New endings

What comes around goes around. I'll tell you why...

We’re all transitioning.

We’re transitioning through relationships, careers, COVID-19. The things we fear. The things we love. All positions on a line, endlessly in flux.

We’re transitioning through our bodies, its sizes and shapes and endless functions. Bodies in times. Bodies in space.

We move through our passions. White hot in the beginning, cold and brittle at the end. But the end is never quite the end, but an arbitrary point in time we may not even be aware of until the memory of a place, a scent, a work of art returns us to a place it comforts us to call “the beginning.”  

We’re obsessed with beginnings. It’s endings we have trouble with. But both are relative. Relative to whom? Relative to what?

To us, of course, but it’s at these moments of transition when we see the bigger picture, the grand scheme, the swirling chaos of the cosmos winking at us from the stars.

Last weekend my father-in-law completed his transition.

In February Nuvia’s father was diagnosed with cancer. Tony had been having trouble with his stomach, but no one really knew how much trouble he’d been having or for how long he’d been having it. He did not like to make a fuss. That’s Tony. Solid and dependable. He’d worked at the same company making molds for a plastic injection outfit for thirty-five years. Last week he was admitted to ICU and on Sunday he took his last breath, surrounded by his family.

A story. Sixteen years ago Nuvia and I were taking a trip to Oaxaca and during that trip I planned to ask Nuvia to marry me. But first, I wanted to ask Tony for permission.

In the early days of my relationship with Nuvia I was struck by the similarities between Irish and Mexican cultures. So my desire to seek Tony’s permission came from an intuition that the gesture would be appreciated. It did not come from a sense of obligation. That’s not who Tony was. He wasn’t overbearing. On the contrary, Tony was a gentle person who loved children, dogs, and working on cars. He believed in giving people space to make their own decisions.

Nuvia is an independent woman. She is her own person to a degree that “independent” feels like an understatement. I sensed she would not view my gesture with Tony as an echo of the old patriarchal ritual of men exchanging their daughters for possessions, but as a mark of respect. I wasn’t asking permission to take away his daughter, I was asking permission to join his family.

We were in the backyard of Nuvia’s parents’ home in Paramount under the orange tree when I finally had Tony to myself. We were talking about our upcoming trip to Oaxaca and I casually said, “With your blessing I’d like to ask Nuvia to marry me.”

He stopped short and said, “You’re asking to marry my daughter?”

His tone was slightly incredulous, and for a moment I was worried that I’d angered him, but when he shook my hand there were tears in his eyes.

I don’t remember his exact words, but he said that I had his blessing. We talked for a bit more and then returned to the house and I think we ate tamales.

Nuvia and I went to Oaxaca and on a stormy night at Playa Arrocito in Huatulco I proposed. Nuvia said, “Are you fucking kidding me?” (Eventually she said yes.)

Shortly after we returned from our trip, we were having brunch with Nuvia’s parents and a few of her aunts in Valle de Guadalupe, which is where we wanted to (and did indeed) get married.

Nuvia was talking to her tias, giving them all the details of our trip, my clumsy proposal on the beach, and she said that I’d even asked Tony for permission. This is where the story gets interesting.

Vicky, Nuvia’s mom, loudly exclaimed in Spanish, “No, he didn’t! He did not do that!”

Nuvia, to her credit did not turn to me and say, “What the fuck, Jim?” She said, “Yes, he did. He told me he talked to dad.”

At this point, all eyes turned to Tony, who was quietly eating his breakfast at the end of the table.

“Tony,” Vicky asked. “Did Jim ask you for permission?”

Tony paused and nodded.

“Tony!” Vicky exclaimed as the table erupted in laughter.

What I didn’t know was that many years before, when their first daughter got engaged, Vicky kept Tony in the dark about many of the details, so he didn’t know the full story for a long time.

Apparently, Tony never forgot and decided turnabout was fair play. So for a brief period of time the only two people who knew I intended to ask Nuvia for her hand in marriage was me and Tony. He kept it a secret, just like he did his pain. He kept it to himself.

I met Tony when he was at the age that I am now. The man I got to know was undoubtedly different than the child who grew up in Durango or the teenager who rode dirt bikes with his brother in Tecate or the young man who swept Vicky off her feet in Los Angeles and settled into a lifetime of providing for his five children.

That’s the man who welcomed me into his family. I’ll always be grateful to that man and being a witness to his transition was a gift I’ll carry with me as I move through this grief and on to the joy I know is waiting for us all.

D. Foy Update

Sometimes life is like a clumsily written made-for-television movie. Last week I spoke to my friend D. Foy who has bone marrow cancer. D has been through many transitions and is gearing up for an intense round of chemotherapy. D’s call came out of the blue and it was great to hear him laugh, but it’s very much the calm before the storm. Perhaps eye of the hurricane is the more apt metaphor, because he and his family have already transitioned through an incredible amount of suffering and pain.

Here is the GoFundMe, where you can learn about D’s situation and contribute if you’re able.

Corporate Rock Sucks

It doesn’t seem fitting or proper to promote my book at a time like this but a lot of people worked hard to include me in their creative endeavors, so here we go:

I had a lovely chat with Kimberly Austin of Rock Book Show.

This Friday, I’ll be discussing Corporate Rock Sucks with Ray Farrell at the Encinitas Barnes & Noble.

On Saturday I’ll be in LA to celebrate the release of James Spooner’s excellent punk rock memoir in comics form The High Desert at Beyond Baroque.