That Thing We Sleep With

It’s 1am in the morning and I’ve had a little cramp in my toe for about half an hour. I keep trying to go back to sleep, but it’s one of those anxious nights when every thought becomes an entire novel. I reach out in the dark toward the nightstand for my phone. It lights up like a beacon in my hands. I make an appointment with Dr. Webb…. MD, and what do you know, the doctor can see me immediately. Without even examining me, he diagnoses my tiny toe cramp as a symptom of the Bubonic Plague. 

For the rest of the night, my thoughts migrate from my impending health crisis to how this thing, my sleek and trusty phone, has become my doctor, and not just my doctor, but my librarian, bookie, banker, portfolio manager, purchaser, teacher, researcher, nutritionist, fitness instructor, appointment keeper, navigator, news anchor, photographer, videographer, publisher, postal worker, meteorologist, translator, travel agent, yogi, deejay, that friend who’s always trying to get me to play more video games AND that friend who’s always trying to get me to be more social. If I were single, it would be my matchmaker, too.

It’s no wonder my phone thinks I’m dying. 

It has taken over all the roles in my life that used to belong to humans. 

Except one.

Is there someone you love? 

Do you hold them, look at them, pay attention to them, take care of them, pick them up and carry them, spend all day touching them, spend all night with them, miss them, need them, want them, come running when they call you like you do your phone? 

That’s a lot of dopamine!

I know I don’t, at least not all the time. Maybe it’s because there’s no real commitment and thus no real chance of heartbreak. If my phone doesn’t hold up its end of the bargain, I simply trade it in for a new one. Maybe it’s because there is no gratification delay. I push a button or touch a screen and immediately receive that quick hit of dopamine. Maybe it’s because my phone is the most powerful echo chamber, curated to make me feel so damn good about myself. Or maybe it’s because my phone knows me best.

The Amazon app knows my favorite books (Harry Potter). The Pandora app knows my favorite music (90s R&B and Hip Hop). The Chipotle app knows what I want on my burrito (salsa, never; extra sour cream, always). The Maps app knows where I’ve been (Chipotle). The Bank of America app knows all the secret things I spend my money on (Funko Pops). And the Firefox app knows all those weird, dark thoughts that end up in the search engine (can I still love the art of a bad person? is the world a simulation? is reincarnation real? is Chipotle still having an E. coli problem?)

Our phones know the who, what, where, and when of us, but there are some things they will never know. No algorithm or data or technology can know the way my daughter’s laugh pulls the light-strings deep inside me, or how I respond when someone I love needs a hug, or the emotional cycling involved with rediscovering and recreating my self at the same time. My phone will never understand the topography of marriage or what it means to navigate the world in my body. Our phones will never know the Why of us. They would need hearts to do that.

Maybe we just need to stop treating Siri like she has one. 

Frozen

Many people who know me know that I hate the film Frozen. Hate is probably too strong a word here, but I’m going to use it anyway. “Let It Go” is the most annoying song I’ve heard in the last decade, and that’s coming from someone who listens to “Baby Shark” multiple times a day. On top of that, it actually goes against the message of the film. After running away from her problems, Elsa finally decides she’s going to be herself and just “let it go.” In doing so, she unleashes an eternal winter on the kingdom, leading to a chain of events that ends with her sister Anna needing to sacrifice herself to save Elsa’s life. It’s this act of sacrifice that ultimately redeems Elsa. Letting yourself rely on those who love you is what saves you, the film seems to say, not the “I don’t care about anyone else and I’m just going to do me” message of the song.  

But hey, I’m glad a gazillion kids all over the world know the song by heart.  

(Insert your “Let it go, Elison” joke here. It’ll only be the millionth time I’ve heard it.) 

One of my daughter’s Frozen contraband. Stop trying to look so innocent, Elsa!

Before Emmy was born, I told myself there would be no Frozen propaganda in the house – no clothes, no toys, nothing. I knew it was a strange thought to have, a tiny, inconsequential rebellion against conformity, the kind of thing so many of us do. Maybe you refuse to watch Game of Thrones or try out that new restaurant everyone is talking about or wear exercise clothes to work even though the dress code forbids it. We acquiesce so willingly to most social rules and norms that we must have some places in our identities that are separate from the hivemind and the world.  

Emmy just turned three the other day and, despite my best attempts, has many Frozen merchandise in the house. There are the mini-figurines of Anna, Elsa, Sven, and Olaf. There are the Frozen-branded maracas and recorder which, amazingly, isn’t as bad as “Let it Go” even when Emmy is blowing it straight into my ear. There are the underpants, the sweater, the books, the stickers. They were all gifts for various birthdays and Christmases, so guilt prevented me from donating them to Goodwill. And Emmy likes them, so, I guess that’s that. 

But here’s the thing: Emmy doesn’t even like the movie. Whenever we turn Disney + on, and I ask what she wants to watch, she screams “Not Elsa, not Elsa!” as if Elsa snatched away her favorite balloon and popped it in her face. The first time Emmy yelled that, a surge of pride overcame me – that’s right, Emmy! Don’t like it just because you’re a girl and girls are supposed to like it – but that was quickly swallowed up by a wave of disgust. Did I do that? Did I force some weird value judgment/identity marker on my young child? 

As it turns out, no. My mother showed Emmy the movie one time, and there was a scene early on that scared her, and she hasn’t wanted to watch it since then. But what if I had? Isn’t that what parents do? Isn’t that our main job? To pass on our beliefs, our values, our stories onto our progeny? 

Or maybe our job is to not do that. At least not all the time.  

When I talk to people now about anything – sports, social issues, work, whatever – I'm always thinking about what stories we’ve inherited. Stories about what it means to be a man or woman, black or white or brown, an American or a foreigner, a citizen or an immigrant, rich or poor, religious or atheist, carnivore or vegan, or all the shades and flavors in-between. So much of what we believe and thus, how we negotiate the world and other people, is based on stories we have inherited. But stories, while immensely powerful, are often not factual, especially as they pass down from generation to generation. It’s like the world’s longest game of Telephone, each retelling moving further and further from the truth while further entrenching us into beliefs about ourselves, others, and the world that we think are 100% true. 

What results is confusion, frustration, misunderstanding. We have trouble relating to people’s experiences because they don’t fit the stories we’ve been told about how others should act or think or feel. We perform a bunch of mental exercises to justify the story (see my first paragraph), which then justifies the way we treat others, or even the way we treat ourselves. We need to be better about the stories we let ourselves believe and, for those of us who are parents, we need to be better about the stories we pass on.

Someday, maybe Emmy will decide she loves Frozen because Elsa eventually let her sister in, showing the value of familial love, or that Elsa learned to be herself and to never apologize for it. Or maybe she will simply love Frozen because Olaf is funny. I don’t know. What I do know is I hope I can be thoughtful about what I’m passing down to her, so that her life isn’t frozen in some outdated story, including the one about her Dad hating Frozen, but still wanting her to make up her own mind about that and, well, everything else.  

The New Normal

The New Normal.

You likely have heard this term used a lot recently as it relates to the post-COVID world. Will temperature checks be required before going on a plane or into a building? Will masks become part of our everyday fashion? Will our favorite brick-and-mortar stores be closed forever? Will telework be more widely accepted? Will you reach into a community bowl of potato chips ever again?

While there has been a focus on how the world might change, there hasn’t been a lot of talk on how we as individuals might change. If you’re like me, then part of being busy, of being out and about in the world, is trying to not have to sit with your thoughts, because let’s be honest, our minds can be horrific places to visit. But quarantine has forced some deep introspection out of me. How many real friendships do I have that don’t revolve around sports? Why do I feel so lonely? Why is trying to communicate with people online about serious topics so difficult? Am I where I want to be in life? Am I a good father? Is ordering more IHOP pancakes through DoorDash really a good idea?

These are definitely not IHOP pancakes.

And this: am I doing my best?

Here in America, it’s Independence Day, the Fourth of July, when we explode cheap fireworks that cost too much and overcook meat on the grill and, in a pre-COVID world, spend hours in miserable heat watching people we don’t know parade by. Technically, we’re celebrating our independence from our English parents, but I like to think of it as when the thirteen colonies decided, in a distinctly drunken American voice, “We can do better! We must do better!”

And today, Independence Day 2020, I’m saying I must do better, too.

I’ve been writing for over a decade, but other than a half-hearted attempt to get my terrible first novel published, I haven’t really put myself out there. But as I’ve spent day after day with my three-year-old daughter as she tries to be her best self - learning to potty on your own is very difficult, am I right? - I realized one of the things I owe her is for her to see me trying to be my best self, too, and that’s one who keeps reaching for his dreams, even when it feels his arms are too short.

If you’ve visited this site before, you’ll see I revamped it. Hopefully, it looks better. Hopefully, it’s more mobile friendly. But most of all, hopefully you’ll see me committed to this work. I plan on posting a new blog at least once a week. I plan on posting on my Instagram microwriting account (@azelisonpoet) 3-4 times a week. I plan on submitting to literary magazines often and I plan on finishing at least two of the five books I’m writing in the next year.

While the world doesn’t know what the New Normal looks like, as individuals, we can decide what our New Normal is going to be. The same old, same old? Or better?

I hope you’ll join me.