Safe at Home

I'll never forget the last night of the 2014 World Series, and not because of the game.

In fact, I only saw or heard about ten minutes of it.  Instead I was at San Francisco’s Lowell High School for an open house with my eighth grade daughter Anya and about two thousand other hopeful applicants and parents.

As the game started we stood in a massive line and watched the drum corps perform on a beautiful fall night. We then walked the halls and found ourselves in the AP Chemistry classroom.

Two young senior women enthusiastically told us about their school. They were smart and grounded and quite comfortable answering questions.  We learned that Lowell was ranked second on Earth last year for the number of Advanced Placement courses offered!  

I asked them about the homework level, grinning a bit as Anya nudged me in the ribs to stop.  

Her final helpful words to me before entering the school had been "Daddy, don't act weird, and don't ask any stupid questions!"

All the while, game seven was underway, and it was a nail biter!  I was checking my phone somewhat obsessively, and I admit I was feeling a bit sorry for myself.

Why did the open house have to be tonight? Was it going to be worth it? Did we really need to come to this event?

This feeling and these questions were familiar to me: the desire to be somewhere else, to be somewhere "better" or "more interesting" or "more fun."

In fact, this has probably been the dominating experience of my life. The modern term is FOMO: Fear of a Missing Out, and as a boy who was always shy and insecure and believing I was not good enough and that I did not belong, this fear has teeth for me!!!

The Principal entered, opening with a big Go Giants cheer and speaking with vigor and pride and excitement about "his" kids. My aunt Judie, who had recently passed, was a lifelong teacher and principal and she always spoke of her kids, many of whom had come to her funeral.

I began to feel intense nostalgia, but also great excitement about this school, and about Anya's future as a student. What a journey!

I looked at her sitting next to me, and remembered how small she once was:  this tall, slender, beautiful young woman, sharp intelligence glinting in her eyes, and ideals and ambition shining in her hair.

I really saw her.

Anya at four days old sunning with me in the front room of the house.

A line of students dressed in black began to walk out onto the stage, singing.

              I've heard there was a secret chord that David played and pleased The Lord...

It was Leonard Cohen's beautiful song, Hallelujah, one of my favorites.

More and more students emerged, the Lowell Advanced Choir, until there were fifty or sixty.  Their exquisitely layered harmonies filled the room, and pierced straight into my heart.

             There was a time when you let me know

             What's really going on below

             But now you never show it to me, do you?

Tears welled up in my eyes and  my throat caught.

In their voices, there was such grace, such richness of spirit, such a poignant reminder that I was exactly where I needed to be, and that I was exactly where I wanted to be.

I reached over to put my arm around Anya's shoulders, and she actually allowed me to hug her for a few moments before shrugging me off.

We listened to the last three outs on the radio as we drove home, and squealed in unison when the Royals threatened to tie. Then, right as we pulled into our garage, the game ended, the Giants won, and we shrieked with joy.

I honked the horn until Anya made me stop, and the city erupted around us with shouts and fireworks and exultation.

Before we went in the house, she turned to me, looked into my eyes, and thanked me for going with her.  She said I know it was hard since it was game seven of the World Series.

I could only smile through another tear, one word in my mind.

Hallelujah

Anya and me (photo posted with her permission:  thanks kiddo!)