Eighteen is Coming

In just five days my son Ian will be eighteen years old. My feelings are under assault from the sheer magnitude of this milestone. Eighteen?  Yes, eighteen. Old enough to vote. Old enough to drink, in some states, although not here in California. Old enough to make his own decisions and to enforce them too--thus his current status as a student at the West Wind Academy. Old enough to be drafted into the army--or at least to be required to register for the draft. Old. Enough. Old. He is old. And what does that make me? It makes me a father whose feelings are under assault. I'm paralyzed. I'm apprehensive. I worry. I cry at little inside. Tears have touched my eyes, even, when the full sense of this approaching date impacts me.

I find myself thinking of the past, of the years in the of Ian Folger, and of Chris Folger, father. I find myself thinking of these years more often than usual, and this from a person whose indulgence in nostalgia has always been a landmark of his character. Here's the day of Ian's birth; Edith waking up at 7 AM with water broken; arriving at Alta Bates on Ashby by 8 AM; the grandmothers-to-be joining us in the delivery room shortly after; the growing concern of the non-growing cervix; the long hours of waiting; playing contra dance music in the room; Dr. Janet Arnesty's periodic check-in visits; still no more than 2 cm dilation by early afternoon; contractions regular but not too jarring; Dr. Arnesty showing concern in mid-afternoon, bringing in a surgeon to discuss the possibility of needing to perform a Caesarian; Edith adamant in keeping to our pledge of no drugs; STILL no further dilation by 4PM; my mother and I leaving at that hour for a light meal in the hospital cafe; returning within an hour to find that all systems were go-go-go: Dilation rapidly approaching 8 cm; Edith in increasing pain; her plaintive request for an epidural after trying her best to control the pain; the surgeon returning just in case; then, at about 7:30PM, the crowning -- my first look at my son was a goopy patch of scalp with strands of hair splotched out in random formations, bulging out of Edith's pelvic area; me, shouting out breathing instructions to Edith as we learned in Lamaze class, but feeling deep inside that I might just as well be reading a book in the corner chair for all the good it was doing; the CD Open House 2, with Kevin Burke, Paul Kotapish et al playing in the background; the surgeon departing when he saw that somehow. Edith was going to be able to give birth without any need of surgery; Dr. Arnesty cool and calm; Edith pushing with all her agonized might; the head out by 8PM; the shoulders out, and the rest of Ian Christopher Folger virtually slipping out as if on a jello slide; 8:01-- a moment's hesitation, then the blessed sound of an infant crying with all his little might, in shock in the wake of being snatched out (ooh, do I really want to use that verb?) of his warm, nourishing dark  cocoon; me, hugging Edith's head and shoulders in a gesture of gratitude, respect, and wonderment at her accomplishment; me then performing my first official duty as father by cutting the umbilical cord; the nurse carrying him to a plastic basin to washing the placenta remains from his body, washing and combing his hair, swaddling him in a blanket as his crying becomes less frantic but no less heart-piercing; the nurse carrying him to his mother, then to me to hold for the very first time; me looking down at his beet-red face, seeing a helpless little creature who now must deal with the good and bad fortunes of life in this world because of me. And it hit me like a tsumani--that life-changing, world-outlook altering moment that served to divide my life forever more into two distinct periods: before fatherhood and after, and the before-fatherhood phase had already become as remote as if someone else had lived it. This new, fatherhood phase of my life enveloped me on the spot, and it became clear to me that my over-riding purpose in  life from that moment on was to love and protect this child for as long as possible--or ideally, for as long as he needed it. And for good, and sometimes bad, that is precisely what I've done for the past eighteen years. Maybe protected him too much, some have said. Maybe not enough, as others have said. But protect him I did, as best I could, with all the love I had.

Of course, the fatherhood clock does not stop at 8:01 PM this Friday, November 1, 2013. In fact, the end is nowhere in sight, really. When that day comes, I believe it will the most important milestone of all; much more meaningful than turning eighteen, or twenty-one, or thirty. That is obvious, and the irony is that this most important change will not be one measured by hours, minutes, or indeed, dates.

College Journal -- December 15, 1980 - 12:30 AM -- Strawberry

When I was small (since I was small, in fact), I was probably like many other people in that I always wanted to be on television. I’ve been on the tube two times before – both times as a face in a crowd. The first time was when I was 10, and attending Martin Luther King Junior High School in Sausalito. At time the school was in the middle of racial strife (of a specific nature that I still don’t understand today). The second time was at a Star Trek convention in San Francisco in February 1977, when I was 17. In both instances I was interviewed and said bullshit shitty things that never made it on the air. But you did see me on screen, poking my figure into view just before the film ended and the director switched back to the studio. Well, the third time happened yesterday. At San Francisco State, at the vigil for John Lennon. It turned out to be the largest gathering for a Lennon vigil in the entire city, which I had no idea of until Steve told me last night. His friend Amy was the organizer of this vigil, and she was in command at center stage. At just before 11AM, when the vigil was scheduled to start, Mutsuo (whom I had to drag out of bed) and I went down to the lobby where we met Larry, and he accompanied us to the green near the dorms. There were already many people gathered – not the circle I expected, but more of a puddle; an immense puddle of people. I’d say it was about 200 strong. There was a nice clear spot in the crowd where the three of us sat. I didn’t see any familiar faces except Sylvia, who was sitting next to the guy on my right, talking to him. What I didn’t know at the time was that fellow was Steve. And when the time came, everybody clasped hands, and the vigil started. It was scheduled to go 10 minutes; it went 30. There were cameras everywhere – moving and still cameras alike. A morbid thought occurred to me: Wow! I’m going to be on the telly again. But John commanded my thoughts for the full 30 minutes. My eyes were closed for most of the period. There was complete silence except for occasional blasts from cap pistols from the children’s care center. They bothered me; it was too close a reminder of what happened Monday night. 20 minutes into the vigil someone turned on a stereo, and Lennon songs flowed all around. Our hands unclasped after most of the other folks’ did, only when a cube was passed around. It was then that I noticed that the chap next to me was Steve. We stayed another half-hour there. People began to leave. There were a few standouts. A fellow in a Jimi Hendrix hat sat on his knees so that he towered above everyone else. He rocked and swayed to the music, and sat motionless when there was silence. His hair was long and dark; he had a beard and mustache; he looked like George Harrison circa the Apple period. There was a couple behind me. Both cried during the vigil, and at the conclusion lit candles. There were featured in a solo shot on the news that evening. There was a woman Steve pointed out to me. Her mascara ran down her cheeks as she cried; she was interviewed by news reporters. Her voice sobbed. At noon the gathering dispersed, and the media left. I saw Amy, whom I had never spoken to before. While sitting I had thoughts of going to her to thank her for organizing the vigil. Usually, such a thought would remain just that, an unfulfilled idea. But this was a special occasion, if a special occasion could ever exist. So after waiting for my moment, I approached her. She was kneeling and looked pale. I touched her shoulder and called her name. She looked up. “Thank you for today,” I said. Or “Thank you for this.” Something like that. She smiled very warmly, and we embraced. But then all I could do was say thank you again, then I walked back to the Ding Center with Mutsuo, embarrassed but pleased. Anyhow, that night I saw myself on telly twice – both on KPIX channel 5. At six I was an anonymous, unrecognizable indiscernible face among faces. At 11 I was still anonymous (Aren’t I always?) but I was recognizable. Laurie and Dad both saw me – Laurie did at least. (I was surprised when she told me that she was so shocked by the murder that she had considered phoning me that night. But she wouldn’t have reached me at the dorms, of course.) Dad reacted as I expected: it meant nothing to him. “He was just another hippie,” he said. I hate my father at times like these. But he did get off his anti-baby boomer bandwagon long enough to deplore a society of mental cripples who are free to destroy valuable souls like John Lennon. For the first time, Dad placed an actual Beatle in the realm of humankind. John Lennon was a MAN, a man whose life ended in tragedy. He is no longer a media-hype, nor a gross representative of the destructive counterculture that 50-something-year-olds prefer to forget. Laurie, however, was shaken up by the news, and had noticed me on the TV news coverage of the vigil. My yellow shirt stood out. It was my Puccini shirt. I have two favorite 20^th century composers, and I wore a T-shirt bearing the name and face of one to the vigil of the other. And I’ll be damned if that yellow shirt didn’t stand out. That was a day I’ll never forget. And this record should preserve the details.

The vigil cut into the 49ers game, the last of the season to be televised. Atlanta clinched the NFC West with a 35-10 thumping. They are for real. I didn’t watch past 10:50, really. I’d left for Dad’s at 2:30, after looking over a paper of Mutsuo’s. The last game of the season is next week at home vs.Buffalo, who lost badly yesterday. They desperately need a win for the division title.  Great. Atlanta is the first NFC West team other than the Rams to win the division since Dick Nolan’s boys won their third straight title in 1972.  Congratulations, boys. Try to keep the Rams out of the playoffs if you can, right?

I’m feeling sleepy, so I’ll finish later.

College Journal -- December 14, 1980 1:35 AM

It was 181 years ago this morning that George Washington, the father of our country, died at the age of 67. Today, millions of people still mourn the death of the greatest foreigner who ever wanted to make America his home, who fought and suffered and cried for the right to live in this country. He got his wish, he got his green card, and he lived in this country until a damned fool blew him open Monday night. Now he's dead. Now he is ashes. I really can't get this out of my mind.

Think of Yoko! The poor suffering lonely woman who nobody ever understood. Nobody except one that is. Her late husband. He saw in her both a reflection of himself, and a challenge to improve that self. He saw a welcome alternative to the once exciting, vibrant life that had for him become a monotonous game but with Yoko, he saw purpose. He found objectives, such as peace and love. He found artistic satisfaction and inspiration. He says she saved his life, in that she gave him a reason for not ending it all." If it hadn't been for Yoko," he said," I'd be dead now." Meaning when he was a Beatle. Leaving when he was so depressed and frustrated that he would have lifted all safeguards that prevented drug abuse, he found this wonderful woman to give him INSPIRATION to stay alive and in love with what the world could become. But the people all laughed. Weirdos, those two, they said. HA HA. Bed-ins. Funny. Married in Gibraltar. Hilarious. Growing your hair for peace, then the hacking it off and selling it to benefit peaceful humanistic causes. Devastatingly comedic. Laugh at them, those two strange children at play. But it wasn't enough to keep him ALIVE, and with us for another 10 years. We may cry because there will be no more, but if it wasn't for Yoko, the last 10 years of his contributions, his art, his soul, wouldn't have existed at all. Instead of weeping over the loss of the voice, we should cherish that we had it for an extra 10 years, that we had it at all. It's hard to do. We must also realize that the person responsible for the past 10 years is now a poor widow who has already lost a daughter as well as a husband, and now must raise a five-year-old boy alone. Never mind your own selfish grief, no more new musical product look forward to. Think of her loss. Cry for her loss. The love affair of the 60s, they called it. Fuck the 60s it was the love affair of the 20th century; of the fucking history of Man. Why? Because it was PERFECT. If not perfect, then perfection cannot exist, and they came the closest of any other couple." Yoko is me in drag,” he said jocularly at the beginning. Everybody laughed. They look just like two gurus in drag! But maybe now the world understands. She wasn't bullshitting. He loved her beyond the world's understanding of the word. She made him whole again. Cry for Yoko and Sean. And Julian, who didn't have his father enough during the past 10 years. Love them all for their love for him. This love lasted because it was. And honest. Nobody took him seriously, not even his best friends--all three of them. So fuck you, he said. She became his best friend. Cranberry sauce. All we are saying. They had their problems, like every married couple of course. He left her for a while. He came back. He had to. They were a pair. Their souls were Siamese twins." The separation didn't work out," he said when they reconciled. Now both Yoko and Sean must live with it. And so must we all. Cry. Cry for Yoko, Sean, Julian. Cry for me, right for you. Cry for everybody who heard him when he was. Cry for the future generations who never had the chance, who only have paper and records to know him from. But don't cry for him. He's better off. He doesn't have his Yoko, but he doesn't have to exist in a world that kills its heroes and glorifies its killers. Cry for all of us, because we are still here. Here without his light to make the long and winding road look and feel better (excuse me Paul).

I devoted nearly 14 months now to finally rediscovering the Beatles. (I say finally, even before this tragedy, because I knew that this time my interest in the Beatles would never pass away, as it did before.) In these past 14 months since I asked my brother Mark to tape all of the original Beatle records for me, I have come to know the group and the individuals as well as any hobby that I have ever been involved in before. I had no idea of what was to happen on December 8, a date as burned into my mind as August 31, September 4 and 6, March 8, November 22, 27, 18, April 4, June 5 etc. I had no idea that my love affair with my favorite Beatle would end on a Monday night with pierced, destroyed flesh. I miss him horribly, as much as if a member of my family had died. But one thing I must not forget. I did have him for 14 months. I had 14 months of being a Beatles fan with the knowledge that he was OUT THERE, with us. It didn't matter that he has nothing more to say. His existence was enough. I should think whomever is responsible that I didn't have to wait until after his death to discover him. I found him in time to enjoy him untainted for 14 months, 14 months I'll always treasure. Right now I'm in and there is a full aggressive in Wednesday's newspaper then he had something to say. He was going to speak again. "He showed me how to be young, and I was looking forward to him showing me how to grow old," someone said. Right. Now we must grow old without him. And, although we will make it, it won't be as rewarding. If thou misseth a savior in this life, then turneth thou to thy stereos, and live again and again within the magic, the love, the faith of the hero of the 20th century, the late, so much lamented John Lennon.

There is a vigil this morning on the lawn in front Merced Hall at 11. I will give up part of a football Sunday for it. Gladly. I'll do anything for him now to show my love. My dad may not understand. He doesn't have to. I'll do the same for him when it's his turn.

There is a photograph in Wednesday's newspaper. It was taken on the afternoon of December 8, and shows John Lennon autographing a copy of double fantasy given to him by Mark David Chapman, the man who would kill him 3-4 hours later. Photography is fascinating. There is Dr. Winston O’Boogie himself, looking down at the album, with Chapman standing next to him, smirking. I wanted to pull the photograph apart, dive in, and push the monster away. I wanted to rip back the clock, go there and throw my body between John and the .38. Or shriek. “No John! Watch out!” It seems so easy, but it don’t come easy.

College Journal - December 13, 1980 12:55 AM

That was quite an exorcism. But I'll never let John Lennon's sole leave me. That was just an exorcism of the hate and anger and hurt and frustration and sadness that have been building up all week." Don't let his death affect you so harshly," said Yoko." He never wanted any violence." A beautiful thing to say, Yoko. But when a figure who means so much to someone is suddenly gone, taken away, one does not--indeed, maybe should not--act in a rational manner. So many people, myself very much included, loved John Lennon the man and the ideals he believed in. There is no longer a man to love, but his memory takes his place. And we still have his ideas, his optimism, for the 80s. My own optimism about the 80s is gone; it's getting worse, not better, especially with the USSR following the footsteps of Nazi Germany, apparently. We may not even survived the 80s. If this is true, then the events of the past week and its aftermath mean nothing. But, regardless of what follows, and when I take everything into consideration, I feel that mankind has progressed past stupidity of having to kill itself to prove itself; regardless of what follows, there is no John Lennon anymore to show the way, to show why it is that we live. Of course, John Lennon gave up contributing to the world for the last five years. Bitterness was his reason, I thought. But no. John Lennon was beyond the bitterness. He simply chose not to speak. He had nothing to say. He wanted to stay at home to love and raise his son. Then one day he had something to say. So he said it. And the world rejoiced. John Lennon was coming back! Forget McCartney and his silly love songs. Forget Harrison and his Crackerbox Palace. Forget Starr and his Barbara. John Lennon was coming back. We had him, he was hours again. The void was filled. So what if his album, Double Fantasy, didn't measure up to Plastic Ono Band or Imagine. He was ours again. And now he's gone forever. So, so senselessly. Even during his five years of silence, we were comforted Justin knowing he was there, living. But he is there no more. John Lennon is gone. If I write this sentence 1000 times, it will be no easier to believe or to accept it. So I will say it once again. John Lennon is gone.

Bizarre coincidence. Two months ago, I sent away to the National Lampoon for back issues, including the Beatles parody issue that I discovered at Curtis's place at Humboldt in the spring of 1978. Two months I waited. The check was cashed and returned, but no magazine. Well, it finally came. When? Tuesday, December 9. I picked it up from the dormitory mailbox with a black armband on my sleeve, tears in my eyes, and innocence gone from my soul. Very funny. What a Fetridge. Fuck you, Fetridge. The parity wasn't as funny as I remembered. I'm somewhat older now. But I laughed. I couldn't laugh before. I sang. On my way home for mom’s Monday night, Monday, December 8, 1980, when every station on the car radio was playing Beatles songs and Lennon songs, I sang. I sang loud, in a choked voice. I remember singing "Ticket to Ride." But I cried. I could not laugh. I couldn't play Beatles songs on the stereo. But I got over it. I couldn't play Lennon songs. I got over that too. Soon I might be able to have fun with the Beatles again. Maybe even the pure, joyous fun of old. But I won't forget the pain. Never.

My last three entries have been devoted to John Lennon the slain former Beatle. But I don't believe that I completely expressed my feelings at all. I feel they are just subjective, obscure, horribly sad ramblings such as writers write and non-writers think and feel. I can't help it if it fails. It's me. It's how I feel, what comes to me as I write. It's not always honest unto itself; sometimes my mind diverts from itself. But it is my content of thought, my stream of consciousness. It's too bad if it fails--it will mean that I'm no writer. Or that I have a long way to go to become a writer.

I better get to bed now. Today, or yesterday, was Friday, the final day of regular classes for the semester. I have nothing academic to do until Tuesday at 8 AM, and I've averaged five hours of sleep all week I will sleep in tomorrow morning.