The Mourning Papers: An Introduction

Nearly everyone I’ve spoken to about my intent to write this book thinks it’s a bad idea. Or, at best, a weird idea. When you tell people who know your writing history that you’re working on a new book, their face lights up. They’re quite visibly impressed. Tell them you’re working on a book about death, and you get a frozen brow and an underwhelmed, “Oh…well, that sounds interesting.” One of my close friends wasn’t quite so diplomatic. When I told him I was breaking ground on a new book that would tell the personal stories of people who’ve endured a significant death in their lives, he scoffed and said, “That sounds like a terrible idea, man. Why don’t you write a comedy? People like comedies.” Needless to say, this particular friend is not my target audience. But if you’re a fan of irony, I will tell you that his is one of the stories I will eventually tell in this book.

It’s profoundly fascinating what happens when you ask someone to talk about the most painful experience of their lives. More often than not, they’d secretly been wanting to talk about it for years. It’s been inhabiting space in their mind, causing them to contort their body to step around it. They know it’s impossible to get rid of this thing, but they also don’t want to look at it and address it head-on. That all changes today. Because as my sage 91-year-old grandmother would say, “What the hell’s the point of ignoring it? Won’t change a damn thing.” It should be noted, grandma will also appear in this book.

I was thinking to myself recently, “What would help me if I were going through a significant loss?” I mean, aside from the typical clichés and the platitudes that are dropped in your lap at the funeral. What would actually help ease the pain of tremendous loss? The answer continually came back as, “knowing I’m not alone.” But how could I know that?

What I then did was connect with various people with whom I share some kind of connection. A friend, an ex-coworker, a friend of an ex-coworker. And I met with each of them to discuss a life-altering loss they’d experienced. I wanted to know how they handled their immediate grief, and more importantly, the lingering grief that hangs around like an albatross years and years later. And I wanted an eclectic mix of stories. Cancer, accidents, suicide, old age, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, children, friends who were like family. And I wanted this mix so that no matter what type of loss you might be going through, you can pick up a copy of “The Mourning Papers” and know that, despite your pain, someone else in this universe is going through something similar. Misery loves company. But so does healing.

When I was 13, a classmate of mine named Jaclyn died in a car accident en route to a dance competition. She was the prettiest, most popular girl in school. And not the stereotypically self-centered, unapproachable most popular girl type. She was completely unpretentious. A hardcore Indiana Pacers fan, an aspiring singer, a truly good kid. Her death was unfathomable, and it opened many of our eyes to how fleeting life was. I still shake my head thinking about that day. It was a profoundly sad time. And looking back, I believe it was this accident that triggered my fascination with death – how quickly it can sneak up on us, how devastating it is for those left behind. But also, the ways in which we all manage to triumphantly emerge on the other side of it, smiling through tears.

In life, there’s this unsaid rule that we’re supposed to start acting like a normal human again about a week or so after suffering a loss. The calls typically stop, the flowers wilt, and naturally, the support system you had a week earlier, has returned to their normal routines. Let’s be honest, we’ve all done it at some point. We pay our respects, offer up a hug and an available shoulder on which to cry, and then we turn away. After all, we think, (insert person’s name) probably doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, anyway. It’s how we justify our behavior towards this person in the aftermath of his or her most damaging experience. We shrug off their grief as a “no-fly zone,” avoiding the topic altogether so neither of you has to be feel uncomfortable. Again, that changes today.

You might find it contradictory that I am fascinated by death, but I don’t watch the news. After all, the news is filled to the brim with tragedy. But the major difference is that the news only tells us the first chapter. And the first chapter is only the beginning. There are layers upon layers of depth to each of these stories that we never hear. Because we take the information we’re given and move on.

However, what if we didn’t move on? What if we tapped these people on the shoulder, escorted them to a quiet room, and asked them to share the sordid details of a life-altering loss they’d endured? Maybe it’ll surprise you to hear this, and maybe it won’t. But the people I “tapped on the shoulder” to be part of this collection of stories all said some version of the same thing: It was cathartic to finally talk about this again.

So, even though there are many who believe this book is a “weird” idea - and many who ignore it like one might ignore a nightly news broadcast they assume is riddled with only sadness. I proudly present this series of stories. Stories about loss, stories about the physical and emotional ways we react to loss, and most prominently, the love and badass strength that shines through in the end.

Shouting Into the Abyss: Can You Find Your Voice without Losing Your Heart?

It’s been a long time since I’ve written much of anything that hadn’t already been approved by editors. Too long, in fact. For months now, I’ve lived and died by the approval, or disapproval, of someone who would pay me for my work. But I’m realizing that there is still tremendous value and release in writing, you know, for the love of writing itself. Quite a concept, I know. But I've been losing sight of it.

So, my hope is that I’ll start writing more regularly. About life. About my fears. About my triumphs. About anything that doesn’t necessarily fit under the umbrella of “something that might earn me money somewhere.” And what I want to talk about today is exactly that – trying to actually earn money while doing what I love, and about seeking approval for my passions.

How is your book doing?

Since I finally released my first parenting book last month, it’s the question I’m often asked. And let me be clear that I appreciate the interest. When you’ve spent literally years working on something and dumping your time and heart into it, you want to know that people are consuming it, enjoying it, invested in its success. But if I’m being honest, it makes me pause every time I’m asked. Because the truth is that I’ve sold 31 copies. I’ve been joking that I’ve already paid off my mortgage and bought a yacht. But there’s a bit of sadness in my voice. Because deep down, it’s not a joke. My goal is to one day have my writing actually earn enough money to support my family. And when I’m promoting the book entirely by myself, with no publishing house and its marketing tools behind it, that goal is so far I can’t even see it. At the risk of making this a “poor me” post, it’s a problem many of us face, not just me. The difference is that not everyone is transparent enough to discuss it in a public space. But then again, I’ve always been a bit of a camera hog.

For anyone who considers themselves creative, there’s a certain percentage of energy that goes into the creation of the “thing,” and then another percentage that goes into getting it to the rest of the world. In my experience, it works generally the same even if it’s an album, a painting, a podcast, book, etc. You spill yourself into the creating of it, stand back and analyze it for a while, then at some point you decide you’re done. Then it’s time to send your baby into the universe. It’s scary. Because you’re putting it out there. Your words, your art, your ideas, whatever it is. You’re putting something you exclusively created into the hands of a judging public. But regardless of your trepidation, you release it. Because you know there’s a chance, albeit a small one, that what you’ve done might just be the most incredible piece of art ever created.

Most of the time (read: all of the time) what you’ve created is good, but won’t reach the audience size you have in your head. So, what you’re left with, to use the baby comparison again, is a child with a world of potential who is never truly recognized for it. Surely, you love them just the same. But it feels like a great injustice.  You want the world to love it as much as you do. Doesn’t always work that way. So, we have to sit there and accept it, while still pushing forward with unrelenting passion. It’s exhausting, frankly. Although, we have little choice but to wince through the process, graciously accepting half-hearted hugs along the way.

I have a friend who routinely challenges me. When I conclude a creative project, he always asks the same question.

What were you hoping to get out of this?

Most of the time, I have to be honest, I’m not sure. I just know that finally letting go of that project often feels unsettling. I’m left with two simple words that settle in my brain like an unwanted house guest.

Now what?

For many years, I performed in rock bands, locally, and it always amazed me how some of those bands (and friends’ bands) would disassemble so soon after completing an album. We all worked so hard on this, I would think. Why are we walking away from it? Looking back, it makes more sense than I realized. After all that effort and time away from our families, friends, other interests, etc., we’d realized the outcome didn’t match our expectations. Clearly, that realization was too much for some to handle.

These days, not much has changed. A month ago, I wrote and co-produced a series of comedy video shorts about parenting. Mostly, they were met with indifference. I don’t know what I expected – instant fame and a spot on Jimmy Fallon or something? But for me and my writing partner, it deflated us completely. We still haven’t restarted production on new episodes.

Maybe all those times I (or others) walked away from a project that wasn’t yielding benefits, it was for the best. After all, it saved us from having to endure months or years more of that same, empty feeling. But maybe my “challenger” friend is right. Maybe we need to stop seeking justification and approval from those around us, and simply do. If only it were as easy as that.

So, am I alone on this island? I imagine not. Feel free to share your thoughts (and strategies) around pursuing a dream that seems increasingly less attainable. And let’s see if we can’t help each other push our babies out into the universe with more satisfaction and less expectation.

-jdp

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero

Keeping Your Hat On: The Maddening Life of a Loyal Sports Fan

Ryan Fitzpatrick threw a pass intended for Eric Decker to the back of the end zone. Had Decker caught the pass, the Jets would've gone ahead 24-22 and potentially won the game, sending the star-crossed team to the playoffs. That pass was intercepted. The crowd went wild. It was the beginning of the end of the hopes for a team that, heading into the game, had established significant momentum, leaving their often disappointed fan-base to believe that that elusive championship was within reach. It wasn't to be, of course.

Me (left) and Mike. My smile would indicate this was taken BEFORE the game.

As a die-hard Jet fan, disappointment is a way of life. Like a relative who manages to ruin every holiday, they let you down...but you can't leave them behind. No matter what, they're a part of you. And you love them. No matter how many times they've indirectly placed a glass of bourbon in your hand, they're also capable of delivering emotional highs that few others can.

I like to attend one game per season. I live 20 minutes from MetLife Stadium, so home games are convenient. However, upon seeing the schedule at the start the season, one game jumped off the page. January 3rd, vs. the Buffalo Bills, in Buffalo. The final game on the Jets' calendar,and one that could carry some serious significance. My Buffalo-raised brother-in-law was more than happy to join me (and root for the other team), and so we committed to going, both of us knowing we could be setting ourselves up for one of the greatest (or most terrible) moments of our fandoms, ending with one long, sad ride home for one of us. But I couldn't help myself. I knew the risk, but the potential reward outweighed it. Or so I thought...

After the first Fitzpatrick interception, I could literally feel the air leaving me, as if I were a balloon with a hole in it, gradually deflating. And since we were in Buffalo, I was surrounded by thousands of boisterous, celebrating Bills fans who knew full well the misery that was being thrust upon us. They've been there many times themselves. Two more interceptions later, the game was sealed. Jets lose, their season and playoff hopes unceremoniously crushed in a moment. I ripped the Jet hat off my head in disgust, the only visible sign of my allegiance. But then, as I stood there, in stunned silence amidst high-fiving Bills fans, I realized something. And I put my hat back on and made my way toward the exit. No matter the outcome, my spots had not changed. And being teased by droves of Buffalo fans on my way out was simply part of the deal.

After the Jet loss was official, I found myself shoulder to shoulder with a fellow New York fan. And he looked over at me and solemnly said, "It's just a game. I don't know why I get so worked up over it." He was likely in his mid 50s...and he had tears welled up in his eyes. That hit me hard. Because so, so many of us are that guy. We're miserable about a game and we can't explain the reason. But I think I'm closer to understanding why than ever before.

When you truly commit yourself to a sports franchise and establish a fandom, what eventually happens is both wonderful and sad. We buy clothing with their logo on it, sometimes literally erect a flag outside our home declaring our commitment. Hell, some of us dedicate an entire room in the house to our undying love for the team. We wear our allegiance like a skin, and sometimes that skin protects us...and sometimes it gets cut and we bleed from it. But why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves in vulnerable situations where the outcome is completely out of our control? I think it's more simple than most of us think.

Professional sports are an inescapable part of our culture, so it would make sense that many of us develop some level of interest in it. But a good percentage of us go all-in, And I think it's because we're all actively, in some way or another, establishing our personal brand, our identity. And it feels good to do it. Something intangible resonates with us, and we find ourselves casually rooting for a particular team. Then gradually watching entire games, listening to post-games shows, buying merchandise. We're hooked. And there's no turning back. And we stay on the proverbial horse. Because we're waiting for that one magical moment when all of that commitment will pay itself off, when we can raise our flag and wave it in victory - that moment when we can unequivocally pronounce that our brand is stronger than your brand, if even for a day.

But losing the big game? We find ourselves frustrated, angry, and often depressed. Because we realize the emotional energy we put into it yielded nothing more than a hangover and countless taunting text messages from friends. It's maddening. But it's what happens when you care so deeply.

So, I'll keep my hat on. Because as disgusted as I was to slink out of that stadium, face frozen in stunned disbelief, staring at the ground, to hide my allegiance and personal brand would be the greatest disgust of all.

Go Jets.
Joe DeProspero
@JoeDeProspero

Blurred Lines: The Plight of the Glasses-Wearer

Yeah, yeah, I know. First world problems and all that. There are people in this world who suffer far greater fates than a foggy lens. And those subjects are better tackled by writers exponentially more intelligent than I. But me? I wear glasses. It’s what I know. And it’s a lifestyle marred with overlooked inconveniences and comical setbacks. Because of a medical condition, I am not able to wear contact lenses. Bear that in mind while reading this piece.

There are times when I’m out in public, at a bar, coffee shop, etc. when some stranger rubs me the wrong way and I have to bite my tongue. Because my insurance won’t pay for a new pair of frames should I get punched in the face. And with my astigmatism it’d be like putting a down payment on a small car.

Aside from the obvious setbacks that come along with the lifestyle, here are some situations where it’s nearly unbearable to be a glasses-wearer.

Picking out a Halloween costume

Dressing up like a goon and collecting candy bars cemented October 31^st as my favorite day of the year as a kid. But every year it was the same, tired problem. Which costume can I pull off despite my glasses being on my face? Elvis Costello? Buddy Holly? The cast of “Revenge of the Nerds?” None were attractive options for a 9-year-old already being pushed into lockers. I instead opted for the horror genre. And to be clear, my Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees years were marred with intermittent pouting as I strolled down Maplewood Ave. in hopes of looking like a prolific murderer, instead looking like a hockey goalie who ran out of disposable contact lenses before the game.

Having a beach/pool day

There is no embarrassment-free option here. Either you wear your glasses/prescription sunglasses into the water and walk around with water spots on them all day (or risk losing them in the ocean, which I’ve done) or you leave them with your clothes and towel, hoping you don’t drown or miss the diving board.

Watching TV in  bed

In the first house we owned after my wife and I got married, the only practical place we could position the television in the bedroom was to the left of the bed on top of the dresser. This meant, of course, that in order to watch it, we’d need to lay on our sides and rest our cheeks on the pillows. Now, take a pair of frames and try accomplishing this with glasses on. Eventually, we decided that Jay Leno wasn’t worth the frustration and bailed on the TV entirely.

 Playing ANY sport

Basketball, baseball, ultimate Frisbee, air hockey…if you can think of it, I have probably had my glasses knocked off my face playing it. And inevitably, I wind up looking like Kurt Rambis (not a good thing, ever).

The incomparable Mr. Rambis

Being on webcam

Every time I appear on a webcam, the producer asks me to remove my glasses, as the light from my computer screen reflects off of them, making it almost impossible to see my eyes. But when I take my glasses off, not only can I not see my notes, but I can’t focus on a single thing and end up looking, quite literally, blind to the viewers. Not a good look for me.

Pillow fights
 I know this is random, but you’re at a serious disadvantage in any fight as a glasses-wearer, and that goes double for pillow fights.

Doing anything in the sexual realm

You start making out and your lenses immediately steam up and/or become an obstruction. So you take them off. Then you spend the rest of the sex squinting to make sure you’re grabbing for the right things and that you’re even with the right person. Subsequently, glasses-wearers are 15 times more likely to accidentally cheat on their spouses with a vacuum cleaner.

Having your picture taken

Everyone wants me to be remembered in photographs as a non-glasses-wearer. I know this because I can’t be in front of a camera without being shamed into taking mine off.  “Hey, do you mind taking your glasses off?” “Joe, take those babies off. You know the drill!” But this is part of my face, a distinguishing characteristic of my appearance. It’d be like asking Cindy Crawford to remove that mole on her cheek. You know the one. Kindly place it into your pocket and put it back later, Cindy. This next shot’s going on Facebook!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go look for my glasses that inevitably will be sitting on top of my head.

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero or email me at jdeprospero@gmail.com. 

Getting Kicked Out of Class...a Good Thing?

Last night, Sonia and I met with the boys' teachers for parent conferences. The principal sat in on these meetings. Antonio had recently gotten into trouble for being disruptive during one of the class lessons. He was flat out ejected from the room. It wasn't anything serious, just a silly kid being a silly kid. But still, I wasn't looking forward to this being brought up during the conference, knowing I might get defensive and look like "that parent" who defends his child's crappy behavior.

The principal caught me completely off guard with her response to it...

As Antonio's teacher gingerly brought it up, my heart beat a little faster. Then, out of nowhere, the principal interjected...

"Good for him," she said with a grin. "It's one thing if you're constantly getting in trouble, but if you've never been thrown out of a room before, I would think you're being too passive. And you're not pushing boundaries. Besides, it's how you learn lessons."

While this certainly fit in perfectly with the narrative I'd already created in my head about how I didn't think this one incident "was a big deal," it was refreshing to hear someone in her position recognize the upside of an act normally so identified with "bad."

It immediately took me back to the one time I was tossed from class. I was a Junior in high school, and the gym teacher was a massive douchebag. Everyone knew it. But on that particular day, I wasn't willing to tolerate it. He was condescending with me, so I gave it right back to him. The entire class laughed at his expense; he was far from pleased. I was sent to the office and spoke with the Vice Principal, who, without saying so, made it clear to me that he was painfully aware of said gym teacher's douchebaggery. I was given one day of detention and placed in a different class for the remainder of the semester. Considering it was the only time I was ever ousted, my parents were fine with it. Apparently, they too subscribed to the good principal's theory on the passive student.

Here's hoping Antonio's days of being thrown out like Wally Backman are few and far between. But truth be told, I'd rather he was a hard-working student who crossed boundaries once in a while than the wallflower who never tried anything different.

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero.

What I Want My Kids to Know About Selfies

This blog has nothing to do with my children. But I'm trying to shoe-horn them in here because this is still technically a parenting blog.

Anyway, this is what I want my kids (and pretty much everyone on the planet) to know about selfies.


Just fucking stop. It's enough. You are surrounded by able-bodied humans who can help. Introduce yourself to them and learn the power of socialization.

Sorry, but I get very JJ Watt about selfies. For starters, they are absurdly stupid. I have never once looked at one and thought, "Awwww, Cute selfie!" I tend to think, "Well, there's someone with awkwardly short arms who needs a friend." People who routinely take pictures of themselves are usually the same people who don't wipe the pee off the toilet seat. There's a connection there somewhere.

The problem I have with this trend is two-fold.

For one, it's just flat out ego-maniacal. It says to the world, "I need to take a picture of myself, and I simply can't be bothered waiting for a friend to take it for me." Nobody needs a daily reminder of your face. Unless you're growing the world's longest beard. That's the one exception. Or potentially if you're obscenely attractive. You're probably not. Don't worry, neither am I. 

But also, this speaks to a much larger problem in our culture. We're becoming so consumed with social media, we've forgotten entirely how to be social. When I see two dolts posing in front of an outstretched arm, I walk up to them and ask if they'd like help. In fact, i insist on it. Because a picture is an opportunity to do more than plaster your image on Instagram. It's an excuse to meet the person standing next to you. Unfortunately, it's also an opportunity to prove you're a self-centered ignoramus. 


The choice is ours.

And because I know at least one of you will bring this up...there was a dark day in my history when even I succumbed to the pressure...but I was a much younger, sillier man back then...

The next time you're thinking of taking one yourself, remember how fucking ridiculous I look in this picture from 2011.


Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero.

The Moment You Realize You're About to Be a Parent...Again

Apparently, maintaining active blogs for both Parents Magazine and Huffington Post isn't enough responsibility for me. So, I've decided to resurrect my original parent blog, mostly for short-form content I either have very little material for, or don't think is good enough for Parents Mag or HuffPo. I hope you're ready for some brief mediocrity!

Earlier this year, my wife and I found out we were expecting our third child. Well, she found out first. Women always do. Then they pick the perfect, most sentimental way to scare the ever-loving shit out of you. That same week, we found out that my cousin, Christina was expecting her first child. Two pregnant ladies! Their due dates were within a day of each other. It was pretty adorable. See below.

 I know you're already envisioning that scene in Father of the Bride Part 2 where Steve Martin is racing between the two delivery rooms. Not that that would happen here, because it'd be really strange and creepy if I was present for the birthing of my cousin's baby. But still, it's a convenient reference. It wasn't meant to be, though. Christina's water broke on December 26th, nearly two months early. There was obvious concern, but the baby is doing fine. I know because we visited him on New Year's Day.

Baby Daniel lay there in that little clear plastic purgatory they put preemies in. His turkey-like legs refusing to go straight, his eyes puffy and practically unpeelable. He was perfect, and the joy in the room was palpable, for the newly branded mom and dad. That's when it hit me. I gazed over at Sonia's belly and realized, "There is a baby of exactly the size of baby Daniel in there. And she's currently plotting the demise of my social life and credit score."

I feel like I go through this mental exercise whenever Sonia is pregnant. But a new baby is a new baby. They keep you up at night, they spit on you. They are like villainous frat brothers. They have no relent. No remorse. So I started asking myself if I had gas in the tank. Could I go back to the 3 a.m. feedings and making sure she doesn't suffocate in her own blanket? Could we still manage to get out every once in a while to catch a movie or just to speak to one another without interruption? I mean, probably not. We'll both likely need to be committed. It's inevitable. But still..after knowing that any order that existed in our home is likely on its last legs...after knowing that my blood pressure is likely going to shoot up higher than a nervous bomb tester...I still want to love this baby with everything I have. And I will. And if I'm lucky, when the time comes, she'll feed me and wipe my butt when I need it, too,

I can do this.

I probably can't do this.

Follow me on Twitter here.