The Gift of Life

When is "the gift of life" just not quite nearly enough? Last night at a dinner party, I was illuminated to the emerging if not established popularity of the "push gift," -- a reward, I learned, often sparkly, that new dads routinely bestow upon new moms for their sweaty and successful labor in childbirth.

"A push-gift?" I wondered aloud. "Holy shit, is this common?"

"Is the gift like a carrot to inspire pushing or is it only to be C.O.D., cash-on-delivery?"

My reflex was cynical. As my brain motored through the tsunami of marital finance (engagement/wedding rings, a new mortgage, extra plum sauce), I would eventually dock at the exhausted, head-in-my-hands, conclusion -- "Where and when does it stop?"

"Would twins warrant earrings?"

"Will stationary be in order for the inaugural diaper change?"

"Victoria's Secret for breast-feeding?"

In the consumer culture of America, "boundaries" is a bad word. Is the norm that the stork now arrives with a "shipping and handling charge" surprising? Of course not. But at what point do we contaminate the sanctity of our most fundamental joys? And at what harm do we attach material rewards to the natural prize of love and family?

Certainly, there is something sweet and legitimate about memorializing the nine-month journey that a woman endures in giving birth. However, there is also something to cause pause, when, as we visualize the traditional image of mother, supine in hospital bed, handed her newly born child with doting father at side, and the special aura of that scene ... does it really need to shine any brighter? I don't know. But if I had to pass a camel through the eye of a needle while my father-in-law drooled on the zoom lens, I'd probably feel entitled to something too.

Blackbirds Fly

To score a movie montage of recent American storylines, I believe the composer would do well to select “Blackbird,” by the Beatles. To contextualize this soundtrack choice, you should know that Paul McCartney was inspired to write the song as a reaction to racial tensions escalating in America during the spring of 1968. To further appropriate this selection, you must also accept the ironic/abstract connections that I've observed between the song’s imaging and the designated “blackbirds” as listed below. Nevertheless, for all of its potential import, plus its melancholy synthesis of hope amidst sorrow, Paul McCartney’s solemn poem has never been more useful.

Consider the following:

Blackbird #1; Barack Obama is elected the first black President of the United States. In “Game Change,” John Heilman and Mark Halperin’s excellent account of the 2008 Presidential campaigns, Obama’s meteoric rise in politics is compared to Icarus from Greek mythology. Whether Obama has flown too close to the sun remains to be seen, but fair or otherwise, the transcendent nature of his Presidency was quickly singed by the depressing and destructive reality of modern politics if not charred by his own (thus far) relatively muted follow-up as a transformative commander in chief.

Blackbird #2; A “black swan” phenomena engulfs the global financial system and wrecks havoc on nest eggs and the national economy.

Blackbird #3; Tiger Woods, master of birdies and eagles, reveals a new record of “low scores.”

Blackbird #4; Oprah Winfrey announces her retirement from daytime TV and leaves her sanctuary in Chicago to become a snowbird out west. Kitty Kelley, the “poison pen” biographer, writes a book that undermines the character and authenticity of America’s biggest cultural icon.

Blackbird #5; Phoenix, AZ – capital of the controversial (perhaps unconstitutional) state immigration policy that flirts with racial profiling. The city is of course named after the Greek mythological bird that famously reincarnates from the rubble of its own ashes.

Blackbird #6; BP douses Gulf Coast seagulls in petroleum. The stunted flight of oil dressed birds becomes the enduring image of the worst ecological disaster in American history.

Blackbird #7; LeBron James flies south for the winter and splatters the collective windshield of Cleveland, no less flashes the bird to anyone who cares about courage. The irony of his charity clad announcement lies in the more damaging donation that his cowardice conveyed upon young worshippers – as a famous bird watcher once said:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.” -- Teddy Roosevelt

* * *

As the national anthem du jour, “Blackbird” acknowledges America’s sobering condition as a nation of “broken wings,” yet poses the urgency and optimism to once again “learn how to fly.” I simply found it remarkable that the song and its concept seemed to manifest itself repeatedly throughout these American storylines, however surely or stretched these assocations may be.

Hopefully, the news will find a happier Beatles tune …