The Language of Love, or Tiburón means shark!

[Well, I don't know about an attitude adjustment, but it was one wonderful day yesterday on Angel Island with my family. Originally it was to be me, Mom, and Kate+fetus (she's a house!), but Dad decided to come along at the last minute. He's in no condition for a five-mile walk, so he sat next to Ayala Cove and read Kim Stanley Robinson's The Years of Rice and Salt, which may be the first book he's read that I've lent him.]

[The wimminfolk and I did the simple Perimeter Road walk in about three hours, ambling with lots of stops. It was a gorgeous sunny day, the sky turning the bay a shade of blue I've rarely seen here. It looked more Aegean or something. We saw the Immigration Museum. While it may be a bit of a stretch to call Angel "the Ellis Island of the West," the Chinese poetry carved by desperate internees was moving. Whether it's in slavery, segregation, the closet, opulent amounts of prisons, or in internment camps (including Guantánamo), we Americans do like to lock people up. We saw ruined military installations (Angel Island had roles in wars from Civil to Cold), and a lot of lesbians. (Maybe it was Lesbian Day at Angel Island; my butch mom and sister fit right in.) Mostly, though, we talked.]

[The language remains the same, and it's one of the most reassuring things in the world. Not just spoken shorthand like with anyone you've known a long time, but the automatic knowledge, expressed in empathy and skepticism, of what the other person is saying. It's a good marker for love, that language. I'm lucky.]

[Anyway, the language was the same, but the message conveyed was mixed. It seems like all the members of my nuclear family are sick. Dad just got over a serious flu, and still seemed tired. Given his other health issues, a 102 temp isn't just routine. Mom's fine physically (well, she's 63, which she says hurts a lot), but is concerned about Dad in a way that I haven't seen since he was hospitalized around the time I moved to San Francisco. That was serious, and while Mom can be a worrier, she can tell when something's serious and when just to let the person get better. She thinks this is serious, or that Dad does, which can amount to the same thing.]

[Kate's having first-time-parent fear (prepartum depression?), apparently in a major way. I told her that, of all the people I've seen start families, I have the greatest confidence in her and Mike. They'll be great. She's scared also about how "kids change everything." I think she liked her pre-kid life (not everyone climbs Kilimanjaro), and while she wouldn't trade what their embarking on, she's already missing being adventurous. (Mom's always said adventures don't end with kids: adjust your idea of what constitutes an adventure, and take 'em along!)]

[Oh, me? Mental illness, if you want an easy phrase. Goods damaged, but fixable. I was frank about the difficulty I'm having in getting motivated to job-hunt, and a censored account of some the ways I've tried to distract myself.]

[It wasn't all ailments, not at all. Kate and I both took opportunities to ask questions about the past, filling in blanks that never got anecdoted when we were kids. My sister also did some thorough grilling about Mom's pregnancy and early maternity, eliciting some touching comments about Dad's helpfulness when first-time-motherhood was hard. (Me, difficult?) He wants to take two weeks in August sans wife to drive to and from Glacier Park, Montana/Alberta. If job prospects go a certain way, I may - may - ask if he wants company.]

[Back to Ayala Cove, back to Dad, ferry back to Tiburon, a wealthy, cutesy bayside burg that, until the 4th of July, I hadn't visited since high school. Ferries to and from the Island and San Francisco use its harbor. Now, thanks to my parents' schemes for keeping the family close, I've been back twice in one week. (There's this shop with the adorablest baby shoes; help, I'm uncling!) These boats leave from the city too ya know, and I don't have a car.]

[(The Sharps Are Dorks Representative Anecdote: on the hike, Kate burst out with "tiburón means shark!" Mom, a Sharp only by marriage who has been down this road too many times, deadpanned "uh-huh." I had to say "Anyone know what Sausalito means?"* Because I did. It's not smug oneupmanship! It's a wish to share arcane but delightful knowledge. Max understands. A constant, sometimes annoying wish, sufficiently urgent that we'll make something up if need be.)]

[Home again in Kate's Miata. (See, a Miata! But they've just acquired what passes for a station wagon nowadays.) I got a truly dramatic sunburn, which was the hit of the Castro later that evening. (Allen made me go, it wasn't my fault, you know I have to be dragged to the Dreaded C.) (As for the Real Dreaded C: yes, I'd SPF'd on the ferry over, but then neglected to reapply.) Got lots of eyes sideways at the Mix, the Edge, and Daddy's though; was it my good looks, my effervescent personality, my breathtaking knowledge of California's Spanish place names...or, were they gawking at my sunburn? Which was it?! *Sob* (Confidential to J.E.: is laughing at one's foibles a good first step to overcoming them?)]

[A good day.]

Previously Next

[*Little grove of willows." Awww, presh, just like the town.]