Across the Stage

“He doesn’t fit any more,” my wife said, just weeks before our eldest child's college graduation.

“Oh Boy,” she's getting emotional, I thought.

When he was turning two years old we bought him a room set with a pair of trundle beds.  His sister was on the way and we needed the crib.

Now twenty years later a new bed was moving in.

"Why now?" I asked, not seeing the need for anything new in the child’s bedroom which is hermetically sealed between visits. 

"Are we renting it out?

"He doesn't fit in the bed," my wife claimed.  

"His feet hang over the edge."

"He doesn't need to fit in that room anymore," I said, wishing immediately that I could take it back.

There are books and blogs and blather on the moment your child exits the house for college.  We'd been warned about the earthquake of the emptying house.  But now with an empty nest I realize when they go to college they don't go anywhere.  

The calls, the Facetimes, the pictures.  Through technology I feel as if I know more about them now than I did during the 100-Years War that was high school when they lived in my house.  It was a series of Spy versus Spy operations where they hid the alcohol, changed their Instagram names, and spoke in tongues as if they were the world's first teenagers.

Later that day I heard my son’s voice coming through my wife's phone, so I came running.  He was in between classes, all I could see on the Facetime was sky, then grass, then sky, as he swung the phone to and fro.  She told him that the trundles were going and the next time he is in town he’ll have a real “big boy” bed.  

He stammered.

I knew it.  The emotion was getting to him.  Just weeks from college graduation and here she is cutting this final link to his childhood.

He caught himself and said, “You may want to check the trundle.”

One trundle bed had a mattress inside of it, but for some reason we never got a second one.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

I sprinted to his room, sure to discover some treasure, maybe a high school diary or a note to his parents, or things he saved that I never knew.

I yanked open the trundle to a cacophony of clanging bottles.  A secret stash of the world’s worst tasting vodka:  Berri Acai, Orange Sherbert, Absolut Lime, Stoli Razberi.

They had used my son's second trundle bed as a bottle depository during high school for illicit empties?

The drawer where my son’s small fingers first climbed into bed, where we read him his first books, where he went from diapers to underwear, was filled with flavor combinations that could only appeal to the palate of a high school junior.

Those sticky marks on the little wood handles weren't childhood residue, the remnants of a lollipop gone awry, but the spillage of a shot of Peach Stoli?

What you know when they go off to college is that they will return at some predictable interval for holidays and other regularly scheduled events.

But without the school calendar to dictate what can we expect?

At what point do the tables turn and we are visiting him because we have the free time and his store of precious PTO days doesn’t allow?

Like a dial that keeps clicking forward the channel is now tuned to post-collegiate life, a line-up we do not recognize.

There were few tears this weekend, lots of planning and logistics, but then on the field after the ceremony he ran into one of his first friends from the first week of school.  They hugged and said goodbye.  

She is spending the summer in Philadelphia, he is off to New York.

"When will I see you again," she asked.  He stood dumbstruck.  

"I don't know."

That's the difference between school and post-school.  The calendar is still the calendar, there is still New Years, 4th of July and Thanksgiving.  But where will you be at those times?  What do you do in a world where the Library, the coffee shop, or a living room couch are no longer logical landmarks to find your friends?

I have written him letters at every imaginable rite of passage worrying that my days of fatherhood were numbered.  Now as he walks across another stage I have no list of things to tell him.  Except to find those times and those places for those people.  The ones who were always just there, the ones you didn't need to seek out because you'd bump into them without trying.  In a Post-Collegiate world that's the biggest transition, you need to try harder to keep those people close.

So we've got a big comfy bed if you need it.  

And it doesn't rattle.

From Tel Aviv to Abu Dhabi

Why do they go to Israel?

It's a question we keep coming back to with a generation more than seventy years removed from the end of WWII and the birth of this Nation.

In order to study in Israel they need to navigate a few things that make it different than studying in Barcelona or Florence.

Back on campus they have professors who  choose not to write recommendations because of their blind hatred for a place they've never been.  And even if they do write it, a student wonders what that professor thinks of them just for asking.

They arrive in Israel and the first thing they see is the bomb shelter.

The dorms have windows that barely let in the morning light.

And then the bombs come while they are dining in a restaurant.  And the American students marvel how the the Israeli's rush back to their tables, after the all-clear is given, but before the entrees get cold.

When my generation applied for visits to Israel, nobody noticed:  "Sure, go work on a Kibbutz, learn the language, float in the Dead Sea."

I wish those pro-BDS professors could hear the cabbie taking me from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem as he recommends the shops in a small village just off the highway.  I wish they could hear him explain that Abu Ghosh is an Arab village, “but they don’t attack us and never get involved in terrorism, so we thank them by going to their restaurants.  It’s not kosher, but it’s good.”

Our children love the nightlife even though the clubs require them to file through metal detectors and leave their bags at home.  They love it’s proximity to Europe even though their visits take more planning as they navigate the airport screenings and delays.  They love the soldiers they meet who carry machine guns not fake IDs.

In Abu Dhabi the country is so new that the Presidential Palace opened for tours the week we arrive.  The Grand Mosque is 10 years old and spotless.  The whole place is spotless. They discovered oil in 1958 and since then they have been rich until the price of oil dropped.  A billion dollars to build the mosque, a billion for the Abu Dhabi Louvre, and free housing, health care and education for all its citizens and suddenly it feels clean and neat, but not so wealthy.  

When people ask the Crown Prince what we can do, he tells them to “spend money.”

Everyone has a job, many of them cleaning streets, keeping the mother of pearl that is inlaid into the Mosque walls, gleaming.

You get the sense that the country's motto is “build it and they will come,” and we arrive as they wait to see if it pans out.

Israel and the United Arab Emirates are both ancient places and works in progress.

The existential crisis for Abu Dhabi is whether people will come visit this desert oasis, half a day away from the Eastern US to learn its history, eat its dates, stay in its hotels and drink its water, infused with gold for $50 a bottle.  

Israel’s crisis is a daily multi-front battle against their Arab neighbors, historic anti-Semitism and a BDS movement rooted in biblical hatred that gives every other regime in the world a pass except the one democracy in the Middle East.

At the Special Olympics' World Games athlete Loretta Claiborne rebuts the  rhyme:  "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me."

"I've been in fights and I've broken bones, but the only pain that has stuck with me all these years is the pain caused by words," she said. "That's because those words hurt my heart."

The winds of anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism blow strong again, mostly in words that hurt the most.  Members of the US Congress who denounce Israel and Jews, members of the political establishment in the UK who don't hide their anti-Semitism, Jews all over Europe are listening closely to the words that hurt the heart.

Israel's threats first come in words and then they come in bombs from the sky:

“We can’t take chances, we can’t afford mistakes," another cab driver tells me.  "One mistake and we’re all dead,” he said indicating his support for Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu.

The final night we climb the dunes to watch the sun set.  Our footprints from the previous night are gone.  Not filled in or blown away or even covered up, they no longer exist.  The imprint we made yesterday shows no sign of life and in a few minutes the place where we stepped will be gone.

In a Foreign Land: Special Gifts

In a Foreign Land: Special Gifts: In 1971 the US Olympic Committee granted the Special Olympics official approval to use the name “Olympics.” But I want to know who had t...

Special Gifts

In 1971 the US Olympic Committee granted the Special Olympics official approval to use the name “Olympics.”

But I want to know who had the foresight to use the word Special.

At first glance special is such a bland word, defined as “better, greater, or otherwise different than what is usual.”

But it's the only way to characterize these Olympic games.

"Special" is the Crown Prince trying to give his welcoming address while an athlete standing to his left stole the show beaming and waving to the crowd after seeing himself projected on the screen.

"Special" is seeing the Crown Prince of a country, where ten years ago families would not have publicly recognized their special needs children, hugging the boy as he continued welcoming 7,500 athletes from 190 countries.

"Special" is the faces of the athletes who could not contain their joy as Tim Shriver told them, “the crowd is applauding you.”

When you watch the regular Olympic games the athletes walk into the arena filming the scene with their phones trying to capture the moment. But at the Special Olympics the athletes carry no phones because they are living the moment.

"Special" is the fact that the United Arab Emirates does not recognize the State of Israel, but there we were watching the Israeli teams walk across the stage, because things like diplomatic relations don’t matter on these courts.

"Special" is the fact that it looked like any other sports tournament you’ve taken your child to, but there are differences:  Here the athletes leap into the air when they score and help their opponents to their feet when they fall, and apologize after committing a foul.

As an Israeli basketball team prepared to battle the US team I asked one of the referees how close they call the fouls like double dribbling and traveling, transgressions rarely called in today’s NBA.

“I watch them during the first few minutes of the game,” the ref tells me. “I look at their ability level. And the next time down the court, if they are double dribbling and I know they can do better, I call it. But if it’s the best they can do, I let it slide.”

Early in the game the ref calls a foul, and then listens to the athlete's plea.  How do you know this is Special?  Because the referee hugs the young athlete who buries his face in the zebra's shirt and says he is sorry.

The Special Olympics logo is based on a sculpture called “Joy and Happiness to all the Children of the World,” and I suppose that captures the mood as well as anything.  There is joy on those courts and in those eyes.  Here the happiness quotient is so much higher.  It can’t be quantified but you see it after each basket is made, each gymnastics routine is completed, each lap is run.  The parents are as happy as the athlete, cheering not just for their children to succeed in their event, but because they are winning at living.

Two hours outside of Abu Dhabi my daughter is trying to capture the desert with an iPhone.  "These pictures won't do it justice," she complains.  And that’s how I feel after witnessing these games.  Words fail.  But boy, were they special.