Pamela Ferdinand

The Roar Series

Pamela — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 18:49:19 +0000

Thanks to Jennifer Brown Banks for including me as one of 10 women bloggers featured on her site for National Women’s History Month. You can find the entry below and follow her blog at http://penandprosper.blogspot.com/

For years, I had succeeded at work as a journalist for leading daily newspapers – The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, The Miami Herald. More importantly, I enjoyed it: the craft of writing, the adrenaline rush of covering deadline events from elections to hurricanes, and the hope of making a difference in someone’s life or the well-being of an entire community.
And yet, well into my 30s, I was a failure at love. Falling for men who either couldn’t commit or just couldn’t commit to me, I yearned for my soulmate even as girlfriends mocked me as a hopeless romantic. I also wanted a child and knew my time was running out. In each other’s down moments, my girlfriends and I reached into the Hat of Hopeful Stories—the coworker who met her husband on the commuter train, the neighbor who had her first child at 44. Finally, as I neared 40 and another relationship collapsed, I didn’t give up on love entirely but I decided to take motherhood into my own hands.

One of my friends, Carey, had already taken the bold step of buying donor sperm when she turned 40 and her own biological deadline for becoming a mother struck. What she found was not a father in a vial, but a sort of magic potion. She met a man, fell in love, and got pregnant the old-fashioned way. She passed the vials to our friend Beth, and it happened again. Beth met a man, fell in love, and got pregnant. Beth passed the vials to me. Magic struck again. There were setbacks and disappointments, but discovering love and becoming a mother ultimately meant for me that I had found happiness and success in my personal life as well as my work.

Not only that, but I had done it in my own way, on my own terms, and with the unyielding support and encouragement of women friends.

Bon Voyage, Baby

Pamela — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 05:42:55 +0000

Mark is going to India for two weeks, and friends and family who know I’ll stay home juggling a toddler, an upcoming book release, and photography business indicate one thing by their reactions: I must be crazy in love to let him go. Or just plain crazy.

For nearly a year, Mark’s planned to travel to the Himalayan foothills to photograph the Kumbh Mela, a mass Hindu pilgrimage that occurs every 12 years and is now expected to attract up to 20 million people. (That’s more than twice the population of New York City.) He goes to India every year. His tickets were booked months ago, and the journey to his favorite place on the planet provides him with a constant source of inspiration and creativity. More than that, it makes him happy.

I’ll miss him terribly. I worry endlessly (even more than usual, though I trust him and know his judgment is sound) and make him draft contingency plans, give me emergency contacts, and copies of his documents. I remind him about first aid supplies and malaria pills; it must get annoying. At the same time, I worry about myself. I ask him to take care of Emma more than usual in the mornings running up to his departure date so that I can stockpile sleep for the long haul on my own. (I’m not a morning person. Never have been.) It’s not even that long; I’m a wuss. I’m lucky that we both work from home and know how fortunate we are compared to parents who work at offices and are separated by travel. By necessity. Even by war.

If Emma and I could go with him to India, we would, and one day we will, I tell people. But many don’t understand why he has to make the trip, and why I’m okay with it. “Does he have to go now?” some ask, with a look of concern. “Will you be okay? It must be so hard on you,” others tell me. “I wish he wouldn’t go,” said more than one person.

And yet, when I’ve told these same people how I’ve spent months writing and editing a book and have upcoming promotional events on the East Coast that may take me away from Emma and Mark, they rarely express concern for his well-being. They don’t mention the timing could be bad for him or ask how he’ll manage the multitude of responsibilities at home. They don’t teasingly scold me for leaving him behind.

I won’t lie: I do most of the laundry, dishes, cooking, cleaning, and organizing of appointments, school commutes, and child care. I answer the phone 99 percent of the time (“It’s always for you,” he says), handle our photography bookings, buy gifts, and arrange the bulk of our social plans. You could say I’m our band’s frontwoman. But Mark earns our steady income while my freelance assignments ebb and flow. He pays our bills and shoots and processes photos for days at a time (and often nights). He negotiates with Comcast and the insurance company or whoever else is trying to scam us. He repairs whatever’s broken, takes out the recyclables, takes Emma to gym class, plans romantic suprises, and…well, let’s just say he’s often the roadie. But he also is my rock.

I’m not saying Mark has to do these things to “earn” a trip abroad. I’m only trying to express that we are not only best friends, soulmates, lovers, and parents, but we are partners. And partners means that for all the extra stress, anxiety, and loneliness in his absence, his happiness is paramount to me. He feels the same way about mine and even asks if I want to go on a similar adventure. (The answer is no; I spent enough of my life alone to not want to travel without him and Emma if I can help it.) So when people ask me why India every year, why now, why ever, I’m grown-up and secure enough in his commitment to us to know that he is not making a choice between me and something else, and that I would not want to ask him to.

We experienced a lot before we met and before we became parents. I studied politics and culture in the former Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. I am a potter and a kayaker. He is fascinated by British history in India. He loves yoga and films. How sad it would be for us now to extinguish the interests and passions that attracted us to each other in the first place. And how sad a lesson it would be for our daughter, too, if we shared a life where we became less than the sum of our parts rather than more.

Our Worst Mothers, Ourselves

Pamela — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 05:16:17 +0000

Women: Please stop telling other women what to do. Let us settle (or not) for Mr. Good Enough. Let us become moms at 45 should we so choose. Don’t tell me why I shouldn’t be a working mother (or why I shouldn’t stay at home). Don’t try to scare me with poor statistics and bad science. And, as angry and frustrated as you get at other women sometimes, don’t tell me how you would like to punch some of us in the face.

What’s going on? I love having women in my life, from my closest friends to new acquaintances, still really strangers, online. I appreciate genuine concern and insights. But increasingly I have to wonder, have we become our own worst mothers?

Certainly, if we’ve experienced anything, we know better. We know there is more than one way to live a life as a woman, as confusing as it can be, and more than one path to get to where we’d like to go, even if we don’t get there. We know we can plan to have things work out one way, and they go another. When that happens, what I need most of all is information, constructive feedback, and understanding, if not loving support. What I need least of all is name-calling and moral certitude.

I am thinking about this after a series of virtual catfights on Twitter between women over who said what (in 140 characters or less) to whom and when. I could barely follow them enough to make out what the hoopla was about. In real life, women interrupt each other, we argue, we laugh (loudly), we mock ourselves more than anyone else. But Madeleine Albright said there is a special place in hell for women who do not help other women, and it makes me sad that a current dynamic in books, blogs, and social networks often plays to our demons, not to our better selves. It’s certainly easier for some of us to be rude or downright abusive when we wouldn’t even recognize one another passing on the street.

I also am thinking about how women treat other women after receiving a gracious and generous note from a dear friend. She balanced thoughtful advice and concern from her own experience with an offer of real life support: “I want to be one of your friends who reminds you…that it’s going to be a challenging juggling act to take care of your personal life while nurturing what’s next in your career, and your friends like me are here to support you. I’m good with solving the practical stuff, so please take advantage of me!” She clearly thought I could use some help, and she didn’t make me feel bad about it.

I’ve made mistakes in my life and decisions that some people would likely abhor (some of which are documented in my memoir, co-authored with two other women). We didn’t set out to write a How To book or to suggest that our winding and bumpy journeys to love and motherhood are the only way to go. Or the best way to go. What I at least intended to do in sharing my story was to show that no path is perfect, that none of us have all the answers, that girlfriends can be powerful in your life, that you’re never too old to hope, that you’re never too old to f—k up, and that being true to yourself and your own desires — and acting on those desires — can sometimes create a kind of magic. Maybe. Who knows for sure? I sure don’t. And I don’t think anyone else does, either.

Use Your Words

Pamela — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 20:12:20 +0000

My friend’s husband Josh sits squarely in the camp of sensitive men, and Laura is a woman who doesn’t enjoy confrontation. Like Mark and I, their communication is usually good. And like us, they are older parents thinking of expanding their family. Everyone knows kids don’t make for smooth couple sailing so I was interested in hearing about the thoughtful strategy he came up with for handling Stress & The Second Child. Even though the second child does not (yet) exist.

“How about this?” he broached the subject with Laura after an exhausting day spent traveling between cars and airports with their toddler, a delightful creature with an increasingly strong will. “We have a set of prepared index cards to give each other when things hit a low point. When we don’t want to argue, but we’re too tired or upset to talk the issue through.”

(When Laura tells this to me, a parent of one easygoing child, it makes perfect sense. But other friends with multiple children apparently jettisoned the idea. Ah, the best laid plans…those poor naive souls…good luck with that, their reactions suggested.)

“Awesome idea,” Laura told him. “One card could say, ‘I love you.’ You know I always need to hear that when things are tough.”

“And another one could read, ‘Take the next day off and do whatever you want,’” he said. Which is precisely what she said he needed in those moments: a temporary exit strategy. Time to regroup and recharge.

“On one condition: The person who takes the day off has to arrange any sitters needed for that day,” she said. He raised his eyebrows. “So you know, if the other person needs to work or something. It doesn’t seem fair to dump everything on them without much notice.” Dump everything on me, she was clearly thinking. Even I knew that much. It was transparent, but he agreed.

“What could other cards say?” Laura asked.

“How about, ‘Let’s talk about this another time.’”

“Good. ‘I’m not blaming you,’” she said.

“Blaming me for what?” he asked, looking over at her as she continued to drive.

“Nothing. That was a card idea.”

“Oh.”

Close call. Which got me thinking: Was this such a good idea after all? Could these cards actually get them into fights? Maybe they should put a Twitter-type limit on them so there’s no misunderstandings. Six words or less? 200 characters?

Even then, it’s probably best to steer clear of profanity and sarcasm. Keep things G-rated. Messages with such economy of scale could sound louder and more brusque than intended, like they do on Twitter or cell phone texts.

“Love you really” could mean be interpreted as sentimental “Love you, REALLY” or passive-aggressive “Love you. Really.” “I need to be alone” could be taken as angry “I need to be ALONE” or sad “I NEED to be alone.” Not to mention any combination of letters and words that could signal security or separation in the throes of an argument, making the whole episode that much worse.

Maybe the ground rules should include being cautious with verbs and limiting adjectives and adverbs (a good idea anyway, some editors of mine have said). Something simple could suffice: “Let’s talk later.” “You could be right.” “Let me think.” “This hurts.” And, with or without kids, certainly the key is also being cautious with how we say the things that get us into high-stress trouble in the first place. And learning when it’s time to pack it in, pass on the cards, and just say, “I’m sorry.”

Bowie, My Muse

Pamela — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 20:00:32 +0000

David. Not David Bowie. Not Mr. Bowie. Not even Bowie. David. That’s what my parents call him. For instance, Dad: “I saw David on the Regis Philbin show the other morning.” Mom: “They’re doing an interview with David on the radio right now. Just thought you might want to know.” That’s how close they feel to him. And to me.

For years as a besotted and music-crazed teen-ager, I plastered my bedroom walls with Bowie posters and song lyrics typed on individual sheets of spiral notebook paper (along with others from the Clash, Pretenders, Beatles, Boomtown Rats, and Elvis Costello). My friend Melissa and I dressed up in cheap tuxedos and sat in the first row with scalped tickets for his concerts in the ‘80s, throwing a dozen roses on the stage at one point and holding up an old bed sheet spraypainted with a Turkish greeting from one of his albums. (I am proud, not even embarrassed, to note that he put one of the roses between his teeth and stopped mid-performance to read the sheet message aloud. Sigh.) I even wrote my senior high school dissertation on Bowie. It got an “A,” and I sent it to a vanity publishing house. It was never printed, but Mom began referring to it as my first book. To this day, years after living in London not far from his old Brixton stomping ground, I keep Ziggy Stardust a constant on my iPod playlist. And I try not to get too jealous when my significant other tells the story of how he met Bowie at a Manhattan party years ago. Maybe a little jealous.

Writers are often asked about the writers who influenced them, and my co-authors and I are starting to get that question as we prepare for interviews and fill out questionnaires for our publishers and book-related Web sites. I sometimes have a hard time with it. Don’t get me wrong. I love books. Love to read. Admire many authors — from Annie Proulx and Michael Chabon to Tolstoy, Alice Munro (heartbreaking first short story in her new book, by the way), and Jeannette Walls. And experience great joy in my daughter’s love of what passes for literature at age 2: Curious George is the livre du jour. (BTW, Steve Miller Band the music of the week.)

But for me, visual artists and musicians like Bowie can just as well be the ones who give me inspiration and energy. They elevate my mood when it’s low. They make me excited to write when I don’t want to. They can be famous strangers or close friends (or famous friends) — Adam Rothberg, a Boston-based musician whose songwriting has been compared to Paul McCartney, or Ann Tracy, a New York artist who creates glorious paintings, or Janet Echelman, whose ethereal nets will be showcased at the Vancouver Winter Games. I am stunned by their ability to visualize and create art or music that looks like it has always had a place in the world, or should have, when in fact it was spun from imagination and culled from thin air. By doing so, they give me the courage to think that maybe I can, too. Or at least it’s worth trying. I find the pain of not creating is worse than creating, even if winds up on the cutting room floor. As it often does.

And so, I turned to Lucy Kaplansky, the wonderful folksinger who kvells at every live performance over her daughter (adopted from China not so very long ago), to carry me through much of the writing of my story in Three Wishes. So did Dar Williams and Richard Shindell, her former partners in Cry Cry Cry, along with Bruce Springsteen and Antje Duvekot for some tough rewrites. Alexi Murdoch, whose music was featured in the film “Away We Go,” kept me going through final edits and plays even now in the background as I write this. My co-authors Carey Goldberg, Beth Jones, and I used the Bowie songwriting technique to brainstorm a subtitle, moving around dozens of words on individual pieces of paper on a countertop until we found a string of words that seemed just right.

In high school and college, I could study for tests and write school papers to the drumbeat and heavy guitar of Led Zeppelin and Boston. Now, though, it’s more gentle strumming and lyrical storytelling that transports me. I’m as picky about what’s playing as some writers are about starting their work with a #2 pencil and a yellow legal pad, or at a desk facing southeast. Once it starts playing, I begin to see my story almost as a film reel set to a soundtrack, and eventually the music fades until I lift my pen or stop typing and hear it once again.

Behind the Scenes

Pamela — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 23:46:10 +0000

Some snapshots from our fun book video shoot as recently filmed by Emmy-nominated Jackie Mow, with her talented crew Jessie and Laura. Jackie is a gifted producer and director whose work has appeared on NOVA (including the series “World in the Balance”), American Experience, and National Geographic Explorer, among other programs. Most recently, Jackie produced and directed “A Girl’s Life with Rachel Simmons,” featuring the acclaimed researcher and author exploring the issues around girls entering adulthood in the next decade.

Coming up: The Today Show – April 21, with events to follow at venues in Boston, New York, and Chicago including Printers Row Lit Fest! Please join us when and where you can.

Generating a Generation

Pamela — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 02:33:24 +0000

The way Dad recently looked with adoration at Emma reminded me of his reaction when he saw her for the first time as a baby on one of our last ultrasounds. Like she was the Second Coming. And he’s Jewish.

He didn’t anticipate that she would be a living, moving girl on the screen before us – and how could he? He was a father-to-be in small town, rural Virginia in the mid-1960s, well before the era of 3-D ultrasounds and genetic testing. I can only imagine the mystery and fear and excitement he and my mom must have felt before me (and my brother) were born. Or maybe they were young enough and lacking enough in today’s smorgasbord of technology not to be unduly worried, allowed to be more gloriously carefree than I was. They were in their 20s having a baby. I was in my 40s.

And here he was last week, on our quick winter break in the sun, Dad — my Dad, the one who pretended he was an undersea monster in the swimming pool, making faces, and chasing my brother and I — scooting Emma around on a kickboard as her grandfather. He said he thought of me then, and I thought of him. The scene was straight out of our vacations in Miami Beach, minus the coconut oil suntan lotion and geriatric bathers with walkers and gold flip flops. It conjured memories of floating in the water in my stiff blue swim vest with dolphins on it and trusting Dad to motor my little body around the perimeter safely. Now it was Emma in her little vest, holding his hands, kicking and trying to blow bubbles.

And Mom? I caught her and Emma dancing their hearts out one afternoon outside a restaurant where speakers pumped music outside. (My parents are long divorced so we split our getaway between them in two different locations. Such a modern family, we are.) Back to Emma and Mom: They were flailing their arms and twirling in circles, oblivious to spectators. My mom was smiling so hard it looked like her face might crack. It’s not an uncommon sight. Ditto Mark’s mum. She’s investing in cuddly animal toys and toddler books to animate Skype conversations with her granddaughter overseas.

I had no idea — how could I? — that having a daughter was not just about creating my own little family but an expansive one with unique, private relationships between her and her grandparents. Which is how it should be. I am not planning to intrude. I expect and hope that, like my relationships with my grandparents and even my great-grandparents, hers will be free of the adolescent angst and growing pains and spirit of rebellion that complicated our parent-daughter lives.

I am embarrassed and ashamed to admit that my parents, who never pressured me for a grandchild, were really the farthest thing from my mind when I wanted to have a baby. Really, it was all about me. It was about finding my partner (not their son-in-law), having my child (not their grandchild), creating a generation after me (not them). I was naive and self-absorbed enough not to consider how their identities and priorities might shift and how their perspectives about their lives and legacies might be redefined. (Not wholly, of course. My parents have individually accomplished too much on their own to be defined by any other person, especially such a little one.)

Sure, I thought they would make wonderful grandparents. But I never realized the extent such a life-changing event for me would change their lives, returning them to memories of their own childhoods, their own parenthoods. To rediscovering ways of sealing the earliest imprints of happiness and family on this indelible, almost unexpected life.

One or Two?

Pamela — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 20:49:12 +0000

When Mark and I began debating recently whether to have a second child, I bought some books on the subject. The ones about only children, full of bitter memories and sad longing, seemed to universally decry the choice even though Mark is a happy, well-adjusted only, and we know plenty of others. It was equally hard to read the books on second children, hard to get past their common message that we would just be plain tired for the rest of our lives, even if there were faint glimmers of joy through the fatigue.

I decided to listen to my heart as well as my head and cast a vote every morning based on how I was feeling at that precise moment. Many times, I heard Emma singing in her crib and giggling at her own jokes. I remembered how the previous day she had approached a little boy at the park, offering up a handful of snow with a smile, only to be rebuffed by his sibling. I thought about how she kisses her stuffed animals when she goes downstairs for breakfast and before she goes to bed at night. YES, I would vote on those mornings. YES. She’d love it. I’d love it. We can do it.

Then there were days when a bricklayer had apparently sealed my eyes shut and plastered my body to the bed. When I had stayed up too late — midnight didn’t used to be late — or Emma got up early. When I had neither the strength nor the desire to lift the covers, roll out of bed, and trudge to her room. When I just couldn’t move. I thought back to the days Mark and I slept in, made love, read the papers, and (so long ago!) went back to sleep. And how, with just one child, we could sometimes manage a lie-in of another half-hour or two. I considered how Emma has so far thrived with our undivided love and attention (though some only kids say this becomes an unhealthy triangle later in life). How our resources, limited in the best of times, would be stretched, and my relationship with Mark stretched, too, as we juggled two kids, postponed travel, as my body — having had miscarriages and an abortion already — became a stranger again, taking up all the room in our bed and all the air in the room. NO, I’d vote those days. NO. No second child. And then, of course, the next day it would be different again.

We interviewed friends with one or two children and asked about their experiences. They were great: forthcoming, balanced in their views, and supportive. No one regretted the choice they had made, whatever it was. Then we stopped. We each sat with the decision. I didn’t ask Mark how he felt, and he didn’t ask me. I knew he had serious reservations about adding to our little family, and I readied myself for his reply. But he’s a complicated, intelligent man, and he constantly surprises me. What he eventually told me was profound: “I was certain I didn’t want a second child, and I realized that when you are certain about something, that’s the time to question it.” So he did. And, realizing we have more of ourselves yet to draw upon, he came to a completely different conclusion.

What had I been certain about in my own life? That I would be married with kids at age 35. That I could trust everyone. That I would be young and healthy forever. These assumptions were challenged before I ever had the time to question them myself. But there are other things about which I have had great certainty, and these things have remained unshaken, even through crises: My belief in my strength, honesty, loyalty, and resilience. My love for Mark and Emma and the people closest to me, and my faith in them. My identity as a writer. My desire for community, and my peculiar brand of spirituality. These things are fundamental to who I am; they are right to me. But a second child? I don’t know that this is a decision I will ever be sure about.

I imagine we could go forward with Emma and be grateful that we got it right the first time. I imagine we could also go forward with two children and not remember what it was like to have just one. I guess I don’t believe there is a right or wrong choice to be made, and in this instance, unlike others, and unlike Mark, I am content to remain uncertain.

Just Because You’re a Mom

Pamela — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 15:07:39 +0000

Today Emma and I went to the park to meet a friend and her son. We talked about how we are older moms. I certainly am. No two ways about it: 44, nearly twice as old as my mom was when I was the age of my daughter. And older than most moms of toddlers in most communities, I would guess. Add to that, I moved about two years ago to a new city, where I have family and some friends from childhood but that’s about it. The first year was lonely, trapped in the house in the dead of winter, self-quarantined by an endless series of winter colds, away from our close East Coast circle of friends. Mark looked at me one day, recalled how I had gathered more than a dozen close Boston girlfriends to see the Sex & The City movie the night before we moved, and remarked: “You’re withering.” He was right.

But things have gotten better. Summer brought people outdoors, and we found ourselves at the beach, in the coffeehouse, at concerts and at Emma’s school, having conversations and making acquaintances. But one aspect of friendship as a new mom hasn’t changed, and that is that motherhood alone is not enough of a bond in and of itself for a friendship. At least for me, and I know I’m not alone. I am still seeking friends in the same organic ways that I always found them, and conversations deeper and more far-ranging than how to get Junior to eat his peas. It’s an awkward kind of dance because there I am, in a toddler gym or preschool circle time or Wiggleworms music class, and bringing up Haiti or health care or writing or art or travel clearly has its own place and time. Conversation (understandably so) tends to revolve around potty training and sleeping habits before it extends to careers and culture, so I’ve tried to be patient. Not my strong suit. And I’ve tried to be outgoing – also not my strong suit – striking up conversations with strangers at the park and playground, walking in the neighborhood and standing in front of the pet store with our kids.

A playground chitchat with a mom in her late 30s, while pushing our girls on the swings, led to a long conversation about moving to a new city and academic dissertations and religion – and a good friend. Another time, it was running into the same woman three times in one morning as we raced around town, pushing strollers and running errands, that led to coffee on my porch and a long talk about marriage and divorce, yoga and motherhood. Another park run-in gave me a new acquaintance and my husband a professional colleague. Some of us joke that we “pick up” one another like we were meeting men at bars. And sometimes, in friendships as in love, mothers or not, we get lucky.

Brain Power

Pamela — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 02:23:00 +0000

By Pamela Ferdinand | December 5, 2004 for the Boston Globe

As scientists move closer to understanding how the brain thinks, they’re making strides toward finding what causes schizophrenia and other mental illnesses. Charles, a 55-year-old with schizophrenia, sits motionless and alone in the vaultlike chamber of a Charlestown laboratory. He leans back on a low-slung chair, and the white maw of an imaging machine swallows his head like a dryer in an old-fashioned hair salon – only this one contains more than 300 sensors bathed in liquid helium. Wires run down his neck from holes in a baby-blue cap where electrodes are pasted to his scalp and temples. He listens to a series of clicks, and, as his brain responds, red squiggles appear on a computer screen in an adjacent room. Read the entire article >