GPS Moment

 

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I like maps. They give me a sense of control, a bird’s-eye view of my options in which I ultimately get to decide which way I’ll go, as well as Plan B and C, just in case. It’s a spatial thing, really. I just don’t like being lost, and feel disoriented if I don’t have a broad aerial sense of things.

I remember my enthusiasm way back when my kids were in fourth grade and had to map out our neighborhood. Such a simple task, I imagined the light-bulb coming on as they saw their surroundings organized for the first time on a map of their own making, a sudden sense of order to the sidewalks, intersections, parks, neighboring buildings and shops. One of the first steps on the path to independence in a big city.

The GPS on my phone has conveniently replaced the old map of Buenos Aires that I used to constantly stop to unfold, always getting tangled up in its tattered, scotch-taped sections. This new technology naturally suits me. I use the GPS much like a paper map, planning my route before I leave, but with the added ease of being able to check my location if I lose my way, no willy-nilly unfolding required. However, there is one function that I hate: the voice option. Suddenly, my trusty map morphs into someone else telling me where to go. It makes me crazy.

Case in point: L. has recently gotten his driver’s license, so he asks to drive often. F. and a friend needed to make an early Saturday morning pick-up, so he volunteered, meaning I would have to go along for the ride since he’s still not driving alone. I was groggy and hadn’t had my coffee, so didn’t think to check the map before leaving. I knew we were going somewhere in Devoto, so thought: Avenida San Martin, and the kids will have the exact address. The following scene ensued.

“Does anybody have the address?”

“I’m turning my GPS on,” says F. from the back seat.

“OK, but give me the address so I can map it. Turn right at the next light onto San Martin,” I say.

Right at that moment, a different voice with a California-neutral accent issues from the back seat, “Continue straight, on &*%^&Y.”

“Mom, the GPS said to keep straight. Why did we turn?”

“Because this is the way to Devoto.”

“Turn left, onto $^%&D$,” the GPS says as we continue up San Martin, now fully into Metrobus construction chaos.

“Don’t turn left. What the hell is she saying? Why do you have it set to English? She can’t pronounce the street names right! I have no idea what she’s saying, just give me the address now.”

“Turn left – Gire a su izquierda y vuelve,” now the GPS was a Spaniard.

F. gives me the address. “Oh no, my phone is dead. Give me yours so I can see. I need a visual! Watch out for the cars on the right! And don’t turn left!” Full-blown PMS joined forces with GPS lady at that point.

The two girls are frantically texting in the back. As the española continues to bark out orders to turn left at every intersection, Fiona says, “Why don’t you just do what the GPS says, Mom?”

“Because you can’t turn left on two-way avenues in the city of Buenos Aires! She obviously doesn’t know that. You have to turn right to go left.”

“Stop calling it a she. It’s not a real person,” F. finally hands me the phone.

“Gire a su izquierda—“

“Shut up, gallega de mierda!” I bark at the GPS woman. To L. I say,:”Do not turn left, whatever you do. You have to turn right and then come back across.”

He says, “Calm down, Mom. The GPS is updated, so I think we should follow it. You have to trust the technology.”

“NEVER when there’s construction or on two-way streets. She can’t possibly know!”

“Not a person, Mom…” he says as he tries out the accelerator on the bridge.

“Slow down!” I yell, while grabbing the armrest on one side, my other hand pressed hard on the ceiling of the car. “Why didn’t I just check the map before we left? You have to have a plan before driving into unknown territory. I know this. Turn right!”

We finally get across San Martin Ave. and are presumably somewhere in Devoto. We come to a railroad crossing and I say, “Turn here.” He turns left. It’s a two-way street. Luckily the oncoming traffic isn’t closer. I go completely berserk.

“You see! You see what happens? I meant turn right, but she has burned it into your brain to turn left! There is a universal law according to which you can never, EVER turn left on avenues in Buenos Aires without a turn arrow.”

“Ok, Mom,” he says as we finally find the address and he handily parallel parks. “I think you need to get out and take a walk around the block.”

It is hard to describe the anxiety over having your kid behind the wheel of a car in a mega city; it’s a lethal mix of the instinct to protect your child and the knowledge that they’re on their way, surrounded by imminent danger but don’t need or want you telling them how to maneuver. You have no control. Despite my mounting hysteria, the construction, the traffic and contradictory orders from me and the GPS women, in addition to the fact that his girlfriend had witnessed my meltdown, he had driven carefully and skillfully and kept calm. How did we get to this point?

Although I would like to think we have provided them with the basic tools to find their way, I know that their coordinates are different from mine. Writing this today, their very last day of high school, I am reminded that there was no map to get us here, and yet… here we are, safe and sound.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Road Signs

DSCN2076I believe we largely make our own destinies. And even though I carelessly used the word ‘providence’ in an interview once in reference to an uncanny alignment of events, I don’t believe in fate or god or any of that. I am, however, a faithful disciple of Dr. Seuss and his vast wisdom of the universe—the forks in the road, road signs, speed bumps to be heeded. Anything traffic-related really. Because these are behind the choices we make. And sometimes the signs are billboard-sized and all in neon.

One example of this would be how my family and I ended up living in the house of Hugo Midón. I could play connect-the-dots on that one back any number of years, but I’ll just limit the connections to one: a public school in Seville, Spain –> our current residence in a PH in the noisy barrio of Caballito in Buenos Aires. Short version goes like this: Frustrated by the lack of arts activities in our children’s elementary school in Seville—a school where “art” class consisted of a color-coded text book and our naturally musical kids would come home crying about how mean the music teacher was—my husband turned a volunteer storytelling activity into a makeshift drama club, which quickly mushroomed into a major theater project. Then our friend Marina from Buenos Aires gave us a CD of music from Midón’s musicals. Then we decided it would be cool to incorporate some of those songs and build our own script around them. And everyone went a little gaga over the music, and there were suddenly people making weird percussion instruments, giant pinwheels and I was running a tie-die operation off my balcony. Contagion city.

Then in the midst of that circus I made a solo trip to Buenos Aires because we were thinking maaaybe about moving. But all those crazy theater people wanted was more music from Midón’s plays, so in addition to real estate sleuthing, the music thing was also on my shopping list. And one day as I was wandering the (then still hipster-free) streets of Palermo Viejo, I found myself accidentally in front of Rio Plateado, Hugo Midón’s theater school. Two-bird moment, I rang the buzzer thinking I’d avoid Musimundo and score a few CDs of his musicals right then and there. And because my short version is turning long: I ended up sitting in Midón’s office, sipping tea with the man himself and he happened to mention his house was for sale. That was one of those signs you heed.

Six months later we were living in his former house. The music happening in that house, mostly thanks to my kids, has never ceased for a moment. And we also have a resident writer. Call it a muse, creative spirit, providence, whatever—but it really comes down to the choices we made.

Following some similar signage, I made a trip to San Francisco, CA last year. This was after a moment of personal crisis and a conversation with a friend about what the hell to be when I grow up (in the second half of my life). She asked, “If you could wipe out all factors limiting your field of options—responsibilities, family, geography, etc.—what would you do?” In a very random moment, I said, “I’d go to San Francisco, visit the Pirate Supply Store, maybe buy an eye-patch, and hope to meet Dave Eggers.” She said, “Why don’t you? You could open your own pirate operation here.”

I have to confess I suffer from a bit of starry-eyed giddiness when it comes to Eggers, which is mostly just about his writing. When I read his first book way back when he was all ‘stream of consciousness’ and I was all ‘holy crap, he is speaking directly to me in my special language,’ I decided he was the writer of my generation, that I had connected deeply on that. So over the years I’ve read all of his books, and he’s grown up, and so have I. And I’ve learned to respect him not only as a constantly evolving and multi-talented writer, but also for coming up with the brilliant idea behind 826 Valencia, an ingenious public initiative that has writers and volunteers doing free creative writing workshops with public school kids. It has mushroomed into numerous centers throughout the US and elsewhere in the world. After following the project for the past few years, forcing my family to watch his popular TEDTalk more than once, and just generally being way too much of a groupie, I learned about the 826 National seminars not long after aforementioned conversation with my friend. The national NGO runs seminars for people interested in starting their own 826 centers. Which gave me a much more concrete (ok, mature) reason to go the Pirate Store.

Dot-connecting: Went to 826 seminar in SF last July, spent two days learning about how to start a non-profit, raise funds, talked to volunteers, explored the store and writing center, met inspiring directors of other connected organizations, like Mimi Lok, executive director of Voice of Witness. It was all better than I’d imagined—just brimming with genuine commitment, quirkiness and the most incredible people. Luckiest of breaks, the organizers told me someone else had come from Buenos Aires earlier this year with similar intentions. They said they’d put me in touch. After months of mulling over how to start one of these centers in BA, a notebook full of lists of potential donors, venues, school-system contacts, other education NGOs, etc., I knew what I really needed was a partner, someone with the same mission. Someone like any of the amazing people I had met during the seminar. My wish was about to be granted. Soon after my return to Buenos Aires, I got an email with the contact info for this other person interested in starting an 826-inspired center here.

And sometimes we ignore the signs. The official version of this story is that I met Ignacio (not his real name), began to brainstorm and collaborate with him, helped raise volunteers, bring in writers to run workshops and handled the social media and communications aspects of a pilot program that he had arranged through the sponsorship of a local publisher. The program was incredibly successful and a joy to be a part of, mainly seeing the enthusiasm of the students and teachers from the five public schools that participated. And to see the need firsthand and know that a program like this, if done right, will address serious failings in the school system when it comes to writing skills and creative self-expression. The experience confirmed that following my long-term interest in this project and making it happen was right on target.

The backstory is a little different. There were billboards. And flashing lights. That I chose to ignore because I knew they would prevent me from being a part of the project. And because sometimes I overanalyze and make too many allowances for potential “cultural” differences. Sometimes those differences are really just about people being out for themselves no matter where they’re from… And this is the part where I have to delete a whole paragraph of ranting in an effort to stick to the high road and boil it down to: I had good reason to be pissed by the end.

Do I wish I had followed those signs from the beginning and saved myself from some humiliation and the feeling of being used? Actually, no. Because if I had, I would have missed being a part of the whole process of making it happen and now knowing that I am quite capable of doing it myself. With better people. And better ideas. And truer to the whole collaborative spirit of the thing, and not some convenient marketing scheme. Even though I ignored all the little lights and warning buzzers I saw early on in small acts of incompatibility, I can now see they were pointing to a much larger—huge, really—difference in our global understanding of the project and Egger’s vision.

I live in a house where at least three generations of artists, performers, musicians and writers have regularly come to dinner and worked their creative magic under its roof. It feels like the appropriate site for an 826-inspired program to come together. In an imaginary dinner conversation between Dave Eggers, Hugo Midón, and my family, I see lots of shared vision, like-mindedness and lively conversation. (Ignacio is not invited.)

Remember

I don’t remember what it felt like to sit in my mother’s lap or the sound of her voice reading to me. You won’t remember these things about me either. You won’t remember that our house had wallpaper on the ceilings, that we stood on ladders and used a machine to steam and peel it off, our arms aching from being held aloft, dirty water dripping on you as you crawled around below. You won’t remember that there was music playing always, or that we hired an opera student to babysit and sing you arias. You won’t remember that I painted whimsical fish and ocean sprites on your bedroom wall, or later the Mono Liso. Or how I held your flailing arms and legs and rocked you in a big blue chair, all because you wanted chocolate milk at 3am. You won’t remember me pushing the stroller through the snow, you all bundled in fleece, because it was the only way you’d go to sleep.

ImageYou won’t remember that all we needed was a sofa to sit back and watch you perform, blissed out while you inhabited endless characters, costumes and worlds all for our viewing pleasure. Or how we banned technology for years just so the show would keep going on. Nor will you remember how your thumb was your best friend and you spoke so lovingly of it, to it. You won’t remember how I marveled—truly—at your tiny, intricate drawings. Or how, when you wanted to fly for real, we hitched you to a harness, strapped on your wings and let you soar from the oak tree. You won’t remember sippy cups or Maymont Park or learning the words to the Peter Pan song and singing it with abandon. You won’t remember tire swings or puddle-jumping or that time I rolled out brown craft paper and let you run around in different colored paint all over it, or how I cut out sections of it later to decorate the dining room wall. You won’t remember how we decided to just work from home because we couldn’t get enough of you, how we sometimes just stayed in our pajamas all day long and were silly.

You won’t remember how many times we read Chicken Soup with Rice, or that time we drove to France and couldn’t bother to get out of the car because we were so immersed in a story about a certain wizard. You won’t remember your skinny, knobby little legs running out of the ocean and throwing yourself down to roll around all wet in the hot sand, and then we’d call you milanesita. Nor will you remember the gleeful timber of your voice or how excellent you were at jumping rope, how intensely you danced. You won’t remember how long you believed in Santa Clause or how easily you accepted the Reyes Magos when they showed up, because your faith in our stories was abiding.

That’s ok. I still remember.

 

Getting There

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I grew up in a small town, so a sense of independence came at a very early age, pretty much as soon as I could ride a bike. Back then, bikes were just for kids. There were no mountain bikes, no trendy, foldable urban bikes; there were just banana seats and high handle-bars. And we all had playing cards clipped to our wheel-spokes. In a place of such relative silence, we were like small swarms of bees. And those bikes really were our wings in the sense that we relied on no one else to get us where we wanted to go, and they also gave our parents freedom from having to taxi us around. Funny how none of us ever gave all that a second thought when we turned sixteen, got our  licenses and presumably gained limitless independence behind the wheel of a car. Because where I come from, driving is considered a major milestone on the road to self-reliance. I’ve been getting around that way ever since. Until recently.

Now I live in the vast urban landscape of Buenos Aires. Despite the magnitude and efficiency of the public transportation system here, I have to admit that my car habit has been hard to break. Even knowing that it takes longer to drive, that parking is a hassle, that all of this stresses me out, puts me in a foul mood and reduces my quality of life, even after having made “I will drive no more in the city of Buenos Aires” my New Year’s resolution several years running, I have truly been like a junkie who simply cannot kick the habit. My husband gave me a bike for Christmas two years ago. It sat in the garage for most of that time. Not that I’m physically unable, or that I haven’t been applauding the new bike-lanes in the city all along; I just couldn’t shake my car monkey.

The only other excuse was the danger factor, but in all fairness, I was never afraid to drive a car here. So I suppose there is some sweet irony in the fact that it took a minor car accident to finally get me on a bike for good. Between the pace of Argentine insurance companies and mechanics we have been carless for several weeks now. The transition to biking (and walking!) turned out to be painless once I didn’t have the choice to drive, combined with the fact that the Subte A is indefinitely closed for renovation, making bus travel from my neighborhood look something like an episode of The Walking Dead.

They say it takes three weeks to form a habit. In this time I have not been stressed a single time due to an inability to move forward; or to someone cutting in front of me by turning left from the right-hand lane; or to pointless horn-blowing and cursing; or to watching some girl teeter along in 5-inch heels at a brisker pace than me in my car. In fact, I have not been in a crappy mood even once since I started biking. I listen to great music to drown out the honking and cursing as I cruise by traffic jams, early fall breeze in my face. It makes me smile. It makes me feel in control. It makes me feel like part of a community of like-minded people. Not to mention healthier, more in harmony with the environment and one car less on these crowded streets. Mainly, it makes me feel less dependent on my car.

Which brings me to the cycle of life thing. My kids will both turn 16 this year. But they have grown up in a very different kind of place. Their independence didn’t come on a banana seat; it came on the 26 and the 42 and the Subte. And now even the 151 that takes them all the way to Saavedra, distances that in most US cities could only be traversed by car.  Getting a driver’s license is not even a topic of conversation among teenagers here; they are already independent in terms of moving around the city. As my friends in the States one after one announce the big day when their kids turn 16 and start driving, I get a brief flash of “oh, another cultural milestone of childhood foregone.” Until I realize the freedom sought therein… Oh, we already have that! And it came with a number of other perks. Unlike me – who cannot deal with long bus lines and the subsequent sardine-can effect due to my North American impatience derived no doubt from getting everywhere on my own terms in the hermetic silence and bastion of freedom inside my own car – they will hopefully reach adulthood with a larger store of patience and tolerance for inconvenience. Not to mention the adventures awaiting them on the buses of Buenos Aires.

Aside from discovering the beauty of biking to get where I’m going, I must admit that not having a car has forced us all to reflect on how dependent we are on the car, especially at night or when we need to carry anything large. We’ve ended up going out a lot less these past weeks. On the one hand, that’s good because we’ve spent less money; but on the other, it’s given me new appreciation for all our friends who don’t have cars but manage to make the trek all the way over to our house in Caballito for dinner, pick their kids up at all hours of the night from parties and somehow get their sundry amps, drum-sets and heavy bass guitars across town anyway. So once we do get the car back, I will think twice about driving unless absolutely necessary. Otherwise, I am finally sticking to my New Year’s resolution. I might even get an ace of hearts and clip it to my wheel.

Toilets and Pink Hair II: What it was really about

I think I have more to say on this topic after reading the feedback on the previous post, so thanks to all for bringing the clarity to me. Perhaps I was stretching it a bit in trying to bring too many topics under one umbrella. So now I’m just going to talk about women and girls and their objectification. While it is true that women do enjoy broad professional and political equality in Argentina, which is to be applauded, they continue to be objectified, their femininity given disproportionate importance, placing them forever on the pink team since the only other option is blue. But what about purple or green or yellow? (Not talking about hair here anymore, folks, so keep up.) Cristina said it herself: “I am not a feminist; I am feminine.” She’s also pumped full of botox and likes to flip her bangs like a teenager while addressing the nation. She embodies exactly what I’m talking about. Professional woman, Barbie worshipper.

For anyone who doesn’t have kids, it’s important to understand where my concerns are rooted when it comes to raising mine here. As adults, we are at liberty to choose the people we socialize with, the ways we go about it, the social norms we will and will not adhere to. If I don’t care to participate in football madness and deal with the barras bravas, I don’t have to; if I’d rather not kiss all 40 people at the birthday party when I arrive, I just don’t. And I can choose to take a positive attitude and focus on the fact that women have successful careers here and try not to look at the massive billboard images of vedettes plastered all along Corrientes. Or that pole-dancing is the most popular thing on TV, viewed by entire families including little girls and abuelitas.

But on the playground, the rules are not like this. Kids don’t get to make those choices; they have to learn the codes and adapt. And my concern is the message being put out there about what is feminine and what is not. And how this message seems to be embraced across society by women as well as men. Ergo, short hair is not feminine. (I suppose pink is, but only in a secondary sort of way once it’s chopped off. The pink hair story wasn’t really about that anyway.) Playing soccer is not feminine, ditto for basketball, etc.; only volleyball and field hockey qualify as school sports sufficiently feminine for girls to play. Go figure. These are subtle, insidious expressions of societal views that are put forward by teachers, classmates and family members of both genders.

The objectification of women is a global issue, not unique to Argentina. However, what I see as women’s complicity in perpetuating the image of extreme femininity here perplexes me. Which brings me back to the toilet issue. In this case a broad dismissal (again, across genders) of women’s “feminine” needs. And yes, while hovering over the toilet is standard practice in public bathrooms, it’s not possible for little girls or old ladies. They have to sit. And their needs are being ignored. By other women.

Toilet Seats and Pink Hair: Raising a Girl in Argentina

I’ve mentioned my German friends before, I believe? Well, I will now take another example from that endless well of material they provide for the perfect contrast with life as I see it in Argentina. While I’ve never lived in Germany and therefore can’t generalize on the observation I’m about to make, the fact that I know of several cases leads me to believe it may be common practice, at least among university-educated engineers and architect types: German men pee sitting down. That’s right, ladies, never a toilet seat left up, bowl gaping for you to fall straight into in the middle of the night. And no dribble trail. It seems these guys are trained thusly. In deference to us, the toilet-seat down crowd. And proudly acknowledge it to be so, I might add.

In the opening scene of the Big Lebowski, Jeff Bridges gets his head dunked repeatedly in his own toilet bowl. In his blasé, very Coen brothers effort to convince the intruders he’s not who they think he is, he asserts his bachelorhood by pointing out that the toilet seat was up, and therefore he couldn’t possibly be the married guy they were looking for. Meaning American men, when left to their devices, leave the seat up; however, they at least give lip service to the assumption that it should ordinarily be placed back down after use if there are women around (which is not to say that they always do. This I can offer lifetime testimony on.)

In Argentina, the toilet seat is always up. It is the standard position. It’s up in photos of bathrooms in homes for sale; it’s even up in public women’s restrooms. After 20 years of living with an Argentine man, I have given up the battle of the bowl, and merely resort to slamming it down every time I go in there. And our teenage son makes it two of them, so there’s no winning. In all honesty, neither of them are remotely machista. But the toilet seat down does not figure, either passively or actively, in their mental scaffolding of ‘rules one should follow.’ (Even Jeff Lebowski acknowledges this.) For all I know, my daughter probably lifts the seat “back into position” after she’s done her business. Which leads me to wonder, if women have a passive role in the whole toilet-seat thing, what does that imply on a larger scale when it comes to women’s role in gender-related notions here?

I worry about these things raising a girl in a Latin country. What kind of subtle messages are finding their way into her psyche? Especially when Argentine women themselves are seeming accomplices to the seatless toilet, the myth that long hair looks better on every woman, the tireless marching on of pinks and blues in baby stores, and the oil-and-vinegar effect at all social gatherings (boys on one side, girls on the other). Please, what are we, in middle school? Oh, and let’s not forget the No-thank you-I-don’t-drink-and-I’ll-just-have-that-piece-of-lettuce-for-dinner contingent. (Not to be misconstrued as my condonement of teenage drinking.) And what if an entire adolescence of examples like these are somehow larger than the 50% of her genetic make-up that came from her mom, who was one of those groundbreaking 10-year-old girls who played Little League baseball back in 1970s? Will she find her way to self-discovery, be loud when she needs to be, try on many different hats until she finds just the right one, eventually realize that it’s not all just about the boy and that it’s OK—no, it’s brilliant—to be different and to be excellent and to be exactly who she is and not what someone else thinks she should be? And that she can wear her hair any damn way she pleases?

My daughter’s hair is pink again. The first time, it was a fashion statement that ended in a bad color job, followed by tears and a very short haircut. Which, if you live in Argentina, you know that the short hair is equally—if not more of–a flagrant statement than any day-glo color. The short hair turned out to be the surprise that taught her how to embrace and celebrate her individuality. It has also unleashed her moxy. The decision to love her short, curly hair, even as she’s surrounded by the cadre of long, flat-ironed heads of her classmates, has turned her into a scrappy defender of the right to self-expression.

The other day she dyed her ends pink again, only this time it was an act of protest against her school’s recent ban on ‘certain’ hair colors. The school-wide protest—Facebook organized, of course—started en masse but dwindled to around 10% when it came down to actually doing the deed (either for fear of sanctions or parental prohibition I presume). My girl not only adhered, she spoke up to defend their position after the whole group was summoned to the director’s office. She proudly told me later that she had lost her fear of the director in the face of the conviction that she and her classmates had good grounds for argument: That while school regulations clearly state the prohibition on things like tattoos and piercings, there is nothing in the rulebook prohibiting hair color. So when the director chose to make the point that dying one’s hair blond or brown was fine because it doesn’t attract attention, while bright colors cause others to do a double-take (bad), Fiona said, “And what’s wrong with that? We’re exploring our identities, and teenagers need to do that outwardly.” And right she is. The way we look is an outward expression of some facet of ourselves. Dying one’s hair blond and ironing out the curls is preceded by a motive (I look prettier like this; I look more like everyone else; I feel more like Barbie.) These reasons are attached to certain personality types. The motive behind pink or green hair is probably more about rebellion or non-conformity or an adventurous nature, but aren’t there just as many of these equally deserving personalities in the world?

As I’ve said before, as a trade-off for more rigorous academics we chose the school despite the fact that it was old-fashioned and strict. So the director is certainly entitled to claim a school ethos that must be upheld and that does not allow for outward displays of rebelliousness. It is part of their policy to make no exceptions in an effort to preserve high standards. I get that. In fact, it even occurred to me that the severity of the school climate is actually an opportunity for students to raise conscientious objections like this one, so all the better. However, it was a bit disappointing that the director couldn’t at least give them credit for waging a well-founded battle against what they perceived as injustice; instead, she opted for ‘blond hair is fine, pink is not and you shouldn’t allow yourselves to be influenced by other students in this kind of thing.’ 1. Double-standard on the color issue in favor of the ‘pretty’ color. 2. Underestimation of protesting students’ ability to think for themselves. I mean, we want our kids to stand up for their rights, and encourage them when they go about it in a civil, conscientious way that promotes self-awareness, right?

It all just made me proud of my girl. She looks fantastic in short, pink hair and knows she has a voice. And it’s a relief to know that she is probably not going to be one of those girls putting the toilet seat back up for the guys.

Reading Harry (Part 2, continued from previous post)

Just before leaving Europe for good, we did something extravagant: We flew the whole family to London to see the premiere of the HP4 movie. Although the movies have always been second-best to the books, that trip placed London at the top of Lucas’ and Fiona’s favorite-place-in-the-world list. So the vivid images of the Goblet of Fire, the World Quidditch Cup Tournament, Cedric Diggory’s death in the maze and Voldemort’s rebirth from a cauldron, were actually trumped by those of the dinosaurs in the Museum of Natural History, ice skating at the Tower of London, and a frigid hike across Kensington Gardens to find the statue of Peter Pan. Harry was still with us, but other things had begun to make noise in our kids’ awareness of the world around them.

We had already been in Argentina for a couple of years by the time the seventh and final book came out, and both kids had read the entire series on their own – some books more than once. In fact, they probably sat and listened to me read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows more out of a spirit of solidarity with me than anything else. Even so, we still had a good cry together at the end: not only was Harry’s story over; it was the last time the three of us would sit and read together. We held on to the knowledge that we still had several films to go, which softened the blow a bit.

After that, there were just two more notable HP moments to add to the lot. One came in the most unexpected circumstances during a long hike in southern Patagonia one summer. Looking at 6 hours between departing the town of El Chaltén to get to one of the jaw-dropping glacial blue lakes in the Andes, the ‘how much longer’ question loomed large on our trek. Among our arsenal of stories, jokes, snacks and mind games to distract whining hikers, 20 questions always worked well. This time I decided to give it a Harry Potter theme. The kids’ categorical questions – Is is a magical creature? Is it a spell? Did it first appear in Book 3? – soon became a source of curiosity for other hikers on the trail, who started joining in. We ended up with a huge line of international Harry Potter fanatics all playing along with us! Seeing my kids as part of a global community of readers? Very cool moment.

So it’s been ten years since we started reading Harry and the time has come to say goodbye. Our final farewell at the movies last month was a fitting close to the saga not for its cinematographic recreation of The Deathly Hallows. In fact, the film took a backseat to the packed theater of fans, many of them dressed in Hogwarts robes, who clearly knew every scene by heart from multiple readings of the book. It was a crowd of readers whose real tears preempted every tragic death, whose shouts, cheers and applause mixed with the raging battle of Hogwarts students on screen to the point that it was hard to distinguish movie from audience. The effect of the collective emotions of all those teenagers not only surpassed the movie, they made the movie. Unforgettable.

The benefit of reading to one’s children goes without saying. What is perhaps not so often mentioned is the gift it gives to the parent who takes his child’s imagination seriously. Reading with my children has allowed me to inhabit the fictional places they have loved right alongside them. I have become the voice of Piglet, Brer Rabbit, and yes, Dobbie the house elf. It’s been a privilege I’ll never forget. Farewell, Harry – you will be missed.