Category: Blog

Today is my birthday. In a sense, it’s also Carly’s. Hi. I’m Carly.

I am a transgender woman, and I’d like you to use she and her when you refer to me. Mine is a journey from trying to live as a man toward an acceptance of the authentic self that has been wanting to come out for a long time. I’m excited and relieved to be telling you a little bit about her.

It’s challenging to find the words to share how I came to this realization and turning point in my life. Much of it has been painful, and that pain came from the failed efforts to live the way I’d imagined the world expected me to live. There is joy in saying to you now that the pain is giving way to happiness, a liberation of a secret that no longer feels like it must be a secret.

This coming-out story is a collection of moments, memories that retrace parts of the narrative without necessarily sharing specifics about the work and heartache that came with mining those moments. They are threads from a tapestry.

You could stop reading here without missing the main point — that I’m trans. There is no “reveal” beyond what I’ve said. The rest is a curvy revisiting of those threads as I process an important transitional birthday the best way I know how.

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The intersection of St. Peter and Bourbon streets was a blur in a different way on the night of Feb. 7, 2010, and into the early-morning hours of Feb. 8 as the French Quarter filled up within minutes of the New Orleans Saints winning the Super Bowl. (Joseph Sohm / Shutterstock, Inc.)

Postcard from the French Quarter:

(With my heart going out to those affected by tornado damage Tuesday in New Orleans and other parts of Louisiana, here’s a look back at one of the best night’s in the Crescent City’s history. Originally posted at 3:21 a.m. on Feb. 8, 2010, on a blog long since shuttered.)

NEW ORLEANS — Super Bowl Sunday has become early Monday morning, almost imperceptibly, and this afterglow of the Super Bowl victory by the New Orleans Saints still feels like something that might forever be called Lombardi Gras.

The fusion of the NFL’s championship trophy with the Carnival atmosphere in the Big Easy in February 2010 seems inspired now, almost fated, as I sit and rest tired feet while younger, more energetic revelers continue to party in the French Quarter. Now we know why the Big Game had to creep from January into February over the years.

Some of the passersby look at me as I type notes on my BlackBerry, and based on their comments, they think I’m texting someone. In a way, I suppose I am. I’m texting you.

In no particular order, except the free-flow way I typed them, here are notes of the sights, sounds and smells of my walk from near the Convention Center down to Jackson Square and deep into the Quarter:

Minutes after the game, euphoria.

There’s never been a feeling like it.

New Orleans empties onto its streets.

Car horns blare.

Strangers high-five strangers.

Who Dat!”

Tonight, no one is a stranger.

We’re all trying to wrap our minds around it.

“The Saints, NFL champions!”

The streets fill with cheers, and thanks to go-cups, “cheers!”

There are no words, really, but we’re all trying.

“Boom, chaka laka laka! Boom, chaka laka laka!”

More high fives, swarming like flies.

“Big guy, Who Dat!”

We pass Harrah’s, where a crowd has gathered.

Who Dat!”

The flow on Poydras seems headed toward the Superdome.

Let’s veer off into the Quarter.

You can see more of the street surface than usual.

That won’t last.

Got time for a celebratory Lucky Dog, Ignatius?

Someone’s walking under huge black-and-gold balloons.

Music is blaring from car stereos.

Car horns are approximating Mardi Gras songs.

Black-and-gold-umbrella dances.

More high fives.

Right there, smiling children who can’t possibly grasp the moment like their parents can.

Big-drink-in-hand high fives.

Cell-phone-hand high fives.

A single boot on the ground across from Café du Monde.

Let’s play kick the boot!

A solitary woman snaps a photo of St. Louis Cathedral.

Your blogger sits and types his notes.

Who Dat sitting on the phone, texting!” a girl yells.

“He Dat!” her boyfriend chants.

Me Dat, your blogger thinks.

Drew Brees jerseys everywhere.

Reggie Bush jerseys almost everywhere.

A Deuce McAllister jersey catches the eye.

Café au lait, then another, at Café du Monde.

Powdered sugar and jubilation floating in the air.

Around Jackson Square, tarot card readings.

Candles burn, lighting a dark corner.

Nothing beats the smiles of a young stoner couple.

Beads, beads, beads.

A Jeremy Shockey jersey, filled out like I’d never seen, stumbles over to Who Dat and high-five me.

“Halftime (Stand Up & Get Crunk)” fills the cold air.

Improvised percussion. A small parade starts.

Ghetto booties follow.

There are few, if any, street performers out here.

And yet, everyone out here qualifies, in a sense.

Cars roll by as people stand through the sunroofs.

Moonroofs?

What came first, those or Texas Stadium?

Glassy eyes.

Trucks roll by as people stand in the flatbeds.

A jazz band parades past us.

Broken glass.

Handheld cams.

Spills.

Yep, this is what the Quarter smells like.

A lot of black and gold.

A little purple and gold.

Pretty girls.

(Many of them female)

A Saints Tailgating Crew mini-bus.

Cops on horseback.

Shirtless guys standing on the roof of a moving Suburban.

Does everyone out here have style and rhythm? Sure seems that way.

“Let’s repeat!” he says, and then he high-fives your blogger.

A man and his son ride their bikes through the craziness.

A blue hula hoop gets a workout around more black and gold.

A “When the Saints” parade breaks out, punctuated by Who Dats.

Group photos. Say “Brees.”

Group photos that from a distance, in the dark, resemble team photos.

A young woman announces she must soon relieve herself.

A split-second later, she Who Dats me, then high-fives me.

Her boyfriend slaps my hand, but it doesn’t feel like a high five.

Cat in the Hat hats in Mardi Gras colors near Pat O’s.

A single glove on the ground at the entrance.

The streets have fewer people on them than you’d think.

Five are making the noise of 10.

Ah, and then I turn onto Bourbon.

Five hundred make the noise of 1,000.

Garbage is fast piling up against the curbs.

Balcony parties.

Lip lock.

A Manning jersey — Saints, No. 8.

No sign of the Manning jersey — Colts, No. 18 — from this afternoon.

“Livin’ on a Prayer” sung twice in two blocks.

Bourbon is crowded.

And then some.

The girl pushing against me wants me to back up.

I can’t.

“Get the heck off me,” she says.

Except she doesn’t say “heck.”

She can’t grasp the force pushing me into her.

Or the force pushing her into me.

The Bourbon Street crowd is a little more surly.

This has crowd surge written all over it.

It’s probably a good time to duck in for beignets and elbow room.

Everyone seems to want to high-five the guy by himself.

There’s joy, disbelief and catharsis everywhere.

And no riots, fires or looting, at least not where I can see.

I’m cold, and it’s a long, long walk to where I left my car.

I hope it’s still there.

I’m glad I came. This was the place to be when the Saints won the Super Bowl.

The Saints won the Super Bowl. Mardi Gras may never end.

Lombardi Gras has a pretty respectable momentum itself.

Time to give the thumbs a rest.

I might need them to hitch a ride if I can’t find my car.

Seven years later, I’m struck by how many references there are in this play-by-play account of French Quarter revelry that a person would struggle to understand without having some familiarity with: a) New Orleans culture; b) the Saints’ many losing seasons; c) Super Bowl history; d) Mardi Gras; and e) the allowance of open containers of alcoholic beverages on the streets of New Orleans.

The sense of connection, in scope and in fervor, was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. All of us were part of a community, even if you didn’t know anybody else on the streets that night. We were all friends. We all knew what that championship, something many thought we’d never live to see, meant to post-Katrina New Orleans and to people who remember what the city was like before Aug. 29, 2005, the day the hurricane came ashore.

Seven years after that Lombardi Gras night, instead of being able to enjoy the anniversary, New Orleans was busy picking up the pieces from another destructive strike from nature. That nearly convinced me not to repost this old blog piece. But, at a time when it’s almost impossible to imagine the kind of togetherness I felt on the streets with thousands of strangers, I’ve been revisiting good days in America, good memories. This qualifies.


Lucky Dog photo by Lori Monahan Borden via Shutterstock.
St. Louis Cathedral photo by Natalia Bratslavsky via Shutterstock.
Café du Monde photo by Andriy Blokhin via Shutterstock.
Drew Brees photo by Action Sports Photography via Shutterstock.

Note: Yep, no camera that night. Just the BlackBerry. So even though these photos are from different days in New Orleans history, they help, I hope, paint a more colorful picture than just the many words I pieced together with my thumbs on that wild night seven years ago.

Barack Obama and his family at his election victory speech Nov. 4, 2008, in Chicago’s Grant Park. We are not the nation I thought we were becoming as I watched that night. (Everett Collection via Shutterstock)

Donald Trump is like a guy who takes a dump on half the yards in the neighborhood, somehow gets elected neighborhood association president, and then says it’s time for everyone to unite behind him.

Trump crapped on immigrants. He crapped on women. He crapped on President Obama. He crapped on you, even if you don’t think so. He crapped on America. He crapped on the world.

He denied, then bragged, then denied some more, despite proof. And yet, he won, because half of those in the neighborhood who didn’t get this treatment loved him. Now, he and his inner circle have urged the rest of the neighbors to come together, to heal and move forward — and without apologizing to any of them. Really? Forgive and forget? No way. The arrogance of expecting the people he dumped on to meet him all the way, not just halfway, would be mind-boggling if it were anyone else. But he has flung so much poo in getting the best of the party that owes its current existence to poo-flinging, we are well beyond what we once considered normal.

I have watched every U.S. presidential inauguration since Nixon’s second. That streak ends Friday. Call it a boycott if you’d like, although almost no one will notice. But in a still-defining-itself #notmypresident form of personal protest, I am doing my small part to refuse to normalize and legitimize Trump’s presidency.

Yes, I have read pieces — most of them by people seemingly lacking self-awareness regarding the blind spots inherent in their privilege — deriding the substance of, and the hashtag within — the previous paragraph. Many such pieces popped up amid post-election demonstrations across the country and the anti-Trump backlash on social media. A main point is, “Not your president? How’s that supposed to work?” My answer today: That’s for me to figure out. You can treat as normal and legitimate the people and events of your choosing.

As it turns out, I have plenty of company in some or much of my thinking. Dana Milbank and I have similar opinions on the Trump team’s angry call for respect. On the question of the legitimacy of Trump’s ascendancy, Paul Krugman and I (and Rep. John Lewis) largely agree. For a far more eloquent expression than I am capable of writing, I recommend Adam Gopnik’s The Music Donald Trump Can’t Hear as a foundation for what’s to follow below.

Despite Trump’s insistence that he “will be president for all Americans,” there is no evidence that he is even remotely interested in proving it, in reassuring marginalized people that he is a man of his word. In fact, he has been known for decades as a selfish opportunist who is decidedly not a man of his word. As someone who has enjoyed the privilege of being a white male from birth, I consider it my responsibility to speak — for myself and for those who are now more vulnerable — about why I will not acknowledge his inauguration Friday.

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Gary Laney died without warning Friday, two days before Christmas. He was 47. The news was crushing. The shock hasn’t worn off, and I am flailing about in search of words.

His funeral is happening now in Baton Rouge. I wish he were here to talk about it with me. Gary’s presence here two years ago, the day before the funeral of our first editor in the daily newspaper business, was a gift to me from the cosmos. Now, he’s gone, and we are not having lunch together, not having beers, not telling Lake Charles stories, laughing and crying.

In a year of so much loss, Gary’s death is one of the hardest losses to bear.

We first met in the mid-1980s, when my journalism career was just getting started and he was a high school student with an interest in sports writing and newspaper work. He came up one day to the makeshift press box at Legion Field in Lake Charles where I was covering American Legion games, and on some level, he never left. Gary was like a friendly puppy, tagging along as I did my job. He was likable, smart, curious, full of questions, and eager to discuss sports, music, writing and many other subjects.

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Six years removed from reporting, writing, blogging and in other ways committing journalism about college baseball, I enjoy being reminded of how fun and exciting it can be, especially when a game ends on a play at home plate. In this case, more than a game ended — so did an impressive streak.

For the first time since 1995, Rice University failed to win either its conference’s regular-season championship or tournament championship. That includes parts of Rice’s time in the Southwest Conference, the Western Athletic Conference and Conference USA.

The runner representing what would have been the tying run was thrown out at the plate in a final putout from center fielder to shortstop to first baseman to catcher, or as written in the scorebook, 8-6-3-2. The University of Southern Mississippi celebrated its Conference USA tournament championship after the game-ending play.

It should not surprise anyone who’s followed Rice baseball for more than a few games that the Owls took the risk of trying to score the tying run on the play. That’s how Wayne Graham has always done it — whether at practice or in the coaches box at third base, waving home the runner. “Make the defense make a play,” he’s said numerous times, knowing that in college baseball, solid defense is a luxury, not standard equipment for most teams. “Make them make the throws.”

He said that during the 2005 super regional at Tulane University in New Orleans after seeing the gamble fail, and he said it before and after that, after seeing it pay off. The play Sunday required three throws — the first two to cutoff men, and the third to the catcher — in a “double cut” executed to perfection by Southern Miss. Otherwise, Rice’s streak would have survived another year.

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Someone where people search for flesh-and-blood friends for land-and-sea activities is starting a Humans of New York type page for discussing why social media is so depressing. Another goal: to show the inadequacies of social media in fulfilling a real connection.

No, wait — “in fulfilling a real sense of connection.” Is that the same as fulfilling a real connection? Or is the sense of it, whatever that means, what matters? I can’t tell you.

What I can tell you is that the project is envisioned as a Facebook page.

The underlying noble cause aside, there is enough caught-in-a-loop irony there to make it depressing. I have a real sense people would find a walk in the park ultimately more fulfilling.

 

 

shutterstock_200177687Photo by Eternalfeelings

• “So, Cruz will score …” (said 10 seconds after Cruz scores)

• “He’s 2 for 3 on the day.” (what is he under the day, or above the day, or next to it?)

• “They are now 26 and 17 on the year.” (same thing, location-wise)

• “Something something something something-wise.” (reminds me of a coach who once used “athletically wise” in an evaluation of another team, comparison-wise)

• “He’s on pace to …” (I’m with the late Leonard Koppett on this; there is no “on pace”)

• “We’re scoreless through five” is not grounds for termination of the announcer, of course, but I always want to point out that 0-0 is, in fact, a score. You: “What’s the score?” Me: “Oh, nothing-nothing.” There is a score, even when nobody has scored, and that score is 0-0.

(Scoreless somehow reminds me of Payless Shoe Source, which apparently is the convergence of a series of transactions without pay — as opposed to paying less, which I think is probably their point.)

Announcerspeak and coachspeak appear to flourish and spread without formal instruction. They are languages passed on, from broadcast booth to broadcast booth, from venue to venue, from generation to generation, simply through listening often enough to someone speaking them. I don’t think announcers are even aware that they are saying something “will” happen after it has already happened. I don’t think they consciously choose to say “on the day” after a statistic, or “on the year” after a won-lost record, especially when context renders those qualifiers unnecessary. He’s 2 for 3. Got it. They’re 24-16. Got it.

If context isn’t enough, “he’s 2 for 3 today” is shorter and less linguistically puzzling, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard an announcer say it. “He’s 2 for 3 on the day” is a construction I consider Pavlovian. They just can’t help themselves, word-wise. Turn on the microphone and it just comes tumbling out.

A lexicographer could probably shed some light on the origins of some of these, but that kind of thing is above my pay grade. Mostly, I shake my head, on the day, when I hear them.

Even in my most curmudgeonly of copyediting moods, I don’t think the phrasings above rise to the level of being word crimes. They are odd add-ons, quirks and curiosities, but they are mostly the kinds of things that are said when you put someone in front of a mic in a press box and they start to fill the silences.

* This list is subject to the occasional update as needed.

shutterstock_103980101Photo by s_bukley/Shutterstock.com

There is something, I am certain, for everyone in “Everything is Copy,” a 2015 documentary about writer and filmmaker Nora Ephron. Perhaps the most compelling reasons to watch it center on writing — specifically writing about oneself and one’s life, and whether everything is fair game. Not only that, but whether it’s essential to tell the stories that others might wish you would never write. The personal stories other writers might be afraid to tell.

Written and directed by Jacob Bernstein, the firstborn of Ephron’s two sons, “Everything is Copy” debuted on HBO in March. My most recent viewing was yesterday, on my late mother’s birthday, a date I picked for reasons that probably make sense only to me.

Today is Nora Ephron’s birthday. If you know her from her writing and directing such films as “Sleepless in Seattle,” “When Harry Met Sally…” or “You’ve Got Mail,” there are moments in “Everything is Copy” that you will surely enjoy. If you know that she was a reporter for the New York Post in the 1960s and then began writing a column on women’s issues for Esquire, the film has nuggets you will appreciate. Her marriage to, and divorce from, Carl Bernstein, known best for teaming with Bob Woodward in covering the Watergate break-in and aftermath for The Washington Post, was fodder for her 1983 novel “Heartburn” — and has a major role in her son’s documentary.

The title he chose for the 89-minute film about his mother speaks to a phrase she learned from her mother, and which invested much of her life’s work and her ability to deal with the most painful moments of her personal life. It is very much, like the documentary, a statement about what to leave in, and what to leave out, as a writer.

As Ephron says in the first of several sections of her own narration during the film, she and her three younger sisters had those three words ingrained in them at an early age.

everythingiscopy“We all grew up with this thing that my mother said to us over and over and over and over again, which was, ‘Everything is copy.’ You know, you’d come home with some thing that you thought was the tragedy of your life — someone hadn’t asked you to dance, or the hem had fallen out of your dress, or whatever you thought was the worst thing that could ever happen to a human being — and my mother would say, ‘Everything is copy.’ ” Write it down, she would tell her children. It’s all material.

As an adult, Ephron wrote: “I now believe that what my mother meant is this: When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you, but when you tell people that you slipped on a banana peel, it’s your laugh, so you become the hero, rather than the victim, of the joke. I think that’s what she meant.

“On the other hand, she may merely have meant, ‘Everything is copy.’ ”

Survivor tools

Ephron was born in New York City, but when she was young the family moved to Beverly Hills, California, and her playwright parents both pursued screenwriting as a career. The documentary describes their alcoholism and, eventually, the death of Ephron’s mother as a result.

“My mother died of cirrhosis,” Ephron wrote, “but the immediate cause of her death was an overdose of sleeping pills administered by my father. At the time, this didn’t seem to me to fall under the rubric of ‘everything is copy,’ although it did to my sister Amy, who put it into a novel. Who can blame her?”

Part of Jacob Bernstein’s motivation in making “Everything is Copy” was to talk with people who had been close to Nora Ephron, his mother, and to try to better understand what shaped her life and her resiliency, and to take a closer look at whether everything was indeed copy for her. As it turned on, it was not so true for his grandmother, Ephron’s mother, who was so fond of saying it to her daughters.

“My grandmother said everything was copy, but in the end, she only wrote superficially about the things that happened to her,” Jacob Bernstein says in voice-over narration during the film. “Is that part of why she wound up being less successful than my mom? In AA, they say you are as sick as your secrets. Did my grandmother’s failure to admit slipping on the banana peel hasten her demise? Did my mom’s need for control stem from her mom’s loss of it?”

Ephron’s sister Amy offers her perspective on the legacy left by their two alcoholic parents: “I think one of the things we got from them, in a sort of backhanded way, is that we got kind of survivor tools. Watching them not have the equipment to reinvent themselves fueled the kind of reinvention that certainly Nora had — not even a coping mechanism. It’s something way beyond that. It was like, ‘You’re not gonna knock me down.’ ”

Nora Ephron reinvented herself throughout her adult life, through three marriages, through the transition from reporting to column and essay writing to screenwriting and, eventually, directing. She was a mother with a toddler, and pregnant with her second son, when she discovered that her husband, Carl Bernstein, had been cheating on her. Some of her greatest successes came after that heartbreak, but getting to that point was difficult.

She had moved from New York to Washington, D.C. because of the relationship, but she returned to her comfort zone to pick up the pieces of her life after telling the world, through gossip columnist Liz Smith, that the marriage was over.

She wrote it funny

Director Mike Nichols, interviewed by Jacob Bernstein for the documentary before his fatal heart attack in November 2014, tells the story of how Nora Ephron moved into the home of Bob Gottlieb, her editor at Alfred Knopf, after leaving Washington — and the marriage to Carl Bernstein: “Very, very few, if any, people that I can think of have ever survived being publicly cuckolded — Nora being the exception that it’s like those photographs of cats that somebody took, in which they’ve decided to change direction in mid-jump. Because what she did is, in mid-jump, she moved to the Gottliebs’ house and cried for six months — and wrote it funny, and in writing it funny, she won. And betrayed women all over the world knew it and cheered.”

Three years after the 1983 publication of the novel “Heartburn,” which bore a striking resemblance to the story of Ephron’s relationship with Carl Bernstein, Nichols directed the movie adaptation. It was not as popular as the book, which was funnier than the movie and had been popular with women. This excerpt, read by Ephron in footage later used in “Everything is Copy,” might help explain that popularity.

I had gotten on the shuttle to New York a few hours after discovering the affair, which I learned about from a really disgusting inscription to my husband in a book of children’s songs she had given him. Children’s songs. ‘Now you can sing these songs to Sam’ was part of the disgusting inscription, and I can’t begin to tell you how it sent me up the wall, the idea of my 2-year-old child, my baby, involved in some dopey inscriptive way in this affair between my husband, a fairly short person, and Thelma Rice, a fairly tall person, with a neck as long as an arm, and a nose as long as a thumb, and you should see her legs, never mind her feet, which are sort of splayed.”

Marie Brenner, a journalist who was friends with Ephron and who had dated Carl Bernstein before he started seeing Ephron, says in the documentary that Ephron’s writing helped her get past tough moments in her life.

“She had detachment, so that she was able to be her own helicopter pilot, flying up when she was in front of her typewriter and getting it down without feeling the need to vomit her problems all over someone.”

Says Bryan Lourd, her agent at Creative Artists Agency: “She had the ability to go back to the typewriter and write herself out of trouble, and she was very adept and facile at shape-shifting.”

But after Ephron was diagnosed in 2006 with the blood disorder myelodysplasia, which led to the form of leukemia that caused her death, she largely kept it a secret. Brenner, while being interviewed by Jacob Bernstein for “Everything is Copy,” reflects on that turn of events: “How interesting it was, Jacob, that at the end of her life, where everything — your mother’s mantra, your grandmother’s mantra: ‘Nora, this is all material; Nora, this is material’ — at the most powerful moment of her life, when she was facing her death, it was not material. It was not a story.”

A story she couldn’t control

Which brings us back to the main point of the documentary, its raison d’être. As Jacob Bernstein puts it: “For decades, my mother put her private life front and center — writing about her physical inadequacies, the indignities of aging, and the breakup of her marriage to my father. But at the end of her life, she chose to stay silent about the blood disorder that killed her. Why, after being so open about everything else, did she choose not to address the most significant crisis of her life?”

“I think this was a story that she couldn’t control,” says Richard Cohen, a Washington Post columnist who became a close friend of Ephron’s. “The other stuff, she could control. She told it her way.”

Through the process of making “Everything is Copy,” Jacob Bernstein draws some conclusions that align comfortably with Cohen’s assessment.

“I think at the end of my mom’s life, she believed that everything is not copy, that the things you want to keep are not copy, that the people you love are not copy.” He goes on, saying that he thinks her opinion changed to being “what is copy is the stuff you’ve lost, the stuff you’re willing to give away, the things that have been taken from you. She saw ‘everything is copy’ as a means of controlling the story. Once she became ill, the way to control the story was to make it not exist.”

Meryl Streep, who played Karen Silkwood in “Silkwood,” written by Ephron and directed by Nichols, played the character loosely based on Ephron in “Heartburn.” Like many who knew Ephron — Rob Reiner, Bob Balaban, Gay Talese, and even Nichols — Streep did not know Ephron was dying. Almost no one did, including those she worked with on her last projects. Nichols’ interview includes him saying that he was too stupid to realize, as others did, that his last meal with Ephron was a goodbye lunch.

The privacy with which Ephron managed to spend her final days stunned many who knew her, including Streep: “And she’s the one who said, ‘There is no privacy. Forget privacy — it’s gone.’ And this is the most fascinating thing in the whole world to me, because she achieved a private act in a world where the most superficial parts of the most intimate acts are everywhere and sold. They’re sold.”

A means out of victimhood

In an interview on NPR’s “Fresh Air” about “Everything is Copy,” Jacob Bernstein reveals a pragmatic reason for Ephron’s privacy near the end of her life. He says that for his mother, the philosophy that became the title of the documentary “was really a means out of victimhood. It really was the belief in being the heroine of your life and not the victim, and how do you not become the victim if people are walking up to you and saying, ‘How are you? Are you OK?’ She didn’t want that. So, it was a secret that allowed her to move throughout the world in control.”

For much of her writing life, and in the personal life that helped provide the material for it, Ephron was notorious for being ruthless.

“It was part of her whole Dorothy Parker thing,” producer Amy Pascal says, “to cut people to the quick.”

That was not lost on Ephron’s son, whose interview with NPR includes this perspective: “I think that comedy exists in this thin line between bravery and ruthlessness, and part of what I was after with the film was the belief that it’s both, and that it’s possible for the kind of cannibalism that writing is to be both a tremendous source of self-actualization and something that’s a little unseemly and unfair to other people.”

Meg Ryan and others interviewed for “Everything is Copy” says that late in her life, Ephron became softer, more accepting of others’ weaknesses and even her own. But she seemed to remain a woman who considered herself an expert on relationships, and a person who wasn’t shy about giving advice to people, whether about their love life or other matters.

Donald J. Lee Jr., an assistant director and producer who worked with Ephron on “Sleepless in Seattle” and “You’ve Got Mail,” sheds some light on the void she left behind after being such an influential person in the lives of those she cared about. Talking with Jacob Bernstein, pushing the words through a throat full of emotion, Lee says, “I was riding up in the elevator after your mother died with Mike Nichols, and he just looked at me, and we said, ‘Who … who’s gonna tell us what to do?’ ”

Had she lived to see today, she would have been 75 years old. That’s the age my mother was when she died in 2006, the year Nora Ephron was diagnosed with the blood disorder that ended her life on June 26, 2012.

There are remembrances of her online today, and I’m sure there will be again on the anniversary of her death. People will continue to talk about what they learned from her through her movies, and they will remember their favorite scenes and lines from them. People will write about “Everything is Copy.” They will tweet about her, as people are doing today.

I’m certain that there are people who knew her who will say, as Lee and Nichols did on the day she died, “Who’s gonna tell us what to do?” Don’t think I didn’t say and think the same at times after my mother died. I thought about that Wednesday on her birthday. I’m thinking about the same feeling of loss that people are being reminded of today on Ephron’s birthday, a feeling that’s accompanied by the joy in remembering what made her special.

Like I do regarding my mom, people who still feel that void can return to their memories. Regarding Nora Ephron, they can open one of her books, or watch one of her movies, and discover that somewhere inside each, she is there, in her way as a writer, director or both, doing that just. Telling us what to do. Or, maybe, who we are. The part of her that was confident in her read on men and women helped her tell stories that resonated with so many.

“Everything is Copy” is out there too, and I suspect more people will discover it and watch it because of the discussion about her on social media today, and again in late June. Maybe they will learn how to be their own helicopter pilot, flying their way out of their troubles by finding a way to tell their story — and by being the hero or heroine of it.

 

 

 

 

Undefeated

The Undefeated is finally with us. The website that bills itself as “the premier platform for exploring the intersections of race, sports and culture” launched Tuesday after a long time in development. If you think 33 months from birth to first day of publishing stories required patience on the part of those involved — and those waiting to read those stories — consider this quote from managing editor Raina Kelley.

“It’s only been the past 125 years that African-Americans have had any regular access to the printing press,” Kelley said. “All real forms of expression African-Americans excelled at when we didn’t have access to the printing press, we want to bring back into the fold. We don’t want to limit to the written word because [African-Americans] have not wanted to limit ourselves to the written word.

“One of the fears is that people are going to think that everything is going to be a screed against institutionalized white power, like “Letter From Birmingham Jail,” or somber and guilt-inducing. If we need to do that, we can do that. But we didn’t want to place limitations on ourselves. We wanted to get this blank slate. We want to be able to push boundaries with spoken word, music, whatever. … We want to match subject matter to the form we think fits it best.”

The video “We Are The Undefeated” released before the launch made it a pretty good bet that those words about not limiting the site’s coverage to the printed word wasn’t idle talk.

Kelley’s comments reminded me of Alice Walker’s “In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens” and Walker’s exploration of the roots of her creativity.

Walker puzzles over this as a young woman, until one day she is standing in one of the Smithsonian museums, looking at a quilt displayed with a note that reads, “an anonymous Black woman in Alabama, a hundred years ago.”

Right then, Walker knew exactly where her artistic sense had come from: her mother and her grandmother and the women who came before them.

Though they had not received the education Walker had been privileged to earn at Spelman College and Sarah Lawrence College, they were every bit as creative as she was discovering herself to be. In her grandmother’s quilts, in her mother’s lavish gardens were bountiful expressions of artistry – expressed through the vehicles that were available to them as poor, uneducated black women in the Jim Crow South.

Walker’s recognition of her foremothers’ creativity leads her to ruminate on women’s artistic traditions in general – from the domestic arts of quilt making and gardening to the few written texts that have been passed down by women. Walker sings the praises of Phillis Wheatley, the slave who is widely recognized as the first African American writer, male or female, and she wonders about Frances Harper, Nella Larsen, and her patron saint, Zora Neale Hurston.

Source: Alice Walker: “In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens”

Kelley’s remarks took me a long way back — to my discovery of Walker and the rich soil from which her collection of essays grew. They took me back to another point in time — early in my journalism career, and my too-slow recognition of how white most American newsrooms were, and how that shaped coverage. Kelley’s words reminded me of the many uncomfortable moments along the way toward a greater appreciation for the privilege to participate in journalism in ways inaccessible to so many from birth.

Her comments resonated with me for many reasons — because I’d read Alice Walker all those years ago, and Toni Morrison, and “Letter From Birmingham Jail,” and Ralph Wiley, and Harry Edwards, and because I’d read and heard Michael Wilbon, Howard Bryant, and Bomani Jones, and Jemele Hill, and Ta-Nehisi Coates, and J.A. Adande, and others (but not enough). Kelley’s point of view connected with me after years of following social media accounts that underscore so many truths behind what she said, and what Walker wrote, and even what was stitched into that quilt in Alabama that we cannot see with the naked eye, and certainly not the closed one.

In two days, The Undefeated has published powerful stories, including “The Waco Horror,” which will sicken and outrage even those who are well aware of the history of racism and lynchings in the Southern U.S. — even as it gives us an early look at The Undefeated’s promise of unconventional storytelling.

At a time when thousands of former journalists are working in other fields because of the ever-shrinking number of opportunities to earn a living telling stories, it’s exciting to see a new outlet emerge, even if it was a long time in coming. Having hustled to meet daily deadlines throughout my career, covering all of my adult life, I’m mindful of the fact that the work is just beginning for The Undefeated, even after its 33 months of preparations.

I wish them well, and much success in their constant gardening and quilting.

You can follow The Undefeated on Twitter and on Facebook.

shutterstock_262600493Photo by agsandrew

Amazing things, to be sure. Four months after my mother died, I woke up from a dream that had one notable sequence: I walked into her house and saw her sitting in a chair, smiling and talking with someone. She looked happy, and I went over to her, elated, and told her how incredibly good it was to see her. She seemed surprised, as if she didn’t know the reason.

It was the first dream I’d had about her after her death, although she’d made her presence known to me in other ways. In the dream, I quickly explained why it was a surprise and a joy to see her. The whole thing seemed to be a foreign concept to her. Interesting.

This reminded me of the dream that a friend of mine had years after her sister drowned. My friend encountered her sister, alive, in the dream and said, “But you’re dead!” Her sister’s reply: “I know! Isn’t that crazy?”

That might not be an exact transcript, but it speaks to the spirit of the dream as related to me.

In my dream, my mother’s smile was beautiful, and calming to see.

Her birthday is next week, and as usually happens around that time, I will probably write something about her. The 10th anniversary of her death is less than two months away. I’m sure I’ll have a lot more to say then.

And maybe more visits with her in my dreams. They’ve been filled with swirling colors and powerful, provocative themes. It would not surprise me if they soon featured a friendly, reassuring face.