Memorial to a Different Kind of War

My mother, Carol R. Fuchs, Washington Square Village, New York, ca. 1962

Happy Birthday, Carol Runyan Fuchs.  Today you would've turned 88 years old.  Had you made it past 57 when you gave in to cancer -- just one year older than I am now.

Appropriate, I suppose, that her birthday lands on Memorial Day this year.  She didn't die in battle the way one thinks of it when thinking of Memorial Day; however, anyone who has seen a loved one struggle against, and eventually succumb to cancer knows it's as painful, as traumatic as any war.  Less violent, maybe, but just as heart-wrenching to watch.

And the loss is no less real.

I miss you, Mom.  Thank you for your service to our family, to me personally as the man you helped me to become -- the artist, too.  And thank you for continuing to serve your lineage, in the ways I pass your unique influence on to my children.

After writing this post in my journal, I was inspired to sketch a self-portrait, something I haven't done in years.  I know it's not very good technically speaking.  But in my mind, it's one of the finest "quick sketches" I've ever done.  My mother drew in this style, and I can't help but believe I was "channeling" her somehow when I sketched it.

Internment by Samira Ahmed
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I recall a story my father once told, of his older brother, Geoffrey standing up in the middle of a Hitler Youth "assembly" at their grammar school in Karlsruhe, Germany, some time in the mid 30's and shouting "Hitler ist ein Arschloch!" All my dad knew about the consequences of a young Jewish boy disparaging the Fuhrer so publicly was that the family was forced to find a new school for Geoffrey and his three young siblings. There were probably threats, maybe violence. But my uncle's bravery, as just a small boy, to stand up to an entire regime in this way astounds me to this day.

Samira Ahmed's novel Internment tells a similar story. Ahmed creates a protagonist who is young -- seventeen going on eighteen -- and, above all, brave. Her humanity shines through in every decision she makes; although she is certainly revolutionary, Layla Amin is her father's daughter. She has a poet's sensibility and is driven by a belief in what is good in our hearts as human beings. Ahmed calls on the oft-heard chant of anti-fascist rallies: "The people, united, will never be defeated."

As an educator, I am so pleased to know that this book is now on the shelves of my school's library. Ahmed speaks to young readers in a way that calls them to action without treating them as political pawns or symbols of some larger, dogmatic ideal. Through the eyes of an intelligent, strong narrator, Ms. Ahmed reminds her readers that what this country was founded on is what we must always continue to fight for.

This world needs Layla Amins and Geoffrey Fuchses. It also needs Samira Ahmeds. Thank goodness we have her. And thank goodness we have Internment.

Resist.


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Let Us Celebrate the Firstborn

May 16, 2019

It's my first-born's birthday today.  Diego Reyes-Fuchs came swimming out into a fancy jacuzzi at the Elizabeth Seton Birthing Center on West Fourteenth Street in Manhattan, New York exactly sixteen years ago.

Diego emerged only after a good ten hours plus of making us wait.  He took his time, and hasn't changed much since then.  He's reasonably punctual, like his dad.  (I don't think he's ever received a tardy in his school career.)  He's just . . . "deliberate."

And that's pretty much Diego, in a nutshell.  As I said, he hasn't really changed much in all these years.  If you look at his baby pictures, you'll see an expression of skepticism, as adults "ooh" and "ahh" around him.  Diego is our Watcher.  His eyes are always wide open, taking in the world that surrounds him.  People describe him as quiet, but he embodies the cliche about still waters.

Like them, Diego Reyes-Fuchs runs deep.

A Letter to Jackson H. Fuchs on His Fourteenth Birthday

A very young Jackson Fuchs, looking like a Baby Gap ad

Dear Jackson:

Having spent the last fourteen years in the role of your father, I can honestly say there's nothing in my life I've enjoyed doing more.  You have managed to illuminate my world with that "special light" your mother describes, since almost the beginning.  And for me that light shines in a full circle, because I can't see it without thinking about my father, Hanno, the man from whom you got your middle name.  You somehow give off a very similar light, which is what makes you my son, and one of my favorite human beings on the planet, as well.

Yes, we have our differences on occasion.  There are times when we yell at each other -- me the stern parent, you the obstinate teen.  But we always come back together, with a hug, or some other, less obvious expression of our undying love.

Some cultures believe the child chooses its parents.  I don't know if that's true, having seen so many BAD matches over the years.  But if it's true in your case, Jackson, I have just one thing to say:  Thank you.  Thank you for choosing me as your father.  And thank you for shining your beautiful light on my world.

Happy birthday, son.  I love you,

Dad