The care we are not taking

There I was, absently scrolling through my email’s inbox when, among the flotsam and jetsam, I saw a name that I thought I recognized.

But when I clicked on the email from “Alex” and saw a few hundred words highlighted like a striped shirt, alternated between the paragraphs in either plain or bold-face fonts, I realized my mistake.

Yet as I kept reading, I realized the mistake felt so much bigger.

It wasn't selling anything but a little humanity; Correcting a mistake that we all share some part in creating.

The press release told the story of Senate Bill S3781 in which the New York State Senate (joining Texas, Maryland, and Oregon) took “a powerful step in returning dignity for the roughly 13,000 children in New York’s foster system.”

By guaranteeing that the Office of Children and Family Services provides proper luggage to youth transitioning between foster homes.

INSTEAD of TRASH BAGS.

The background explained that out of roughly 13,000 children in the state’s foster care system – who, on average, experience three different placements while under the government’s care –  fewer than 3,000 (and none of those residing in New York City) have been supplied with anything more than a trash bag or a cardboard box to transport their belongings between dwellings. 

What is the projected cost of providing a suitable bag or case?

A paltry $15 per child.

I don’t know why that surprised me.

There has never been a shortage of disdain for those among us who need assistance in this country. We expect people to jump forward through hoops for basic necessities, and back again to show their gratitude even when the things we donate are substandard.

We will pay for a billionaire’s infinite tax breaks but we don’t want to pay a few hundred dollars to make sure a struggling family has food in their cupboards. The poor, we seemed hardwired to believe, are not worth the investment.

Nor can I explain why a well-intentioned state pilot program called “My Bag,” in 2023 delivered none of its 2,700 bags to children in New York City — which is home to more than 7,000 foster children, yet saw zero luggage bags.

But picturing a traumatized child clinging to all their worldly belongings in a bag that the rest of the world registers as trash, is as clarifying as a gut punch. 

Or at least it should be.

And while I applaud New York’s 57 Senators voting in unison to ensure that children in this unenviable position are afforded this one small comfort, I am bothered that it hasn’t been the norm.

I’m just sad that every right to which we are entitled is afforded to us only if we haven’t been entirely worn down from the continual fight. 

This one seems easy.

Undoubtedly, it’s been hard fought.

I wish we would reject the very idea that suffering builds character and realize that education, housing and food security, as well as access to basic medical care, are the building blocks of a healthy community.

I hope we take stock of the situation in which we are finding ourselves. We need to reject the cruelty we so absently inflict.

On every front, kindness and care are what we need.

Summer, a time for processing

In the waning light of two fortnights, I will no longer be the mother of children.

If this had not been evident by the passage of time itself (despite my refusal to allow developmental classification to rob me of my children when it switched them with “adolescents” a handful of years ago), it was apparent by my soon-to-be-graduate son’s increasingly sheepish grin.

When prodded for the reason behind his bubbling mirth, he just shrugged and admitted that his REAL plans for the summer were still in flux.

Really? Now, I had known there were college orientation days, and routine doctors’ appointments that had been committed to several calendars, equipped with alarms where they hovered in cyberspace and circled in red where written on the whiteboard of analog … lest anyone forget. 

Not to mention that we had ASS-U-ME-ed that at least a few of these fleeting summer days would include some measure of gainful employment. Maybe just enough to keep him flush with pocket money during his first college semester.

His real plan, he admitted, was a road trip to Canada, where he and a few friends would go on one last adventure before they scattered across the country. In this plan, they would cross a border, show their passports, and, though he did not attest to it, I knew he would gain access to a land that would let them imbibe before they turned 21. 

The flux part was turning out to be syncing the schedules of his core constituents.

Oh, how my heart leapt into my chest.

Summer … The time when all safety-conscious parents operate on high alert.

You know who you are: When you fired up the grill you made sure it was clean and clear of nearby combustibles; You chose your highway travel plans to coincide with optimal road conditions even if it meant driving at off-peak hours; and you made sure you kept your eyes on the kids at all times in the pool.

I remember thinking the only time I was able to let down my guard was when the leaves started to fall and my husband secured the winter pool cover in place. 

Despite all that angst, I’m surprised to feel as if this is truly the summer of my discontent.

That moment when you actually let go … Just before they will be out of the house and on their own anyway.

And you really just have to hold your breath and hope that you have not only said and modeled all the right things, but that your children have absorbed and adopted them.

As I read and reread official guides for "Summer Safety," complete with  "Tips For Summer Travels," it seems apparent that planning is key.

Of course, you want them to start by planning NOT to get drunk. But even if that’s their goal, you want to have already committed to taking transportation that doesn't include the keys they may have in their pockets. They should plan to use public transport or call an Uber to bring them back to their home base, be it a hotel or campsite. Not only because it’s the law, but because it’s the safest, sanest thing for everyone.

And yet, having tried to drill that into his head since the day he grew taller than me, there is also the reality that no matter how sober he might be, he must remain aware that there will undoubtedly be people behind other wheels in his general vicinity who may be sloshed.

“I know … I know,” he’ll say. “I’m a good driver. I don’t get distracted. I don’t text and drive. I don’t even fiddle with the radio. There is no way I’d drink and operate my car.” 

His voice is soft and reassuring when he reiterates with the ultimate of all oxymorons: “You don’t have to worry, Mom.”

Perhaps he’s not wrong … Planning takes many forms. Some of them are literal ones that require time for processing.

“Have you checked your passport? Getting it renewed might take all summer, not just a fortnight.”

Running down a fear

 I am an anxious traveler. 

 I like to get that out of the way whenever the topic of journeying away from one’s home comes up.

 The aversion isn’t something I can pinpoint with any precision.

 My angst at its prospect has morphed over time. Initially, it started as a fear of flying, then turned into a fear of getting lost, and finally into a general panic about being out of place … an ugly American who is functionally illiterate everywhere I go. 

 I credit recreational running for easing some of the worst of my symptoms. However, it’s been a gradual revelation.

 Initially, I’d have all the best intentions of lacing up my trainers and taking a few laps around the block of whatever hotel I found myself.

 Instead, I’d end up in a gym, starting my watch on the treadmill so at least my location would be saved in Garmin as I slogged out a few miles scribbled in one place.

 But in time, and with practice, I found following the blue dot on my phone’s navigating map wasn’t as difficult as the picture my imagination painted. All I needed to do was reconfigure how to interpret the graphic waves of propulsion … and accept that the opposite of my directional intuition would always be the path on which I should embark. 

 Not that will always be the case, but when I go with my first impression only to realize later that I should have zigged when I, indeed, zagged, I will likely pretend this trajectory was always the goal. Then I will make a sweeping turn – at a slightly varied pace that I think seems more whimsical than abrupt – and continue onward.

 Typically, I will seek out the well worn paths of previous travelers. Consulting magazines and interweb advice on THE BEST PLACES ™ … Until I realize  I would likely have to run more miles than I have in my training plan just to get there from our hotel, then take some other type of ground transport to get back. 

 Usually I will substitute that idealic plan for the subtle observation of where folks are running nearby and let my phone map guide me.

 I recently traveled to Barcelona for Spring Break, the last-minute guest of my daughter, who —  because of a combination of jet lag and the midnight wake up call in the form of a raucus city-wide celebration honoring Barcelona winning a record-extending 32nd Spanish Cup title after Jules Koude's last-minute goal handed a 3-2 win against Real Madrid — decided to sleep in instead of accompanying me on a morning run as we intended. 

 Since our hotel was located on a main road, I found that the paved median with its expansive width and rows of tall sycamores on either side was a mecca for pedestrians waiting for buses as well as runners and walkers on a mission to get farther.

 After following it to a cross street that led to Ciutdadella Park - a 77-acre greenspace that features lush gardens, sandy walking trails, a zoo, and a magnificent fountain designed by Josep Fontsere, it is also the home of the Parliament of Catalonia and other historic buildings.

 After making two laps of the park's outermost trails – passing its two arboretums, a zoo and the Parliament building, as well as climbing the steps of the ornate fountain and descending to the other side, during both of the loops – and then venturing outside the walls for a single lap around the neighborhood – I had clocked about four miles … the extra two miles arrived while I was getting happily lost on the way back to the hotel. I had lots of sights to talk about with my well-rested daughter once we get to brunch.

 I might even convince myself it was the intention all along, who knows? 

Spring Breaks

I heard the plink of the pebble as it bounced off my windshield and watched as a crack made its way down the glass. Presumably, we were both traveling at 70 miles per hour: Me in the car going south on the Pike and it flying northward presumably from an uncovered gravel truck just ahead.

I didn’t say them aloud but the magic words of doubt and superstition kept circulating through my thoughts … This was a sign of foreboding,

“You should not be here.”

There had been so many middling problems vexing me during a month that I had started calling it the “year of April.”

But there was no turning back.

In a little more than an hour, I would be at Logan Airport and heading to the Iberian Peninsula for Spring Break. It didn’t seem like real life.

My daughter called in the middle of April and asked me to join her in Spain. A trip she’d been trying to plan with friends was falling through her grasp like a handful of sand. She wanted to go on holiday but didn’t want to be alone. 

She did not expect me to say “Yes.”

And honestly, I did not expect it either.

To say that I am an anxious traveler is an understatement. I have a hard time not tripping over words and fumbling thoughts when the nice lady at the local sandwich shop asks me what I’d like and I have not so much made a decision, as I’ve mangled the trajectory of one amid all the potential choices available.

I may never be able to use Spanish effectively… no matter how many stars Duolingo shoots at me after I complete a module. And I suspect the moment I try to say “Hola” the person to whom I’m trying to address will detect “English speaker,” and will switch languages with an ease I will never possess. 

“Never say never,” my daughter wags her finger at me … Reminding me she’s always been the wiser. 

She’s not wrong … as we unpack and set about on our itinerary, we encounter a mix of languages to traverse. We point … say numbers. I know the word for orange and can tell her when she points to it on a menu. 

She answers, "No," after I stare blankly at the clerk, who is calculating the price of a t-shirt I am trying to buy, had asked if had a member's card for discounts.

And we are not alone. All around us, there are people just quietly enjoying their lives and their surroundings.

The last Monday in April, when Spain and Portugal experienced a catastrophic power outage that disrupted mass transit and communication networks for most of the day, we were among them. Jockeying for space on the narrow sidewalks, throngs appeared from the shuttered subways, hoping for a seat on one of the buses that had also seemed to appear out of thin air.

Travelers from all over the world were walking through the wrong doors, and asking for the wrong things. Many were flummoxed. Put out by the interruption and circumvention of plans.

But they were also calm. They acted as if this was just another Spring Break … where things may not be working, but there is also room for a workaround. They sat at street-side tables as servers exited darkened restaurants carrying orders of whatever was available. Cash was king.

I was grateful we hadn’t taken the train to the mountains as we had planned. But I worried, after overhearing some women on the street surmising the power would fight its sabbatical for as many days as we had plans.

Soon, a ring of people had gathered at the corner. In the center was a boombox and the voice of a broadcaster explaining the situation. Strangers coming together to share information the old-fashioned way.

We joined fellow travelers in line at a darkened patisserie, where a woman behind the counter was busy portioning cake. She popped two slices into waxed paper sacks, twirling each end of the bags into little dog ears for closure before handing them to us. She asked for three Euros and smiled as she made change, thanking us for our purchase as we mused she had saved our lives.

How lucky were we to have cake for dinner?

Of course, the worst never came. The lights returned, cell service was restored. And the girl reached her father by phone, which made his world a little brighter, too.