13 things that make me happy

Former acquisitions editor Jennifer Pooley wrote a post on her blog entitled “13 things that make me happy.” Nothing on her list actually makes me happy (#1 comes the closest, but my creative process is slightly different), so I thought I’d write my own list.

Narrowing it down to just 13 items was impossible, so this by no means an exhaustive list. Just the first 13 things that came to mind.

I’d love to see your list if you’ be so kind as to include it in the comment section.

  1. Bluffing and winning a poker hand
  2. Snow days
  3. Ice cream for dinner
  4. A perfect approach shot
  5. Dancing with my wife
  6. Reading to my children
  7. Almost any Springsteen song
  8. Seeing one of my novels on the shelf of a bookstore
  9. A New England Patriots victory
  10. Telling a story to a live audience
  11. Watching my daughter experience pride from an accomplishment
  12. Breakfast
  13. Making my wife laugh

First marks

My son, Charlie, made his first marks on paper while waiting for our meals at a local restaurant. Perhaps this is just the beginning. Maybe he will be following in his father's footsteps and writing novels someday.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

Also, it’s looking like you’re probably right handed.

Nobody’s perfect.

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Sperm, sticks and downright douchebaggery

TIME recently posted a piece entitled A Dozen Random Goods & Services Selling Unusually Well Right Now.

A few were particularly notable to me.

American Sperm
In Canada, Australia, the United Kingdom, and many other countries, sperm donors are not allowed to be anonymous. U.S. donors are under no such obligation, which is why America has become the world’s largest exporter of human sperm. More than 60 countries now import American sperm.

While this does not necessarily appeal to me, it’s good to know that in a pinch, I might be able to earn a few extra bucks.

Breast milk is also a hot commodity, as I’ve pointed out to my wife more than once. “Maybe you can just keep pumping for a while after you’re done nursing. Sell it on eBay.”

This did not go over very well.  

Luxury Menswear—Purchased Online
A study from iProspect on the “Digital Affluent Male” estimates that there are 19 million rich American men who use the Internet regularly, many of them for shopping purchases: Approximately 40% of this demographic shops online at least twice a week and spends over $30,000 on e-purchases annually. Luxury menswear and accessories are among the most popular purchases of this group—a group whose favorite brands include Rolex, Louis Vuitton, and BMW.

Who are these men? 

And where along the path to manhood did these men decide that an enormous, expensive watch or a wallet worth more than the amount of money it contains is a good idea?

Manual Transmission Cars
Sales of cars with stick shifts have been so abysmal that a grass-roots movement to “Save the Manuals” has been launched. Perhaps the movement is working. USA Today has it that 6.5% of the new cars sold in the first quarter of 2012 were sticks. That’s much higher than the previous two years (under 4% in 2010 and 2011), and the highest rate since 2006, when 7.2% of new cars sold were manuals. This is despite the fact that only 19% of today’s models are available in stick.

This pleases me. I drive a stick and have done so for more than a decade. A girlfriend in high school taught me to drive a stick shift on her Nissan Sentra, and I have loved manual transmissions ever since. Not only does a stick give you more control in bad weather, but it prevents most people from borrowing your car. Recent surveys estimate that less than ten percent of Americans know how to drive a car with a manual transmission.

I’ve always enjoyed singular competence.    

Weird Rides to the Prom
Forget the trusty limo to the prom. To really stand out on the big night—a night that’s increasingly expensive, now topping $1,000 per family, on average—the Wall Street Journal reports that today’s high school attention seekers are opting to hire fire trucks, school buses, and even replicas of the “Dukes of Hazzard” General Lee and hand-pulled rickshaws to take them to the prom.

I attended about half a dozen proms in my youth. Happily, I grew up in a time when the world was still sane and parents did not feel the need to crystalize every moment of their child’s life through ostentation, ceremony and excess.

Of course, I was somewhat neglected, so perhaps this played a role, too.

I drove my mother’s station wagon, a Datsun B210, a Chevy Malibu, a Chrysler LeBaron and a Toyota Tercel to my proms. I also shared a limousine with two other couples.

Hand-pulled rickshaws and fire trucks are clear signs of douchebaggery.

A $450 Cookbook
Who would buy a 2,438-page cookbook that retails for $625? Apparently, lots of people. The Wall Street Journal recently described the amazing run of Modernist Cuisine, a five-volume cookbook that has been translated into German, Spanish, and French (more languages to come), typically sells for around $450, and has been snatched up by more 45,000 (and counting) food enthusiasts around the globe.

Obviously this is insane. But many food enthusiasts take themselves very seriously, and people who take themselves very seriously like to spend lots of money projecting their seriousness to the world.

I’m only disappointed that I didn’t think of it first. 

What surprises me, however, is how impervious the cookbook industry has been to the Internet. How have recipes not migrated online by now?

Please note that I’m not saying this should be the case. I’m just surprised that it has not happened yet. 

“In The Night Kitchen” relies on the penis for its success and notoriety.

This reading of In the Night Kitchen got a lot of attention on the Internet last week with the passing of James Gandolfini.

And Gandolfini delivers a spectacular reading of this Maurice Sendak classic, but let me go on the record as saying that I do not like this book at all.

Perhaps it’s because I first read the book when I was 40 years-old and therefore lacked the childhood nostalgia that can occasionally prop up lesser works of art, but I find the story to be strange, creepy, frightening, unnecessarily graphic and most important lacking a cohesive and compelling narrative.

Frankly, I think that had Sendak not included the little boy’s penis in the illustrations, this book would have disappeared into obscurity.

I think the inclusion of the penis gained the book its initial notoriety and has continued to allow it to stand out as something different and unusual.

But not very good.

In the wake of the Supreme Court’s DOMA ruling, I can’t help but accentuate the negative

I think it says a lot about me that as happy as I am about the Supreme Court’s ruling striking down the Defense of Marriage Act, I take infinitely more pleasure in imagining how outraged, surprised, angry and defeated the bigots in this country must feel right now.

I should feel elation for my gay friends and the equality they so deserve. They should be people in the forefront of my mind on this historic day.

Instead I find myself focused on the image of some probably old, probably white bigot somewhere probably south of me, sitting in a rocking chair on his front porch, pained as he watches the America he once loved rapidly transform into an America that we can all love.  

I’ve always been a fan of schadenfreude. This is the one instance when it feels not only good but somehow righteous as well.

Second place sucks. I am a jerk.

I came in second place on Monday night at a Moth StorySLAM in New York City. I was in first place after four stories but gave up the lead to the eighth storyteller, who told an amusing and revealing story about her battle with herpes.

Last week I finished second at a Moth StorySLAM in Boston. I went first and held the lead until the ninth storyteller took the stage and told a fabulous story about her father.

Back in April I came in second place at a Moth StorySLAM in New York City. I was in first place after five storytellers but lost to the ninth storyteller, who told a story that I have since forgotten.

I also won a StorySLAM in Boston last month, but that victory does not fit into the narrative of this post. More notably, it doesn’t make any of those second place finishes feel any better.

There are many problems with finishing in second place in a competition.

Research shows that Olympic silver medalists feel worse after their Olympic performance than bronze medalists, because silver medalists know how close they came to winning.

I understand this sentiment precisely.

Jerry Seinfeld is famous for saying that second place is the first loser.

I understand this sentiment, too.

I am the King of Second Place. Throughout my life, I have constantly found myself in second place, the runner-up position and as one of a handful of disappointed finalists.

Rarely do I find my way to victory.

I’ve competed in 14 Moth StorySLAMs over the past two years. I’ve been fortunate enough to win 4 of them and finished in second place 6 times. I’ve also finished in second place in 2 Moth GrandSLAMs.

See the problem?

I’ve been exceptionally lucky over the past two years. I should be grateful for my record at The Moth. I should be grateful simply for the opportunity to take the stage and tell a story about my life.

I have absolutely no right to complain.

Except all those second place finishes KILL ME. They hurt my heart. They linger in my mind, serving as constant reminders about how close I came to winning again and again,

Sadly, tragically, and pathetically, I remember the second place finishes better than the first place finishes.

But no one wants to hear this. Complain about second place to someone who has finished fifth and you feel like a jerk. Complain about second place to someone who didn’t even have the chance to compete and you feel like an even bigger jerk.

Complain about second place in almost any context you’re a jerk.

I was recently complaining about a second place finish to a fellow storyteller, lamenting about the fact that I had lost despite posting scores of 9.8, 9.5 and 9.4.

The storyteller glared at me and told me that he was still waiting for his first score in the 9 range.

I felt like such a jerk. I still do. That moment may have irrevocably confirmed my jerk status forever.

But am I supposed to feel gratitude about a second place finish?

Should I rejoice in my excellent, albeit not entirely winning, performance?

Should I just smile and keep my mouth shut?

The latter is probably the best advice, but it is also advice that I have never been able to follow.

I should be happy with all those second place finishes. I should be thrilled with my overall record. I have stumbled upon something I do well and something I unexpectedly love. Two years ago storytelling wasn’t even on my radar. Today it’s an enormous part of my life.

This should be enough.

But it’s not because second place sucks. And I am a jerk for thinking so.

If only he could remain so agreeable

My son has begun to make that transition from baby to little boy. He can speak a few words now, and he’s crawling upright on all fours rather than slithering around the house like a snake.

He’s even stopped putting everything in his mouth for the most part.

Most recently, he’s begun to pull himself upright, sometimes with the help of a piece of furniture and sometimes with the help of his Mommy.

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I want to tell him that he can stop growing up now. Other than the diapers and the middle-of-the-night wakeup calls, he has reached that perfect age wherein he is mobile and reactive enough to play with for hours, but he’s not yet capable of rejecting any of my ideas or telling me I’m not entertaining enough.

Unfortunately, this moment will last about nine seconds. Before I know it, he will be telling me that my version of hide-and-seek (the real version) is boring and will be adding bizarre rules to the game that I will never quite understand.

I’ll still play, but I will do so in a fog of confusion and misunderstanding. 

Don’t get me wrong:

The next age will be perfect, too, but it’s just nice to have someone so agreeable around the house for a while.

Taking a stand against not taking a stand to avoid offending someone

Last week I posted a list of things that I had never done that caused me to feel pride.

I receive quite a bit of pushback on this post. Specifically, readers felt that the list was an indictment of anyone engaging in these behaviors.

I want to address this concern in two ways.

First, I pointed out to my critics that the pride I feel in not doing something does not automatically impugn the behavior or character of someone who does.

The example I used most often was my vegan friends. I know several ethical vegans who take pride in the fact that they do eat meat and do not contribute to the unnecessary death of animals. I understand this sentiment and can appreciate it, but I do not assume that the pride they feel about their diet implies that meat eaters like myself are bad people or that they think less of me.

Even if this was the implication (and it might well be), what the hell do I care if a vegan thinks that eating a cheeseburger makes me bad?

The pride I feel in never having watched a show like The Bachelor should not cause you any angst if you watch the show. If it does, I would suggest that you probably already feel bad about watching the show, and my list is only serving to highlight a feeling that already resides within you.

What the hell do you care what I think if you are doing something that you believe is right?

But here is a more important point:

It would've been easy for me to limit my list to less potentially offensive items. I knew that placing things like popular reality television shows, lottery ticket and selfies on the list would risk offending some readers.

But there comes a time when a person has to stand behind unpopular opinions because he or she believes that they are right. While the inclusion of the selfie on the list was admittedly more tongue-in-cheek than the rest, it’s true that I have never taken one nor spoken that word aloud.

But when it comes to The Jersey Shore, The Kardashian people and The Bachelor/Bachelorette, I think these programs are crap and only serve to feed our celebrity-driven, image-obsessed, shallow-end-of-the-pool culture. Many, many people watch these programs and enjoy them, but I wish they wouldn’t. I think they are at best a waste of time and at worst a damaging aspect of our culture.

I feel the same way about lottery tickets, cigarettes and illegal drugs. The fact that I have never purchased or used any of these items admittedly places me in an extreme minority, but I think all three items are to be avoided if at all possible.

I’m taking a stand.

Do I think you should be offended if you buy a Powerball ticket once a week or watch The Bachelor with friends on Monday nights?

No. It’s just one man’s opinion.

I think the idea that a list like this is mean-spirited, snobbish, self serving or divisive is nonsense. We’re too damn careful in today’s world. Too nervous about offending.

It’s stupid to smoke. It’s potentially dangerous and unnecessary to use illegal drugs. It’s economically unsound to purchase lottery tickets. And it only serves to perpetuate and enhance this celebrity-obsessed culture by turning on The Bachelor or The Jersey Shore.

This is how I feel.

I also believe that the National Football League probably contributes to violence in our culture and is permanently damaging the bodies and brains of its players. It’s clearly the the stupidest of the major sports in terms of safety and its contribution to our culture. Yet I am a season ticket holder and an enormous fan of the game.

Am I angry at myself for impugning my own behavior?

Of course not.

Am I a bad person for continuing to support this questionable sport.

No.

But I think doing so is at least a little stupid.

I am fine if you think the same.

This is how I feel about the items of my list. I think it is probably at least a little stupid to engage in them, and with some of them, I think it’s profoundly stupid. But we all engage in stupid behavior. My list simply highlights the ones that I have managed to avoid so far.

If I want to be proud of myself for having avoided cigarettes, lottery tickets, swearing in the presence of my mother and The Jersey Shore, this should not bother you. If it does, make your own damn list. I’m sure you have plenty to be proud of, and perhaps some of the items on your list are things that I do every day.  

Maybe that will make you feel better.

A hard roll is actually soft. You probably knew that already, but I didn’t.

For the first 35 years of my life, I never ordered an egg sandwich on a hard roll because who the hell would want an egg sandwich on a hard roll?

Except it turns out that a hard roll isn’t hard. It’s soft.

Elysha pointed this out to me when we started dating. We were having breakfast at a local diner and she ordered her sandwich on a hard roll. When I asked her why she didn’t prefer a soft roll, she said that a hard roll was soft.

I thought she was crazy, but it turns out that she was right.

I had been relegated to English muffins, bagels and the occasional croissant for 35 years because some jackass mislabeled a soft roll as hard simply because of its slightly crusty exterior.

hard roll

Beauty pageants must end now.

I would like to propose that every man, woman and child in the United States sign a pledge refusing to participate in or watch any beauty pageant like the Miss USA Pageant ever again.

Pageants are bizarre and awful. Teams of  judges stare at young women in ball gowns and swimsuits and score them on their physical appearance. In the case of the most recent Miss USA Pageant, the judges included an NFL player, a professional wrestler and at least three reality television stars, so the choice of judges is apparently based upon the probability of increasing viewership for the telecast.

Then contestants are asked to answer randomly chosen public policy questions, which result in embarrassing, incoherent, inexplicably stupid moments like this one from last week’s Miss USA Pageant:

Not as bad as the South Carolinian from the Miss Teen USA Pageant in 2007, but still pretty stupid.

What the hell are we doing?

As the father of a little girl, I’m horrified and disgusted that she will be growing up in a world in which these pageants still exist and are broadcast on national television in primetime.

What kind of person even watches a show like this?

The process of judging young women on their physical appearance is disgusting. The inherent sexism behind the existence of these pageants is appalling. I can’t begin to imagine why a parent would want to involve his or her daughter in the pageant process. 

If we could all agree to never involve ourselves or our children in the pageant process and (more importantly) look away when they air these vile programs on television, then the cattle calls of pretty women in swimsuits strutting across a stage so that a football players and reality television stars can assess their curves will eventually come to an end.

I'm proud to say I've never done this. Or this. Or this.

Last week I proclaimed pride in not knowing who Amanda Bynes is. Since making that claim, I have learned that she is or was a child actor. What she is today is still a mystery to me because I don’t care and don’t want to know. Based upon the comments that I see about her in my Twitter stream, Amanda Bynes is an easy target of social media cruelty and clearly someone not worth my time. A friend replied to my comment by expressing her pride in never having seen any of the Real Housewives or Kardashian shows, a claim that I can also proudly make (add The Jersey Shore and  The Bachelor/Bachelorette to my list).

In reading her comment, it occurred to me that while we often take pride in our accomplishments and achievements, there are things that we have never done that cause us to feel pride as well.

With that in mind, I hereby present my list of things that I have never done that cause me to feel just as much pride as the things I have done.

_______________________________________

Never watched a single episode of The Real Housewives, The Jersey Shore, or anything involving those Kardashian people

Never used an illegal drug in my entire life (though I am admittedly bereft of good drug stories as a result)

Never bought a lottery ticket

Never smoked a cigarette

Never revealed a secret that I was asked to keep

Never swore in the presence of my mother

Never shoplifted

Never taken a selfie

Never actually said the word “selfie” aloud

The Moth: Call Me Dad

The following is a story that I told at a Moth StorySLAM at The Bell House in Brooklyn in March of this year. The theme of the night was Money.

I told a story about my stepfather’s attempt to get me to call him “Dad.” 

It was the first time in my storytelling career that I was forced to go first. Going first at a StorySLAM is the kiss of death. As good as your story and performance may be, it’s nearly impossible to go first and win. In fact, I’ve been told it’s never been done.

I know storytellers who come to StorySLAMs with two stories:

One that they believe is a winning story and a lesser story in the event their name is drawn from the hat first.

I have a hard enough time preparing one story. Two would be too much.    

I did well despite my first place position. I finished in third place for the evening with scores of 9.2, 9.2 and 9.3. 

A mother’s nightgown teaches a woman a universal truth of life.

Katy Waldman of Slate wrote a piece about mistaking her mother’s nightgown for a sundress and accidentally wearing it to work.

Want to guess what happened when this twenty something editor of Slate arrived at the office wearing her 60-year-old mother’s nightgown?

If you said absolutely nothing, you’d be correct.

Most miraculously of all, no one had seemed to notice. (I checked with co-workers the day after I found out about the gaffe, and they pled total obliviousness. Plus, as of now, I still have my job.)

Waldman waxes on amusingly about the possible lessons learned from this experience but eventually lands on the real lesson:

“How you look really doesn’t matter as much as you think.”

It’s a universal truth that takes so many people so long to learn, and for a great many, it is something that is never learned. The fact that Waldman has come to this understanding in her twenties is an accomplishment.

It often much longer to come to this realization.

In fact, if Waldman is single and you live in the Washington, DC area, I would suggest you find and marry her immediately. There’s nothing better in the world than being married to a woman who can throw on a tee shirt, a pair of jeans and a baseball cap and leave the house without a thought about makeup, hair or any other nonsense.

I made a list of things I wanted in a wife before I met Elysha, and this was one of them. I also wanted her to be British, speak Spanish and be independently wealthy, but I’d take her confident, carefree nature over almost any other quality any day.

Last week our school hosted its annual fair. One of the featured attractions of the fair is a dunk tank. Every year teachers climb into the tank and allow children to attempt to dunk them into the water below.

Every year I am surprised that more teachers don’t volunteer for this opportunity. How often in your life are you going to have the chance to sit in a dunk tank and make children laugh? It’s one of those experiences that you will never forget.

While there are many good reasons not to participate in the dunk tank, I’ve been told by colleagues in the past that one of the reasons they don’t volunteer is because they are worried about their hair and makeup. I politely nod at this assertion, but in my head, I’m thinking something like this:

“The only person who even notices your hair and makeup is you. Honestly, no one gives a damn about what you look like, and we almost never notice your appearance on a day to day basis. You know those “good hair days?” You’re the only person on the planet who knows your having a good hair day, and more important, you’re the only one who even cares. You have the opportunity to make a lifelong memory. You have the chance to make kids laugh. You’re going to let your hair stand in the way? That’s either tragic or pathetic. No, it’s both.”

Despite a host of parental assertions, character-building literature and after-school specials,  people continue to  believe that appearance matters, and while it may to a small degree (and for a small, materialistic percentage of the population, it might mean a lot), Waldman is right.

How you look really doesn’t matter as much as you think.

For Waldman, this realization required accidentally wearing her mother’s nightgown to work (though she was probably on the path to realization before this incident. For others, this truth tends to come with age, increasing self confidence and wisdom.

For people like me, a childhood spent with ill-fitting, hand-me-down clothing and $5 haircuts teaches you this lesson. Though you’re clearly not wearing any of the trendy clothing that your classmates are wearing, you eventually realize that no one seems to care. You worry like hell about it for a while, and then one day you come to the understanding that clothing is fairly irrelevant. Your hair is fairly irrelevant. Even things like your weight and height are fairly irrelevant.

If you’re funny, brave, well informed and occasionally helpful, that’s about all you need in life to be accepted.  

If you don’t believe me, if you think that this scene from The Devil Wears Prada actually possesses a kernel of real truth, I suggest you wear your mother’s nightgown to work one day and see what happens.

Wedding etiquette torn down by one of the most popular advice columnists in the world. I’m impressed.

Emily Yoffe, the Ask Prudence advice communist for Slate, recently did a podcast in which people were able to ask questions about wedding etiquette via the telephone as part of Slate’s wedding issue.

Yoffe tends to lean toward tradition and formality, which differs from my natural inclinations, but I found myself both in agreement and incredibly impressed by her answers during the course of this podcast.

In response to a bride-to-be who recently learned that her mother-in-law plans on wearing a cream-colored dress to the wedding, Yoffe told the caller not to say a word to her future mother-in-law about the choice of color. Yes, it’s true that it’s traditional for only the bride to wear a white dress to her wedding, but Yoffe assured the bride that no one is going to mistake and the mother-in-law because their dresses are similar in color, nor does the mother-in-law’s dress have any bearing over the enjoyment that the bride should have that day.

Moreover, and more important, she also implored the bride to take the high road if someone commented on the dress color at the wedding by simply stating that she thought her mother-in-law looked beautiful.

The tradition that the bride is the only woman wearing white at the wedding is true enough, but Yoffe is also willing to acknowledge that this is a fairly meaningless tradition, and that the bride’s relationship with her mother-in-law, who has already bought the dress and expressed her love for it, is more important than ridiculous matters of dress color.

Yoffe also acknowledges the likelihood that the bride would speak about the mother-in-law’s decision behind her back and is wise enough to advise against it. I cannot tell you how many times my respect for a person has eroded after listening to them make petty, backbiting, materialistic comments like the ones Yoffe anticipated about someone who is not in the room. 

Another caller expresses her concern over the mounting cost of four weddings that she is going be in this year as a bridesmaid. As a fulltime student with a part-time job, the cost of the dresses, the alterations, shoes and the out-of-town bachelorette parties has become too much for this woman’s checking account to bear. She asked Yoffe if it would be acceptable to not bring a gift to the wedding.

Yoffe says that you are obligated to do “only what you are able to do.”

Then she speaks blasphemy:

“Gifts are optional.”

Except it’s not blasphemy. We all know how much it costs to be a bridesmaid these days with bridal showers, bachelorette parties and wedding costs.

What kind of bride would not acknowledge and understand this when it comes to the bridesmaid’s choice of gift?

A despicable one, perhaps, but you shouldn’t be serving as bridesmaid for a despicable person.

Yoffe goes on to say that you can pick up something small but nice for as little as ten or twenty dollars, wrap it up and you have “discharged your duty.”

Hallelujah.  

What Yoffe fails to acknowledge is the disgusting and all-to-common custom of discussing the quality, choice and even cost of gifts with friends and family members after the fact.

“Can you believe that Aunt Judith only gave me $50?”

“My friend, Tina, went off-registry and bought me this awful looking vase that I’m sure was on sale.”

“What did Kim and Joe give you for your wedding? Were they as cheap as they were with me?”

On this week’s Slate’s DoubleX podcast, Slate editor Allison Benedikt actually argues in favor of bridal registries for this very reason, claiming that the potential gossip material that bridal registries provide is too valuable to allow the tradition die.

If this woman follows Yoffe’s advice and gives an inexpensive gift or no gift at all, it is likely that the bride will gossip about her, maybe only to her parents or sister or favorite cousin, but probably more.

It’s possible that the bride possesses the degree of grace, dignity, restraint and/or perspective necessary to to never speak about the quality of this bridesmaid’s gift, but I fear those people are few and far between.

As vile and disgusting as this kind of gift gossip happens to be, I have seen far too much of it over the course of my lifetime to believe that it won’t happen here.

Still, I agree and admire Yoffe’s advice. She’s right. The cost of the gift should never matter, but it should especially never matter when a bridesmaid is involved.

To hell with the possible gossip. If you spend hundreds of dollars on a dress, shoes, alterations, hair, a wedding shower and a bachelorette party, you should not be expected to also purchase a wedding gift.

Only a loser moron materialistic cretin who sucks at life would say otherwise.

My advice: Listen to The Diary of Anne Frank on a 1995 Sony Walkman

The first time I read The Diary of Anne Frank, I listened to the audiobook on a Sony Walkman. It was 1995, and the recording was on cassette tape. This was by far the best way to read Anne Frank’s diary for the first time.

anne frank audiobook

I was raking leaves on my front lawn. It was late afternoon. The October shadows were long and thin. The air was cool.

It was a moment that I will never forget.

In fact, it was one of the most profound and moving experiences that I have ever had with a book. I finished listening to a diary entry in which Frank talks about the struggle between her interior self and her public self.

“…when everybody starts hovering over me, I get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart inside out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside, and keep trying to find a way to become what I'd like to be and what I could be if . . . if only there were no other people in the world.

Then there was no more.

Just silence.

At first I thought the reels had jammed, an all-too-common occurrence in the days of cassette tapes, but when I looked into the tiny window of the Walkman, I saw that the reels were spinning and the tape was coming to an end.

I pressed the stop button and extracted the cassette in order to turn it over. I saw the letter B on the tape.

I had already played both sides of the cassette.

Confused, I walked over to the case of cassette tapes on the front stoop to get the next one and discovered that there were no more. As I had thought, this was the last cassette.

That was it. As swiftly and unexpectedly as Frank and her family had been taken from their annex by the Nazis, The Diary of Anne Frank had come to an end.

I couldn’t believe it.

Anne_Frank

It’s not as if I was unaware of Anne Frank’s fate. I knew of her tragic death in the concentration camps.

It’s not as if I was expecting her diary to end on a high note. But the suddenness of its end, without a warning of any kind, literally stopped me in my tracks.

Had I been reading the book instead of listening to it, I would’ve had a measure of the remaining pages and been better prepared for the end. Unlike Anne and her family, I would’ve seen the end coming.

Had I been listening to the book on my iPhone, as I listen to audiobooks today, I would’ve been aware of the time remaining on the recording and not been so confused or surprised when it came to an end.

But because the technology did not allow for a warning, the ending was one of the most heart-wrenching moments in all of literature for me. Anne Frank was taken from me with an abruptness commensurate with her arrest. One day she was writing her diary, and the next day she was on a train that would eventually lead her to her death, never to write a single word again.

I do not cry easily. Even when I feel the need to cry, I tend to suppress my emotions Swallow them whole. Standing in my front yard that day on a carpet of orange and red leaves, I did not cry upon realizing that I had reached the end of Anne Frank’s diary, and in a way, the end of Anne Frank’s life.

I wept.

I wept, knowing that Anne Frank had never been given the chance to tell a single story. Tear streamed down my cheeks with the sudden awareness that Anne Frank went to her grave never knowing how many millions of people would ultimately read her diary and cherish every word.

I may have wept for Anne Frank regardless of how I consumed her diary for the first time, but I suspect that the abrupt ending contributed greatly to my emotional response. Anne Frank spent two years hiding with her family in their annex, and in that time, she wrote a diary that will be read for centuries. She had her whole life stretched out in front of her, and whether she believed it or not, it was rich with possibility. Despite her doubts, she was a gifted writer even at the age of fifteen. Then suddenly, without warning, her writing came to the end at the hands of evil men. She was separated from her family, shipped to a concentration camp, and was dead six months later.

Someday I will play the audiobook of The Diary of Anne Frank for my children. My plan is to play it in the car, in the midst of a long, cross-country road trip. With any luck, they won’t see the end coming any more than I did on that fall afternoon.

Some books are better consumed, at least the first time, in audio form, and preferably using technology from the mid-1990s.