The Kids Are Alright (at least, they WILL be...)

“When mom and dad went to war the only prisoners they took were their children.” ~Pat Conroy

It’s been a crazy few weeks.  Recently I was treated to my eldest daughter being celebrated by her elementary school PTA for her outstanding art achievement and composition skills in music.  (Shut up for a minute…proud mommy, here.  Bear with me.)

I sat in the media center, glowing with pride at the beautiful, courageous little moppet before me—singing in front of a room full of strangers, nary a blush to her cheek, as she belted out her original piece about dreams and believing in oneself.

Now, to be clear, I am always astounded by what my children achieve—no so much because it surprises me, after all, they ARE spectacular human beings in their own rights—but more so by their fearlessness to reach out for what they desire and their tireless efforts to make their dreams a reality. 

(Once again, excuse me, but I did alert you to the pontificating, prideful mother moment—)

When we arrived home that evening, the youngest daughter asked me to take a picture of her with her latest drawing and post it on my social media.  It would seem that she and her sister had actually paid attention to the news reports on the plight of the stolen Nigerian girls and wanted to be photographed to join in the awareness.  In bright magenta crayon, my kindergartner had perfectly scrawled “#bringbackourgirls” and held her sign aloft, all the serious stoicism that could be mustered within her six year old, forty four pound body.

People…do I even really have to explain the weight of the pride and joy I felt in the fact that these were MY creations…?  MY offerings to this earth…?  MY gifts of hope to the next generation…?

I made THAT???  THOSE???  THEM???  They’re MINE???

If you know me at all or have followed what I’ve written or shared through this blog, you’ll probably recall that I’m going through a particularly insalubrious and bitter divorce.  My ex and I, together for twenty years, have apparently both conceded that happily ever after was not the ending for our particular story and instead are currently litigating ourselves into crappily ever after territory.

[Boo.  Bad pun is bad.]

Poet Charles Bukowski coined the perfect expression for it all: love is a dog from hell.

There are absolutely two sides to every story, but as I pan through this mire, trying desperately to secure what nuggets of wisdom and personal growth might be gleaned amidst the chaos and bitterness of this dark sludge, I realize that there will be no victor in this championship fight from the two main contenders.  No, the real winners WILL be the two miniature wonders we created in our unholy union. 

Don’t believe me?  Hear me out—

Of course, if I were to lay out my actions in all of the events of the past year, you would likely curl your lip at me and stammer bewilderedly about needing to be somewhere as you backed slowly from the room—but, conversely, if I were to delineate the timeline of what I withstood in the nineteen years prior, you would surely shake me like a ragdoll, trying to determine what the hell was wrong with me for setting women’s rights back a century (and you’d also most certainly call for the white-coats to  have me committed for single-handedly annihilating my own socio-emotional well-being over two decades…)

My ex hurt me in ways that are unfathomable, with vicious…cruel…debilitating…humiliating twists of knives I never even knew he possessed.  At the very end, in my desperation for freedom from pain, degradation, and isolation, I’m certain I left him a serious set of scars of his own. 

I have those that rally for my rights and my freedom from his monstrous choices; he has his own entourage who will sit and lick unsavory wounds with him over my incomprehensible quest for personal identity and peace.  SOMEone has to be the “bad guy,” right?



It’s sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew.



Stalemate.

But you know what I’ve uncovered from my introspection and reflections through this process?

It’s deceptively simple, really—

I don’t give a flying fuck what the court of public opinion thinks—their indictments or acquittals don’t matter. 

I don’t matter. 

My ex does not matter. 

The innocent lives in this debacle—this clown-show of fate and circumstance? 

THEY are all that matter.  

These months of musing have led me to five secret lessons that this divorce has taught me—and I’m compiling said lessons into an open letter to my daughters that I hope they discover one day…not today…but someday.

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 1:  Kiddos?  It is your fault.  But not in the way you think.  No, this didn’t happen because of you—this happened FOR you.  Mommy and Daddy together weren’t what would bring you the best life—I swear to GOD.  I know that might not make sense now, but one day you will understand that false security is no security at all.  Because of all of this, Mommy will forever be a better parent—more attentive to your needs.  More aware of your fears.  More validating of your strengths.  More encouraging of your dreams.  More supportive of your concerns.  [Daddy will, too.  Maybe.  No…I’m kidding.  That’s grown-up bitter asshole humor there.  One day, when you are one, you’ll get it.]

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 2: I said it earlier—but I’ll say it again: Mommy doesn’t matter anymore.  Neither does Daddy.  My sweet babies, never let it be said that we don’t fully realize that WE broke this great big world that we’re laying in shattered pieces at your feet like guilty, sheepish pets leave remnants of trash across a kitchen floor.  Our failings will become the kindling for you to build a funeral pyre to the end of our era and let the flames purify the grounds for the foundations of your empire.  We had our chance and we blew it—this will be your time, I promise.

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 3: Strange as this may sound, Mommy will always explain Daddy and defend Daddy to you, even when he doesn’t deserve it.  Not because he’s right…and certainly not because I agree with him.  Why?  Honestly, because if I don’t, I know from firsthand experience, that you will forever seek your approbation in the wrong people, the wrong moments, the wrong places.  You will not be able to chart the course to navigate your own waters in this life if you are forever questioning the value or the veracity of those who helmed your ship before you.  Doubt destroys and I commit to removing as much of it from your shoulders as I possibly can for the rest of my life.  In time, I can only pray that this act of faith on my part will afford you the confidence you will need to heed to your own compass and to sail confidently into a life of your own design.

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 4: As absurd as this may sound, this really does hurt me more than it hurts you.  This is not to discount your feelings—I know you are both hurting.  I see it etched in your sparkling eyes, I hear it in the dulcet tones of your tender voices…and I would give my life to take even an ounce of it away.  But I am fully confident that if anyone can create greatness from adversity, it will be you, my daughters.  I believe you will illustrate beauty with the broken crayons we are giving you right now…you will paint perfect, heart-stopping portraits from the pain that you will conquer.  You will emerge from this wreckage victorious and what you have endured will be the legacy of every life you touch…

“It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.” ― Chuck Palahniuk, Diary

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 5: All of the love songs are absolutely right—love hurts. Love will make you sick.  Love will scar you.  Love sucks.  But here’s the kicker, my darling girls—NOTHING but love will take your heart…your spirit…your soul…to the next level.  Love…when it is real and true and right…will lend you its wings and, my baby girls, even if it falters (or, sadly, drops you on your asses), it is worth sacrificing everything [except who you are] to try for it again. 

Simply put?  Without love, there wouldn’t have been you…and without you…well, there wouldn’t be anything.

P.S.  One of the most tragic detours of this acrimonious avenue my “conscious uncoupling” has brought to bear is that I do not forsee ever being able to say goodbye to your daddy’s family—my only family for two decades—the good nor the bad.  [And honestly, there were far more good there than bad.]   I suppose it is only customary that they will see things through a lens skewed by righteous indignation for their kin…for a time. 

But…as that time weathers and wears their memories, I hope…not for my benefit, but for the sake of my innocent children…that they will reevaluate the years I withstood what I could to shape and nurture those thriving, clever, creative, magnificent young people that I know that they love. 

So, my footnote to my former family…and to the world itself…? 

If and when along your journey you happen upon a beautiful girl with a broken smile…or a tender heart beneath a crisp candy-colored shell?  Look behind the shadow smiles and the bravura of their bravado.  Like you, they are hurting from wounds they never asked to create…and they are doing the very best they can with them.

Please be kind to them.  Show them that there is still plenty to believe in—in themselves, and in others, as well.  Offer them your smile.  Hold their hands.  Let words of kindness come from your lips.  The real world will reveal its gruesome truths to them soon enough…please help me to buffer them gently into the embrace of a society that will not care what they’ve endured nor recognize their triumphs amidst such chaos. 

Please be there for them when I cannot.  Please help my babies remain active curators of their own existences…I’ve given them their canvases… please provide them with any media to fill up the emptiness in their own beautiful fashion. 

Please don’t let them believe that the rancor and the vitriol of the life they are currently braving are to be their destiny, as well. 

The universe gave these children to me and I’m not certain I’m ready to give them to the world…not while there is still an ounce of fight or faith left within me. 

But I do know that I can’t do this alone. 

I need you.

They need you.

This is where it all begins.

 

What the HELL is wrong with Mrs. El?: Volume One (A confessional in five parts.)

I’ve sat down many times over the past few months to compose this open letter to the internet and anyone who stumbles across it…

 

…but every time I’ve come close, I withdraw and retreat like a little bitch with a skinned knee. 

 [I’m a girl, ergo, I can say things like this about myself.  You, however, are not me…so take note.  Also, I should know.  I’m very clumsy and shred my knees on the regular.  It’s kind of my thing.  *sigh* I digress.]

I’m too chicken to peel the scab, too stupid to leave it unpicked. 

Either way, it won’t heal and I can’t leave it alone.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

In part, I suppose that a measure of me knows that I should continue to shoulder the experience I am enduring (authoring?) on my own, but the truth is that so many people dear to me have sought understanding from the trail of cryptic breadcrumbs I’ve been leaving for months and have approached me directly with their concern. 

Frankly, I’m exhausted with the charade—

—so—

DEEP BREATH.

Here goes:

After exactly twenty years with my husband…I am here to confess my admission into the ultimate American Claim to Fame Club—

I, Mrs. E.L., will now and heretoforever be defined by being on the losing side of the 50% success / failure rate of American marriage.

Yep.

D-I-V-O-R-C-E

Please, suffice it to say that over the past few months, bridges have been set ablaze, social media accounts pirated, emotional arbitrage conducted…and every foul piece of behavior you can imagine has transpired as promises and pledges have been transgressed and dreams defiled.

THIS is not the blog to explain (that will arrive later), nor is it the blog to attack (that will never come), nor is this the blog to defend (perhaps… one day)…

As children [spelled v-i-c-t-i-m-s] of divorce ourselves, I honestly believed my husband and I could do better by one another than the template set forth by our parents. 

As the divorce and its imminence loomed, I surmised that one of four things would transpire:

1) We’d get our shit together and reconcile for the kids—because why SHOULDN’T we be able to do so as educated, privileged, first-world citizens with every reason and opportunity in the world to make things work???

2) He’d kill me.  (Seriously.  Marital tension is no joke, yo.  I won’t even make light of domestic violence, because there is little that weighs heavier on my heart than this subject.  This may be the place, but it is most certainly not the time…)

3) We’d find some hip new divorce style that honored our two decades together (and, more importantly, the two magnificent daughters we created in our union)—you know, where we met for coffee, invited one another over for game nights, sat holding hands at the kids’ events.  Then, of course, the default option—

4) We’d take what little scraps of money we ever even had and humbly bow upon our knees to beg to award it to litigators who would drink their fees in thirty year old scotch over two forty-something idiots who couldn’t get their heads out of their respective asses long enough to avoid becoming a pathetic statistic amidst the divorcé clichés.

I was always down for options one or three and I made this clear, but—as it goes—my proposal was moot and well…here we are:

Lawyers receiving dollars that should be spent on our daughters…so that we can pick and poke at one another, digging our fingers deeper into wounds of our own creation, spreading the pus and poison of infected hearts and bilious, cankered souls.

Hot DAMN, it’s a great day to be alive, ain’t it?

[Pity?  Party of one?  Your table is now ready…]

So how does this happen? 

How does a pair of hearts go from “…th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine…” to “…a plague o’ both your houses…”?

Honestly, this is what I anticipate uncovering as I roll myself into a chrysalis and cocoon myself through this process—hopefully emerging from the viscera of the tears and the years at some measure of better transformation from this corrosive metamorphosis.

Where am I now in phase one of this drama? 

Well, my wit has abandoned me and reason is hiding within my rationalization, so I am left with only this pithy bit of bitterness:

Relationships are not mushrooms:

love can’t live in shadows, faith can’t grow in shit.

[How ya like dem apples?  You’re totally welcome for that little nugget of awesome.  I fully expect the royalties from having that printed on your t-shirts and coffee mugs to pay for my overpriced counsel.]

 
There is so much to say, so much I want to reveal…so many veins to drain…but, what is the thesis at this juncture?  The bottom line of all this cathartic word vomit?

 

Perhaps only this:

 

Have you love in your life?

(Seriously?  Does it still have a pulse, however faint?)

 

Treasure it.

Sanctify it.

Bandage it.

Bond it.

Protect it.

 

 

Have you not found that love yet?

 

Stop looking.  It will find you.  I swear to almighty Sagan, it’s the truth.  The moment you stop seeking love, it will mow you down like a Mac Truck.  This I know, but...again...this is for another blog.

 

Have you had love, but now acknowledge that it is fractured and broken beyond repair? 

(Are you bruised beyond all recognition?) 

 

Well, my friends…then welcome to my table: pull up a chair and join me. 

Let’s laugh our way through this…or at least toast to our pathos and pity one another’s shortcomings over strong drinks and even stronger language.

 

This is my brave face, folks.

[Please bear with me if it falters.]

 

Your regularly scheduled Mrs…I mean…Ms…El will return posthaste…at least, I hope she will...

 

 

P.S. Want to understand my feels, from one sad bastard to another...?  Give this a play and you might land somewhere nearby...

 

Ms. El's Sad Bastard Song for Life

 

 

 

 

 

I Am From...

I am from dreaming of roller-skating and a basketball hoop in a driveway I would never have.

I am from overdone fish sticks, crinkly-cut Ore-Ida French fries, and frozen mixed vegetables from a single mom too tired to make anything else...and loving every bite because I loved her.

I am from never feeling like I quite fit in to the dozen schools I attended before I was twelve; I am from latchkeys that let me into houses I could never call home. 

I am from a Commodore 64 that always sat on the C:\ prompt, eventually playing the embarrassingly inferior Space Crunchers while I desperately pined for Space Invaders, Donkey Kong, Dig Dug, and Ms. Pac Man.

I am from no father but a mother worth a million men or more.

I am from unity through diversity; I am from having the courage of your convictions and suffering the splintery consequences of riding the fence.

 

I am from racing horses bareback, speeding into sunsets looking for a love that would define or destroy me, but settling for nothing less.

I am from Wildcats, Salukis, Volunteers, Panthers, Redhawks and Raiders.  I am from never knowing the score but never once missing the games on Friday nights.

I am from “getting ready”; spending hours under the pretense of trying to look cute for cruising around parking lots, up to no good on a Saturday evening with my best friends.

I am from tingly hand-holding in dark theatres, a mouthful of cold air sparking in my teeth while kissing late on a Saturday night in a wintry cold parking lot, and the tickle of butterflies in the tummy for the love of a man I have searched for almost half of my life.

I am from being a jack of all trades, but a master of only one that I will never name.

I am from waiting—maybe not for marriage, but for when it would matter.

I am from university life:  diversity, multicultural education, identity, introspection, self-reflection, and social action.

I am from open minds, open hearts, open arms, and open mouths.

I am from nickel pitcher Tuesdays and hating cigarettes and the way they prey upon the vices of men, but open to the hypocrisy of the occasional social smoke because, damn, are they ever delicious.

I am from House Party, Heathers, Pretty in Pink, Dirty Dancing, Say Anything, Footloose, The Breakfast Club, Chasing Amy, and Reality Bites—all fragments of a fractured reflection of who I thought I was or might one day be. 

I am from being okay with being the not so small girl with the big heart; I am from never, ever being willing to return to the eating disorders that (for a short time) made me thin and "beautiful" on the outside, but sick and ugly on the inside. 

I am from a bowl of cereal in my jammies on the living room floor at dawn on a Saturday morning spent with my best friends  Tom & Jerry,  Smurfette, Strawberry Shortcake, Daffy Duck, and Foghorn Leghorn (turned way down low so my mom could sleep).

I am from worshipping my precious children as the golden apples that they are and the absolute joy in knowing that, without hesitation, I would happily lay my life down for their happiness.

I am from Philip Roth, William Faulkner, Vladimir Nabokov, Eudora Welty, Chuck Palahniuk, and John Irving.  Though I am from the Canterbury Tales and Piers Plowman, I am also from pride in my fervor for all things Stephen King.

I am from the belief that book snobs suck.  Movie and music snobs, too.  Life it too short not to love every moment you can.

I am from loving Pac and Biggie in equal measure…from being unashamed (and willing to lose a bit of credibility) to share my penchant for Digital Underground, Biz Markie, Hammer, and Ice (Cube, T, and Vanilla).

I am from Carole, Janis, Alanis, Tori, Fiona and Cheryl—chicks who flipped their fingers in the faces of those that cut them and cauterized their pain through the community of sisterhood and the power of the chords.

I am from Dylan and Young and Buckley and Cohen and Cobain and Vedder—I am from music being my family and these men being my fathers—supportive ones at that.  At least they were always there. 

I am from racing toward being a stupid teenage statistic at 88 miles an hour in an ‘88 Grand Prix down country roads with the windows down and my hair slicing into my eyes screaming music from Morrissey to Megadeth and never feeling more alive for the rest of my entire life than the way I did in those stolen seconds.

I am from carpe diem, because YOLO is for the lost and the lazy.  I am from loving Mr. Keating, crying “Oh Captain, my Captain”, and sucking the marrow from the bones of life.

I am from Freddy and Jason and Michael, the crappier and slashier the flick, the better…though I humbly bow at the altars of Fellini, Welles, Waters, Wright, Hughes, Scorsese, Smith, and the Coen brothers.

I am from Nickelodeon, The History Channel, VH1, CNN, BRAVO, and TLC.  I am from pre-VHS, but I am unafraid of DVR.

I am from The Giving Tree and the philosophy of Warm Fuzzies.  Take whatever you need from me; it is all I have to give.

 

I am from the religion of recognition; I am from the prescience that there may be nothing waiting on the other side...and from knowing that our only obligation in this life is to making the breaths that we take and the moments that we make matter more than anything that ever came before...

 

I am from a passion for educating and facilitating, for personal development and for making lifelong learning connections.  I am from never lying to you and always standing beside you.

I am from helping you to grow up, to grow into yourselves, to love life, and to leading the way by living it fully forever.

 

 

 

In Review: Elysium, “There's a notion I'd like to see buried: the ordinary person. Ridiculous. There is no ordinary person.”

“Heard joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, "Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up." Man bursts into tears. Says, "But doctor...I am Pagliacci.”  

~Alan Moore, Watchmen   

To state that I have been in a place of self-absorption lately would be akin to saying that chocolate is delicious, driving fast is fun, and listening to loud music is cool—these are statements of inarguable accuracy and fact.

As my increasingly sassy ten year old daughter would say: “Duh.”

[While I’ve always enjoyed the rough waters in my inner seas of self-examination and ascribed to Socrates’ view of introspection as a means of self-rectification, the truth is, I’ve keep this obsessive compulsion to review my own head under a fairly tight rein—but, how does one create an online diary-blog…or, as I like to view it…a love letter to the world…WITHOUT bathing in the muddied waters of narcissism?]

Frankly, I’ve never been a terribly altruistic person—I try to live the best life possible, helping all that I can and spreading humor and hearts and flowers wherever I go, but honestly, if you look closely, most of the choices that I make that appear kind and noble have actually benefitted my life immensely:

Seriously.  I am kind and compassionate with wait staff because I know they deal with shitty attitudes all day and could use a little kindness—but also because I know I get better treatment and food that has not been inserted into their crotch before my consumption.

I am respectful and fun with my daughters’ friends because their monstrous behaviors indicate that they are not receiving adequate parenting at home and if I’m remotely kind and loving to them, perhaps they won’t steal shit from my house or go home and reveal to their parents the freakshow realities of my home, behind closed doors.    

I teach because I am really good at it, I adore working with the kids, and because I hope to make the world a little better for my children by helping make the world better for someone else’s children.

So, you see how most of the "upright" and "principled" actions I conduct are little more than personal needs coated in magnanimity.  I’m not proud of this fact; I am just trying to be candid.

I’ve recently seen a phenomenal film (twice) that twisted my conceptualization of good and bad, right and wrong—and sent my overly-introspective/self-absorbed ass on a journey with a bit of an embarrassing destination.  That film: "Elysium."  

For those unfamiliar, the Elysian Fields were believed by the ancient Greeks to be a place of utter bliss, harmony, and contentment—an afterlife reward for the decent and valiant.  Ironically, although Elysium was to be the final resting place of the good and the virtuous, its ruler was Hades, the god who was not inherently evil or cruel, but deeply feared and loathed by the Greeks because he fully exemplified the inexorable nature of death.   

Death and decay are everywhere in this film; "Elysium" is set in in the steam-punk ruins of a future Los Angeles that looks like something from a Trent Reznor video, in a world where the privileged have purchased their refuge from our burned and broken planet and are secreted safely and securely upon a glossy hub anchored in the sky above our scorched and sick minds and bodies.  Their mass exodus to a better standard of living taunts the denizens of earth with the health and wealth and opportunity only a nineteen minute shuttle ride away…if we were lucky enough to be a Citizen of Elysium, that is.

 

You see, simply being a human being or a native resident of earth affords no entrance to the harmony of Elysium—your only ticket to ride is encoded into a DNA tattoo that is scored into your flesh.  And lest you think that black market DNA stamps are all that would stand between you and the eternal happily ever after, be warned that the gates of this paradise are fiercely guarded by two of the most serenely vicious and uncompromising characters in recent cinematic history—Jodie Foster as the sublimely wintery Secretary Delacourt, and her mad merc-on-a-leash, Sharlto Copely as Agent Kruger.  Delacourt is hell-bent on totalitarian rule of her beloved utopia and Kruger is only too happy to bathe in the blood of anyone she directs him toward in her quest.  Delacourt’s strength upon Elysium depends wholly upon Kruger’s brutality upon Earth—and upon the digital prowess of the Elysium citizen who created the network of codes and armament that protects the Elysium Citizens from our filthy Earthling invasion, Carlyle, who is played with brilliant robotic indifference by William Fichtner. 

As if their clean, coiffed hair, silvery-white clothes, perfectly dermabraded skin, and lustrous abodes did not do enough to differentiate the haves from the have-nots in this film, the movie goes to great lengths to make it clear that upon Earth, we speak a mix of English and Spanish exclusively—but upon Elysium, the Citizens speak in strange and deeply affected English, occasionally lapsing into a charmingly fluent French…and, if ordering mass murder, perhaps even a touch of guttural German. 

Matt Damon plays Max Da Costa, the orphaned-ex-con-with-the-heart-of-gold archetype kind of role that usually goes to the Channing Tatums of the Hollywood food chain—but Damon handles the role deftly, with a quiet dignity and an emotional stoicism that most modern action stars simply could never convey.  Seriously.  Max Da Costa follows amiably along trails blazed by fellow reluctant fictional sons of heroic anarchy like Eric Draven, Thomas A. Anderson, and Tyler Durden.  [From “The Crow,” “The Matrix,” and “Fight Club,” respectively.  And, respectfully, if you didn’t already know that, why the fuck are you even reading this blog…?]

Without giving too much away, I will share that there is a glaring, ironic, and unavoidable disconnect in the fact that Max labors for scab wages, trying to earn his parole and his soul, in Carlyle’s company, Armadyne—the very defense factory that creates the machines and weapons that control, abuse, and enslave his people.  Consider yourselves warned: Be prepared to leave the theatre drenched in shame of capitalism and reeking of the stench of corporate greed.  A terrible thing happens to him on the way to work and a terrible thing happens to him when he is at work and…well, hell…spoiler alert: Max is given five days to live.

Now here is where that whole inner-conflict/ self-absorption issue came to bear for me.  Like most indulged, first-world inhabitants, I’ve played the “What if…” game a million times.  What would you do if you had no wife, no kids, no responsibilities, and you were given five days to live, your freedom, and a pint of potent painkillers?  The answer, for me, would likely never have been the path that Max takes—but his Darwinian prime-directive for survival demands that Max never lose hope as he drives himself to near-annihilation to exhaust every possible avenue for his own preservation…which means making his way to the healing medical “bays” that come standard to every Elysium home.  These medical bays are miraculous pod-like devices with the power to detect, analyze, and cure everything from leukemia to mending broken bones in less time than it takes to nuke a frozen dinner upon our planet.

How the story unfolds becomes complicated and weighted with the emotional gravitas of Max’s childhood friend, the beautiful Frey, played with solemn compassion by Alice Braga—the fellow soul whose place in Max’s youth he has tattooed upon his flesh and in his heart, based upon his childhood promise to one day take them both to the big miracle in the sky.  Without giving away more than would allow you to enjoy the film on your own, I will only say Max becomes the unenthusiastic courier of precious cargo that serves as his key to the Elysium kingdom, but Frey’s presence brings the burden of choice and consequence, hammering home the message of what, if anything, we owe to ourselves, our families, our friends, and our fellow man. 

I’ve read interviews where Damon, good-naturedly, reduces this film to a “summer popcorn flick”—but I’d venture so far as to say that he has deeply undersold the greater significance of this movie.  The only thing I can say, without giving away more than I already have, about my emotional and intellectual response to the conclusion of “Elysium” is that I have never felt more acutely aware of my personal privilege, nor have I ever felt more grief in a movie that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with renovating a broken system to distribute all opportunities equally to all people.  I never thought I could weep, not once, but twice, at a story without relationships between lovers or heartache between broken souls—but Elysium awakened my love for principle and my heartache for my fellow man.

As the brilliant film “District 9” (both films were written and directed by Neill Blomkamp) was a parable for apartheid and mistreatment of immigrants, so “Elysium” becomes an analogy for the spoils of wealth, privilege, immigration, and health care reform—all neatly packaged in one hell of a kick-ass dystopian sci-fi narrative filled with action that was actually interesting.  (And this is no small thing and well worth noting, as I tend to zone out in elaborate action sequences, especially when cliché or overly lengthy.  “Elysium” struck the perfect balance of innovation and emotion in each of its carefully crafted fight sequences.)  This allegory translates to a personal journey for each viewer as we ponder what we would do to save those we love—as well as forcing the viewer to grapple with meatier issues like the basics of human rights (how do we define or uphold these for some but not all if, by definition, they are inalienable for all humankind?), constructs of social responsibility (do we even have it?) and more philosophical questions (like: “If everyone could be healthy and wealthy...why would that be special?” or “If everyone had universal access to excellent physical care, how would we control our population?”)

 

Between seeing the film for the first and the second time, I read that the earthbound slum scenes were filmed in dumps outside of Mexico City and that the scenes of the wealth and privilege of Elysium were filmed in Vancouver, Canada.  I wasn’t trying to draw any conclusions or cast aspersions in one direction or another based on this information, but you can be assured that I was gnawing on that bone throughout my second viewing.  As the lights came on in the cozy theatre where I had lain (yes, there were soft couches and blankets and pillows, oh my…), sipping vanilla Manhattans and noshing on shrimp and Caesar salad, it took me longer than the usual moment to adjust.  As I wiped away my tears for the second time in less than a month, my server—Hector—graciously folded my blanket for me and cleared away my glasses and dishes with a warm smile, inquiring if I’d enjoyed the film.

Indeed, Hector. 

(Sometimes even 20% will never, ever feel like enough.)