I follow George Takei on Facebook. I was a big fan of the Star Trek tv series as a kid, and now as an adult, I've enjoyed the interesting things that George digs up on the internet and adds to his Facebook site. A little while ago, George posted something about a tragic situation in which a teacher went to the ER and was slapped with a bill for over $100,000 despite having health insurance. Having many friends and family members with various health issues, and in my professional career working with healthcare-related nonprofit organizations, I am well aware of the crisis state our ineffective healthcare system is in. I left, what I thought, was a pretty benign comment about how sad this situation was, and that it was my wish that the leadership of our country would find a healthcare system that would effectively insure all Americans, so no one has to go bankrupt just to receive care.
I checked my FB page later that night, and I had responses to my comment ranging from "thumbs up" positive to people calling me everything from a communist to a socialist traitor to a freeloader to a deadbeat whose health insurance they shouldn't have to pay. No where did I say that I wanted my health insurance covered, I just presented a general idea. As I was reading through the vitriol I realized that for the past three years, I have seen more hatred an animus hurled my way through social media than I have ever experienced in my life.
I was not a popular kid in school, and my middle school years were kind of a nightmare. In the 6th grade, I sat across from a kid in math class who spent three months insulting my appearance leaving me with insecurity issues that would plague me for decades. When I was in the 7th grade, for about a month straight, I was stalked on my walk home from school every day by two girls who threatened to kick my ass. I've been in school yard fights, been punched in the face by a Nazi skinhead, and nearly had to physically take out a crazy former family member who decided she was going to try to get physically aggressive. None of that compares to the hatred I have faced in online interactions, and frankly, I'm exhausted by it.
I was really excited when FB started, because it was such a nice and easy way to keep in touch with people who I loved and cared about. There were friends who I cherished who I rarely had the chance to keep up with, because we were both busy parents and didn't have free time until the wee hours of the evening. FB allowed us to share our lives, our photos, and interesting things we found amusing. As FB added special interest pages, I followed those, because I liked keeping up on different topics, issues, artists, recipes, etc. It was always fun to see what was in my feed. Then it was 2015, and things took a bad turn.
I started to see a lot of hatred being spewed from everywhere. There was an election coming up and those who were conservative felt like they needed to get revenge on those who were liberal. Those who were liberal felt like those who were conservative were incapable of progress. We had candidates who seemed to exploit our differences for their own gain, and a willing public who seemed to want to separate themselves into tribes rather than come together as one people. It got so bad that there were even crazy talks about my state of California splitting into three separate states, because we were just too different to be one single state.
Here's the thing; we aren't that different. Not at all. If you go up to 98% of people on the street in any town in any state and ask them what they want this country to be, most will say that they want the U.S. to be a country of economic prosperity where they can have a good paying job that will support their family comfortably, they want good schools, low crime, and safe neighborhoods to raise their kids, they want good infrastructure so they don't sit in traffic forever and have nice parks and outdoor spaces for their families, and they want the country to be secure from any sort of physical and financial threats, so they can live comfortably and well for the longterm. Conservative or liberal, this is what every American wants, we just might disagree on how to get there.
Given this reality, it's high time we end all of this ridiculous hate. If you find yourself on the computer, late at night, calling someone something so vile that you would be absolutely embarrassed if anyone in your "real life" found out, then maybe you need to check yourself. Perhaps you need to sit down and figure out what is going on with you, and where all this misguided anger is coming from, then do something about it. Go out with some friends, get a puppy, have some nachos. Do something to make yourself happy.
I get that it was cool a few years ago that we no longer had to be "PC", but unfortunately, there were a lot of people who took it as a license to become unabashedly racist, anti-Semitic, misogynist, and just plain hateful. We need to restore civility to our dialog, and it starts by not leaving hateful and insulting comments, not responding to hateful and insulting comments, and maybe grabbing a Krispy Kreme or two instead of berating one of your fellow Americans.
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
Monday, May 21, 2018
Mom Goals
It never fails, I'm sitting in front of the laptop scrolling through my Facebook feed when across my screen comes the story of that incredible mom who has, something like, 12 kids, but is showing off her 6-pack abs and laughing about being mistaken for her teenage daughter's sister all the time. Hot Mommy says you just need to prioritize yourself, so that you can be a "better mom" for your family. The article suggests that these should be your "mom goals."
I've been working out since I was 16 years old. On a regular basis, I try to make it into the gym a minimum of twice a week and try to supplement my workouts with other things like walks, cardio classes, etc. as much as I can. There has never been a time where any workout I did made me a better mom. It made me healthier, it made me sleep a bit better at night, but there is zero correlation between the amount of stomach crunches I do and the quality of my parenting.
Also, I have a huge issue with parenting goals being tied to fitness. Look, I believe in pursuing what makes you feel happy as much as the next gal, and if having a 6-pack makes you feel awesome, then go for it. However, don't tell other moms that their goals should be the same.
On a regular basis, my "mom goals" are to get up at 6:45 am, make my kids their lunches, get my 8th grader out the door by 7:25 am, come back from dropping her off by 7:40-7:45 am, finish getting my 2nd grader ready, then pushing her and her dad out the door by 8:10 am. After that, it's a full day for me, because I run my own business, and essentially, have to cram an entire 8-hour workday into 6 hours, because I pick both kids up after school. From that point, it's homework and after school lessons/activities, and getting dinner ready, maybe sitting down as a family to watch a sitcom, then the kids are off to bed at a reasonable time, so I can have an hour or two to myself to watch a show, talk to my husband, hang out online, or plan for the next day. It may sound boring, and it is, but those are the only things I have energy for at the end of the day.
Basically, my "mom goals" are to keep my family on track, so they succeed. It's not glamorous, in fact, it's very routine. No one is writing articles about me, or any other mom who does this, but this is the life of most moms, and our "mom goals" are to just make it through the day. Also, there may be moms who are super obsessed with how they look, and are lucky enough to stay at home while having school aged children, so they have enough free time to hit the gym for two hours, but I, and most of the moms I know, aren't those moms. Truthfully, if I have an extra hour in my day I'll probably take a nap or...never mind, I really can't think of anything beyond take a nap, because I usually never have something that doesn't need to be done.
Hey, if your "mom goals" are looking hot, and you do, then bravo. You worked hard for it, and you deserve to enjoy it. If your "mom goals" are to lean in at work and run the show, and you end up doing it, then I'm very happy for you. Whatever your "mom goals" are, I whole-heartedly encourage every mom to reach them, but do not disguise shaming as empowerment or make yourself the subject of publications that push shaming as empowerment. Most moms are doing their best and they don't need to be reminded of their shortcomings, because society reminds us all the time.
Mostly, don't tell me what my "mom goals" should be, because one of them was to never lose sight of the fact that I'm an introverted, cynical, rebellious, punk rock mama who hates being told what to do, and for the record, I am nailing that "mom goal".
I've been working out since I was 16 years old. On a regular basis, I try to make it into the gym a minimum of twice a week and try to supplement my workouts with other things like walks, cardio classes, etc. as much as I can. There has never been a time where any workout I did made me a better mom. It made me healthier, it made me sleep a bit better at night, but there is zero correlation between the amount of stomach crunches I do and the quality of my parenting.
Also, I have a huge issue with parenting goals being tied to fitness. Look, I believe in pursuing what makes you feel happy as much as the next gal, and if having a 6-pack makes you feel awesome, then go for it. However, don't tell other moms that their goals should be the same.
On a regular basis, my "mom goals" are to get up at 6:45 am, make my kids their lunches, get my 8th grader out the door by 7:25 am, come back from dropping her off by 7:40-7:45 am, finish getting my 2nd grader ready, then pushing her and her dad out the door by 8:10 am. After that, it's a full day for me, because I run my own business, and essentially, have to cram an entire 8-hour workday into 6 hours, because I pick both kids up after school. From that point, it's homework and after school lessons/activities, and getting dinner ready, maybe sitting down as a family to watch a sitcom, then the kids are off to bed at a reasonable time, so I can have an hour or two to myself to watch a show, talk to my husband, hang out online, or plan for the next day. It may sound boring, and it is, but those are the only things I have energy for at the end of the day.
Basically, my "mom goals" are to keep my family on track, so they succeed. It's not glamorous, in fact, it's very routine. No one is writing articles about me, or any other mom who does this, but this is the life of most moms, and our "mom goals" are to just make it through the day. Also, there may be moms who are super obsessed with how they look, and are lucky enough to stay at home while having school aged children, so they have enough free time to hit the gym for two hours, but I, and most of the moms I know, aren't those moms. Truthfully, if I have an extra hour in my day I'll probably take a nap or...never mind, I really can't think of anything beyond take a nap, because I usually never have something that doesn't need to be done.
Hey, if your "mom goals" are looking hot, and you do, then bravo. You worked hard for it, and you deserve to enjoy it. If your "mom goals" are to lean in at work and run the show, and you end up doing it, then I'm very happy for you. Whatever your "mom goals" are, I whole-heartedly encourage every mom to reach them, but do not disguise shaming as empowerment or make yourself the subject of publications that push shaming as empowerment. Most moms are doing their best and they don't need to be reminded of their shortcomings, because society reminds us all the time.
Mostly, don't tell me what my "mom goals" should be, because one of them was to never lose sight of the fact that I'm an introverted, cynical, rebellious, punk rock mama who hates being told what to do, and for the record, I am nailing that "mom goal".
Tuesday, May 15, 2018
We Aren't White
A few weeks ago, I had an interesting conversation with my 8 year old. She was talking about the ethnic make up of the children in her class, and how many different ethnicities there were. I felt grateful that I was raising my girls in a very diverse community. The conversation was upbeat until she said, "Everyone is interesting, but we are just white."
I quickly corrected her, "We aren't white, we are Jewish." She was confused, and held up her arm, "No, Mom, we are white." By this time, my older daughter was chiming in siding with her sister about the fact that we are Caucasian. From this point on, I had the very touchy task of explaining that, although we appear Caucasian, we are not accepted as Caucasian, simply because we are Jewish.
I completely understand their confusion. Both of my daughters have sandy blonde hair, my older daughter has crystal blue eyes, and they have their dad's fair skin. Their hair is thick and wavy, but not overly curly. They don't look "traditionally Jewish". If they didn't tell you they were Jewish or wear Star of David necklaces, you would never know that they were.
Herein lies the Catch 22 for most "passable" American Jews. We look like any other Caucasian person. While this has allowed us to assimilate comfortably, it has also made many Jews very complacent. They have become so complacent that they forget, and sometimes, ignore blatant anti-Semitism.
Anti-Semitism is very much alive and thriving. Hate crimes against Jewish people in the United States are at the highest levels they have been in decades, liberal groups that proclaim to champion inclusivity are hypocritically steadfast in their resolve to include everyone except Jews, and conservative groups still view us with an air of suspicion, if not, blatant open discrimination. American anti-Semitism usually takes the form of anti-Israel bias, but, when allowed, can go from "Israel Should Not Exist" to "Jews to the Ovens" in 10 hot seconds. We saw this a couple of years ago during the conflict with Gaza.
Last year, we saw American Nazis marching with torches yelling "Jews Will Not Replace Us". I think this was a harsh wakeup call to many "passable" American Jews. This hateful mob targeted two groups of people: African Americans and Jews, reminding us, once again, that we are not white. We do not get the same privileges as actual Caucasians. This is what I had to explain to my girls without scaring them, but had to explain it well enough to make them aware of the challenges they will soon face.
In four years, my older daughter will go to college. Most college campuses, particularly in California, are not friendly places to Jews. College students relish the fantasy of standing up for the underdog, and their naivety is often manipulated and misused by those with a political agenda, particularly an anti-Semitic one. My daughters will have to face this. They will have to face comments about the holidays they celebrate, the food that they eat, their support of Israel, and baseless assumptions that people will assign to them, simply because they are Jewish.
White people don't have to deal with all of this, but my Jewish girls will. White people don't have to explain that they don't "hate" Jesus or that they aren't the natural enemies of Muslims. White people don't have to go out of their way to comfort people who wish them a "Merry Christmas" then feel bad when they realize you're Jewish (seriously, we don't care, and we are just happy you said something nice to us). White people don't have to constantly justify their support of their people's homeland, and have to look at how much they are despised in the Comments section of every news site that features a story about Israel or Jewish people. White people don't have to deal with apathetic people in their own community who could care less about having an identity, and would rather assimilate at any cost.
I'm raising my daughters to be proud, to be Jewish, to be supporters of Israel, and will always tell them the hard truths, including letting them know that we aren't white.
I quickly corrected her, "We aren't white, we are Jewish." She was confused, and held up her arm, "No, Mom, we are white." By this time, my older daughter was chiming in siding with her sister about the fact that we are Caucasian. From this point on, I had the very touchy task of explaining that, although we appear Caucasian, we are not accepted as Caucasian, simply because we are Jewish.
I completely understand their confusion. Both of my daughters have sandy blonde hair, my older daughter has crystal blue eyes, and they have their dad's fair skin. Their hair is thick and wavy, but not overly curly. They don't look "traditionally Jewish". If they didn't tell you they were Jewish or wear Star of David necklaces, you would never know that they were.
Herein lies the Catch 22 for most "passable" American Jews. We look like any other Caucasian person. While this has allowed us to assimilate comfortably, it has also made many Jews very complacent. They have become so complacent that they forget, and sometimes, ignore blatant anti-Semitism.
Anti-Semitism is very much alive and thriving. Hate crimes against Jewish people in the United States are at the highest levels they have been in decades, liberal groups that proclaim to champion inclusivity are hypocritically steadfast in their resolve to include everyone except Jews, and conservative groups still view us with an air of suspicion, if not, blatant open discrimination. American anti-Semitism usually takes the form of anti-Israel bias, but, when allowed, can go from "Israel Should Not Exist" to "Jews to the Ovens" in 10 hot seconds. We saw this a couple of years ago during the conflict with Gaza.
Last year, we saw American Nazis marching with torches yelling "Jews Will Not Replace Us". I think this was a harsh wakeup call to many "passable" American Jews. This hateful mob targeted two groups of people: African Americans and Jews, reminding us, once again, that we are not white. We do not get the same privileges as actual Caucasians. This is what I had to explain to my girls without scaring them, but had to explain it well enough to make them aware of the challenges they will soon face.
In four years, my older daughter will go to college. Most college campuses, particularly in California, are not friendly places to Jews. College students relish the fantasy of standing up for the underdog, and their naivety is often manipulated and misused by those with a political agenda, particularly an anti-Semitic one. My daughters will have to face this. They will have to face comments about the holidays they celebrate, the food that they eat, their support of Israel, and baseless assumptions that people will assign to them, simply because they are Jewish.
White people don't have to deal with all of this, but my Jewish girls will. White people don't have to explain that they don't "hate" Jesus or that they aren't the natural enemies of Muslims. White people don't have to go out of their way to comfort people who wish them a "Merry Christmas" then feel bad when they realize you're Jewish (seriously, we don't care, and we are just happy you said something nice to us). White people don't have to constantly justify their support of their people's homeland, and have to look at how much they are despised in the Comments section of every news site that features a story about Israel or Jewish people. White people don't have to deal with apathetic people in their own community who could care less about having an identity, and would rather assimilate at any cost.
I'm raising my daughters to be proud, to be Jewish, to be supporters of Israel, and will always tell them the hard truths, including letting them know that we aren't white.
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Eric Michael Jantz
The other night I was up late after catching up on some work and took a stroll through Facebook. I don't know what triggered it, but I decided to look up an old friend's obituary. Instead of finding anything about him, I found that his dad had passed away just weeks ago. I searched like a stalker through family members' Facebook pages hoping that one of them had posted a picture of my old friend. Somewhere in a forgotten photo album, I'm sure I have one, but at that time, for some unknown reason, I just wanted to see my friend's face, again. I never found the picture.
Three days later, I find myself still thinking of this friend who died a couple of years after I moved to Seattle the second time. It was probably around 2003. We had fallen out of touch, because I had moved, gotten married, and had my first child. All of that upheaval in such a short time doesn't lend itself to being a good friend. It is 14 years later, and I feel compelled to write his story.
I can't remember how I met Eric, but I'm sure it was during the time in college when I was writing for the Boise State University newspaper, The Arbiter, as an entertainment writer. At that time, music was my passion, and I had big dreams of becoming a music journalist, going on the road with bands and writing about it, and never, ever settling down to a boring life in the suburbs. **Cue the laughter**
I saw Eric's metal band onstage one night, although I don't remember the venue. He was one of the most unique singers I had seen mainly due to the fact that he was wheelchair bound. This was always a bit of a shocker to the crowd. The equipment would be set up, the rest of the band would come out and grab their instruments, and Eric would roll out in front of the mic. People would mumble in uncomfortable, hushed voices, and then the band would start playing. Eric would start singing, whipping his long, black hair around and rocking out, and after a couple of minutes, no one watching would care about the wheelchair. It was always an incredible sight to see.
I asked if I could interview him, and he jumped at the chance. Eric had a great smile, fantastic taste in music, and was the primary songwriter for the band. We had a great interview, until of course he broached the forbidden subject with such a magnificent nonchalance: "So, are you going to ask me how I ended up in the chair?". I told him I hadn't intended to, but he assured me that it was all part of his story and wasn't ashamed.
When Eric was in the 8th grade, he was going through a severe depression and decided he would end his life. He took a shotgun and attempted to kill himself, but the shotgun slipped when it went off and the bullets lodged in his spine rendering him paralyzed from the waist down with only partial movement in his arms and hands. When I met him, he was living with his roommate CJ in an apartment near BSU. He had a care provider named Tammy who was always pushing him to be more independent. He drove a converted Astro van, and had dreams of someday getting a car, which he said would be way cooler.
The interview was just the start of our friendship. Eric would invite me to his band practices, parties, and just to hang out. I had an apartment close to campus, but didn't drive, so I would always accept when the opportunity presented itself to leave the immediate area, particularly if it involved music or parties. Eric and I would talk about our dreams for the future, bands we loved, and our mutual desire to get out of Idaho.
Eric was a bonafide metalhead, and some of his song titles were "God Bless You Dead" and "One More War". I can't remember the name of his band, but he was the vocalist and played rhythm guitar sometimes, John was the guitarist, Trent played guitar, as well, David was the bass player, and I can't remember the drummer (which any drummer will find funny). It was the age of grunge, which Eric liked to listen to, but had no desire to play. He told me about a chance encounter with Nirvana during their In Utero tour when they played Boise.
He was going through a different entrance that was handicap accessible, and Courtney Love was smoking a cigarette in the hallway he was going through. She saw him and invited him back stage. He hung out with the Dave, Krist and Pat. He said that Kurt was quiet and in the corner, not really interested in anything until one of the road guys asked Eric about how he ended up in the chair. When Eric told him the story of his attempted suicide, Kurt came right over, listened intently and started asking a bunch of questions. Eric said that Kurt asked him if it was easy to pull the trigger, if he felt any pain, did he remember what it was like when the bullet hit him. Eric, being Eric, answered honestly, until Courtney exploded and started yelling at Kurt. By then, it was showtime, so Eric and his friend went out to watch the show. He said Dave gave him his phone number, and when Eric heard about Kurt committing suicide, he tried to call Dave just to apologize. Eric always felt bad that he didn't emphasize enough how terrible attempting suicide was. "I wish I would have told him it just isn't worth it."
When I met Eric, I was in a really bad relationship with a boyfriend who would constantly tear me down. One of those awful, toxic people who gets you to believe that you are absolutely worthless. One night, my boyfriend and I went to a party that Eric invited us to, and my boyfriend wanted to leave. I didn't, so Eric said he would drive me home later. I ended up staying at his house, and I'll never forget the moment he asked me, "Why are you with a guy who constantly tells you what a shitty person you are? You are a really talented, incredible woman who could do so much better." Sometimes in life, it takes hearing the obvious to lift the veil. Within a couple of months, I broke up with my toxic boyfriend, moved out of our apartment, got my driver's license and a car.
By then, Eric had moved in with Tammy, her husband, Tony, and their children. It was a bigger space and more convenient for him. CJ had, unfortunately, been diagnosed HIV positive, and committed suicide after he found out. I had a dream shortly after he died that I was coming out of a house that was supposed to be mine, but wasn't, and he was leaning against his car. I asked him when he was coming back, he told me he wasn't. "When will I see you again?" He smiled and said, "Don't worry, you'll see me again someday." Then he got in his car and drove off. I'd like to think that dream was his way of saying, "Good bye." I can't remember if I ever told Eric about it.
Around the mid-90s, I had a short-lived marriage that gave me the freedom to move away from my controlling parents. I headed to Seattle, and after living there about a year, got a call from Eric out of the blue. His mom had remarried, again, and her new husband was stationed at a Naval base in Western Washington. He was going to be close and wanted to get together. We had a wonderful time hanging out, and I realized that I really missed him. He had decided to major in Psychology, his band had broken up, but he was still writing and recording music. I can't remember everything about that visit, but I remember feeling really empty when he left.
When I returned to Boise in the late '90s to work for a concert promoter, one of the first people I looked up was Eric. He had had a tough go of things and was struggling to finish his degree. For him, the biggest challenge was dealing with various illnesses and infections that came with paralysis. If a fully-mobile person gets a kidney infection, they feel the pain right away and get to the doctor, but by the time Eric would realize he had a kidney infection, it required hospitalization. If you are in the hospital for a few weeks, you aren't attending classes, and by the time you are up to par, you end up dropping the class, because you're too far behind. He was bummed out, but still optimistic for a bright future.
We would catch up on a regular basis when he wasn't in classes and I wasn't working, we'd head to the Outback Steakhouse, because he was addicted to the blooming onion. We would talk about music, dreams, goals and getting out of Idaho. Eric still wanted a cool car. The thought of us getting together romantically had presented itself a few times, but when I was available, he wasn't and vice versa. One of the last times I saw him, it was at one of our Outback dinners. I was single, and he was off again with a relationship he was ready to give up on. We entertained the thought of giving it a go, but it never happened. A few weeks later, I would meet the love of my life, and within months, I would be back in Seattle, again.
Eric and I emailed each other, but we both became preoccupied with our lives. It was shortly after Rachael was born that I got word that Eric had passed away. It was one of those damn kidney infections. By the time he realized one had come on, it had done significant damage. He went to the hospital and didn't come back. I had been in touch with his sister shortly after he passed. She said Tammy had taken Eric's death really hard. His sister had done a touching tribute online about lighting a candle for him.
I went to look for that tribute the other night when Eric crossed my mind after all these years, and I couldn't find it. I thought it was sad that the only thing I can find about Eric is the mention of his name in his father's obituary. I guess this is what compelled me to write about him. His name was Eric Michael Jantz. He had a terrific smile, long black hair, he loved heavy metal, listening to it, singing it, playing it on guitar, recording it, writing it, he loved concerts, the Outback Steakhouse blooming onion, cool cars, beautiful girls, and wanted to get out of Idaho someday. His name was Eric Michael Jantz, and I miss him dearly.
Three days later, I find myself still thinking of this friend who died a couple of years after I moved to Seattle the second time. It was probably around 2003. We had fallen out of touch, because I had moved, gotten married, and had my first child. All of that upheaval in such a short time doesn't lend itself to being a good friend. It is 14 years later, and I feel compelled to write his story.
I can't remember how I met Eric, but I'm sure it was during the time in college when I was writing for the Boise State University newspaper, The Arbiter, as an entertainment writer. At that time, music was my passion, and I had big dreams of becoming a music journalist, going on the road with bands and writing about it, and never, ever settling down to a boring life in the suburbs. **Cue the laughter**
I saw Eric's metal band onstage one night, although I don't remember the venue. He was one of the most unique singers I had seen mainly due to the fact that he was wheelchair bound. This was always a bit of a shocker to the crowd. The equipment would be set up, the rest of the band would come out and grab their instruments, and Eric would roll out in front of the mic. People would mumble in uncomfortable, hushed voices, and then the band would start playing. Eric would start singing, whipping his long, black hair around and rocking out, and after a couple of minutes, no one watching would care about the wheelchair. It was always an incredible sight to see.
I asked if I could interview him, and he jumped at the chance. Eric had a great smile, fantastic taste in music, and was the primary songwriter for the band. We had a great interview, until of course he broached the forbidden subject with such a magnificent nonchalance: "So, are you going to ask me how I ended up in the chair?". I told him I hadn't intended to, but he assured me that it was all part of his story and wasn't ashamed.
When Eric was in the 8th grade, he was going through a severe depression and decided he would end his life. He took a shotgun and attempted to kill himself, but the shotgun slipped when it went off and the bullets lodged in his spine rendering him paralyzed from the waist down with only partial movement in his arms and hands. When I met him, he was living with his roommate CJ in an apartment near BSU. He had a care provider named Tammy who was always pushing him to be more independent. He drove a converted Astro van, and had dreams of someday getting a car, which he said would be way cooler.
The interview was just the start of our friendship. Eric would invite me to his band practices, parties, and just to hang out. I had an apartment close to campus, but didn't drive, so I would always accept when the opportunity presented itself to leave the immediate area, particularly if it involved music or parties. Eric and I would talk about our dreams for the future, bands we loved, and our mutual desire to get out of Idaho.
Eric was a bonafide metalhead, and some of his song titles were "God Bless You Dead" and "One More War". I can't remember the name of his band, but he was the vocalist and played rhythm guitar sometimes, John was the guitarist, Trent played guitar, as well, David was the bass player, and I can't remember the drummer (which any drummer will find funny). It was the age of grunge, which Eric liked to listen to, but had no desire to play. He told me about a chance encounter with Nirvana during their In Utero tour when they played Boise.
He was going through a different entrance that was handicap accessible, and Courtney Love was smoking a cigarette in the hallway he was going through. She saw him and invited him back stage. He hung out with the Dave, Krist and Pat. He said that Kurt was quiet and in the corner, not really interested in anything until one of the road guys asked Eric about how he ended up in the chair. When Eric told him the story of his attempted suicide, Kurt came right over, listened intently and started asking a bunch of questions. Eric said that Kurt asked him if it was easy to pull the trigger, if he felt any pain, did he remember what it was like when the bullet hit him. Eric, being Eric, answered honestly, until Courtney exploded and started yelling at Kurt. By then, it was showtime, so Eric and his friend went out to watch the show. He said Dave gave him his phone number, and when Eric heard about Kurt committing suicide, he tried to call Dave just to apologize. Eric always felt bad that he didn't emphasize enough how terrible attempting suicide was. "I wish I would have told him it just isn't worth it."
When I met Eric, I was in a really bad relationship with a boyfriend who would constantly tear me down. One of those awful, toxic people who gets you to believe that you are absolutely worthless. One night, my boyfriend and I went to a party that Eric invited us to, and my boyfriend wanted to leave. I didn't, so Eric said he would drive me home later. I ended up staying at his house, and I'll never forget the moment he asked me, "Why are you with a guy who constantly tells you what a shitty person you are? You are a really talented, incredible woman who could do so much better." Sometimes in life, it takes hearing the obvious to lift the veil. Within a couple of months, I broke up with my toxic boyfriend, moved out of our apartment, got my driver's license and a car.
By then, Eric had moved in with Tammy, her husband, Tony, and their children. It was a bigger space and more convenient for him. CJ had, unfortunately, been diagnosed HIV positive, and committed suicide after he found out. I had a dream shortly after he died that I was coming out of a house that was supposed to be mine, but wasn't, and he was leaning against his car. I asked him when he was coming back, he told me he wasn't. "When will I see you again?" He smiled and said, "Don't worry, you'll see me again someday." Then he got in his car and drove off. I'd like to think that dream was his way of saying, "Good bye." I can't remember if I ever told Eric about it.
Around the mid-90s, I had a short-lived marriage that gave me the freedom to move away from my controlling parents. I headed to Seattle, and after living there about a year, got a call from Eric out of the blue. His mom had remarried, again, and her new husband was stationed at a Naval base in Western Washington. He was going to be close and wanted to get together. We had a wonderful time hanging out, and I realized that I really missed him. He had decided to major in Psychology, his band had broken up, but he was still writing and recording music. I can't remember everything about that visit, but I remember feeling really empty when he left.
When I returned to Boise in the late '90s to work for a concert promoter, one of the first people I looked up was Eric. He had had a tough go of things and was struggling to finish his degree. For him, the biggest challenge was dealing with various illnesses and infections that came with paralysis. If a fully-mobile person gets a kidney infection, they feel the pain right away and get to the doctor, but by the time Eric would realize he had a kidney infection, it required hospitalization. If you are in the hospital for a few weeks, you aren't attending classes, and by the time you are up to par, you end up dropping the class, because you're too far behind. He was bummed out, but still optimistic for a bright future.
We would catch up on a regular basis when he wasn't in classes and I wasn't working, we'd head to the Outback Steakhouse, because he was addicted to the blooming onion. We would talk about music, dreams, goals and getting out of Idaho. Eric still wanted a cool car. The thought of us getting together romantically had presented itself a few times, but when I was available, he wasn't and vice versa. One of the last times I saw him, it was at one of our Outback dinners. I was single, and he was off again with a relationship he was ready to give up on. We entertained the thought of giving it a go, but it never happened. A few weeks later, I would meet the love of my life, and within months, I would be back in Seattle, again.
Eric and I emailed each other, but we both became preoccupied with our lives. It was shortly after Rachael was born that I got word that Eric had passed away. It was one of those damn kidney infections. By the time he realized one had come on, it had done significant damage. He went to the hospital and didn't come back. I had been in touch with his sister shortly after he passed. She said Tammy had taken Eric's death really hard. His sister had done a touching tribute online about lighting a candle for him.
I went to look for that tribute the other night when Eric crossed my mind after all these years, and I couldn't find it. I thought it was sad that the only thing I can find about Eric is the mention of his name in his father's obituary. I guess this is what compelled me to write about him. His name was Eric Michael Jantz. He had a terrific smile, long black hair, he loved heavy metal, listening to it, singing it, playing it on guitar, recording it, writing it, he loved concerts, the Outback Steakhouse blooming onion, cool cars, beautiful girls, and wanted to get out of Idaho someday. His name was Eric Michael Jantz, and I miss him dearly.
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