Category Archives: The Examined Life

The unexamined life is not worth living.

September 8, 1965: the Filipino farm workers and the Delano grape strikes

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After all, it was the Filipinos who started this phase of the farmworkers movement when they alone sat down in the Delano grape fields back in 1965 and started what became known as the ‘farmworkers movement’ that eventually developed into the UFW.
– Philip Vera Cruz, Filipino American labor leader, farmworker, and leader in the Asian American civil rights movement, from Philip Vera Cruz: A Personal History of Filipino Immigrants and the Farmworkers Movement

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

Larry Itliong, circa 1960s.

Yesterday, September 8th, marked the 48th anniversary of the beginning of the Great Delano Grape Strikes, when hundreds of Filipino farmworkers walked out of the vineyards protesting inhumane working and living conditions. And yet, few Americans know of their contributions and their sacrifices in the history of the agricultural labor movement in this country.

In honor of this day and to celebrate the Filipinos’ historical significance, which coincides with the ongoing revision of my novel-in-progress, here is another excerpt from A Village in the Fields. In this chapter, my main character, Fausto Empleo, meets Larry Itliong, a real-life person who was an important Filipino labor leader and Cesar Chavez’s equal:

After dinner one evening, Prudencio took Fausto outside the mess hall, where Ayong was talking to a short pinoy. Fausto knew the man with the black horn-rimmed glasses and crew cut was Larry Itliong. He often had seen Larry talking to the pinoys in the camp. Prudencio had been threatening to introduce Fausto to him for weeks.

“Larry, this is Fausto Empleo,” Prudencio said, when they reached Ayong’s side.

Smoke swirled in the air as Larry transferred his cigar from one hand to the other. He grasped Fausto’s hand in a vise as if he didn’t have three fingers missing and pumped it vigorously. “You’re from Ilocos Sur?” He spoke out the side of his mouth, as if the cigar were still dangling from the corner of his mouth. “I’m from Pangasinan, Ilocos Norte. Can I get you a cigar?” He frisked the pockets of his shirt and his corduroy pants, which were rolled at the cuff, even as Fausto shook his head.

“You want to know why I have not joined AWOC,” Fausto guessed.

Larry sized him up. “Prudencio says you would be good for the union.”

Fausto shot a look at Prudencio, who had stepped back, shoulder to shoulder with Ayong. “Maybe unions are not the answer to our problems in the field,” Fausto said. “I have been here long enough to see what happens after a strike is settled.”

Larry puffed on his cigar. His cheeks, dark and leathery, swelled with the effort. “Unions are not just about strikes. There are other benefits. There are many tools unions have to solve our problems,” he said as smoke billowed through his lips.

“But striking does not always pay.”

“If we do nothing, the growers in Delano will set our wages and they will never improve conditions in the fields and in the camps—conditions fit for a dog, not humans,” Larry said, squinting at him even as the haze cleared from his face. “We have to keep trying. I have been here for thirty-five years and I have seen progress from Salinas to the Coachella Valley, all the way to the canneries in Alaska. We have to do more now. There must be sacrifice—great sacrifice—if we want to succeed.”

“How is your union better than Cesar Chavez’s organization?” Fausto said.

Larry spit out bits of tobacco from his lips. “We have the strength of the A-F-L-C-I-O behind us and the funds to succeed. Chavez only has two hundred paying members. Those membership fees aren’t enough to do anything.”

“Larry’s been organizing for a long, long time,” Prudencio called out. “He’s a pinoy. He’ll take care of us.”

“I stand for every farm worker in these vineyards.” Larry straightened up, although he was still shorter than Fausto. “We work hard for Filipinos, Mexicans, blacks, whites, Arabs. But we Filipinos have never been given respect. We have always been exploited by everyone here—even after World War II, when Filipinos showed their salt and loyalty to the U-S-A. Some of us became labor leaders because we saw crimes committed against our countrymen and we won’t let it continue with our children. If we Filipinos want respect, we have to fight for it; we have to get it ourselves.”

His words were inspiring, but Fausto held back. Larry seemed to sense his reluctance.

“How long have you been working in the fields?” he wanted to know.

“I cut ‘gras in the Delta in the thirties until the War. I came here in nineteen fifty.”

“What do you have to show for all those years in the fields?” Larry raked his good hand across his crew-cut hair. Shocked, Fausto said nothing, but Larry went on, “If you better the life of farm workers after you, would that effort make your life—not just here—worthy? Will all your struggles then not be in vain?”

It might be too late for him, Fausto thought, but he would fight for a better life for his children. He could say that now with certainty. He shot out his hand. “I am with you.”

Larry smiled, his broad nostrils stretching across his cheeks, the thin slashes of his moustache parting in the middle. He shook Fausto’s hand. Fausto tried to imagine how Larry had lost his fingers. It was his badge for the kind of life he’d led in America. He had been doing what Fausto should have been doing the moment he first worked in the fields—demanding respect. Larry strode off the campgrounds, his maimed hand looming larger than life in the gathering dusk.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September - the jewels in the fields.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September – the jewels in the fields.

Hail to Jane Addams on her 153rd birthday

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The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain until it is secured for all of us and incorporated into our common life.
– Jane Addams, pioneer in settlement house movement, founder of Hull House, public philosopher, sociologist, author, pacifist, and leader in woman suffrage and world peace

An older Jane Addams (from the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame site).

An older Jane Addams (from the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame site).

Today is Jane Addams’s birthday. She was born in 1860 and died on May 21, 1935. I learned about Addams as a child, though I’m unsure whether I read about her in or outside the classroom. The only thing I can think of is that one of my female teachers in elementary school admired her and wanted us to read about her accomplishments. Then again, our library carried a series of old books about famous women who made important contributions in our country. These books highlighted an event in their childhoods that shaped who they eventually became. Pretty visionary reading for the early 1970s and in our tiny, rural school library, no less.

I remember Addams as the co-founder of Hull House, a settlement house, in the west side of Chicago. When it opened its doors in 1889, Addams and fellow co-founder Ellen Gates Starr welcomed the recently arrived European immigrants. Addams’s vision for the settlement house was to enable a community of university women to provide social and educational opportunities for working-class people in the neighborhoods. These women volunteers taught classes in art, domestic activities, history, literature, and other subjects. Hull House also offered lectures and concerts.

A young Jane Addams in 1878 (from www.swarthmore.edu).

A young Jane Addams in 1878 (from www.swarthmore.edu).

Addams advanced what she called the “three R’s” of settlement house movement: residence, research, and reform. She felt that creating a community with the neighbors, studying the causes of poverty, and educating the public were necessary in order to drive change through legislative and social reform. Addams was the quintessential Renaissance woman – volunteering as an on-call physician and taking on the role of midwife, nursing the sick, protecting  women of domestic abuse, and even preparing the dead for burial. She fought to shield children from child labor abuses and helped lead the movement for women’s rights, healthcare reform, and immigration policy. She was an advocate for playgrounds, founding the National Playground Association. She studied child behavior and understood the importance of creating a healthy environment in which children could thrive and a healthy foundation in which they could grow up to be productive citizens.

Jane Addams in midlife (from USEmbassy.gov).

Jane Addams in midlife (from USEmbassy.gov).

What is amazing to me is that Jane Addams suffered many childhood ailments. At the age of four, she was stricken with tuberculosis of the spine and Potts’s disease, which resulted in curvature of the spine and contributed to health issues that plagued her the rest of her life. After her father died unexpectedly and she received her inheritance, Jane Addams moved with her family from Cedarville, Illinois, to Philadelphia. She had a promising future studying medicine at the Woman’s Medical College of Philadelphia, but spinal surgery and a nervous breakdown sidelined her and kept her from finishing her education and receiving her medical degree. When her stepmother fell ill, the family moved back to Cedarville. (Side note: Her mother died in childbirth when she was two years old. She was the youngest of nine children, although by the time she was eight years old, she had lost three siblings in their infancy and another when at age 16.)

Dress boldly and go forth into the world with confidence.

Dress boldly and go forth into the world with confidence.

Her brother-in-law performed surgery to straighten her back and advised her to travel instead of return to her studies. In 1883, she and her stepmother went to Europe for two years. It was at this time that she discovered that she didn’t have to become a physician to help the poor. But when she returned to the U.S., she also returned to the prison-like confines of young women of her socio-economic class and as a result she fell into despair. During this bleak period in her life, however, she turned to books and read many that influenced and shaped her ideas about democracy and socialism and the role of women. When she read  magazine article about the new concept of settlement houses in the summer of 1887, hope was restored, life became promising again and bigger than her expected role in society, and her future path was forged.

Bold and delicate: Carmela Rose necklace and earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet.

Bold and delicate: Carmela Rose necklace and earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet.

She overcame numerous medical and social adversities with all that she accomplished. She was the first female president of the National Conference of Social Work, created the National Federation of Settlements, and served as president of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom. Jane Addams was the first American woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize in 1931,albeit as a co-winner with a male educator and presidential advisor. If anything, Jane Addams embodies for me the woman who is all too human and as such, living in the suffocating and repressed Victorian era, endures a wandering of the desert, so to speak, before finding her purpose in life, finding her voice, and finding the strength to do something useful in the world, which was an ambition of hers when she was a teen.

As I struggle to find the time and the energy to finally accomplish what I had dreamed of an idealistic young woman, I look up to Jane Addams and admire what she was up against and overcame – at a time when the political and social worlds were solidly against her – and gather tremendous strength. My battles are insignificant and therefore easily vanquished. Happy Birthday, Jane Addams! May you inspire legions of young girls and women of all ages to find their place in the world and in so doing make the world a better place.

Pink, yellow, and black for our Indian summer.

Pink, yellow, and black for our Indian summer.

A Village in the Fields: an excerpt

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The time to begin writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction. By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.
– Mark Twain, pen name of Samuel Clemens, American author and humorist

The contemplative author pose: Navy lace, silk shorts, and soft peach sweater.

The contemplative author pose: Navy lace, silk shorts, and soft peach sweater.

My Labor Day Weekend is over, but not the last revision of my novel. It’s just that now I have to find any nook and cranny of free time to keep on writing. I realized last night that because I have been doing nothing but edit and revise, I don’t have a blog post. Then I thought to myself, why not post an excerpt from the current chapter I am revising?

So, here is an excerpt from Chapter 7 of my novel-in-progress, A Village in the Fields, the story of an elderly Filipino farm worker, Fausto Empleo, who realizes what he has lost and gained from his struggles in America – in the agricultural fields of California, particularly during and after the Great Delano Grape Strikes of the 1960s and 1970s. I am still fiddling with saying what my novel is about in one sentence!

In this excerpt, Fausto, who is living in a camp for grape pickers in Delano in the 1950s, satisfies his curiosity by introducing himself to an immigrant farm worker from Yemen. The grape growers strategically kept the different nationalities in separate bunkhouses, partly to isolate them and to foment distrust among the groups:

Ripe Ribier grapes in September - the jewels in the fields.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September – the jewels in the fields.

“What is Yemen like?” Fausto asked.

The man dabbed the last piece of bread in the remains of his stew and ate it. He wiped his mouth with the red-and-black checkered scarf he had pulled from his head. “Where I come from—the coast—it is hot and humid,” the man answered.

Fausto licked his parched lips. “Is Yemen hot like Delano?”

The man laughed. “Yes, but we have monsoons. Many families fish for their livelihood. We are at the mercy of the monsoons.”

“We have typhoons in the Philippines. That is where I came from. My name is Fausto Empleo.” He thrust out his hand, and the man shook it vigorously.

“I am Ahmed Mansur, the son of Mansur Ali Ibrahim.”

“How long have you been in the States?” Ahmed moved his lips, adding up the years. “Thirty-five years, maybe more.”

“Ai, thirty-five years!” Fausto slapped his hand on his haunch. Dust rose from his dungarees. “You came in the twenties. Same as me!”

“When I left, there was so much unrest in Yemen, too much hardship for my family. I was looking to improve my fortune. I took a ship and came here to the Valley to work in the fields. I planned to save enough money to return to Mukalla, my hometown.” Ahmed stretched his legs and sat on an empty wooden crate bearing the label “Cuculich Farms.” “But I am still here,” he said, in a voice as hollow as the crate.

“Me, too. Me, too.”

“It is hard work in the fields, but what else is there for someone like me?”

Fausto couldn’t answer, his hands on his thighs, his palms open to the sky.

***

“Do you miss the Philippines? Do you miss your home?” he asked.

Fausto rubbed his neck where trickles of sweat made his skin itch. “Maybe I missed what it used to be or what it used to mean to me. But I have been here longer in the States than in the Philippines. My family is like a stranger to me. Imagine that!”

“I am afraid to imagine such things,” Ahmed said.

“What do you miss of your home?” Fausto wanted to know.

“Everything,” Ahmed whispered. He folded his fingers together like petals closing for the day. The rocky coast is like a school of ancient turtles sunning themselves by turquoise waters, he told Fausto. The city, crowded with stone buildings and chalk-white mosques, crawls up the base of wind-blasted hills. The whitewashed minarets soar and pierce the sharp blue sky. Ahmed imagined the wrinkles that have deepened around his mother’s eyes, which is not covered by her black chador. He is haunted by the memory of his father—alone in a boat bobbing off the coast, with hands as ragged as the nets he casts out into the deep waters.

***

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

Fausto held up a cluster of grapes. Ripe berries hung down from his fingers like strands of dark South Sea pearls, although these jewels lasted only weeks. That fact made the grapes more precious than any gem mined from the earth or harvested from the ocean. He laid the cluster in the crate by his feet. When he stood up, a sharp pain radiated from his hand, up his arm to his shoulder. He peeled off his cotton glove to massage his fingers and wrist, knead the length of his arm in a slow crawl. How could he forget? The long, hard work in the fields, the ache in his body, the low hourly rate reminded him daily of how costly and dear these grapes were.

Labor Day Weekend: a writer’s retreat

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In order to write the book you want to write, in the end you have to become the person you need to become to write that book.
– Junot Diaz

Kayaking with dolphins in Morro Bay, Labor Day Weekend, September 2012.

Kayaking with dolphins in Morro Bay, Labor Day Weekend, September 2012.

For many years, I went down to my hometown of Terra Bella for the annual San Esteban Dance and festivities, which was held on Labor Day Weekend. David joined me, and then when the kids were born, going down there became one of our family traditions. San Esteban was the hometown of my father and many of his cousins who came to the United States from the Philippines in the 1920s, and relatives up and down California and even from Hawaii and Illinois would gather in our dusty little town to celebrate being a part of the social club that formed in 1955.

Mixing flaming orange and dusty pink.

Mixing flaming orange and dusty pink.

When my cousin Janet married her husband Tim, 13 years ago in the central coastal town of Cambria, we added another tradition.  David made a gourmet dinner to celebrate their anniversary on the Saturday evening of the long weekend when we came into town and stayed with them. We had been doing this for many years until last year, the first year after my mother’s passing away, when we decided to meet in Cambria for the long weekend and stay in a hostel. The highlight of that trip was kayaking in Morro Bay and watching a family of dolphins boldly play in the bay, with one breaching right in front of our kayak.

We planned to repeat the trip to Cambria, but we ended up adjusting to having Janet and Tim come visit us in the Bay Area. Family matters made us change course once again. This time, we were going to be staying put at home – something we haven’t done in years. While I was at first dismayed by the break in tradition, I also had a mission to accomplish in the month of September, and now I had an entire three days to make tremendous strides toward my goal.

Mixing pink hues and orange: Gorgeous & Green reclaimed vintage earrings (Berkeley, CA), Lava 9 ring (Berkeley, CA), and Anthropologie clear bangle.

Mixing pink hues and orange: Gorgeous & Green reclaimed vintage earrings (Berkeley, CA), Lava 9 ring (Berkeley, CA), and Anthropologie clear bangle.

I wanted to revise my novel one last time over the summer but never got around to it. Work is starting to heat up this fall and I’ll be traveling again for business. But I’m determined to make good on finally finishing my novel this year. My college professor from Davis read my manuscript earlier this year and while he found much to admire, his main criticism was in the novel’s pacing. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant until I dove headlong into the manuscript. After spending the last couple of days in an intense writer’s retreat, I understand what he means and I am fixing the problem in earnest.

I must have spent 12 hours revising one chapter on Saturday, but I did so in a state of rapture and with a singular focus on technical precision. Wearing sweats, not showering all day, not knowing what the rest of the house looked like, not knowing what David and the kids were doing or not doing, and not caring, I was fully living in the world of my characters. I was refining their voices and making clearer the landscape in which they roamed. I was exquisitely enraptured. This is what it’s like to be a full-time writer–if only for the Labor Day Weekend.

Adding a vintage embroidered purse from L' Armoire (Berkeley, CA), and Mea Shadow perforated wedges.

Adding a vintage embroidered purse from L’ Armoire (Albany, CA), and Mea Shadow perforated wedges.

I am almost half-way through the last revision. When I sent out the 600-plus-page manuscript to literary agents back in 2005 and received all rejections, I bemoaned in particular one rejection in which the agent had excitedly requested the entire manuscript after the query only to say it basically didn’t fulfill her expectations. I had failed, you see. The story itself was compelling, but I did not execute on telling the story in an equally compelling way. That’s when I shut down for four years and didn’t write.

Definitely warm enough for shorts this Labor Day Weekend. Mixing lace and bold African patterns.

Definitely warm enough for shorts this Labor Day Weekend. Mixing lace and bold African patterns.

When I look back at the manuscript I sent out eight years, I am heartened because I didn’t execute then but I know I am doing so now. I am a better writer, with a clear perspective, and much-needed maturity. There is palpable power in that knowledge, in revising and replacing inadequate words, sentences, scenes with the right word, the concise sentence, the heartfelt scene, the right touch in all the right places. When I finish this final revision, I know that I can send the manuscript out into the world again with renewed faith and confidence. I’m nailing it.

I’m grateful for this Labor Day Weekend when I can call myself a writer again. Three days, a writer’s retreat (with a Friday Night girls’ night to watch a depressing French film with a good friend who happens to be French and an Oakland A’s baseball game thrown in on Monday) – is there anything more a writer can ask for? You can always ask for more full days for writing, but for now, I am grateful, I am satiated. One more day left.

Bold accessories on navy lace: Horn cuff from Kenya, a present from my sister Heidi; Sundance rings; In God We Trust banded ring (NYC); and reclaimed vintage matchbox and rosary necklace by Ren Lux Revival (Uncommon Objects, Austin).

Bold accessories on navy lace: Horn cuff from Kenya, a present from my sister Heidi; Sundance rings; In God We Trust banded ring (NYC); and reclaimed vintage matchbox and rosary necklace by Ren Lux Revival (Uncommon Objects, Austin).

‘The Way out is through’: embracing trauma

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Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.
– Buddhist proverb

Inside the historic Hillside Club in Berkeley (photo from Berkeleyside.com).

Inside the historic Hillside Club in Berkeley (photo from Berkeleyside.com).

Last night, my friend Jane and I went to the first author event of the Berkeley Arts & Letters’ Writers, Ideas, Conversations Fall 2013 series at the beautiful and historic Hillside Club (2286 Cedar Street, Berkeley, 94709, 510.848.3227). Mark Epstein, MD, psychiatrist, author, and lecturer on the value of Buddhist meditation for psychotherapy, read sections from his latest book, The Trauma of Everyday Life, and took questions from the audience. The event was a sell-out, and I wondered how many who crowded into the big auditorium came out of curiosity and to learn how they can embrace not only the traumas of their everyday life but the big traumas that many of us hope to somehow “get through.”

Mark Epstein, MD. Author photo for his latest book, copyright Larry Bercow.

Mark Epstein’s author photo for his latest book, copyright by Larry Bercow.

I confess that my understanding of Buddhism is severely restricted to the proverbs that I’ve come across or people have shared with me. I know of enlightenment and the state of nirvana. I read Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha in high school, although now I feel the need to dig up my old copy and reread it, knowing that through wisdom gained from my life’s experiences I’d understand and appreciate the novel more. My limited understanding of Buddhism, however, did not take away from appreciating Epstein’s talk.

I found it immensely interesting that Epstein merges Western psychology and Buddhism, a sort of checks and balance, if you will. The genesis of his most recent book was in trying to figure out the Western world’s attachment theory versus the Buddhist idea of nonattachment. The idea of trauma became the “unifying notion” in understanding the two. In Buddhism, in order to unattach, you have to be in touch with who you are, and that includes both light and dark, joy and sadness. Trauma, Epstein says, is part of our definition of human being. Acknowledging suffering is huge. “The way out is most definitely through,” he said.

A fabulous recycled tire sculpture of an elephant gracing the corner home of Scenic and Cedar avenues.

A fabulous recycled tire sculpture of an elephant gracing the corner home at Scenic and Cedar streets, near the Hillside Club in Berkeley.

Epstein related two stories that resonated with me, filled me with wonder and appreciation. He told the story of a Thai Buddhist teacher who was explaining the idea of nonattachment. He held up a glass and talked about its utility, its beautiful tone when pinged, and the beautiful way it reflected light. The glass, however, is also at risk of being broken. But to the Thai Buddhist, “the glass is already broken, therefore every minute is always precious.” Accepting that notion of impermanence allows you to be more open to accepting trauma. It also allows for attunement of and appreciation for the here and now precisely because nothing lasts.

The second story is a famous Buddhist story, although it was new to me. Kisa Gotami was a mother whose infant son had died. Clutching him to her chest, she could not get over her loss and feared she was losing her mind. She went to the village, begging for a doctor who could give her medicine to bring her son back to life. An old man led her to Buddha, who told her to bring back mustard seeds from a home where no one has died. She went from house to house in vain. In her inquiries, however, she learned about the losses of each villager, she heard their stories. She came to understand that it wasn’t karma that created her fate. She didn’t do anything wrong to have been stricken with so much heartache. She learned from the villagers that there is no permanence in anyone or anything. By the time she returned to Buddha, she was already transformed and ready to accept the truth, which, of course, he led her to.

Dressing up shorts for a warm Berkeley evening.

Dressing up shorts for a warm Berkeley evening.

Following that line of thought, Epstein talked about how trauma therapists teach that “pain is not pathology.” It’s possible, he says, to change how to meet pain. “It’s not what’s happening inside of you, but how you relate to it [pain],” he said. We have a bit of control over how we relate to things. A light went on for me. I remembered the Buddhist proverb that I came across several months ago and embraced, and shared with my kids a number of times: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” I guess what I may have been looking for in the reading last night was Epstein showing us how to meet pain, how to relate to it so that we find our way “through it.” I look forward to reading Epstein’s book and finding my answers there.

Gorgeous and Green reclaimed vintage chandelier necklace (Berkeley, CA) pops in this chocolate brown background.

Gorgeous and Green reclaimed vintage chandelier necklace (Berkeley, CA) pops in this chocolate brown background.

Texture and more texture: patent leather, embroidered shorts, velveteen jacket.

Texture and more texture: patent leather, embroidered shorts, velveteen jacket, reclaimed vintage chandelier necklace, and textile earrings by Paz Sintes of Spain (DeYoung Museum, San Francisco).

The End of summer, the school bells ring

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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
– Sylvia Plath, American poet, novelist, and short story writer

Still shorts weather with silk and brocade.

Still shorts weather with silk and brocade.

Yesterday was the first day of school. This summer the kids didn’t have as many camps as last year, a sign that my 13-year-old is getting too old for camps. As a result, there were a couple of weeks these past couple of months where I was rushing to be ready at a certain time to drive them to their destinations. So the beginning of school marked a change in routine for Rex and me. No more 6:30 AM dog walks, when it was as light as midday. It will take a few weeks before the confusion on his face is replaced by resignation of the non-summer routine – he will have to wait until my lunch break.

It’s still August, but even I have noticed the slant of light changing, how little by little the hours of daylight are receding. Youth travel ball is done for the season. In Major League Baseball, however, teams in tight pennant races are watching the scoreboards. The Oakland A’s are still hanging tough in their division. Powdery mildew, which has invaded my garden early this season, has coated the leaves of my dahlias – a dusting of snow – and dried out their buds. I fear I only have one or two more weeks of bouquets left.

Carmela Rose vintage earrings, Lava 9 chunky ring (Berkeley, CA), and Anthropologie bangles.

Carmela Rose vintage earrings, Lava 9 chunky ring (Berkeley, CA), and Anthropologie bangles.

Fall, autumn, used to be one of my favorite seasons – the crisp air, the changing light, dried corn husks, hay bales, scarecrows, and pumpkins, and Halloween and Thanksgiving towards the end of the season. Fall colors – burgundy, gold, red, and chocolate – for fall dressing. Although here in the Bay Area, with the constant fog, you wear jackets and boots anyway. We get our Indian summer, but it’s still fall to me, the promise of cooler weather to come.

I had many projects planned for summer that went by the wayside: teaching the kids how to cook so they could make dinner and having them review math and write a few essays for me. In the beginning of summer, I took Jacob to watch The Kings of Summer to introduce coming-of-age movies to him and to surreptitiously learn what male adolescence was all about. In the middle of summer a group of his baseball teammates and some of the moms watched The Way, Way Back. I thought it was only fitting to finish off the last day of summer before school started with another movie, making it the final installment of a trilogy of coming-of-age movies. I took the kids to see The Spectacular Now.

Silky flowers and shiny brocade pair up with Frye sandals and accessories.

Silky flowers and shiny brocade pair up with Frye sandals and accessories in muted colors of summer.

Bright primary crayon colors: denim jacket, flowing asymmetrical hem blouse, and shorts are accessorized with multi-color hobo and printed platform sandals.

Bright primary crayon colors: denim jacket, flowing asymmetrical hem blouse, and shorts are accessorized with multi-color hobo and printed platform sandals.

It was a much more serious movie about growing up – and more R-rated than The Way, Way Back. I thought, as we walked home from the BART station, well, at least Jacob doesn’t have to take part II of sex education. After fifth grade, he was surprised that he didn’t have another year of sex education in sixth grade, telling me in a perplexed tone of voice, “They told us what happens when the egg and the sperm come together, but they didn’t tell us how they get together.” While the sex scene in the movie was not graphic, it gave you an idea of how they get together. Oftentimes what’s left to the imagination is more powerful than what’s exposed. The scene seemed long and drawn-out to me, the mortified mom. The kids also learned what happens when you drink and drive. And that drinking can be a way of masking the pain of adolescent loneliness and self-doubt, and growing up when you don’t want to. The title of the movie comes from the way Sutter, the main character, lives his life – not thinking of the future because it’s too scary, but living in the present because life as a high school senior is way more fun and free of responsibilities.

Statement necklace of turquoise and coral purchased from a vendor at the El Cerrito 4th of July celebration.

Statement necklace of turquoise and coral from a vendor at the El Cerrito 4th of July celebration.

Given that last school year flew by, I have no doubt that I will have to hang on tight and live in the “spectacular now,” if I’m to appreciate every inch that the kids grow this year, pay attention to all the things they tell me and hope they continue to talk freely with me, and encourage them to step out of their comfort zone as they explore their independence. Jacob is entering eighth grade, a year out from high school. Isabella is in fifth grade, two years to go until middle school. The end of this summer, this beginning of the school year, is bittersweet. We are hurtling toward that moment when the seasons will be profoundly new and life-changing. So we must say good-bye to summer and welcome fall, living fully in the now.

Break up solid-colored separates with colorful statement jewelry and handbag.

Break up solid-colored separates with equally colorful statement jewelry and handbag.