March 14, 2023 by Amy

Dispatch From the Caribbean

I kind of wondered how I was going to meet my goal of writing in a new library every month this year, in March. It’s not great to feel as though I’m already teetering on the brink of goal collapse a mere three months in, but March is a bit crazy. I had a work trip to Kansas City that took a weekend, and a cruise in the Caribbean that is taking two. I don’t like waiting until the end of the month to try to reach a goal because then the odds are stacked against me to actually make it happen. I could get a flat tire on the way to the library. I could run into a friend in the grocery store and spend an hour catching up in the produce section, cutting into what would otherwise be writing time. No, I like to bang out that monthly goal early and then sit back in comfort knowing that I could at least check one thing off that 23 in 23 list.

The work trip was to an independent school in Kansas City, and I tried to write a tiny bit in the school’s library but basically I got a paragraph out and that was it. It didn’t feel much like “writing.” (Let me clarify: I wrote an absolute fuck-ton for the work I was there to do, but the one lone paragraph was personal and that’s what didn’t feel like writing, and the personal writing is what I’m counting toward that New Library Every Month goal.) 

I remembered that on our honeymoon cruise ship, there was a “library” which was basically a room with a bunch of crappy paperbacks and the daily New York Times crossword puzzle faxed to the ship and printed out. (Yes, faxed. I got married 25 years ago, people, back in the day of flip phones and Palm Pilots and email that was confined to a bulky desktop computer…the early dawn of the Internet Age. I am old.) I picked up that crossword puzzle every day and, because I was so relaxed and happy, I completed every single one. Even the insane Saturday and Sunday versions. (Note, I have rarely done that since.)

So after we boarded a few days ago, I studied a map and saw “Central Park Library” in the little interior park on the ship. We hit it the first night and lo! It’s truly a dedicated library space. The books are still shit, of course, but there are tables and chairs and benches and seven whole shelves, five of which sport actual books. Royal Caribbean calls it a library and I’m calling it a library and so, here I am, somewhere in the Caribbean between Cuba and Cozumel, with two other women, typing away. (Header photo is of Central Park Library in Central Park on board Royal Caribbean’s Oasis of the Seas, taken from my current seat. I was planning to photograph the other way, toward the interior, but other patrons are in here and I’m not violating their privacy.) It’s a sea day, which means there are no ports of call. Just hours of bliss as we cruise across the ocean.

This library, while nice, isn’t quite the lovely space I am used to. Outside the door, a party is raging. Royal Caribbean’s Central Park is not a refuge on the ship, contrary to what you might think since it has “park” in its very name. YMCA was blasting as I walked in, and now Livin’ on a Prayer is punctuated by a DJ leading some sort of game for cruise patrons. It’s about as far away from library ambiance as you can get, but hey, ohhhh, we’re halfway there… (The cruisers are singing along. It’s a adorable. There are cheers for someone. Yes, cruisers! Live it up!) (I have located my Beats headphones and the Dark Noise app in the iPhone and, for the most part, have blocked the crowd.)

I am not a fan of humanity, by and large. Mardi Gras, in any city but particularly my own, is a version of hell on earth for me. So why on earth would I board a giant ocean-bound vessel with 7500 strangers all vying for the same deck chairs and dining tables? Because I fucking love it, that’s why. We get to leave the ship every couple of days to explore an entirely new location without having to pack anything. Every night we come back to our room, exhausted and happy, and then we take showers and get cleaned up to head to the dining room for the most delicious food and delightful table staff from all over the world. Two days at sea mean utter relaxation and trips to the bar and catching up on my printed version of The Atlantic and naps.

And the people-watching! M mentioned that he wishes we’d have bought stock in some sort of tattoo ink production company. We may be the only two losers on this ship not sporting body art. Some of it is absolutely gorgeous, some of it is questionable, and all of it is interesting to look at. 

I keep seeing parents wearing hats and t-shirts proclaiming their identities. Girl Dad. Boy Mom. Dance Mom. All that. And I am intensely curious about this trend. (Note: I have seen this well before this cruise, it’s just now I have a few minutes to actually stop and think about it, ruminate on it, if you will.)

I consider myself a parent, a mother, yes, but first of all, my entire identity is not wrapped up in my motherhood, and second, never for a moment have I considered further defining myself as to what type of parent I am. By plastering it on apparel, I feel as though people are bragging about their status, and honestly, I don’t get what there is to brag about. I don’t even know what I would choose, should I be forced to try.

• Girl Mom, for sure, I guess. But it feels rather Neanderthal. “You…girl. Mine.” It lends no good information beyond my child’s gender, which also feels pretty basic. Girls are not all alike, either, so my experience parenting a girl child is vastly different than pretty much every other parent of a girl I know, as their experiences are also different from every other parent they know. How can we distill down the essence of an entire child—a whole person—to their gender? If you are sporting a Girl Dad hat, and another dude wearing the same hat walks up to you and says, “Girl Dad, huh? Me too!” where does the conversation go from there, really? I see a lot of nodding and awkward silence following.
• Volleyball Mom? Lacrosse Mom? What about the seasons between those sports? Does that identity go dormant in the off-season? Is it gauche to wear my Volleyball Mom hat during lacrosse season? Do I have to retire my Basketball Mom hat since she stopped that sport after eighth grade, and should I have never purchased a Cheerleader Mom hat when she gave it a try that one season in seventh, just for kicks? The Softball Mom hat would be at the bottom of the heap, languishing after she moved on in fifth grade.
• Pianist Mom. Well, really, Musician Mom since she can play multiple instruments. Harmonica Mom sounds pretty cool, though, and you just don’t see a lot of those.
• Aspiring Astronaut Mom.
• Astronomy Club Co-Head Mom. But also Doorstep Donations Club Co-Head Mom.
• AP Chem Is Damn Near Killing Her But She’s Persevering And I’m So Fucking Proud Of Her…Mom.

My child, my sweet, amazing girl, is a kaleidoscope of interests and personalities and cannot be defined by one or even a few simple labels. I won’t even try, and I hope no one else does, either.

I also feel as though I’d be defining myself wholly by an identity that, by and large, has nothing to do with me. These are her adjectives, not mine. And just as I don’t want to pigeonhole myself into one or two identities, I really don’t want to tag her into that. What if I proudly and regularly wore a Volleyball Mom shirt and then she wavered on whether she wanted to continue playing that sport? Would her decision to stop or continue be at least somewhat influenced by the fact that her mother, whom she wants to please, has clearly invested in this identity? I never, ever want to affect her decisions in this way. These are her choices to make, and it’s my job to support her through these processes and give her food for thought, not labels to live up to.

So if I had to buy a hat that defines who I am, it would have to say a lot of shit. Writer. Photographer. Marketing and Communications Professional. Storyteller. Wife and Mother, sure, but also Sister and Daughter and Aunt and Cousin. Friend. Hater of Crowds. Lover of a Good Cabernet Sauvignon. Bacon Connoisseur. Has Issues Processing Sugar. Has Finally Learned To Love Coffee, Black, Closing In On 50. Packers Fan But Also The Chiefs Since They Are In Missouri And Rogers Is Just Pissing Me Off These Days But Really I Just Want The Los Angeles Rams To Always Lose Because Stan Kroenke Is A Turd.

This would be a big fucking hat and honestly, I’m not sure I can pull that off.

I guess what I’m saying is, we are so complex, so many-layered and multi-faceted, so very lovely in so many different ways, why would we ever choose to define ourselves so singularly and so based on someone else’s identity, even our beloved children? Yes, I know we all judge each other by our appearances and that everything we choose to wear says something about who we are. I simply choose to make it not quite so obvious. I’d like to force you to talk to me first, get to know me, before defining me as this thing or that. I can be curmudgeonly like that.

Well, now I can say that I have written in a new library this month, and on a topic that I really wasn’t even planning on tackling but which came up thanks to my fellow cruisers and their various sartorial choices. I shall now return to my family, who have spent this time watching the belly-flop competition in the main pool. I’ll probably stop and get another bloody mary from the bar on the way.

God, I love cruises.

P.S. After careful consideration, I’d like to buy a shirt that says “Engineer Wife,” because y’all, there is definitely a whole lotta discussion to be had among those of us who are married to that special breed.

#library#musings#personal essay#writing