Our beloved older daughter would have been thirty years old today.
Alexis Jordan Berner-Coe. Early on, it felt like a big name for such a tiny child. She was always the smallest in her class, the smallest on her team, the smallest in her dance recitals. We called her Alex. The head counselor at her first summer soccer camp called her “ABC” — for Alex Berner-Coe. The name stuck.
Later we realized that the name was too small to contain her, too simple to encompass all that she was, all that she would grow to be. She might have been the smallest in her class, but she was smart as hell and personable, with a huge, charismatic personality. She might have been the smallest on her teams, but she was fast and savvy and utterly fearless. On the soccer pitch and in the swimming pool, she was fierce and hard-working. Size didn’t matter. She might have been the smallest on stage, but she danced with passion and joy and grace, and, when appropriate, with a smile that blazed like burning magnesium.
One time, in a soccer match against a hated rival, a player from the other team, a huge athlete nearly twice Alex’s size, grew tired of watching Alex’s back as she sped down the touchline on another break. So she fouled Alex. Hard. Slammed into her and sent her tumbling to the ground. I didn’t have time to worry about my kid. Because Alex bounced up while the ref’s whistle was still sounding, and wagged a finger at the girl. “Oh, no you don’t,” that finger-wag said. “You can’t intimidate me.”
When she was in eighth grade, she decided to try out for the annual dance program at the university where Nancy worked. The program was called Perpetual Motion, and it was almost entirely student run. Each dance was choreographed by a student or group of students. They decided who they wanted in their dances and who they didn’t. The men and women in the program could easily have dismissed this thirteen-year-old as too young, too inexperienced, not really a part of the college. But instead, to their credit, they judged her on her dancing and maturity. She appeared in Perpetual Motion every year from eighth grade through twelfth, and we saw pretty much every performance. Not once did Alex ever seem out of place or beyond her depth.
She was effortlessly cool, like her uncle Bill — my oldest brother. And she had a wicked sense of humor. She was brilliant and beautiful. She loved to travel. She loved music and film and literature. She was passionate in her commitment to social justice. She adored her younger sister. And she was without a doubt the most courageous soul I have ever known.
When Alex was three years old, Nancy took a sabbatical semester in Quebec City, at the Université Laval. I stayed in Tennessee, where I was overseeing the construction of what would become our first home. Once Nancy found a place for them to live, I brought Alex up to her and helped the two of them settle in. In part, that meant finding a day-school for Alex so that Nancy could conduct her research. We put her in a Montessori school that seemed very nice, but was entirely French-speaking. The first morning, Alex was in tears, scared of a place she didn’t know, among people she could scarcely understand. But we knew she would love it eventually, and as young parents, we had decided this was best. So we explained to her as best we could that we would be back in a few hours, that the people there would take good care of her, and that this was something we needed for her to do. I will never forget walking away from the school, with tiny Alex standing at the window, tears streaming down her face as she waved goodbye to us. And I remember thinking then, “She is the bravest person I know.” Remember, Alex, all of three years old, didn’t speak a word of French!!
Needless to say, when we returned that afternoon to take her home, she was having the time of her life. She’d already made a bunch of friends. She’d already charmed her two teachers. And, I kid you not, she had already picked up several French phrases, which she spoke with a perfect Quebecois accent.
Her dauntlessness served her well on the pitch and in the pool, on stage and in the classroom. It fed an adventuresome spirit that took her to Costa Rica for a semester in high school, to the top of Mount Rainier with a summer outdoor program, to a successful four years at NYU, to Germany for part of her sophomore year in college, to Spain for all of her junior year in college, and on countless side-trips all over Europe.
And it allowed her to face the cancer that would eventually claim her life with remarkable strength, equanimity, and grace. She knew from the time of her diagnosis — a rare form of cervical cancer already at Stage 4 — that she faced long odds. I know that in private moments, and with her closest friends, she grieved for all that the disease would take from her. But she never allowed cancer to control her. She continued to work, to see friends and family, to travel, to go to movies and concerts and parties. She took classes. While undergoing chemo treatments, she turned her need for headscarves into a fashion statement. She lived her final years on her terms, refusing to wallow in self-pity because to do so would have meant sacrificing the joy for living that defined her.
She was, in short, remarkable. I loved her more than I can possibly say. I also admired her deeply. To this day, I push myself to do things that might make me uncomfortable or afraid by telling myself, “Alex would do it, and she’d want me to do it as well.”
She had twenty-eight and a half years, which wasn’t nearly enough. She did amazing things in that short time and could have done — should have been able to do — so very much more.
I miss her and think about her every minute of every day.
Happy birthday, my darling child. I love you to the moon and back.
Yet, the figures who fascinated me most during our afternoon at the museum were those of whom I’d known nothing — not even their names — before seeing the exhibit. One of them was Leah Penniman, a food justice advocate and activist whose portrait exudes warmth and joy. Her quote is wonderful and worth repeating in full:
Another was Grace Lee Boggs, an author and community organizer, who gazes out from her portrait appearing tough, frank, unwilling to put up with any BS. Her quote:
One of my favorite portraits was of a media hero of mine, PBS’s Bill Moyers. I will leave it to him to have the last word:
Clara Bartels was born in Amsterdam and came to the United States as a small child. Her father was a diamond cutter, and diamond cutters were in great demand in the diamond district of New York City. She grew up around the block from Jacques Cohen, who later in life changed the family’s last name to Coe, and whose father also was a diamond cutter who emigrated from Amsterdam. They would marry, have three kids, and then divorce, bitterly, at a time when divorce was not really something people were supposed to do.
I kept it wrapped up even after we returned to the States. My plan was to open it once we were in our new house, which is what I did. It now sits in my office window, catching the late afternoon sun. And it reminds me of so much. That trip to Italy, which marked the beginning of my personal recovery from the trauma of losing Alex. That day in Venice, which was gloriously fun. The conversation with the kind shopkeeper, whose love for and pride in his father was palpable throughout our exchange. More, that little glass piece is an image of winter, and it sparkles like a gem when the sun hits it. It reminds me that even after a long cold winter, a time of grief and pain, there is always new life and the joy of a new spring.
A cliché, to be sure. But as with so many clichés, it’s rooted in truth.
What qualities make a villain compelling? I intend to dive into that. Who are some of my favorite villains? I’ll get into that, too. But let me offer a few quick points up front. I don’t think much of the all-powerful-evil-through-and-through villains one often encounters in the fantasy genre. Sauron, for instance — the evil god whose world-conquering designs lie at the heart of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings — is, to my mind, a very boring villain. He’s really powerful, and he’s really, really evil. And yes, he’s cunning, which is a point in his favor, and he’s scary (or his minions are). But beyond that, and unless one has gone back and read all his backstory in The Silmarillion, there isn’t really much to him. He lacks dimension and complexity.
Some of my favorite villains from my own work? Quinnel Orzili from the Islevale Cycle (Time’s Children, Time’s Demon, Time’s Assassin), Saorla from the second and third books in The Case Files of Justis Fearsson, and, my absolute favorite, Sephira Pryce from the Thieftaker books. Yes, she later become something other than a pure villain, but that was basically because she became SO much fun to write that I had to find a way to keep her around and relevant.
My favorite villains in the work of others? I already mentioned Brandan of Ygrath. John Rainbird, from Stephen King’s masterpiece, Firestarter, is a terrific villain. Smart, brutal, and yet also human. In Catie Murphy’s marvelous Negotiator trilogy there are two supernatural “bad guys,” Daisani and Janx, whose personal rivalry threatens the fabric of the mortal world. Their mutual animus and their own needs and desires humanize them and make them terrific foils for Magrit Knight, the series’ protagonist. And I would add that a certain writer I care not to mention in light of recent revelations has created some truly amazing villains. Too bad he wound up being a villain worthy of his own undeniable storytelling talents.
What else have I got? Several years back, while attending a World Fantasy Convention, I bought signed prints of 
We have a few nice pieces of art that once belonged to my parents. We have photos we purchased just outside of Zion National Park — photos of the park taken by photographer 
Of course, we have tons of smaller photos all around the house, of our darling daughters, of our parents and siblings, of friends, of our wedding.
We woke this morning to a snow squall, something that happened with ever-decreasing frequency during our years in Tennessee, as climate change made the warm South even warmer. Here in New York, during the winter months, snow is still the default when there’s precipitation, and I love that. I have missed snow and don’t mind paying the plow guy or dealing with snow on the walkways and driveway. The beauty of an early morning snowfall more than makes up for the inconveniences.