Remembering James Tate

I had the great privilege of hearing James Tate read twice in my life. The first time was approximately a decade ago in Seattle at Open Books. What I remember about that reading, in terms of the man, is that Tate seemed to be tipping prematurely into old age.

Fast-forward to just a couple years ago when I was able to attend his reading at USC. It was clear then that the gods of health had not been kind to Tate. I assumed he had a stroke at some point prior because he had all the telltale signs of neurological injury. This, I suppose, is unremarkable only in that there is no explanation for why some people are the lucky ones and some get the short shrift. On James Tate's behalf, I felt that life was unfair. That hasn't changed. Grace seems to anoint haphazardly. 

But if it was unremarkable that I was seeing Tate's body being destroyed by what I would call a too-rapid aging, what was remarkable is that, during that reading, I saw him carefully, with cane, make his way to the lectern, and I heard him push his poems out from a mouth that resisted working. On the one hand, it was difficult, in terms of empathy, to listen; on the other hand, it was profound that each poem hung in the air, fully assembled, as if Tate repeatedly gave up ghosts, which is what, in some respects, poems are. They live and interact with us even as the body has been taken away. I remember feeling, at the time, that he would not be with us for much longer, and that made me sad. Thus, I return again and again to the second half of "The Lost Pilot:"

...All I know   

is this: when I see you,   

as I have seen you at least

once every year of my life,   

spin across the wilds of the sky   

like a tiny, African god,

I feel dead. I feel as if I were   

the residue of a stranger’s life,   

that I should pursue you.

My head cocked toward the sky,   

I cannot get off the ground,   

and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling   

to tell me that you are doing   

well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,

and me in this; or that misfortune   

placed these worlds in us.

And all I can think is that Tate is, a lifetime later, finally able to pursue his father. That he has finally gotten off the ground, and that it was indeed misfortune that was placed inside Tate, which is why he was taken from us too early. But if I believed in any kind of grace, I hope he is a satellite now.

James Tate's poems manage to temper wonder with wit; moreover, he made the best of accessibility in that the poems are generous to readers even as they're absurd sometimes, and thought-provoking. Some of the greatest moments in the arts are when the most profound mysteries of the human condition are presented in the guise of humor. Tate did this. He will be sorely missed even if his voice still lingers on our bookshelves.

Lessons Learned from Big Hero 6

The villain in Big Hero 6 harbors great animosity, triggered by the fallout from loss. Darkness wells up inside him and eclipses any good he may have had left. He plots revenge (a familiar trope), and loses his humanity. This serves to remind us that, if we don't tend to the issues causing us pain, we can become lesser monsters in our own right. What we fail to reconcile can ruin us.

I wanted another child but have had two miscarriages instead. My only child has developmental issues. I am now too old to have another. I must come to accept these things. Meanwhile, I have dear, dear friends with the family they have always wanted, the two or more "normal" children. I have dear, dear friends who are pregnant right now. I have a younger sister with an infant I have never met.

I don't have difficulty feeling happy for them, exactly, but I don't want to talk with them about the things they have that I don't. At least right now. I'd rather surround myself with women whose experience of motherhood is similar to my own. That is, whose story is complicated and made up of both high points and low. It feels familiar.

But there are times when I admit my antidepressants have given me a nice, thick rind, which allows me to cope, to be capable, to be high-functioning. Here's the problem with a rind, though: The way we chose to ripen what is inside us determines whether our pulp will be bitter or sweet. I struggle with this at times. Choosing between sourness and sweetness. Practicing gratitude. Trying not to be a dick because other people get to have more than me, especially when so many have less.

I know I don't want to lose my humanity like the man behind the Kabuki mask.

Big Hero 6 celebrates the triumphs of science. Moreover, it demonstrates how intellect can be a stand-in for strength. Hiro, and the rest of the "nerds," use their big brains to innovate. They develop tools based on quantum electronics, chemistry, electromagnetics, pyrotechnics, and so on. The heroes in this movie are such because they can out-think antagonists.

What is also made clear is that science itself is just a means to an end. In all the debates about the morality of technological and scientific advancements, we must remember that the discovery or creation of something only becomes an evil when it is used for nefarious purposes. Otherwise, it is neutral until activated.

I love the science working in my life right now. My son takes an anti-seizure medicine. You can imagine how grateful we are for that breakthrough. He takes another medication that allows him to function at a level high enough that, more often than not, he is indiscernible from the neuro-normative kids his age. I take a medication that helps me out of bed and into the morning light. We are the poster people for better living through chemistry.

Other more straight-foward points from the movie that resonate:

Nurses are important in the world of medicine (My husband is a nurse): "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?"

Though it is debatable whether there is an afterlife, or a soul, those we have lost can remain a presence in our lives if we hold the memory of them inside us: "Tadashi is here."

Family can be a construct. For my son, who will be an only child, I hope he may find "family" outside of our small nuclear unit: "Hiro, if I could have any superpower right now, it would be the ability to crawl through this camera and give you a big hug."

There are times when we all need to be comforted: "People keep saying he's not really gone, as long as we remember him. But it still hurts."

To review:

Don't let disappointment and loss turn you into an asshole.
Remember that you can think your way out of difficult situations.
Science is your friend.
Nurses matter.
Keep the flame burning for those you mourn.
We can cultivate family.

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