatever social media is popular in a few years, about the embarrassing thoughts of theirs that get shared.

I mulled the subject again last night as I ran the bake sale for an amazing under-attended event at my sons’ school last night featuring Alexandra Styron and Bliss Broyard discussing the memoirs they've written about their fathers. Ms. Styron bravely shared a passage of a book set to come out next year about the great William Styron, a writer who dared to take on the tough topics of slavery, the Holocaust and his own paralyzing depression, and who changed many lives in the process. Her story of her father, of course, intimately involves her and the affect the more frustrating aspects of being a brilliant writer had on her, on her family and, of course, on her father himself. I almost burst into tears about 15 times during her reading, one of the first she's made on the book, which even her mother hasn't read.

Ms. Broyard, daughter of book reviewer Anatole Broyard, likewise nearly brought me to tears talking as she did just as openly about her father and the "secret" they learned only on his deathbed, that he was actually part black, had abandoned sisters and family nearby for fear that he would be outed.

These women inspired me. I am humbled by the art that brings about, sadly, a sometime shame. But it is, I feel, for the greater good that great minds share even the darkest thoughts. I remember this as I write, and I hearken back to a much smaller me, dwarfed by the stack of books I brought weekly to the checkout at my public library in Tucson, Arizona, the stack that I hoped against hope the librarian would believe I could read in the time allotted. I could, and did. I am understanding of the toll it may take on the sons and daughters of those people, but those words cheered and consoled me and continue to nearly every day. Gold stars go out to writers and their families for all it takes to have the guts to share, and help.

Is Everyone an Artist?

I always get into great conversations at Dizzy’s, with the guys behind the counter. Monday was no exception. I had remarked to my pal, again, about a photograph I coveted, one of a narrow walled street in Morocco with a sliver of blue sky ahead. Something about it gives me hope.

“I don’t know,” my friend said, shaking his head, not wholly convinced the shot was worth the $250 pricetag. “I guess, with photography, I’m not convinced…a lot of people think they’re artists but…”

I knew where he was headed, where a lot of people go. There is so much judgment about “what is art,” “who is an artist…”

I shook my head, defensive for art forms of any kind, feeling like I always did with my Dad at MOMA.

“I suppose art is in the eye of the beholder,” I said.

Anyway, I told him, I had just come from my sons’ school, from an amazing African dance performance where every single third grader—even those I had coaxed unwillingly into the pool at points, those I had heard on many occasions offer up ‘I can’t’ with doing things or creating things—had participated, and not just half-way. Each and every one of them had swayed and swished around the fourth-floor “stage” with great pride and beauty. It was a sight to behold, a real achievement of artistic endeavor. The performance greatly affected both the participants and the audience, it was obvious. The dance teacher and the PTA president who had the great presence of mind to hire her both got gold stars.

“See,” I said, “I am confident that we all have artistic talents, if only we are encouraged to try, if we are not shot down with the idea that only some people are real artists…” I shook my head.

“Did I offend you?” he asked with a look of concern.

I laughed. “I don’t get offended. It’s just a question of whether I still like you…”

Luckily, I still like him because he acknowledged shortly thereafter that his judgment, like all our judgments, came from a personal place, from a place where he had been overly judgmental of himself for not liking certain things or not discerning what did or didn’t speak to him. That I understand. I have learned to walk by a lot of things in a museum that do not speak to me, that do not pull me in or provoke me to thought, even if it’s a Rembrandt. I have learned to change the station if the music doesn’t move me, even if it’s Tchaikovsky.

I try not to be overly judgmental, though, of what I don’t care for just as I try to judge myself less for my own artistic efforts, as I try also not to put fear into my children about their own potential artistic talents. My hubbie has taken up drawing and goes faithfully to class every week, working painstakingly on pieces he is proud of when they’re done. Oscar brings home How to Draw books from the library and tries his hand at getting a likeness for sharks, cars, what have you. I play the piano joyfully by ear, even if I can’t play chords well with my left hand, even if it doesn’t sound like Mozart. And my kids have courage with their own efforts, be it piano, drums, guitar or mixing on their fabulous music teacher’s computer.

If only as an outlet for their own thoughts, their own feelings, as a way to express themselves, as outlets for us to express ourselves, these efforts are so valuable. I think the message might be sinking in that art in almost any form is of value, value beyond a monetary number.

The other night, Oscar brought home Tomie dePaola’s The Legend of the American Paintbrush, about an artist who is tapped to find the colors to bring the sunset down to earth in his painting, someone who is challenged by his gift, who often wishes he could make other more regular choices, to be like everyone else. I thought of my Dizzy’s friend, of his belief that not everyone chooses to be an artist, to go down that road. I can see that, agree even. It is often a hard road. My kids and I chatted after the book about the responsibility of the artist, of how important it was for him to use his great gift.

Oscar nonchalantly shrugged and offered up his thoughts: “Art changes people’s lives...”

I smiled. "I agree," I said, and I do, wholeheartedly, I think that about art in every form, from the most crude kids’ drawing to a great novel.

On Tomie dePaola’s website, which references the more than 200 children’s books he has written, there is a quote, from political artist Ben Shahn, from a comment he made to dePaola in the summer of 1955. It offers only that “being an artist is not only what you do it is how you live your life.”

I would argue that there is an artist in all of us, that our lives can change others’ lives through so many forms. I gave my Dizzy’s friend a gold star. I think it’s great just to try to discuss these things, to figure them in our own heads. And I gave a gold star to a man sitting next to me who was pitching a new art installation to Dizzy’s owner, who will also get a gold star when next I see him for offering opportunity to local talent. Maybe he'll give me a discount on the photograph…

A Big Win

On our way to my older son Eli's baseball game yesterday, he and I began to chat.

"So," I said, "your team is doing great this year!" I enthused.

He stopped and looked up at me quizzically, his face scrunched into the classic "duh" expression.

"We haven't won one game..." he said.

Oops. I laughed, caught out for not having paid close enough attention.

"Well, you've had fun, right?" I said.

"Yeah," he said.

I shrugged. "I really don't care about winning or losing," I said.

He shrugged too. "Yeah, me neither."

I struggle with this all the time, this idea of not caring, of not wanting to make besting the competition a huge, important priority. I know that it is a fact of life, that most situations demand that there be a winner and a loser, but I cannot reconcile myself to it. It just feels too terrible. Why can't we all win?

I thought of this as I sat on a blanket in the shade, barely glancing up at the game as it was played. I have more than a little A.D.D. and I find it hard to focus when I look at a field full of moving people. At least, that's my excuse. I try to catch the times that Eli comes up to bat, if he should catch a ball in the field. But I don't want to look too closely. If he should strike out (which he sometimes does) or miss a ball (which can happen) I feel bad for him but I don't want to let on, don't want to give him any sense that it matters. Cause, in the scheme of things, it really doesn't.

There came a point, though, after a long, long while of sitting, relaxing, that I picked up on a new vibe. The team had been losing pretty badly, the other team far more fiercely competitive than ours, the coaches chastising players in a way Eli's gentle coach would not. We laughed over on the blanket, calling our team the Bad News Bears. But none of us seemed to mind. It's all for sport, all in a day's fun.

But the teammates started whooping, so much so I that I was actually compelled to rise from my blanket and see what was up. It was close, it turns out. Eli's team had come from behind and actually had a chance to win. They were all abuzz, excited, slapping each other on the backs, mini versions of Major Leaguers, doing what they imaged Major Leaguers might do.

I went back to my blanket perch, but with renewed focus on the game. Within a minute, a boy I know from Eli's school, a sweet, sweet smiling kid who has had a very hard time, whose Dad died suddenly last year, who has been held back a grade, whose baseball jersey can barely button over his big belly, slammed one hard, well into the outfield, well into victory.

I won't soon forget the smile on his face as he rounded the bases, as he came into home to the high-fives and hugs of his teammates. I was up in a flash, on my feet, and, with tears in my eyes, I hugged this kid, this kid I have in the past coaxed across the pool, up from his back on the ice skating rink, a kid who, despite his girth, is incredibly graceful and athletic, who has incredible promise and potential. He had won the game for his team and it was so, so great.

As I jumped up and down, screamed to Eli's teammates what a great job they had done, cheered them as they cheered themselves, I had to laugh at myself, at what a hypocrite I was. Sometimes, winning does matter, it means a lot, it is a huge reward for efforts expended and it makes people feel great, gives them hope for the greatness they can achieve if they try.

I gave this boy who had helped his team to victory a gold star, quietly, surreptitiously as I didn't have enough for all. But he deserved it. He should remember this moment. I tried not to notice the disappointed faces of the other team, their angry coach. Sometimes, you just have to see the bright side of a big win.