A Gift

I drove through Starbucks this morning. I ordered a grande coffee and when it was finally my turn at the window, my debit card ready and waiting, the barista told me that the woman in the car in front of me had paid for my drink. Maybe I’m jaded, or maybe I’m just innately skeptical, but I had to ask the barista if she was serious. She was. Convinced that this was really happening, I asked if the woman had given a reason why. She had.

“She was paying it forward.”

Apparently, someone a few cars ahead of me had paid for the drink of the person behind them. That person, after learning this, then asked to pay for the drink of the person behind them. So on and so forth. Everyone happily paying it forward.

I was impressed by the generosity of this, and amused that it had gone on for several cars now, but something about it was also unsettling. Part of the problem was that I suddenly felt immense pressure to pay for the drink of the person behind me. And as much as I didn’t care about the cost of doing this, and as much as I liked the idea of endorsing such activities as this, I felt a strong resistance.

“What do you want to do?” asked the barista.

I looked at her. I was torn. Her asking me furthered the implication that there was an expectation here.

“You know,” I said, “I think I’m just going to accept the gift.”

She smiled and told me to have a great day, which was reassuring, but as I pulled forward into the parking lot, I suddenly felt panicked. What if a camera crew was waiting to capture on film the cheapskate who ended a good thing? What if the woman who had paid for my drink was waiting for me? What if I got caught?

It was ridiculous of me to think this way, but I didn’t want to be faced with what I had just done. It felt like I had just gotten away with something. Even now, writing this for you, I feel an urge to explain myself.

So here goes, my explanation…

I think we have a hard time accepting gifts. I don’t think it has anything to do with where we live or how much money we make. I think it’s just how we are. Gifts, to us, can sometimes feel like debt. We keep track of who gives us birthday gifts so that we can be sure to do the same for them. We take note of how much our significant others spend on us at Christmas or on our anniversary so that we can match or exceed this sum the next year. We have a mental cabinet reserved for this information. We might resent ourselves for filing it away, but no matter how hard we try to not care, we unfailingly do.

This morning, faced with the question of what I wanted to do, everything in me was ready to say, “Yes, I’d love to keep this going!” But there was also something in me that was concerned about being that guy, the guy who didn't keep it going. And this troubled me.

I don’t regret being “that guy.” I don't regret ending a good thing. I was given a gift. I accepted it as a gift. And you know, I think I probably will pay it forward someday. But I’m not going to do it because I want to even the score or simply to reciprocate. I don't want it to be about paying off a debt. And while I know it wasn't necessarily that for the few cars who kept it going in front of me, and while I am grateful that only by their doing so was I included, I am saying that pressure, not joy, was how it felt when I was faced with the decision to keep it going or not.

When inspiration to do something like this next strikes me, whether it's at a Starbucks or not, whether it's a repeatable gesture or not, I really want it simply to be my way of saying, "Here’s a gift—I hope you enjoy it."

Christmas at Cheapo

I grew up in a house full of music. Vinyl, Cassette, CD...you name it, we had it. My dad was at the helm of this music addiction and I could tell you a million record-related stories here. But there's one in particular that rises above the rest. One Christmas Day afternoon, my father suggested that we don our jackets and scarves, walk as a family around Lake Calhoun and pay Cheapo Records a visit. We had spent the past day and a half over-stimulated with large dinners, gift opening and non-stop “family time," so the opportunity to get out was an easy sell.

I remember it being a mild Dec. 25th that year, but we were still cold enough after reaching Lake St. that we had to stop in at Cafe Wyrd (now Barbette's) for coffees and cocoas. After a quick thaw, we finally made it to Cheapo. Inside, we broke into our own private hunts. I can't remember what anyone else got, but my selection was Revival by Gillian Welch. I was sold when my dad pointed out that it was she, not Emmylou Harris, who wrote "Orphan Girl."

I remember sitting by stereo that night, playing "Orphan Girl" on repeat. I even remember going back to Emmylou's version for comparison. At the time, I thought first place remained in Emmylou's corner. Now, I'm not so sure. Either way, that Christmas trip remains one of my favorite family memories.

I wonder now why we didn't make it a family tradition. Did nobody suggest we do it again the next year? Did it not cross my mind? Maybe some things are meant to be inspiration and nothing more. Maybe it's best that it belonged only to that year. Or, maybe it will be a generational tradition. My dad handed it down to us, we'll hand it down to ours. So on and so forth, from one generation to the next, from our house to the house of music, forever and ever... or for as long as Cheapo keeps its doors open on Christmas Day, anyway.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with the words to "Orphan Girl."

I am a orphan
on God's highway
But I'll share my troubles
if you go my way

I have no mother
no father no sister
No brother
I am an orphan girl

I have had friendships
pure and golden
But the ties of kinship
I have not known them

I know no mother
no father no sister
No brother
I am an orphan girl

But when he calls me
I will be Able
To meet my family
at God's table

I'll meet my mother
my father my sister
My brother
no more an orphan girl

Blessed savior
make me willing
And walk beside me
until I'm with them

Be my mother
my father my sister
My brother
I am an orphan girl

Be my mother
my father my sister
My brother
I am an orphan girl
I am an orphan girl

Driving a Pulitzer

Junot Diaz has taken home the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for his debut novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. This is the Dominican-American’s first novel and second book. His first book, Drown, a critically acclaimed collection of short stories, came out twelve years earlier in 1996. A gap? A gap indeed! But this hasn’t been a quietly passed stretch for Diaz. In these twelve years, he has done more than most writers, publishing nine stories in the New Yorker and placing countless others elsewhere. And did I mention that he teaches creative writing to undergraduates at M.I.T. and is the fiction editor for the Boston Review?

But still – twelve years between books?

According to a recent article in the New York Times, “Mr. Diaz said he kicked around the idea for his first novel for about four years and then spent seven years writing it. ‘In some ways I think that this book waited for me to become a better person before it wrote itself,’ he said.”

When Diaz visited my school in the fall of 2006, he had a much less “Zen” perspective on his future Pulitzer-winning novel, which he was then working on. During a Q&A he was asked if he had something in the works. I can't quote his answer, but it went something like: “I’ve spent forever working on this thing, trying to figure it out. And I’m sick of it. It’ll be done soon, thank god.”

After his lecture, I had the privilege of driving Diaz to our school’s watering hole, O’Gara’s, where a few of us were going to meet for drinks. (Time Out – I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Josiah, you had a Pulitzer Prize winner in your car?!?!?! I knew you were thinking this because it's what I've been thinking all week. Anyway...) We talked about his lecture that evening, about his short stories and about his experience teaching at M.I.T. I told him that I teach a small creative writing class to adults with disabilities, and I asked about what it was like to teach the so-called “smartest” students in the world a subject like creative writing.

He said, “They’re all amazing at it. Everything they write is perfect, totally publishable. They scrutinize everything they do, pour over every sentence, so it all comes out beautiful. But they don’t care about it, at least not in the sense that it would ever be something they’d pursue.”

I told him that some of my students use adaptive equipment. I said, “They pour over every word too. But it’s because it’s a slow process for them.”

I didn’t quite know how to put what I was thinking then. I thought for a moment and said, “The thing is, they might not ever be able to publish anything they write, but they care about every word.”

He said, “That’s cool, man. That’s very cool.”

At the bar, a dozen of us (students mostly) pulled tables together, ordered fries and beers and watched the screens overhead as the Red Sox played host to the White Sox. I can’t remember much from the game, but remember that Diaz and I quickly established that we both loved baseball, and I remember that this was what dominated the rest of the evening's conversation. He, a Mets and Red Sox fan, confessed that he was doubtful that the Sox would win another World Series anytime soon. But then, and with some reluctance - as if he were obligated to remember, he started talking about how great it was to see them win in 2004.

A friend of Diaz came then. He joined us at the table and we all went through a series of brief introductions. I didn’t recognize his name, and I can’t for the life of me remember it now, which is my loss, because, as it turned out, he was a well-known local poet. After he and Diaz left, which was before the rest of us, everyone became outwardly excited. “Do you know who that was?” they said. I had no idea. They laughed at the fact that I had just spent that last half hour talking baseball with such a beloved poet.

Now, nearly two years later, I’m more enamored by the fact that I had spent the evening talking about baseball with a future Pulitzer Prize winning author.

But let me also say this: what I most value about my experience that night is not that I got to drive in my car or share beers with a celebrity writer, but that I got to hear then how exhausted he was from working over his novel and compare it to now, where he has a Pulitzer to show for it.

He waited until it was right. Imagine if he hadn't.