We exchange numbers, and I feel his eyes as I exit and head for the subway. Before I head underground, my phone pings. An email from Joe the superhost. The message is brief. Just a phone number and a single sentence. Please call me.
ten
“Dear Birdie,” I say into the mic.
These recordings used to take place in a makeshift studio in my apartment. But since moving to the Chronicle there has been a serious upgrade. A soundproof room, a long high table with multiple mics, big comfy chairs and wide headphones that sit on my head like a big hug.
Today, Jax sits across from me. Her hair is in a wild pile of inky curls on top of her head wrapped in a brightly printed scarf that matches the pattern on her dress, which is basically a muumuu. She rocks it with her tall frame. Effortless glam. How does she do it?
Jax is an influencer. Her brand is: Change Your Life! Take Charge of Yourself and Create Your World. Bad habits? Break them! Here are ten easy ways how. Unhappy? Grow up, woman up, and stop believing the stories someone else told you about yourself. Write your own story!
Her advice plays very well with a certain set. She has her own podcast, regularly appears on mine, and has a big book contract. Stop Giving a Fuck About Everyone Else and Start Living Your Life for YOU. Or something like that. I’m helping her write it, because Jax is a verbal, visual person—sound bites and perfectly staged photographs. The act of writing, for her, is an act of torture—she procrastinates, rages and rails against the page. The chapter we’re currently working on: No, You are NOT Destined to be JUST LIKE YOUR MOTHER!
I really hope that’s true.
Her book, like my friend, is smart and funny, and full of solid advice for young people struggling to find themselves. Jax is a strong voice, a warm touch. She tries to live her own advice.
And we have Ben with us, today. A family therapist, Zen Buddhist, with a seriously chill vibe. He softens out Jax’s hard edges; she’s much gentler when he’s in the studio. He sits, hands folded, mouth in a peaceful smile, her energetic opposite in gray shirt and khakis, light brown hair going gray, kind eyes. I’ve suspected for a while that they might like each other. There is a lot of staring and light touching. They are yin and yang.
I clear my throat and say again, “Dear Birdie.”
My podcast voice is not my real voice. My real voice is girlish and soft. I channel another part of myself in the studio, and my voice comes out smoky and soothing. Dear Birdie is not Wren Greenwood. Dear Birdie is cool and calm, knowing, patient. She’s wise and careful. Wren Greenwood, obviously not so much.
I read the letter that I answered earlier. Jax and Ben are both miked up, waiting.
“That’s rough,” says Jax when I’m done.
“There’s a lot to unpack here,” says Ben.
“I think her friend is right,” I say. “I think she owes it to herself to seek some justice. Even if she doesn’t get it. Just the act of trying will help her to reclaim some of what he’s taken from her. And I’m not talking about the money.”
“I agree,” said Jax. “People like this guy—they count on you shrinking into the shadows, letting your shame keep you silent. That’s how they get away with it again and again. I’m thinking—just spitballing here—hit man?”
We both laugh. “Maybe not that extreme,” I say.
“Looking for justice is one thing,” Ben puts in gently. “Looking to harm someone because they have harmed us is another.”
“But that’s a kind of justice, isn’t it?” says Jax, leaning forward, challenging him as she so enjoys doing.
“There’s no justice in doing harm, no matter what the crime,” Ben says.
“We can stand up for ourselves without harming others. We can speak our truth, and ask people to make amends, and still behave ethically,” I offer.
Jax shakes her head vigorously; this is a push-button issue for her. “And the bad guys run amok, because the good guys don’t want to do harm. I mean look at the world. The bad guys—they’re winning.”
“But that’s how we keep being the good guys,” says Ben. His smile is serene, loving.
We go around and around like this for a while, until finally I conclude with the answer I penned earlier. I’m sure we’ll get lots of mail about this one.
We have a couple of other letters to address—a woman who can’t move on from grief and has given in to agoraphobia. Here we talk about fear, and how the world moves on, even when we can’t, and how to navigate that disconnect. Ben talks a bit about immersion therapy and finding someone who can help her to reenter the world one step at a time. We refer her to a counselor who specializes in grief.