No Rain on Our Parade

When people hear I'm from New York City, they typically ask me one of two holiday-season questions ...

"Have you ever been down to Times Square on New Year's Eve?"

and

"Do you go to the Macy's Parade on Thanksgiving?"

The answers, respectively, are "No frrrkin' way!" and "Abso-frrrkin'-lutely!"

I grew up on Manhattan's Upper Westside, a mere ten-minute hop, skip and a jump from the beginning of the parade's route on Central Park West. We went each year as a family, or if my mother had too much dinner preparation to tend to, my father took us. One year, we left the house later than usual and the parade had already passed. Not to worry, we jumped on a downtown subway and arrived at Herald Square in time to watch the whole thing.

When I was in high school, I was a member of the prestigious First All Children's Theatre Company. In 1978, we were invited to participate in the parade. What a thrill! Although several of the younger children marched (one lucky young man got to sit on the giant Schaper Cootie Bug), most of us were down at Macy's, where we did a musical number from The Incredible Feeling Show by avant-garde dramatist Elizabeth Swados. Dressing rooms were set up between cosmetics counters on the department store's first floor. Ours were right next to the cast of Broadway's Peter Pan, including then star Sandy Duncan. I think we had to be there at 4:00 am — not exactly prime-time for a bunch of teenagers. But, what a wonderful memory!

Throughout college and after I moved to Boston to start my career, I always returned to New York for Thanksgiving and always, always attended the parade. There were years when it was just my mother and me, my siblings either sleeping in after an evening working or away on some adventure. I did manage to drag my husband along a handful of times, but he prefers to watch the parade from the comfort of a couch, coffee in hand. After all these years, the only person I can really count on is ... my teen daughter.

Imagine that.

This year, I confess that I expected a little push back. Getting up early (unless it's to drive to an equestrian event) is not exactly her forte. But, she was perfectly amenable; in fact, she expected and — dare I say — even looked forward to it! 

The weather was gorgeous: sunny and mild for the time of year. We walked up to Central Park and then fought the crowd for a couple of square feet of prime parade real estate. Although we had a bit of a wait, we didn't mind. The people-watching was pretty epic and we got to eavesdrop on some very entertaining conversations. (Two aspiring actors from Ohio debated whether a mutual friend was "gay gay" or "bi gay" and whether it was his mother's fault because she bought him a Louis Vuitton bag. And, no. I'm not kidding.)

The parade began, as these parades often do, with clowns and roller skaters and balloons and a team of New York's finest, who seemed to be in a particularly good mood despite their holiday detail.

With my daughter nearly my height now, I didn't have to hold her up or worry about whether she could see. We could both relax and enjoy. And, really, there was something for each of us. It was as though the powers that be at the self-proclaimed "World's Largest Department Store," planned their parade to appeal to trendy teens and their not-exactly-with-it-anymore moms. In fact, whenever I wondered, "Who is that?" she knew the answer. And vice versa.

So, my daughter was pleased to see The Wanted, Flo Rida, Carly Rae Jepsen, and Jennette McCurdy. And, I was happy to wave to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Chris Isaak, Jimmy Fallon and Whoopi Goldberg. We were both thrilled to see Gabby Douglas and the U.S. Women's Gymnastics team. And, I will always have a soft spot for the cast and creatures of "Sesame Street."

By the time Santa Claus arrived (and, if anyone from Macy's is reading this, let me just say "Best. Santa. Ever!"), we were a little tired and ready to head back to my mother's cozy apartment and the all-day feasting that awaited there. As we recapped the highlights together, I thought about how valuable family traditions are, and — despite some fairly typical teenage ups and downs — how much I enjoy my daughter's company sometimes. She wouldn't let me take any pictures this year, but that doesn't mean they weren't there in my mind.

I thought of them later, as thanks worth giving.

Olympic Star: Sweat, Blood, Tears and Hair Gel

Every four years, gymnastics programs across the country (across the world, maybe) experience an admissions surge. That's because no one captures the imagination of little girls quite like Nastia Liukin or Mary Lou Retton. (Or, in my own childhood, Cathy Rigby.) 


While my daughter took gymnastics, the Olympian to watch was Carly Patterson. There were posters of her all around the gym and the girls made "Good Luck, Carly" cards to send off to Athens. 


Now, there's a new star.


Earlier this week, 16-year old Gabby Douglas made history when she became the first African-American to win the gold medal for all-around women's gymnastics at the Olympics. (She's only the third American of any color to do so.) As you can imagine, she's also all-around the Internet. But a considerable amount of the cyber buzz isn't about her floor routine (described by the Bleacher Report as "One of the most clutch performances ever").


It's about her hair.


Say what?


If you Google "Gabby Douglas hair," you'll get 182,000 hits. That's 182 thousand stories, posts and tweets that are taking the spotlight off her fantastic achievement and inspirational story, and shining it instead on her head.


Serena Williams, world champion tennis player (who has also been criticized for her abundant, at times unruly locks) called the debate, "Ridiculous." I agree.


There are two issues here. One is that Gabby is African-American. Her hair doesn't naturally adhere to the perfectly smooth (perfectly Caucasian) bun we expect on our gymnasts. So, her hair looked a little unkempt when she was up on the podium (after, need I repeat, making Olympic history). Should she have stopped mid-routine so a hairdresser could add some gel? Sheesh. 


The other issue is that Gabby is a woman. Our society demands that even supernaturally gifted athletes, who happen to be female, look neat and tidy and "pretty." Can we stop with the superficial objectification? And, will someone please tell Michael Phelps to find a comb?


Gabby Douglas has an awe-inspiring background. At a very young age (even younger than her current very young age), she was determined to make it to the top of her sport. She left her Virginia Beach home to work with renowned trainer Liang Chow in West Des Moines, living with a host family there.


After her win, Gabby, also known as the "Flying Squirrel,"  explained her success on The Today Show:


“I just want people to know it took a lot. It took a lot of hard days in the gym and determination, passion and drive. Gold medals are made out of your sweat, blood and tears, and effort in the gym every day, and sacrificing a lot that you have to do.”


Are you listening, little girls?


Here's the bottom line. Gabby is not a hair product model; she's a world-class competitor. Let's all forget the do and focus on this radiant young woman's achievement. You can relive her exuberant performance here. You may notice that she has an Ace bandage on her ankle. 


If you can take your eyes away from her hair.