Author Archives: Stacy Lynn

Short Stature and Long Memories

Yesterday, I bounced up onto the washing machine into a seated position and then pulled one leg up, lifting myself into a standing position atop the washer, so that I could then reach a box stored on the top shelf in the laundry room. I am a short and small woman, so my reach is often insufficient. Therefore, I frequently engage in this hop-sit-stand method of obtaining the things I want that are located at high altitudes. I retrieved the box and then settled into the required, intermediate, sitting-before-dismount position. But instead of hopping down straight away, I stayed seated, my legs dangling several inches above the floor. Mack, who always deemed my hop-sit-stand method ridiculous as well as delightfully entertaining, popped into my mind. Her enchanting little giggle filled my head, and so many memories of her good-natured teasing of my vertically-challenged life flooded over me.

Whenever Mack witnessed the limits of my reach, she would chuckle and snort before obtaining the object for me, making a dramatic demonstration of how so very easy it was for her to collect the object. When we stood next to each other for pictures, she would often ask me if I would like for her to kneel so I would not look like a “shrimp.” Frequently, a hug from Mack meant that her chin would dig deep into the top of my head to remind me of her six extra inches of height. And nothing sent her more quickly into a fit of giggles than my legs dangling on the bar stools at Buffalo Wild Wings. My common response to her playful joking about my short stature was: “I’ve been short all my life, and I’m getting along just fine.” “Oh, really?” she would reply. And then a fit of giggles elicited her trademark wrinkled nose, exaggerated finger point, and whispery hee-hee-heeing.

Mack is always on my mind, and I carry her spirit around with me every day no matter where I am or what I am doing. But it is so weird sometimes how that goofy girl interjects herself into my memories and makes me laugh. There I was just getting a box off of a shelf in the laundry room, and Mack bursts in just in time to make fun of me. Sitting there with my legs dangling, I closed my eyes and just let Mack’s giggle fill up the small space. I am so grateful for these random connections with my lost girl. I am beyond thankful for all of the laughter we shared during our short time together. I wish like hell she was still here to tease me about being so damn short. But thank goodness her spirit can find me, even in the laundry room on an ordinary Sunday afternoon.

heehee

Here is Mack making fun of me as I struggle to find a way off of a high wall.

Mack and Me

Here is the photo taken on the wall before the teasing began.

a favorite photo

And here is my favorite picture depicting our height difference. Note: Mack is wearing flat sandals and is leaning over, and look where her waist is compared to mine!

Mack Memo #3: Love Trumps Hate

During the televised Democratic National Convention, I cried during the poignant speech of Muslim American Khizr Khan, an immigrant from Pakistan, about the loss of his son—fallen U.S. Army Captain Humayun Khan—and about Mr. Khan’s own love for and commitment to America. As I listened and watched, I saw an American family who sacrificed their son for our country, and I saw and understood all too well the deep sorrow in Mrs. Kahn’s eyes. As a grieving mother myself, it was for her specifically that I wept. My own broken heart shared her pain, and I admired her ability to bravely stand there on that big national stage while her husband shared their family story. When Donald Trump attacked the Khan family, dismissed their sacrifice, and suggested that Ghazala Kahn was not allowed to speak, he offended every immigrant who has ever believed in the American dream, every soldier who has ever given his life for our country, and every mother who has ever lost a child.

For months, I have watched in horror as Trump’s statements have become more outrageous and have further illustrated his ignorance and his vitriol. His attack on the Khan family is one more example in a long progression of ever escalating examples of his lack of character and grace, his appalling misanthropy, and his all-encompassing unfitness for the Presidency. Trump’s utter failure to see the grief in Mrs. Kahn’s face is another vivid instance of Trump’s inhumanity. In the past few days, as I have thought about Mr. Kahn’s speech and about Trump’s response to it, Mack has been ever present in my mind. Mack’s character and humanity are what I use these days to measure my own actions and life and to assess the world around me. Inherent in the high bar that Mack has set in that regard is some disappointment, I admit. For few of us will leave this earth with as perfect a record of happy human relationships as our dear Mack. But Trump fails my Mack test on all counts, and I have come to believe that his absolute inability to feel empathy and to show compassion for his fellow Americans is, perhaps, his gravest deficiency for suitability for the American Presidency.

If my Mack, a feminist and liberal-minded young woman, were here today, she would be a strong supporter of Hillary Clinton. One of her favorite mottos, “uteruses before duderuses,” would no doubt have found new meaning in this historic 2016 presidential campaign, In fact, it’s entirely possible she may have been actively engaged; and she certainly would have been proud of her dear friend Meagan, who is a Clinton field organizer in Nebraska. But more to the point, my loving, just-minded, big-hearted, and nonjudgmental daughter would be aghast by Trump’s tactics of hatred and bigotry. Trump’s campaign would offend everything she believed about human decency, civility, and leadership. Mack would have spoken out against Trump’s hateful campaign, and she would have wanted me to do so as well. It is for her and in honor of her true heart that I now raise my own voice.

Over the years, I have followed a general rule to keep my politics off of Facebook and out of polite discourse with people in my life who hold opposing political views to my own. I have always reserved my unabashed support for the Democratic Party and my liberal snark for family, for a close circle of politically like-minded friends, and for the shallow and more fleeting arena of Twitter. But I cannot remain silent on Trump any longer, because he is a danger to the human decency and ideals I instilled in my daughters. He offends my family’s deeply held convictions of tolerance and equality. He mocks and demeans women, which is a direct affront to the brilliant and promising girls I raised. Mack is not here to offer her own objections to Trump’s candidacy, but I knew my daughter’s heart. The boisterous hatred Trump and his supporters spew would have outraged her open mind, the negativity and cynicism of his campaign would have offended her happy heart, and his racism would have stirred her strong sense of equality and justice.

Simply put, Trump is not a legitimate candidate. He is not a legitimate Republican. I respect my Republican friends; and I admire their commitment to principles of limited government and fiscal conservatism, even though I do not share them. I whole heartedly honor their rights to voice their own opinions, to engage in civil political debate with their opponents, and to vote their own consciences. This is America, and our democracy depends upon intelligent debate. But the 2016 Presidential Campaign is not a real campaign, because the Republican candidate is an affront to our ideals of tolerance, compassion, and liberty. Every single time that Trump opens his mouth, he reveals his bigotry, his sexism, his ignorance, his vanity, and his complete lack of empathy for his fellow Americans. He mocks people with disabilities, attacks the service of members of our military, incites violence against those who challenge him, and breathes hatred and intolerance. Not to mention the fact that he offers no coherent domestic or foreign policies to move America further toward a more perfect union, Trump’s message of hate should scare the hell out of every American.

Trump is not a true Republican. Trump represents no Republican ideals that I can recognize. More and more real Republicans and conservatives agree with my assessment. Trump does not represent the party of Abraham Lincoln, and Lincoln is rolling over in his tomb at the possibility of a Trump presidency. So far from the character of Lincoln, Trump is a hate-mongering, egomaniacal narcissist who has devoted his entire life to himself and to his own business interests. He has no moral compass, he has no interest in public service, and he has no understanding of American history and the political foundations of our great government. His ignorance of world affairs is terrifying, he is not committed to preserving the principles of our founding fathers, and he lacks humility, honor, and empathy for the American people. He is the most dangerous presidential candidate of a major political party in the history of the United States, and the American electorate—Democrats, Republicans, and Independents all—must defeat him in November. Bigotry and hatred have no place in American politics, and we all need to show Trump that they have no place in America. Not anymore. And never again.

I know that many of my Republican friends have serious reservations about Hillary Clinton. Although it is my opinion as both an informed reader and as a professional historian that no person has ever been more qualified to be president than Hillary Clinton, I appreciate the hesitancy of some, more conservative Republicans to eagerly support her candidacy. In opposition to a real Republican candidate, I would be explaining why Mack would have supported Hillary Clinton and why I support her, too. But this campaign, sadly, is not about electing a qualified life-long public servant to be the first woman President of the United States. Sadly, it is about keeping an ignorant, hateful sociopath out of the White House. The American presidency is a job for true leaders—leaders like Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Barack Obama—who have character and grace, honor and humility, and empathy and compassion for their fellow Americans.

So, please. Please. Please. I appeal to your humanity in this election. Do not vote for Trump, a man so devoid of qualifications for the Presidency that it should be laughable, a man who would shed no tears for your children. Do not vote for one of the long-shot independent candidates simply because you hate Hillary. Significant voting for independents could skew the election in favor of Trump, which would validate his candidacy of hate. Vote for Clinton-Kaine because it is a reasonable, legitimate Democratic ticket that is running a campaign against racism, against sexism, against religious intolerance, and against anti-immigrant hostility and scapegoating. Be a part of this historic election to put the first woman President in the White House, but, most importantly, cast your vote for the Democrats, who are running a real campaign against hate.

Mack Memo #3: Love Trumps Hate. Always. Did you ever go on hatin’ after a Big-Mack hug? Nope. Never. No matter what you think about my girl Hillary, her election in November will send a message to the haters that we are all in this America together.

The Game of Life

With raised eyebrows and typical Stacy-the-cynic incredulity, I have been quietly observing groups of teens and millennials running around public places with their cellphones, chasing virtual Pokémon characters. Initially, I believed that Pokémon Go could be nothing more than just one more digital distraction. One more excuse to stare at a smart phone like a zombie. One more reason to avoid conversation with human beings. And watching a young man in plaid shorts and a tan fedora nearly step into a busy intersection, because his phone covered his face as he caught a Pokémon, certainly corroborated my initial impressions of the game. So much life is spent staring at tiny screens these days, says the fuddy-duddy within me; and I can hear Mack clucking her tongue at me as I judge that hipster who almost lost his life for the sake of a game.

But after reading a couple of articles about Pokémon Go and having a lengthy conversation about it with my daughter Savannah (who is an enthusiastic player), I wondered if I might have been too quick to throw shade at the game and too quick to lump it in with other cell-phone games—like Temple Run or Angry Birds—that steal our time, endanger our eyesight, and cripple our thumbs. In order to collect Pokémon characters, players must get off of their couches and go forth into the world. That is a good thing…right? Most of the people I see playing the game are with friends, so that is good, too…I think. The game encourages players to visit historical markers and memorials. How in the world can the historian Stacy be dismissive of that?! Yet no sooner am I convincing myself that Pokémon Go will raise a new generation of historians, Mack chortles in my ear and says, “Momma Bear, do ya really think they gonna stop and read the markers after they catch the Pokémons?”

And so back I am now to my original position of stern judgment against Pokémon Go and scorn for that hipster who almost got himself run over playing it. Also, here I am now wondering (as I have done with so many other new things that Mack has missed) if Mack herself would be running around town catching Pokémons if she was here. But, of course, if she would be playing the game, you can probably bet your ass she would not stop to read the historical markers along the way.

All of this mental energy devoted to my analysis of Pokémon Go over the past couple of weeks reminded me of a column that Mack wrote for her college newspaper. Recognizing the limitations of our screens—cellphones, TVs and computers—to satisfy our human need for social relationships, Mack paid tribute to the humble board game. I leave you here with Mack’s homage to The Game of Life, her most favorite board game of them all; and I am content for Mack, who knew so well how to play the real game of life, to have the final word upon this subject.

Board games are more social than staring at a screen, By Mackenzie McDermott
Truman State Index, 20 March 2014

A knock at the door, and the 8-year-old me runs down the stairs, The Game of Life firmly in hand. A handful of my parents’ friends stand on the porch, their children at their sides. The adults shuffle into the living area and the other kids and I run into the adjacent room. We are easily satisfied by what probably are last year’s Halloween candies and a good, old-fashioned board game. Circled on the carpet, we play that game again and again, the only noise our own laughter and that of our parents in the other room. The game doesn’t end until they come in to scoop us up and haul us off to bed. As we get older, we move into the adult room and loudly play charades, equally as satisfied.

This is the strongest memory of my childhood. It became such a commonplace ritual that my Life game—which I never have been able to part with—resembles one rescued from a war zone. The box is ripped apart, there are only a few of the little peg people left and the wheel doesn’t quite resemble a wheel anymore, but it still is there to remind me of just how easily entertained I used to be. Keeping kids today happy for hours with a little box of semi-movable parts or a hat full of ripped up bits of paper would be little short of a miracle.

With video games becoming more realistic and interactive, Netflix picking up more popular shows and movies, and new board games incorporating DVD elements, our culture has all but forgotten games you don’t have to plug in. Remember when Mouse Trap literally was the most high-tech thing you could think of and putting it together made you feel like a physicist? Or the way Monopoly had you convinced you would be fine if you ran away from home? I can think of so many board games that were integral to my interactions with my friends as a kid. It’s a different kind of experience than one in which people are looking at a screen. During our technological age, a friendly gathering often feels more like a night out at the movies.

Classic board games make you interact on a very human level. You circle around, face each other and are forced to fill silence with conversation. Even when new board games are made, they tend to have a literal board on which to move pieces around, but the game play itself happens on a computer or TV, such as all versions of Scene It. We love to be pointed in one direction, facing a screen rather than each other.

This isn’t just a generational trend and it’s not a shifting idea of what is fun—it simply is a change of comfort zone. Now that we’ve gotten used to the comfort of our screens, we don’t think we’ll like life without them, but we’re wrong. I know this because I recently played Cranium with friends after exhausting all of Parks and Recreation on Netflix. I can unequivocally confirm that board games do, indeed, still rule.

A group of 20-year-olds huddled on the floor of my dim, cold living room might have been a funny sight, but we didn’t let that concern us. We just chatted, laughed, trash-talked and became far more upset than anyone older than 12 should be about a board game. Once the game was finished, my teammate declared we would not stop playing until he won. I hope we don’t.

cards

Mack playing cards with cousins

game of life

Mack’s battered, well-loved Game of Life

Mack Memo #2: Clothes Do Not Make the Woman

Mack was not a fashionista. Most of her life, she lived in basketball shorts, sports t-shirts, and sweats. She preferred flip-flops, Chucks, and athletic shoes; and mismatched socks were always good enough for her feet. By the time she was old enough to dress herself, she rejected dress codes and event-appropriate attire, she rebelled against dresses and skirts, and except for Nikes and American Eagle blue jeans, brand names did not impress her much. Dressing up to Mack meant stretchy skinny jeans and a plain t-shirt or tank; and a golf club never collapsed when she walked in wearing sweats or flip flops. She was happy and cozy in her casual skin and with her personal anti-style style. I am at a complete loss now to understand why I worked so damn hard to impose a sense a fashion on that child, because back-to-school shopping with Mack was always frustrating for the both of us. I wanted to dress her up cool; and she just wanted to wear the faded tees she already owned. She hated everything a junior department had to offer, and she had no interest in keeping up with the fashions of her peers. Even when I successfully cajoled Mack into the selection of a flattering blouse or a stylish pair of flats, she just humored me at the store and then stuck those purchases (with the tags still intact) in the back of her closet so neither of us would ever see them again.

Mack’s relationship with clothes annoyed me when she was a teenager, but now it is my inspiration for a little change I am making in my life. Recently, I have grown tired of chasing fashion and maintaining an up-to-date closet of shoes and apparel that I now rarely wear. Working from home has dampened my enthusiasm for clothing trends. As well, since losing my Mack, I simply care a whole lot less about what my clothes look like and much more about what they feel like. With Mack very much in mind, I am also a new convert to the idea of a capsule wardrobe—a system in which you choose simple, season-specific groupings of garments that easily mix and match, wear well, and simplify your life. Garanimals for adults, I guess you could say. Mack is my cheerful and sensible spirit guide in my project to rid myself of unnecessary, uncomfortable, and unwanted clothing, especially from the stuffy, professional side of my overflowing closet. All special-event items are piling up for removal, and stiff dresses and fancy shoes will all soon be goners, as well. A brocade dress, a tight wool skirt, and a glittery pair of heeled Mary Janes went home last weekend with my fashion-loving, twenty-year-old niece; and more purging will continue over the course of the coming weeks. Mack will be ever present to cheer me on as I remove from my closet and drawers every item that pinches, squeezes, scratches, and keeps me from lifting up my arms. Mack did not tolerate crisp, button-down shirts that kept her from lifting up her arms!

The Great Stacy Closet Purge of 2016 is underway, and Mack assures me I am now on a happy clothing path many miles removed from the frenzied fashion highway I have traveled for the past thirty-five years. Although I am not trading my tailored dress pants for over-sized basketball shorts, as Mack would have me do, I am, basically, adopting my daughter’s comfort-first, style-not-really-even-second clothing philosophy. Most importantly, though, I want to reduce my dependence on clothes to boost my confidence in the world. My sweet girl never believed that clothes make the woman. She was always comfortable and confident in what she wanted to wear. She was always content to let her personality and her character, not her clothes, represent her in the world. And right now in my life, this seems a very appealing philosophy, indeed.

Mack Memo #2: Clothes do not make the woman. Dress for yourself. Be casual and comfortable, and you’ll have confidence to face the world. Keep it simple, because fewer choices in the morning means extra sleep. Don’t ever buy a stupid shirt that keeps you from lifting up your arms! And always be yourself and not your clothes.

Senior Picture 2-Mack copy

Mack’s version of “dressing up” for senior pictures

Casual, comfortable, confident Mack…

shopping in flip flops
dinner with momma bear in shorts and tee
a typical Mack outfit
golfing in sweats
attire to take you from the basketball court to vacation

Mack Memo #1: Make a Face

I just spent the weekend with my first baby, the splendid and sassy Savannah. We walked all over the Missouri Botanical Garden in nearly identical Birkenstock sandals. We drank giant steins of Heffewiezen under a 95-degree, afternoon sun, and we ate too many tortilla chips and not all of our tacos at a late dinner in historic Soulard. We laughed, we caught up on the details of each other’s daily lives, and we giggled a lot and cried a little when we reminisced about Mack. It was as close to happy as I have been since my last weekend visit with Savannah. And then her car disappeared down Washington Avenue, and the Illinois license plate faded away from my view. Then the sorrow moved back in, pushing out the sunshine and snapping me back to my lonely and gloomy, missing-Mack mood. The kind of mood that hangs on sometimes for hours after a weekend guest departs or after I return home from a trip to see family or friends. The mood that reminds me how desperately I miss my second baby.

This is the life of a grieving mother. This is the emotional truth of losing a child. For me, successful living in the moment comes with a price at the end that is frequently difficult to pay. Time does not heal this wound, no matter what they say; and so I must breathe in as deeply as possible during my live-in-the-moment successes and endure as best as I can the painful aftermath that always follows. Mack’s absence is the reason for my sorrow, but Mack is also the one who guides me through these terrible transitions, as well. Drawing strength from her humor through most all of my missing-Mack moods has been the key to my survival, and it is especially true after the positive effects of a magical diversion, like a visit with Savannah, fade away. To help alleviate my sorrow at these times, I always look at pictures of my funny girl. Mack’s face making faces has a curious power. I used to badger her to smile for pictures rather than to make a goofy face, but now it is those goofy faces that provide me strength to find my way to the next live-in-the-moment opportunity.

those eyeballs

Oh, that face! How can that face ever fail to make me smile?

Mack’s continuing power to soothe my heart, to bring a smile to my lips, and to make me laugh when I am at the lowest of low is a guiding force in my life. Mack speaks to me through her goofy grin and silly faces in photos. She whispers love and advice in my ear and plants happy memories and thoughts in my brain. She tugs at my arm to be strong, and she continually reminds me to laugh. I have come to think of these moments when Mack touches my spirit as memos from Mack. The contents of my Mack memos have become a sort of life mantra for me. Sometimes they come in the form of humorous one-liners, and sometimes they are lengthier essays with depth and with heart. Mack’s great character, her unflappable good cheer, her unique wit, and her incomparable wisdom for a person who had so little time give substance and style to all of her memos. Mack’s memos connect with my heart all the way across the great physical divide that now exists between us. Mack’s memos inspire and instruct me, and only recently have I come to fully understand their purpose and their power. Now I want to bundle up my precious memos and periodically share them in the pages of this blog. There is sound advice, much inspirational grace, and innumerable funny messages for good living within them.

And here to get it started is…

Mack Memo #1: Make a face. Make a silly face, people. Stick out your tongue. Cross your eyes. Wrinkle your nose. Suck in your lips. Use your face to make yourself or somebody else laugh. Making a face will make all the serious go away. It will make you feel better…at least for a while. Trust me. It will. And a goofy face might also save a life.

Black Eye

As a toddler, Mack had uncommon hand-eye coordination and a very good arm. By the time she was three, we made throwing balls in the house a class-one, McDermott-family felony, because if she aimed and fired at a lamp, for example, down it crashed, thoroughly battered and broken, lying on the floor. Mack’s mad throwing skills served her well in her early commitments to football and to baseball, and she loved to practice at home. As the sporty parent, it fell to me in those early years to play catch with her. I enjoyed this interaction with my cute little athletic daughter at first, but then practices became painful. And dangerous. Especially with the baseball. Even a catcher’s mitt failed to provide adequate cushioning for my delicate hand, and missed catches often left me crying and bruised.

When I started doctoral work at the University of Illinois in the fall of 2000, I passed off the baseball-catching responsibilities to Kevin. I did this partly because working a full-time job and working on a Ph.D. left me with little spare time. But, mostly, I just used that as an excuse. I could no longer handle the heat that the six-year-old Mack could put on a baseball thrown across the front lawn. Kevin was happy to pick up the slack, purchased his own mitt, and took over this duty with the good sport of a naïve angel sent down from the baseball heavens above. Every night after dinner, he dutifully stood on our driveway in the front lawn. Mack stood on the neighbor’s driveway on the other side of the lawn. And as if staging a Norman Rockwell painting, father and daughter played catch until dark, while I studied history in my attic loft.

Just behind my built-in desk in the loft, there was an adorable little window that overlooked the front yard. Many evenings, I would take a break and gaze down upon my sweet husband and my athletically gifted daughter playing catch in the twilight. The window was small, but if I wiggled a little, I could stick out my head and interact with them for a few minutes and give my brain a brief respite from my studies. Sometimes I would critique Mack’s pitching arm or comment on Kevin’s white athletic socks pulled up to the middle of his calves. Sometimes I would just watch quietly, feeling grateful that they were having this time together. Feeling happy to be with them for a bit, but grateful to be safely two stories away from the danger.

One night when Mack and Kevin were playing catch, I positioned my body in the window, called Kevin’s name loudly, and lifted my shirt to flash him. To this day, I am still not certain why I did such a thing, because I’m generally a modest sort of person. Perhaps I was punch-drunk from my graduate school reading list in American legal history. Perhaps I had one too many beers (yes, I have been known to drink while writing). Perhaps I wanted to give Kevin a little gift for keeping me out of the line of baseball fire. Whatever possessed me, I did it, and my timing could not have been more terrible. Mack had already started to deliver a throw across the lawn to her dad. When he heard me call, Kevin looked up to the little window, taking his eyes off that speeding sphere flying across the lawn. The baseball hit him square in the face, sending his glasses flying and his knees buckling. Down his body crashed, thoroughly battered and broken, lying on the ground.

I did not see the impact of the ball, because my chest covered the entirety of my little window. But I heard a girly scream from Mack and a painful man-grunt from Kevin as the baseball struck. By the time I was able to stick my head out of the window, Kevin was a heap of bones on the grass, and little Mack was standing over him. I think Kevin yelled a swear up at me and then called for ice. When I arrived in the yard, Kevin and Mack were laughing about how boobs and baseball are a bad match, and a black eye was already in evidence.

playing catch

Mack and Kevin playing catch, Field of Dreams, Iowa.

Penguin Pete

If Mack had conducted interviews for potential best friends, Jackie would have aced a Mack-best-friend compatibility exam:

Mack: Do you giggle easily and often?
Jackie: Yes, and I squeal, too.

Mack: If you could, would you eat sushi every single day of your life?
Jackie: Yeah. Duh.

Mack: Is watching TV more important than doing homework?
Jackie: What’s homework?

Mack: Do you love playing sports?
Jackie: Yes, soccer is my life.

Mack: Do you live in sports shorts and t-shirts with writing on them?
Jackie: Yes. And dresses suck.

Mack: Do you own at least five pairs of Nike athletic shoes?
Jackie: More like ten. Or maybe fifteen.

Mack: Does your mom buy Choco Pies, and will you bring them to me at school?
Jackie: Yes, she buys the good Korean brand. And yes, I will keep you supplied.

Mack: Do you love penguins?
Jackie: Penguins are the love of my life.

In sports t-shirts and sunglasses.
Summer 2013
New SHS graduates (June 2012)

Jackie—or “Yackie” as Mack frequently called her—was a fast friend and a permanent presence in Mack’s life since the very beginning of sixth grade at Franklin Middle School. They were both unapologetic tomboys who could the rock basketball shorts in a sea of girls in summer dresses. Basketball teammates and after-school TV buddies, those girls giggled more than they talked, likely consumed more junk food than any other two athletes on the planet, and were in constant competition for the title of “Most Accomplished Procrastinator” in the history of Springfield High School. Mack would always claim the title for herself, but she was very quick to give Jackie her props for being a “terrible Asian” because homework was such a low priority. Being called a “terrible Asian” would send Jackie into a fit of giggles; and then she and Mack would watch TV or goof off instead of doing their homework…again.

Mack and Jackie had a lot of goofy in common, but I observed pretty early on in their relationship that they had a bond based to a large extent on their individual comfort in defining femininity in their own damn way. Neither had any personal qualms about balancing her inner girl with her inner boy, but I believe that having each other to walk that unique girly-tomboy path emboldened their individual spirits and gave them extra strength to navigate the gendered dramas of junior high and high school. With Mack in her basketball shorts, Jackie in her soccer shorts, and both of them in sports t-shirts and over-sized sunglasses, they faced the world on their own terms. And, together, they always had a blast doing it.

The hijinks never stopped with Mack and Jackie, but the story of a Penguin named Pete takes the prize. Senior year of high school, Mack took a glass-works class, and for an early project in the course, she created a tiled mosaic of an adorable cartoon penguin. She was wide-grin proud of that penguin she named Pete, showed it to all of her friends, gave it personality traits, told stories about its life, and kept it in her locker all year. From the moment Jackie laid eyes on that penguin, she wanted it for herself. She asked Mack if she could have it. Mack said no. Jackie, however, was a determined young woman. And a somewhat sinister one, as well. Repeatedly, throughout the school year, Jackie stole Penguin Pete from Mack’s locker. Repeatedly, Mack would hunt him down and reclaim him, always dramatizing the emotional scars wrought by the separation. The girls laughed and fussed over that penguin all year long, turning their senior year into an entrenched battle for the love a hand-made, tile penguin. Mack finally brought Penguin Pete home in order to keep it safe from Jackie’s frequent heists, but that child even tried to steal Pete from Mack’s room, too, during her graduation party!

For whatever reason, maybe just because Mack had made it, Jackie loved Penguin Pete. In a lot of ways, Jackie was Mack’s little penguin. Not at all in a condescending way, but in a loving and endearing way that perhaps only Mack could have expressed. In Mack’s mind, it was simple. Jackie loved Penguin Pete. Mack loved Jackie. And so in June 2012, Mack presented Penguin Pete to Jackie for her birthday with this note: “Me giving you my dear friend Penguin Pete is a true test of our friendship. It hurts to part w/ my buddy, but I know you’ll take good care of him. Treat him well & make sure he remembers me fondly. Love, your bestest friend EVER, Mackenzie.”

I love this Mack-best-friend story because it reveals the multi-layered aspects of one special friendship. This story represents shared interests, silly fun, cherished memories, and the tangible and priceless mementos of life. The tale of Penguin Pete should also serve as reminder to all of us all how important it is to tell the people who are central in our lives how much they matter to us.

Penguin Pete gift

IMG_1581

The birthday presentation of Penguin Pete (Mack, Ali, Jackie, and Sierra)

 

The Ali-Mack Frouple

Mack once said that of her best friends, she knew Ali “the weirdest.” Although they were never elementary-school classmates, the girls first met all the way back in kindergarten at Dubois Elementary. After a few years, Ali moved to a new house and a new school and disappeared for a spell. A year or so later, Ali was assigned to Mack’s summer softball team. Those girls were reunited as giggling teammates on the Izzles and as friends over the course of several summers, although Mack teasingly disapproved of Ali’s affinity for the Cubs. But when summer faded, so did their friendship, as they lived in different neighborhoods and attended different schools. Yet during their preteen years, these two social butterflies had so many friends in common that they frequently ended up at the same birthday parties and sleepovers. Summer softball always reunited them. And an easiness between them ever fostered a quick resumption of their friendship after time spent mostly apart.

In August 2008, Mack and Ali were reunited for good at Springfield High School, and their friendship flourished. They were still leading somewhat separate lives due to involvement in different extracurricular activities and sports; Mack was so very annoyed that Ali chose soccer over softball! But for the first time, they were classmates. For the first time, they were reading and learning together. For the first time, they had a steady connection to each other. For Mack, Ali was one of those easy friends that luckily kept bouncing in and out of her life; and each time they bounced into each other, Mack became more attached. By the end of sophomore year, Mack bounced Ali into a Big-Mack, forever hug and “collected” Ali for keeps.

The British television show Skins, intellectual late-night discussions about television and books in Ali’s basement, and heart-to-heart talks about friend drama, travel abroad, and the future elevated the Mack and Ali friendship from high school buddies to best friends. Ali called them a frouple—two inseparable friends who completed each other’s sentences, accepted and adopted each other’s quirks, and married each other’s families. High school friends are the friends that help shape the adult underneath your awkward and uncertain teenaged skin. Ali and Mack bounced into each other for good at the perfect time; and they were so very perfect for each other. They accepted and loved each other unconditionally, but they opened their hearts and minds to learning from each other, as well. They served as each other’s best role models. Ali was a studious and goal-oriented model for Mack’s far too leisurely and haphazard approach to school work and to life in general. Mack was carefree and an unapologetic goofball model for Ali’s serious nature and more circumspect interactions with the world. By the end of junior year, I noticed a bond between Mack and Ali that had the character of a lifelong friendship. And I am certain that by then, Mack already understood that she and Ali would be silly old ladies together.

Since losing our Mack, I have mourned for my sweet girl, for myself, and for my family, but I have also mourned for Mack’s best friends. Life has dealt them a cruel and painful blow, and I feel such sorrow for them all. But where the best friends are concerned, I have shed the most tears for Mack’s dear Ali, and I have long searched for some understanding for the depth of my emotion in this regard. Over these past months, reflecting on my grief and grappling with the meaning of Mack’s death for all of us, a story of Ali’s personal loss continually pangs my heart. When Ali boldly applied for an adventurous study-abroad program in Budapest, Hungary, Mack was the only person she told; and when Ali learned of her acceptance into the program, Mack was gone. This story haunts me. It is a bitter reminder that life as we know it can change in an instant, and it illustrates the high stakes of our human connections. But it also reveals to me the significance of Mack’s life in the lives of the people who loved her.

Just weeks after losing her best friend, Ali bravely accepted the challenge of that daring study abroad. She knew it would be hard to leave family and friends during such an emotionally difficult time for her, but she went to Budapest for herself, and she went to Budapest for Mack. She embraced the experience with courage, with humor, and with Mack in her heart. I have no doubt that Mack’s spirit provided Ali with important emotional support during those months abroad, and I am absolutely certain that Mack was a constant, giggling whisper in Ali’s ear, reminding her to laugh too loud, drink too much, and have way too much fun.

So once again we see that Mack collected the best and the bravest of best friends. We can see how Mack enriched the lives of her best friends, too. And, perhaps equally important, we can see and pay homage to the magical power of friendships in life and for an eternity. Just ask Ali, she’ll be bouncing to the beat of the Ali-Mack Frouple many, many moons from now when she’s a silly old lady remembering a cherished best friend.

graduation

Brand new Springfield High School Graduates, June 2012.

softball with Ali2

Hmmm. I wonder what this is about!
Mack, Ali, and Kim (probably talking about the show Skins)
Gorgeous Girls at Senior Prom
Homecoming
St. Louis, 2013 (or 2014?)

TruWomen

Mack arrived at Truman State University on August 18, 2012, to find the scholar and the writer inside of her soul. Within her first hours on campus, engaged in organized activities with students assigned with her to Grim Hall, she met her soul mate, Meagan. Neither Mack nor Meagan could exactly pinpoint or describe their first introduction, as their fast friendship was so effortless and so comfortable that it was as though they had known each other all of their lives. They initially bonded over a shared love of television, musical theater, food, sarcasm, humor, and feminism, but the depth of the connection between these two sweet girls went far and away beyond dorm acquaintances, college companionship, and coed mischief. This was a friendship that quieted insecurities and doubts. This was a friendship that inspired dreams. This was a friendship that empowered the women within them.

During their first semester at Truman, Mack and Meagan settled into college life together with exuberance and with humor. Both had an abundance of each of those qualities all their own, but together they blew off the lid of tiny, old Grim Hall. As the months flew by, they also drew confidence and strength from each other as they adapted to their coursework and to life on their own. They formed the foundation of a little family of friends on campus, they embraced new freedoms and young-adult fun, and they settled into their new lives in Kirksville, a small town in bucolic northern Missouri. Very soon after arriving at Truman, Mack provided regular commentary to me through text messages and phone calls, and I was surprised but pleased about an uncharacteristic new tendency in her for chatter. While she enthusiastically shared details about her classes, laughed about getting lost or oversleeping, and relayed comical details about the dorm, the dining hall, or the golf team, most of her excitement centered on the people she met. On her new friends. On her new college family. And at the root of Mack’s happy, contented self far away from home was that girl named Meagan.

I first met Meagan when I visited campus a couple of weeks after moving Mack into the dorm, and I was smitten with her, too. She is smart and silly, just like my Mack, a skeptical liberal with the second-best giggle I have ever heard. She is feisty, a little kooky, a whole lot of witty, and she sings her sentences, lilting the syllables melodically across her full lips. She is what I like to call a good egg. Mack had a long history of collecting special friends, so I was not at all surprised she found Meagan. Mack knew a good egg when she saw one, and Meagan was a keeper. In October of her first semester at college, Mack sent me this picture…

will you be my roomie

In case you cannot tell, the candies on the partly eaten pizza spell out “ROOMMATES,” and Mack was not only thrilled with Meagan’s proposal for sophomore roommate status, but was also delighted with the panache of the delivery itself: on a pizza topped with M&Ms alongside a cheesy picture of Meagan, promising Mack a bag of her favorite Warhead sour candies.

Mack and Meagan were inseparable at Truman. During sophomore year they shared a square college apartment, and they lived together as friends, as sisters, and as confidants. Mack cooked for Meagan, and Meagan helped keep dirt and wine off of Mack’s white armchair. Meagan provided the big screen TV, and Mack taught Meagan to love Buffy the Vampire Slayer and My Cousin Vinny. Their shared academic interests in writing and in gender studies made them frequent classmates, so they frequently studied together, probably mostly while watching TV. And certainly, on more occasions than I would care to know about, Mack probably convinced Meagan to skip the studying altogether and watch more episodes of Parks and Recreation instead. Meagan brought out the talker in Mack, and the two of them shared ideas, always finding ways to connect their gender-studies readings to their unique observations about the women in their favorite shows. Over two magical years, they dreamed. They laughed. They watched TV. They talked about the future. Together. Always together. Even when they were home for break—Mack in St. Louis and Meagan in nearby Fenton—they were together.

Very early on in their friendship, the girls arranged a meeting for their parents, almost like an anxious engaged couple eager to put the in-laws in a room together. They were excited for all of us to hit it off; and hit it off, we did. Kevin & I and Tony & Mary had the pleasure of dining with Mack and Meagan several times, both in Kirksville and in St. Louis. Mack had adopted Meagan and her folks in a package deal, and so did we. Since losing our Mack, the three of them have provided me a great deal of comfort with their easy friendship–drinking, eating, and talking about politics–and their generous support of the Mackenzie Kathleen McDermott Memorial Scholarship now endowed at Truman State. I am certain they know how much Mack loved them, but I also hope they know the depth of my own connections to them, as well. Mack’s friendship with Meagan was forever, and so it will now be with me.

Recently, Meagan told me she admired the power Mackenzie possessed to ignite the passions of the people around her, to share her infectious joy for life, and to quietly demonstrate the meaning of true friendship. Meagan’s time with Mack was too short, and her memories of college will always be bittersweet; young people should not have to suffer the tragic loss of a friend. But Meagan is a wise and brave young woman, and she believes that two years with her cherished friend was a far better bargain than never having had the pleasure of knowing Mack at all. I am beyond grateful that Meagan found her way to Truman State and that she was Mack’s best friend for the wild and wonderful adventure of college. Today, as Meagan graduates with the Truman State University Class of 2016, I take some comfort in the knowledge that Mack’s spirit lives on in Meagan’s heart and in life she will live beyond college.

And so, dear Meagan, go out in that world and make your dreams come true. As Mack would say, “you’re a grown-ass woman now,” but don’t forget to laugh and to stop to be silly along the way.

Graduation Day 7 May 2016
Special college friends, Grace, Meagan, and Alyssa

Purple

The unexpected death of the incomparable Prince knocked me a little off balance, and I spent a day and a night reflecting on why that is. It is true that Prince’s music painted a colorful and inspirational canvas that embellished my formative years in a small, bland Illinois town. It is true that Purple Rain—the song, the album, and the movie—was an anthem for me and for my high school classmates in the 1980s as we embraced a more open and inclusive world and separated ourselves from our more traditional parents. And it is also very true that as we all cling to the pop culture of our youth, the loss of a childhood idol exposes our psyches to our own inevitable mortality. Yet why should the death of a person I never even met cause such sadness in my heart when I have suffered the tragic and personally devastating death of my own daughter?

That uncomfortable question floated around inside of my brain all day yesterday as I mourned the passing of my favorite pop star and as I shed my tears for a loss that is so much bigger than my own connection to his music. The world is far less colorful today than it was yesterday, before we all learned the sad truth of what it really sounds like when doves cry. But that question, it haunted me. It stayed wedged there between the dozens of articles and tributes I read about Prince. It lurked in the shadows of the music videos I watched. It breathed within the melodies of Prince’s beautiful, exhilarating, and provocative music that I listened to a long, long way past midnight. I felt guilty for owning such sorrow for Prince during those weepy and nostalgic hours, but I was compelled to pay some small tribute of the importance of Prince to the teenager I was. To give up one good night’s sleep seemed a small sacrifice to honor a man whose musical brilliance and irreverence for stark categories made me love him, and whose bold androgyny, unabashed support of female artists, and unapologetic commitment to being who he was opened my eyes up to a world far beyond the confines of my provincial, white, and conservative childhood.

But still. That question. How can the death of a pop star matter to me now? As I spent the night with that question, communing with Prince, enjoying the music of my youth, and lamenting the loss of so many years between the fourteen-year-old me and the forty-nine-year-old me, I cried for Mack. I cried for me. I cried for that fabulous, diminutive Prince, who could flat-out slay a guitar solo like a king, while rocking a pair of heels, a ruffled shirt, and a purple brocade jacket like a queen. Mack was there in all those tears, but her presence was not for the purpose of eliciting regret for my emotional reaction to the death of a pop star. Rather, she was there to give license to the depth of my sorrow at the end of a life of one of the most unique artists I have ever had the great pleasure to appreciate. Since losing Mack, I am more generous with my tears, I have more empathy, and I feel the sorrows in the world more keenly. But, of course, once again, I needed my girl to show me the way. Sometime, long after midnight, in a glassy-eyed, purple fog of exhaustion, Mack whispered in my head. She said, “I know why you’re so sad. Prince got a little bit in your teenager soul, and that’s a good thing, Momma Bear. And don’t worry, because surely you remember that purple is my favorite color, too.”

IMG_1558