Songs of Experience

It is late, nearly midnight, and I know I should be asleep. My family is all tucked in their separate beds; I can even hear them snoring. This is one of those nights where a life problem is stuck in my craw (where does that expression come from?). I just finished watching Bicycle Thieves (formerly called The Bicycle Thief) by – probably – my favorite director, Vittorio De Sica, and I am unable to make sense of my happy/sad feelings. I rented the movie so my 14 year-old could know it and know me. Last spring I made her sit through Cinema Paradiso much like my mother made me read her favorite books: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, To Kill a Mockingbird, East of Eden, etc. Afterward, Sarah Jane kissed me sweetly on her way to bed and wondered aloud, “Why don’t adult movies have happy endings?” But it was happy. Sort of. When the little boy, Bruno, reached up to hold his father’s hand in the midst of the most despairing moment an honest man can endure (caught stealing a bicycle out of desperation), I cried and sighed and felt all of my emotions smear like the crayon-shaving leaves we made this week-end.

That little boy will be a man in the blink of an eye. My three girls will be hare today, goon tomorrow (from Little Bunny Foo Foo) and then it will be over … this parenting thing. I spent the first decade of parenthood complaining to high heaven about how hard it is/was and wishing I had “a life” only to realize in this second decade of being a mom that I have the greatest, fleeting!, life imaginable. Here today, gone tomorrow. Maybe I rented Bicycle Thief because I wanted to be the one who showed it to Sarah Jane (before her film teachers at NYU assigned it for historical perspective). Maybe I wanted to make autumn crayon-shaving leaves with my middle child all morning Saturday (making one helluva mess in my kitchen) because next year she won’t want to. Maybe I gave my Lizzie too many kisses after her bathie tonight because she might start saying “Yuck!” tomorrow. I can’t bear this … this time flying-ness of life. I want to hold on to their chubby hands and feel safe. Why don’t adult movies have happy endings? Because they’re like real life, Saries.

Marion Jones’ fake-ass, tearful apology for her shameful and criminal use of performance-enhancing drugs has me ranting again.

First, I e-mailed the coaches at my alma mater, UNC Chapel Hill, to ask if they plan to take Marion down from the Wall of Fame (I have received no response yet). Then I phoned in to the NPR talk show, Talk of the Nation, to comment on the story they were doing about Doping. They took my call! I wanted to know why everyone is referring to this as a moral or ethical issue. Drug cheats are no different than common thieves, I said.
Next, I wrote the guest cheater on NPR, Joe Papp (cyclist serving a two year suspension) and asked him:

Hello Joe,
I was the caller on Talk of the Nation who spoke today about the criminal element in using performance-enhancing drugs. I want to ask you if someone broke into your house and stole your High Def TV or if someone broke into your bank account through identity theft and stole thousands of dollars, don’t you think that thief should go to prison? Why aren’t you in jail? And also, why do you keep referring to the DRUGS you took as medicine? You weren’t sick; you are a thief.
Keep telling your story and maybe the next generation of athletes will see that crime doesn’t pay.

Unlike the UNC track & field department, Joe DID write me back, immediately. Here’s what he had to say:

Hi Joan,

Thanks for contacting me.

With regards the criminal aspect, I think that is the area where the anti doping agencies have the best chance to profoundly influence sport. If more countries criminalize the use of performance-enhancing drugs, it will be a much more serious deterrent.

As far as my use of the words medicine or drugs – the products I used were medicines, albeit ones that we used inappropriately. Even amphetamines had a legitimate medical use in some cases.

Anyway, if you want to talk more [with phone #]

Best,

Joe