Finn’s 1st Birthday and the Problem with Woody Allen

By Conor | March 2nd, 2010 | 1 Comment »

The reunion of the Grennan and Flanagan families, on the occasion of Finn’s first birthday, was the kind of gathering where you could look around the dinner table and know exactly how each person felt about Woody Allen.

There seems to be no middle ground when it comes to the man. When Mr. Allen came up during a wider conversation about movies that evening (specifically how they-don’t-make-films-the-way-they-used-to), Liz looked over at me. She knew even before I did that we were about to become A House Divided. It was a last loving glance before she would be taking the Flanagan side and I the Grennan side, not out of family loyalty, but rather because that was how we were raised, as Woody Allen lovers or Woody Allen haters. It was, as the fable goes, simply in our nature.

The moment came halfway through a colossal lobster dinner around the dining room table in Cape Cod the weekend of Feb 20th, hosted by Liz’s family.

To be fair, there was firm agreement on the question of whether one should marry one’s adopted stepdaughter. My father, seated across from me, shook his head at the very notion, and pinched the air tightly in front of his face to emphasize his next words.

“It’s A - Moral,” he stated in his Dublin accent, then paused, satisfied that he had employed exactly the right word. Heads shook sadly around the table.

Barbara, Liz’s stepmother, sitting at my far left, leaned over her plate. “The man is des-PIC-able,” she said.

“And his movies – terrible!” offered Admiral Flanagan, at the head of the table, looming over a pile of lobster shells. Barbara and Barbara’s mother, Rena – Finn’s great-grandmother – threw up their hands together in perfect synchronicity at the word “terrible”, their movements choreographed by decades of shared loathing for Woody Allen.

“That’s what I meant – his movies too! EsPECially his movies!”

“Terrible man! Terrible movies!” cried Rena.

Liz nodded and turned to me. “He’s the worst, Woody Allen. I can’t stand that guy.”

My father and stepmother, Rachel, after years working side by side at Vassar College – the kind of place where the discovery of a Bush/Cheney bumper sticker on a faculty car ignites student-led hunger strikes – were visibly taken aback at that position. Woody Allen is liberal institution, and they seemed to have forgotten that there are segments of society that genuinely don’t like the man. My father, perennial diplomat that he is, suddenly found himself in the position of having to gently defend the man whose actions just moments earlier he had compared to the epic sinners in history, Old Testament sinners, men who brought God’s wrath upon entire populations before ending up as a smoking pile of ash.

“Well, we should say that the movies do have an artistic value, there can be no doubt; his humor though, (which I personally love, but it is undoubtedly…*caustic* - wouldn’t you say, Rachel?) is not for everyone. We adore it, yes, but I can certainly see how he could be somewhat loathed for his style. And the man’s personal life… Well. It shall not be spoken about among such fine company.”

It was fine company indeed. And the finest among us, the man of the hour, was perched next to Liz in a short, green canvas portable high chair. Finn was a year old, to the day. And with the only bump in the road successfully navigated (the rest of the weekend the two families were in a state of constant hilarity), we cleared the lobster shells from the table and introduced Finn to Birthday Cake.

I don’t know if there is a more feverishly photographed event in one’s life than one’s first birthday. The photos are classically cute, of course – little fingers gently carving out icing like a tiny earth mover, then bringing that icing, red and blue and green, to the general neighborhood of his mouth, pushing it onto his face and hoping some finds its way into the cake hole.

But I don’t think the hurricane of camera clicks is only about the cuteness of the moment. I believe it’s a moment to capture for the parents. Its proof that you not only brought this child into the world, you managed to get him to this moment, a full year on from that traumatic night in the hospital. That night when your tiny son had no idea what was happening and you had no idea what was happening and you watched the nurse leave him in your arms for the first time and exit the room. You were on your own, it was up to you, and it felt like never before in human history was so much responsibility on one man’s shoulders. This little man, this newly christened child, Finn Stanton Grennan, was literally dependent on you for his survival.

I remember that day that we brought Finn home, when he slept in his own little bed for the first time. Liz laid down to sleep for the first time in almost 48 hours, and I put Finn in his crib, the crib had looked so small in the store but now engulfed Finn as if it was the Roman Coliseum. I left the room for a few minutes, but felt such panic that I went back into the dark room and stood beside him, then finally just got a pillow and laid down on the floor next to the crib, terrified that something would go wrong.

Now, here was that boy, strong and independent-minded and babbling, donned in a tiny sweater vest and slacks and shoes, leaning over a birthday cake with his name on it, attacking it in slow motion, face smeared with icing, glancing around at the grandparents with each mouthful to make sure they were adequately impressed. And the cameras snapped away, capturing the visible, gleeful triumph of both boy and parent.

—-
Please support Next Generation Nepal! Visit us at www.nextgenerationnepal.org.