48. language
the narrowness of it
I kind of forget that it’s summer on and off, despite complaining that “It’s so hot,” because July is my landmine month filled with birthdays, anniversaries of people’s weddings, and ends with Noah’s death day. It feels like the longest, sloggiest month since he died. I realized that I’m doing a lot of dopamine seeking-reward loop behavior, just doing a hundred things at the same time, like listening to a podcast while having a show on mute in the background and also putting away my clothes. Also stress eating but taking too long to start cooking dinner and ending up eating it at 9PM. It feels like an obvious move to avoid sitting and thinking about what it means that it’s been almost 3 years since Noah died.
Earlier this month, I actually went to see Noah’s nephew, the first person since he died to come into this world that is related to him biologically. I now have this sensation of missing the baby (who is a shrimp and a baby bird and I’ve already begun art appreciation with him), then immediately missing Noah. Not sure if it’s because he’s so closely related to Noah, or it’s some other strong connection. I can’t wait to make homemade crunch wrap supremes with this boy. I want him to listen to all of Noah’s playlists. I want to see if he can kick a soccer ball with any proficiency. Babies are crazy. You put so many ideas and thoughts onto this person who is already their own person but also the most helpless wobbly-necked alien being. It’s really not fair for them, that adults with baggage have to get involved in their life immediately.
Last month I went briefly to Japan to visit my grandma and uncle, mostly. She’s changed a lot since the last time I saw her. My uncle and I talked about how things are going with her, with some random convos sprinkled in. We were talking about movies (he still likes Jim Jarmusch but feels he fell off a little), and he said that American movies have lots of words, that the characters talk so much. I had just gotten assigned to teaching in the toddler classroom, where the kids are 15-24 months old and not everyone is talking intelligible words. Some of the kids babble in full sentences that are not understandable to us, but they are definitely saying lots and lots of stuff, and some kids are talking intelligibly. I was thinking about how I have to understand and respond to people who are speaking to me in a language I don’t fully comprehend. It’s almost like being in a foreign country, except that I’m responsible for the people’s well being and have to change their diapers.
Our friend Jess (who I made a painted octopus for! because she reads this blog and takes me seriously for my offers of art!) said the other day that some people would have been friends as cavemen. I think what that meant was that before cultural commonalities or clothes that you like or taste in art, there was still friendship and affinity between people. We ended up in this conversation because I was saying how I don’t fully understand how Noah’s friendships with different people worked. Even if I want to replicate their friendship or try to be there for people in the same way Noah did, it’s really going to be so different, because the other person and Noah had their special bond and way of communicating that went beyond spoken or written language. Noah wasn’t the most language forward person, I think. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t good at talking or writing or communicating with language. I feel like he didn’t have to use language as much because his presence, his body language, his demeanor communicated clearly. I think I’ve spent a long time trying to be like Noah, but recently I’ve come to terms with the fact that Noah isn’t replicable, and the best next thing is to be myself, in a way that Noah would have been proud of, or fond of, or thought was cute or kind or excellent. Again, I will never live down the Noah cult allegations because I say stuff like this. But whatever I’m doing well, I think it’s because of the time I spent with Noah, and I had something to do with it, too, but he was a major catalyst. That’s the baseline I’m working from when I interact with people close to Noah, that they know how it feels to be loved and trusted by him, and that they brought him delight.
I actually think being with one-year-olds have opened my eyes up to human connection a lot more than working with slightly older kids. With 2-5 year olds, I feel like I can get to them verbally so much more easily. I can find their interests and start a conversation, and that’s usually my in. One of my bosses said that I talk to the kids a lot, in a good way. It shows me that I’ve relied so much on language, to make sense of my world and to find ways to problem solve and to feel connected. I’m trying to bond with kids who don’t talk, who may smile when I make a funny face, or sing a song, or happen to catch them in a moment of joy that isn’t hampered by being witnessed by an adult. They can sense that I like that, and if they like that I’m slightly more joyful, then we keep connecting. It’s truly cavepeople shit. Sometimes we connect when I hold their big feelings, which I am significantly better at being in grief.
Because writing and talking has been my primary way of processing grief, I think this realization about language and our reliance on it has been really helpful. Of course I listen to music and sounds, hike mountains, feel desert sun, watch movies, eat food, exercise, etc. and it helps me perceive my grief in different ways, too. It’s not that I haven’t been feeling my feelings, but it’s that putting words to what I’m doing felt like the processing. But maybe it wasn’t really getting to the core of the thing. Holding my new nephew, knowing he’s part of Noah’s biological family, it’s a strange and visceral connection. I will always love pointing out things and naming things to babies, but I know that how he feels when I hold him is really, really important.
As mentioned before, I’ve been scrolling away, watching a gazillion short videos on social media, numbing and avoiding my July dread. It’s good news for the readers of this blog, though, because here is a massive portal to what brings me joy in a depression season!!!
Always on the grief/loss train: Subway Takes Guy’s regret, Hanif Abdurraqib on grief as recalling, Suleika Jaouad on living, Tina and Mikey on sort of aging, Anthony Bourdain on life, and sorry will never shut up about La Chimera
True about love: Elmo needs a tube blanket, cats with coffee, Tunde on direct eye contact, Maya Angelou on laughter and love, SZA is Mr.Rogers for girls
Just funnies: Peekaboo x Stayin Alive, Born Slippy, Dan Deacon sings anthem at Camden Yards, wider ducks (thanks Alex, the original bird man), Angel’s Landing is the scariest hike I’ve ever done, I fear Kai has entered his zaddy era
To be soothed by softness: A field with Dev Hynes, monkeys in an onsen, young David Byrne dancing, baby capybara he just like me fr, Björk never misses 1, 2, 3, Bad Bunny holds a bunny, Myles has no doubt
And of course a big moment in recent history is that the CLIPSE IS BACK. Malice comes back and the first song on their album is him talking about his dead dad. I love the dynamic of the brothers in interviews, Pusha being gregarious, almost silly sometimes, and Malice just sitting there quietly making faces when need be. Their Tiny Desk concert ends in the perfect way.
Hi Hitomi - I read some of this post to my wife who sits beside me as we sit beside her mother who is in the process of completing her life. What you wrote about babbling little ones feels so relevant to where we are now, except little ones have no expectation of being able to manage their own bathroom needs and, occasionally, in terrible moments of lucidity, my mother-in-law does. I have also watched a zillion YouTube shorts while sitting here this last week-and-change. I also know the acute pain of the death day anniversary as it approaches - in Judaism, we call it a yahrzeit and I recently lived through the first one for my platonic life mate, my best friend of 30 years. And I know that your grief is entirely unique to you as mine is to me, even as similar as we and are grief no doubt are. So, reaching across time and space with gratitude that you write and share, and love for you and your broken and whole heart. 💜
I do not write for masses, nor for applause. I write because the words insist on existing, even if they vanish unread. But if you, somewhere, find and feel them—give a sign. I do not need many. I need one. This is not a call for company. It is a signal. Some will notice and ignore it; others will never even perceive it. If you are one of the few for whom it resonates, you already know what to do.