Inside Out - a review of this marvelous film

For the first time in a long time, the high expectations I had of a movie were exceeded. Inside Out is really excellent, and I urge you –especially all adults, teachers and parents- to make time for it as soon as you can.

For those of you with kids eight and older, take them too. Younger children may enjoy the film – Oliver, who is six, simply said, “I liked it!”- but will probably miss many of the main points and lessons of this beautiful, wise story.

Riley, the protagonist, is a bubbly eleven-year-old who’s grown up in Minnesota. The story begins just before she and her parents head west to San Francisco, where her father’s work is taking them. They are a happy, closely-knit trio, but because all tales include a dramatic arc, you sense the other shoe might soon drop.

We come to know Riley from, literally, the inside out. Her brain is ably managed by five emotions stationed in Head Quarters: Joy, Sadness, Anger, Disgust and Fear.

Joy is a perky ball of positive energy committed to making each day of Riley’s life as happy as possible. She lovingly guards the five core memories Riley has socked away in her eleven years, treasures that are shown as islands connected to but distinct from long-term memories, daily memories and headquarters itself. Family, Honesty, Hockey, Friendship and Goofball are the essential components of Riley’s personality, the big-ticket bits around which she makes sense of and participates in her life.

Sadness is perfectly conceived as an all-blue, droopy pessimist. She is kind but in the way that Eeyore is- unable to see the bright side, most capable of remembering the disappointing, sad dimensions of Riley’s experiences. Joy tolerates Sadness with joy’ish patience but doesn’t understand her. Their exchanges, though loving, often feel like accidental invalidations of Sadness’ existence.

Anger, Disgust and Fear are secondary characters but important ones. Fear is ever scared of the harmful unknown and so attempts to guard Riley from it. Disgust is a sassy gal who oversees the expected “yuks” –mostly represented as a lifelong disdain for broccoli- and those less so: the new house isn’t clean and looks like it has long wanted for love, and Riley is taken aback (until Joy steps in); the cool kids wear eye shadow and hip clothing to avoid yukky feelings of inadequacy and loneliness.

Anger, delightfully voiced by the comedian, Lewis Black, is always one frustration away from an eruption. Joy has kept him largely quiet during Riley’s life, but in moments when she becomes distracted by managing Sadness, Anger sneaks in and surprises both Riley and her parents.

Any parent who suddenly witnesses outbursts from their children as they grow –toddler tantrums, prepubescent door slamming, hormonal rage- understands and empathizes with Riley’s mom and dad as they react in shock and confusion.

I don’t want to spoil anything, so I’ll leave the details secret until you make your own trip to the theater, but what I adored about this film are the ways in which it validates –thereby showing the import of- all emotion as wise and needed; shows multiple perspectives –Riley, her parents, a teacher, boys- and treats each with complete respect; and beautifully portrays childhood and its natural end as equally important elements of maturation.

Without sadness, a person lives less fully. She is unable to communicate to others the times she is in need; of support, love, guidance. Others lose out on the ability to connect more deeply with the one who is hurting, who trusts them enough to open her heart to them and expose its pain.

Joy comes to recognize this as Sadness comforts Riley’s early-childhood imaginary friend. She finds a new appreciation for Sadness, as she sees that the connection forged when one bears witness to another’s distress is as precious and profound as is experiencing happiness together.

Joy also sees the weight an individual carries if expected to be happy all the time. Happiness is a laudable goal and boy does it feel great. But, it is unrealistic and damaging to put upon another’s shoulders the suggestion that happiness be all they feel.

I see this all the time in communities of mothers; they’ve been told –by society, peers, doctors unwilling or afraid to ask about pregnancy blues and postpartum depression- that motherhood is the pinnacle of a woman’s path and if she doesn’t love it all the time, there is something wrong with her.

I see it too when parents ignore or redirect their children’s sadness or anger or fear, who judge those emotions as less optimal, less “ok” than happiness. Inside Out shows, without any heavy-handedness, all we can miss by pushing Sadness away.

We are given smaller but very astute (and often completely hilarious) glimpses into the emotional headquarters of other characters in the story: Mom, Dad, friends, animals (truly, go see this for the preteen boy, dog and cat headquarter scenes alone). The lovely treatment of each character’s emotional experience with life makes you want to hug everyone around you: This isn’t easy for any one of us, even for those who seem to breeze by.

Inside Out is really about the slow move away from childhood, but there is one particular scene that drives that loss home in such a beautiful, heart-wrenching way. Tom and I cried, and Jack (almost 9) gripped my hand tightly and put his head on my shoulder. He couldn’t have articulated what the scene was representing, but the painful tugs in his heart and gut allowed him to understand that something big was happening.

What I loved about Inside Out’s treatment of this aspect of maturation was that it was wholly mourned but also celebrated in such an appropriately poignant way. What is being left behind willingly sacrifices itself so that ultimately, Riley can grow healthfully in the ways she needs to.

Pete Docter and Pixar (both of Up and Toy Story, by the way) have given us all an incredible opportunity in Inside Out: a chance to remember the ephemeral simplicity of childhood; to recall the pain and struggle in growing up and away from those early years; to look upon our own children with understanding as they forge their ways through maturation; and to give them the latitude and a wide emotional berth to do so.

Perhaps also, it’s worth treating ourselves with kid gloves more often, for although we grow into adults, life doesn’t just stop when we get there. 

A lengthy mish-mash

No time to think, not a second. 
A pulsing migraine, my unwelcome guest for five days now.
My littlest one at my side always; beloved and welcome, but also I yearn
for space and quiet and no more talk of farts or Pokemon.

corn, favas, summer squash, tomatoes, goat cheese and pear-balsamic

I'm tired, worn, behind. I'm angry and hurting about Charleston.
I'm shrugging under the weight of the horrible Groundhog Day'ness of it.
Heavy in the sadness that still nothing will be done. And this will happen again.
Shocked and grossed out and dismayed by the ignorance out there.
Such determined, righteous ignorance.
Underscored completely by the fact that while other flags were lowered to half-mast,
the Confederate beast flew high. Higher than them all.
With every gust of the wind, a slap
in the face to those who lost loved ones, long ago and on Wednesday.
An ugly reminder of the second-class way they are seen and treated.

Father's Day should be celebrated later in the year, I think to myself.
Every year. At least until the kids are older and need a bit less from Mom.
In June, they are only just out of school and we are working to recalibrate
in the midst of changing schedules and more time at home.

Daddy and me, a month in

What is steady in all this mayhem are meals. Three squares a day.
Making them count, simply to magnificently, tethers the morning, middle and evening.
They are nourishing anchors of love and pause. They are moments to stop.
Chew slowly, I think. With your mouths closed, please. Savor.

Last night, after a demoralizing online debate with a classmate (about racism -better than it was!-and guns -"we don't have a problem!"), I could only think to cook. 
My head pounded in my temples, a throbbing drumbeat I could not escape.
A shrimp boil is surely the answer.  
Other than having grown up in Louisiana, I cannot explain the utter randomness of that,
but out we went for three pounds.
Then boil it, I did. 

I called Tom home from work early. The four of us sat and peeled and dipped.
Jack continues to assert that he doesn't like shrimp, but he's a hell of a peeler,
and even enjoys it, so I'm happy to have him on my team.
More for me, I think. Thank you, baby.

I wonder if these perfect Gulf treats bring me back to a more naive time.
A simpler one when I was young and not as outraged by injustice,
when it seemed we, there, all just got along.
I question the veracity of my memories now. I hope, but I don't know. 
In each bite of shrimp, dunked deeply into excessively horseradishy cocktail sauce,
spiked generously with lemon and Tony Chachere's,
I wish I had Saltines in the house, and I wish for less hate and less violence and less division.

The vet came yesterday. Percy was due for a rabies shot, and, as he just turned ten, a senior physical. Percy is always fairly low on my list of priorities, but as he received two shots and also had some blood drawn, his nails clipped and his body prodded; as I found out he's basically blind in his left eye because of an advanced cataract, and minimally so in the right because of a growing one, I was overcome by love and admiration for this sweet little being who just soldiers though each day, nice as get out to anyone who's nice to him.

He doesn't complain much, and he takes discomfort with a laudable acceptance. He is patient and kind, tolerant and pretty flexible really. Don't get me wrong, those "Who rescued who?" bumper stickers still launch me into the orbit of insanity, but I do sometimes find myself in utter appreciation of animals and the way they just get on with it. I see in them some qualities we people could stand to emulate.

I think of my Nanny, and as my heart hurts so much right now, I keep thinking of her and her grace. Her steadiness. Her tolerance and her willingness to grow and change rather than remain static and become entrenched. It gives me hope.

When Barack Obama was elected President, Nanny initially found it hard to envision a black First Lady. She was born in 1921 in Louisiana and was of that age. She grew up pretty poor and didn't go to college, but was guided by her heart, an expansive, accepting, powerhouse that was always willing to evolve. 

She soon came to love and admire Michelle Obama, as she had loved and advocated for the gay men in our family and the less fortunate in our community. As she had always stood up for me and accepted me for just who I was. 

Nanny taught me a great deal during the many years we had together, about what is and isn't important, about what does and doesn't matter at the end, about how important it is to stand up for what is right and just. Even if you do it in your own, quiet way. Like she did.

I don't want to be as quiet, for that's not really me, constitutionally or otherwise. But I gain strength from Percy's stoic acceptance and Nanny's singular decency, from the Charleston survivor's forgiveness and all of those who are standing up, right now, in their own ways.

And so, as the thunder rolls through, and the rain washes down baptismally, and the fireflies light with determined goodwill, I think about what I hope people someday say about me: that I loved and tended to others, that I stood for things as fearlessly as I could, that I lived an authentic life full of shrimp boils and puzzles, heartache and tolerance. That, in the best ways I knew how, I mothered and daughtered; friended and wived; fed and accepted. With grace and strength and a loud voice when needed.
~~~
Please consider watching and reading the following (though if you've read this far, A) thank you and B) I certainly understand if you're whooped.)

Jon Stewart on Charleston
Jim Jefferies on Gun Control in the U.S.
This New Yorker piece on Charleston  
This post on what white people can do: 

White people keep asking "what can I do to help you in times like this? What can I do to fight racism? Where can I start? I want to take action." 
Here's what you can do - collect the white racists in your life. Tell your dad he has to stop making racist jokes. Stop your roommate when he rants against black people in the city. Correct your girlfriends when they talk about bad neighborhoods. Educate your students when they bring in writing that features stereotypical or offensive black characters. 
Stop leaving the hard work of educating white people to the people who are suffering and grieving. Stop leaving it to black people to collect and educate. Don't speak for us but if you abhor racism, get rid of it around you. 
The shooter in Charleston was able to do what he did because no one corrected him or stopped him when he ranted and raged against black people. 
Yes, it's gonna be hard to correct your dad or grandpa but if you want to count yourself as an ally, do this god damn work so I don't have to.

A bloody Shakespearean day

A bit of fun with today's Shakespeare-inspired free write prompt (thank you Jena Schwartz). Comedy can make the bleakest crap seem light. Read for amusement. For extra-credit, see how many references you can connect to the Bard. 

This Wednesday eve finds me an awfully sorry sight.
Clad in purple gym shorts and an old tee that once was white.
I’ve made jam, chauffeured kids, wiped noses and fed.
I’ve scooped poop, painted walls, and given til I bled.

In the labyrinthine carpool, a random yelled at me with rage.
What had I done but try to fetch my eldest babe?
My body and mind and teeth set on edge,
I flipped meanie off before dismounting the ledge.

Two playdates to attend, in opposite ends of town.
Of course, naturally, I must drive round and round.
A full circle, oh I wish, for that sounds so tidy.
As if closure, or peace, would then be nigh(dy).

My migraine an albatross, the rain a threat,
For goodness’ sake, there’s still dinner, baths and bed to be met.
“Knock, knock! Who’s there?” My youngest doth ask.
Dear me, I gasped, could this breath be my last?

For who, after such a day, could endure a bad joke?
Not me, not this girl strangled by a maternal yoke.
They say love is blind; for the SAHM that’s often true.
But knock, knocks, and farty hoo-ha will make the brightest one blue.

As my soul threatened to vanish, right into thin air,
Husband’s key in the lock brought me back from despair.
The naked truth, dearest T, is that I really must go.
Upstairs, with a crossword and some wine, this I know.

Out of death’s jaws, you’ve certainly sprung me,
While you’re at it, come what may, the laundry is ready.
So fold, kiss and tuck, or I’ll send you packing.
Day’s done, crappish Wednesday, you were sorely lacking.