Running Away From Dick Clark

A friend of mine, who I will call M, told me a story about a night she had out in town with some male "friends." Unfortunately, these males were anything, but true friends. Most of them were married, and throughout the night almost every one of them had sexually propositioned her in one way or another. The most devastating interaction took place by the guy who she felt safest being around. M has a close relationship with his wife, and he is good friends with one of her former boyfriends. He had presented himself as a rescuer -- an ally who would help her get home safely. However, in the end, he was the individual who was the most violating. When M shared this story with some of her students in a peer leadership class one girl was upset by the story; she felt as if my friend ruined her idealism. This girl was more upset at my friend sharing the story than she was by the story itself. She was bothered by the fact that M had tainted her sacred belief in men.

When my daughter was born there was great expectation that I would fall hopelessly goo goo over her. This did not happen. In fact, I would dare say that I was rather cautious and neutral in regards to my feeling about my daughter. I wasn't worried that I would love her, but the idea that newborns are the "best" or that the early stages are the greatest time of an individual's life seemed like a fictitious idea. The drone of friends and strangers informing me how wonderful newborns are: "You don't get any sleep [wink, wink], but it's all worth it, right?" I was intensely vocal about my disagreement with most people's assessment. I didn't hold back, and because of this -- my love for my daughter was subtly and overtly called into question.

On New Year's Eve, I was at a small party that two of my dearest friends were hosting. At about 11:30pm, the television was turned on and we began to watch Dick Clark's New Year celebration. I was only vaguely aware that Dick Clark had had a stroke earlier that year. And though the stroke left him somewhat physically disfigured, he was still given a limited role in the New Year celebration. When he spoke his speech was garbled, making it difficult to comprehend at times. His voice was not the Dick Clark that everyone had known. There were a number of groans from the guests at the party, questioning why a network would allow him to be on in the condition he was in. Some of the guests were irritated by his presence during such a festive time. For me, his presence, along with the other two stories, got me thinking . . .

Why is it that too often we shy away from the complete picture? We hold innocence to be the supreme form of knowledge; we love the taste of the apple, yet we clothe our nakedness. We want to support war (or support our troops, if you're super wonderfully naively innocent), yet we are repulsed by the body bags; we want nothing to do with the images of American blood being spilled, and to a fuller degree, we shy away from the blood of Iraqi women and children. We run away from Dick Clark. And we are still running, because he reminds us of our mortality, and in entering a new year we are foolishly celebrating our immortality. We want nothing to do with people who lack giddiness over newborns, especially parents who question all of this goo-goo ecstasy. Don't tell us that we might be shot, raped, robbed, tortured, forgotten. We want to fall in love with Prince Charming or some "really hot chick," not wanting to see the slob behind the prince, the wanderlust of ms. hot-chick. We want make-believe, not reality, but "in a land of make believe, [they] don't believe in me." Face it, "in a perfect world, we'd all sing in tune, but this is reality, so give me some room."

I want to understand life in all its complexity, the love and heartbreak, birth and runny bowels, celebration and mourning. I think there was once a wise man, responsible for writing the book of Ecclesiastes [Hebrew word: Qoheleth] who stated something about there being a time for everything: a time to weep, a time to laugh; a time to mourn, a time to dance. These moments are integrated within our experience of life. Failing to acknowledge one without the other is an insult to the Artist and to life itself. And as C.S. Lewis, the author of the Chronicles of Narnia, upon losing his young wife to cancer, eventually concluded: "The pain now is part of the happiness then."