Breath

I'm a big believer in karma, not so much as a deep spiritual principle, but as a feature of the slender threads that connect all of us in this weird world where nothing is as far from anything else as it appears (oh.  maybe that is a deep spiritual principle.  never mind).   And then there's "karmic payback", where the "rewards" (so to speak) of our actions are heaped upon us without warning--I find that generally true as well, even when it pisses me off.

At heart, I'm a scientist as well.  So yes, I know full well that viruses cause colds and flu, and that we're all human (well, most of us anyway) and none of us escape the occasional malady.  It is true, however, that some of us whine a lot more about it than others (not that I know anyone like that).  And it's also true that we don't all get ill the same way.  We each get our own special flavor.  Isn't that special?

So here's the thing with me.  I'm really not such a good breather (shh...don't tell anyone). I don't mean when I'm sick (like now) or when I'm really really sick (like now).  I mean in my daily life.  I hold my breath a lot.  I breathe shallow.  I am a bottom breather (which does not mean I'm a catfish, that's a bottom feeder, get your terms straight), which is not all that typical, or so I hear.  For the uninitiated, it means that the space in which I breathe congregates around the end of the exhale, not the "top" of the inhale.  I don't "hold my breath", even though I just said I do.  I stop breathing at the exhalation point, which is kinda like holding your breath, and kinda different.  There are a few people (you know who you are) who actually notice and remind me that inhaling at some point might be a good idea again,.  There are far more people that wonder why I sigh a lot, some of whom worry that they're boring me or that I'm fed up or exhausted.  No.  I just have to take a breath occasionally. Damn.

Before you wonder about my lung capacity (huge) and my lung strength (strong) and whether I've ever smoked (no) or anything else that might affect my breath in an organic fashion, the answer to everything is no, no, no, and no.  I can blow up a damn air mattress.  I can pretty easily swim 25 meter wind sprints (swimming the length of a standard racing pool without breathing).  I can hold a note while singing.  I can--and do--snorkel (no, no tanks) to 30 feet and hang around down there, swimming with the turtles and browsing around shipwrecks and enjoying the white noise of the underwater world.  I can hold my breath through long tunnels (do you know that rule?) with the best of 'em.  There's nothing wrong with my lungs.

I just don't breathe.  It's a matter of principle, I guess.  Or habit.  Or dysfunction.  Or something.

So, when I get allergies, guess what happens?  Yup.  Asthma.

And when I get a cold, guess what happens?  I can't breathe.  Except for real.  No foolin' around.  Bronchitis is my middle name.  And there's no wind-up...it's zero to sixty in five seconds.  Because I guess warnings just wouldn't be as fun. Honestly, it is as if the universe is laughing and saying "So, you think you don't really need to breathe, eh?  Try this on for size, and see how you like it!"

Writing tonight, in this fog of spasmodic half-breath, in the profound discomfort and heaviness that does not respond in the least to steam or medication or chicken soup, without the free will to choose to breath at the bottom or at the top or to swim with the turtles, I just gotta say..I don't.

I don't like it at all.

Happy now?

Resistance is Futile

Look at me, quoting Star Trek.  Who knew?  (hint:  not me)

My daughter's art teacher ripped up one of her works.

So, I'm struggling.  Again.  You know what they say:  same shit, different day. 

I'm struggling--as ever--with school, with schooling, with everything that comes along with it. Again.

I'm struggling with the state of public education, in which standardized tests are central, worksheets are rampant, and innovative and creative attempts at promoting social development, including reducing bullying and interpersonal conflict are but gestures.

I'm struggling mightily with the idea of "art class" existing within such a system.  I am struggling with the bastardization of the word "art" that is the natural consequence. Art is not "making things".  Art is Art.

I'm struggling with my own internal conflict about teachers, teacher competence, teacher training, certification, merit-based pay, and teacher unions, and finding myself, much to my chagrin, a cynical critic of a system that vigorously supports mediocrity and strategizes about how teachers can keep their jobs (at any cost) rather than strategizing about how to reach kids. 

I'm struggling with the juxtaposition of books like A New Mind, which is all the rage in education and cultural circles, and the parallel universe of schools, teachers, and pedagogy.  I'm struggling with understanding how important ideas and innovations fail to trickle down to those in the trenches.

I'm struggling with the decision, made last November, to move my daughter from a small private school that addresses many of these concerns, to a public school.  I'm struggling with the knowledge that, despite the fact that many of the concerns were met in that private school, there was still something in the "school-ness" and hierarchy of it that didn't work.

I'm struggling with the awareness that for most kids, it works okay (I would dispute the idea that it's terrific for anyone).  And I'm struggling with what that says about me, about my child, about the system, about those other kids. I'm struggling with the evil little voices in my head that dwell on what you are thinking about me and about my child when you read this.  I am swirling in the talk about how it seems fine to you despite its weaknesses, about how your kids love it and are thriving, and what must be wrong with my kid that it doesn't work.

There's nothing wrong with my kid.  

Read this--its conclusion is unschooling, which may not be feasible for us, but read it anyway, if only for the description of her child.  This is my daughter.

You know it, and I know it.  You can't put a square peg in a round hole.  At least not without destroying its integrity, that is.

I'm struggling--perhaps most of all--with the ruthlessness of childhood and peer relations.  I am wondering why that is so, why we accept it as "normal", and what can be done about it.  "Yeah, kids are mean." Or it's more apt variation "Girls are mean".  I've said it.  You've said.  Probably even your kids have said it.  Mine certainly has. We say it like it's fact, not like it's something we can change as parents, as teachers, as adults.  This disgusts me, infuriates me, and smacks of abandoning responsibility.  This is not to say that my child does not engage in some of those behaviors.  It is only to say that they are never allowed to slide in the guise of "that's how kids are". No.

There is one thing I know for sure.  Like any parent, I want the best education and the best social relationships and the best self-esteem and the best outcomes for my child, who is very bright, kind, generous, sensitive, argumentative, and definitely out-of-the box.  Different.  

And the other thing that I know for sure is that, in standing for her, I don't have very many people around me.  And even fewer systems or institutions.

When I feel like this, I look around. It's not a misery-loves-company thing, like you might expect. It's more like a rebel-loves-company thing. It's different. Have you ever been the odd one out? The "different" one? And yet one that somehow knows that things could be different, that this is not your "lot in life" or an inevitable outcome of your peculiarity? In that state--believe me--you're looking not for someone to moan with you, but someone who will mirror back the absurdities that prevent a company, a bureaucracy, a school system, a culture, from adapting or even considering anything new, anything "different". You know. Peers.

Anyway, I looked around. And thanks to this big 'ol huge party called the internet, it's nearly always possible to find what you're looking for (confetti, cheering). When i saw the title of the piece in the google results, I had a feeling. "How The Public School System Crushes Souls" Yup. And yup.

I know, it worked fine for you. It even worked fine for me, and I'm "different". 

Wait a minute. Did it?  

First of all, I was compliant (for a while, anyway).  So any conclusions that might be formed about the effectiveness of public school for me, or lack thereof, are pretty much tainted right from the start.  Schools--public schools, private schools--are predicated on compliance and conformity.  If you've got that, then they basically work.  That's not to say they give you a top-notch education, but if you've got as part of your anatomy the Tab A that goes into their Slot A, you've got a better chance of it.  

Secondly, I was pretty smart.  Not that smart is always a good thing in public school, but I was "Mom-can-I-please-please-please-get-that-math-workbook-it-looks-s0-fun" kinda smart.  When I was in elementary school, my best friend and I used to write research papers in our free time for fun.  You get the idea.  Anyway, that works well in public school.  

Although if it all worked so well, I do wonder why I emerged from high school with barely a B average, and why I got C's, D's (and one F!) in college, leading me to graduate late with barely a B average (again).  I do know one thing.  It pretty much ruled out graduate school.  It eliminated a whole group of professions that I had longed for, but which work better when you start young (that's all I'm gonna say on that--don't get me started).  And it left me in the work world, at 22, with the idea that I was not particularly bright at all.  More to the point, I thought I was dumb. 

It took me until I was 36 to get it that I wasn't dumb.  It took a year at Harvard Graduate School of Education with some kick-ass professors (never before, and never again, have I had as powerful a lesson about the importance of the teacher).  It took living and working for only nine months in a community of peers.  It took a few friends who "got me", and who reflected back.

After eight months in public school, my daughter thinks that she is stupid, and that no one wants to be friends with her.  And she loves her school and wants to stay there.

I can't watch this.  I can't support it.  

Opinion? Meet Fact.

I don't know about you, but when I was in 8th grade, we had to study the Constitution. Everyone murmured ominously about it from 6th grade on.."When you're in 8th grade, you have to take the Constitution Test, and if you don't pass, you don't graduate!"

I don't have any idea if that was true (the graduation part). The test and the topic? Those were true. We visited the state capitol, we learned about the history of the constitution, we had to memorize the preamble, and had to know all about the bill of rights. Did you have to do that? Do they still do that?

Because I'm tellin' you right now...it sure doesn't seem like it.

I'm not talking today about what I favor or don't favor. I'm not talking about what I think is right, or who I think should be in office. I'm not saying what laws I think should be changed. You know why? Because it doesn't really matter what my personal feelings are on the relative importance of the battle for equal marriage and the statements of its advocates and foes. I totally get it that my positions on health care or the war in the Middle East don't move mountains. It's of no particular importance that I disagree with pro-life advocates and the NRA. I have opinions, there's no doubt about that. But I don't generally lose sleep at night over the arguments of those whose position is different than my own. As they say, it's a free country.

BUT. And I mean BUT...The one thing that drives me right out of my skull is when people in power--in the government, in the media, in organizations--fail to understand basic 8th grade constitutional law or argue their positions based on information that is simply inaccurate, or as we like to call it in today's semantically correct world, misinformation. When I was a kid, back in the age of the dinosaurs, we called those things lies. And we called the people who said them...you guessed it...liars.

Now we're oh so kind. We give people--even when they're politicians--the benefit of the doubt. We say "Oh, well, they must not have understood." or "She's entitled to her opinion" or, best yet, "Oh, I'm sure that's not exactly what she meant".

Me? I'm into "keeping them honest". That's my thing.

In order to keep people honest, it appears that a lot of Americans need a few lessons. So, as a public service (and for no other reason, mind you), I'm stepping in.

News flash. Opinion and fact are two different things (hey! kinda like church and state! what a coincidence!). I know, there are many of us who never learned that distinction. But I'm tellin' ya, it's true. Yes, I acknowledge that everyone is entitled to my their own opinion. It's just that I happen to think it's important that argument be based on facts, especially if you plan on using it to deprive other people of their rights. Is that too much to ask?

Now this, I lose sleep over. Or perhaps more to the point, it makes me effin' crazy.

This morning, when I was doing my regular little skim around the internet, and I found this editorial, I was pretty okay. At first. I mean, it was pretty well written, and I agree with the opinion being stated. No big deal. I moved on. But I had a few extra minutes, and I decided to scroll down and read some of the reader comments (since I'm a reader comment kinda gal). And I saw this one. Number 16 on the reader comment list, from a certain S.P. in St. Louis, Missouri, a heterosexual who is, thank god, an avid writer of not only reader comments, but of letters to congress on issues s/he feels are important. On this particular morning, Mr. or Ms. S.P. saw fit to share with us the answer s/he received from his/her (I know that's annoying, but geez, there's no way to know, and I'm grateful, so I figure respect is the least I can do, at least until we come up with gender neutral pronouns, which I hope happens, like, tomorrow) senator, Claire McCaskill (D-Mo). Which, coincidentally (not really), was the point where steam started coming out of my ears.

You can read the comment for yourself via the link above, so I won't copy Senator McCaskill's letter in full (S.P. did, in fact, post the entire letter). I will just highlight the portion that produced the majority of the aforementioned steam.

"Our nation’s founding fathers had the remarkable sensibility and foresight to protect religious freedom, and as your Senator and a practicing Christian, I will remain committed to upholding every American’s right to freely practice and express their faith as they so choose. Our government has no business forcing a religious faith to conduct or recognize any marriage."

Um...perhaps it would be good to stay on topic? As in...what does civil marriage have to do with every American's right to "freely practice and express their faith"?

Right! Nothing!! Absolutely nothing! Zero, nada, zip.

Wow. You're good. You could be on a game show.

But far more importantly than that (this is the $500 level question, get ready)...don't you think that our elected officials, who have sworn under oath to protect and defend the constitution of the United States of America, should know that?

It reminds me of the reason that children and the "mentally incompetent" are not allowed to sign contracts nor, in many cases, take an oath. It is assumed that they lack "legal capacity", meaning that they simply cannot fully understand the nature and consequences of their actions. So here's what we're saying: when, as a society, we decide that someone doesn't fully understand the implications of an agreement, we do not allow them to make such an agreement. I'm thinking that should pertain to our elected leaders. If you don't understand fully what the constitution says, then maybe you shouldn't be allowed to take an oath to protect and defend it. This Senator McCaskill? She doesn't get it.

But that is not all. Oh, no, that is not all.

Because there's a lot more in there.

First off, how about the sentence,

"Our government has no business forcing a religious faith to conduct or recognize any marriage"

Where does any U.S. Senator get this information? How did she come to believe that any religious faith would be forced to conduct a marriage between two people of the same sex? (psst...I'm taking bets that it was her pastor). Shouldn't we expect our elected officials to educate themselves on the facts? Geez, she has a staff--they could look it up for her.

I personally know of countless numbers of rabbis who will not agree to marry interfaith couples, because it conflicts with their religious beliefs. I know for a fact that many clergy will not agree to marry couples who do not agree to attend a class or a series of counseling sessions. There are certainly Catholic priests who refuse to marry someone who has been divorced. It is simply a FACT that clergy are not required to marry ANYONE.

Like I said, Senator McCaskill has a staff. They could have looked it up for her. But since they obviously didn't, I'm doing it. Here ya go.

This article clarifies how it works in Massachusetts:
http://www.boston.com...

California clarified it here (Answer #20):
http://www.eqca.org...

Vermont clarified it here:
http://religionclause.blogspot.com...

Connecticut, Maine & New Hampshire (and Vermont) are clarified here:
http://corner.nationalreview.com...

And here's an article about how it works in Iowa (and a pretty interesting one about this whole issue to boot).

So that's settled.

And we don't even have to go that far to address that "protect religious freedom" thing. There are numerous religious denominations that strongly support and are happy to perform same sex marriages. The constitution's "wall of separation between church and state" blatantly forbids the government from favoring one religion over another--that is the essence of freedom of religion. So...prioritizing the beliefs of religious faiths that oppose same sex marriages over equally valid religious faiths that support it, is clearly in violation of the U.S. Constitution.

Simple. Done.

Perhaps people--including senators--ought to read and research a little bit more and listen to their pastors a little bit less?

As for me, I'm off to look for a sponsor for a new bill that I want introduced at the state and federal levels. Here's my idea:

I'm thinking that elected officials should have to pass the 8th grade Constitution Test. It can be multiple choice, because otherwise, they might get too scared (or we might not be able to find anybody to serve), and we don't want to be mean.

If they don't pass, they don't graduate.

Wanna sign the petition?

Progress. Er....Progress?

Well, sure. I suppose you could call it progress. I mean, if you want to.

It is true that it is the first time Netanyahu has ever publicly accepted the possibility of a two-state solution, albeit with a phenomenal list of non-negotiable conditions Obama has called it an important step forward", which I have to say I would be more inclined to consider if he hadn't just pissed me off royally over the past week with his absurd defense of DOMA and abandonment of DADT. Gotta keep that center happy. (For what it's worth, in my opinion, it's most interesting--not to mention ethical--to read the translation of the speech yourself, rather than relying on the sound bytes offered by the news networks and pundits...you can read some excerpts here, or the full text of the speech here.)

Without belaboring my longstanding internal conflict about the status of peace and race relations in Israel--you don't have time for that--I just gotta say that the speech produced only one association for me.

I just can't help it. It's all those years spent deeply imbedded in the world of childhood.

Here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that they could have just saved a lot of time by drawing upon one of the deepest and most profound wells of knowledge and conflict resolution that exists in today's world.

Yup. Poetry for children.

In this case, all they needed to do was open up the book Where the Sidewalk Ends (yeah, it's available in Hebrew), by Shel Silverstein (great site, by the way, check it out). I mean, he was even Jewish, what more do you want?

Go get your copy (everyone should own this book). Open it up. Page 74. My Rules.

If you want to marry me, here's what you'll have to do:
You must learn how to make a perfect chicken- dumpling stew.
And you must sew my holey socks,
And soothe my troubled mind,
And develop a knack for scratching my back,
And keep my shoes spotlessly shined.
And while I rest you must rake up the leaves,
And when it is hailing and snowing
You must shovel the walk...and be still when I talk,
And - hey - where are you going?

Isn't that pretty much the same thing?

And to think that those speech writers make a bundle.

Next time, tell 'em to call me.

Every Day, I Learn Something New

Here's what I learned today.

I learned that I am the world champion at skeeball. In my daughter's eyes, that is (and what else counts?) Evidence for my world champion status consists primarily of two facts, the first of which is that I broke a sweat while playing. Impressive, I know, and no, we're not going to discuss whether said moisture could possibly be attributable to hot flashes...it was inspiration, not perspiration. Got that? The second fact concerns the correlation between my championship level playing and the number of small beige tickets being excreted from the left side of the skeeball machine (the balls are on the right, silly), which can then be traded in for...well, almost nothing, since even a stuffed animal the size of a dime "costs" at least four times the number of tickets you have, and that's if you have a LOT of tickets, which if course we did, because I'm world champion.

I learned (in reference to yesterday's post) that one way in which I'm just like them is the apparent shared inevitability of Saturday afternoons at the kid-arcade-ride place (no, not Chuck E. Cheese, but same basic idea). This I cannot deny. Sigh.

I learned that they--in this case, CNN--are saying that "Bad Parenting" is in now, and they are attributing it to the economic crisis, when it is clearly a well-oiled book publicity campaign being staged by Ayelet Waldman's promoters. They're doing a bang-up job, I'll tell ya. I'd hire them in a minute. Effin' brilliant. Oprah, even. No, I don't have anything against the book--how can I when I haven't read it? It's just fascinating, from a sociological perspective, what traction can be gotten by being willing to use the moniker "bad mother" to make people feel okay about parenting (which of course, most people should, at least as far as I've heard). Because really, what role does guilt have in parenting? (stifling hysterical laughter) Um....everything?

I learned, for the eight-hundred-and-fifty-seventh time, that my child is what some people call "highly sensitive". For today's purposes, it means that she has to swear off television if she should encounter a show in which a person vomits (or nearly vomits), it means that she can watch a show in which people are breaking their backs working in the pouring rain and mud, and she feels terribly for the black dog that is shown for one second with rain falling on its head, it means that eye drops and band-aid removal are pretty much out of the question (as are their evil cousins, children's flavored cold medicines), and it means that she remembers--in detail and seemingly out of nowhere--the clothing and socks and weird energy of a dog-sitter that (apparently) cared for our dogs one time, several years ago, maybe when she was four. And it means that she hates me talking about her with a passion unrivaled, so I'll stop now. I've already said too much. But before I go, I want to say that I also learned, for the eight-hundred-and-fifty-seventh time, that I love this about her with every cell of my being (despite how it may occasionally appear).

I learned that on the scale of "girly-ness", two of my friends from high school are 97% girly, and that I am a man.

I learned--well, not exactly, it's more like I admitted--that there still lies within this simplicity-craving, ecologically-minded, socialist-leaning, live-in-the-country-and-grow-my-own-food resident of a 750 square foot house, an irrational desire for an enormous home with every sort of room that I always wanted, on a piece of land big enough so I can't see neighbors from my front porch (deep and wraparound, dontcha know). You know. A craft/sewing room. A library. An office. A true mudroom. A playroom. A glorious kitchen. All those regular rooms too. Oh, and that slide that goes from my 2nd floor bedroom into the indoor swimming pool with the roll-back walls and the retractable roof so that it can become an outdoor swimming pool in the summer (a lingering dream from childhood that I have never fully abandoned). Today, I learned I also wanted a well-appointed doggie room with easily cleanable floors and cozy bedding and direct access via a doggie door to the dog run, so that any dogs (including those with trauma issues) that I may have at this point (see trauma issues above) or at any point in the future can have a safe and fun place to hang out that does not involve crates. I hadn't known about that room before; it has now been added to the mental blueprint. Capitalism dies hard. As my friend Jimmy Carter said, "I have lusted in my heart".

I learned that some people actually practice self-care as scrupulously as they advocate for it. I am Impressed.

I learned that I can write even when I struggle all day, believing I have nothing to write. Even if it's late. Even if I'm tired.

Lastly, I learned that the big bag of baby beet greens that I got for the first time ever a week ago from a local mega-farm stand and loved beyond life itself are only available for three days every year. I'm hoping they hire a blimp next year to announce their arrival, just in case I forget. You're all invited to come over for a monster salad of baby beet greens, spiced pecans, cranberries, and gorgonzola cheese (on the side if necessary, not everyone likes that), with maple vinaigrette dressing. It's drop dead great.

Just look for the blimp.

We're Just Like You

"Lesbians aren't edgy." (I actually heard "lesbians aren't edgy anymore", but that isn't what was said.)

It was said in a moment of jest, a friendly kidding around between friends.   It wasn't meant to be a big deal, nor particularly taken as such.  But several hours later, I am realizing that it was one of the saddest things I've heard in a while.

I mean, who knew?  Here I was thinking that while we aren't exactly on the fringe of the fringe, we're still out there in the fringey little things somewhere.  Apparently not.  That must have been "before". 

Because...well, because I'm me, I've been stewing.  What does it mean?

I'm pretty close to an answer, at least one that feels satisfying.  I'm thinking what it means is that we're assimilated.  So now I just want to scream. 

I am not such a fan of assimilation.  That's an understatement. There is so much lost.  I'm more like "I'll take the old days minus the fear and violence".  

Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating the good old days of no equal rights and oppression.  This is where it get tricky.   Probably the simplest way to explain my position is that I believe a social transformation was (and is) critical.   Just not this one.

As you may or may not know, I have spent the last six months, and most intensively the last month, planning, coordinating, fundraising, rehearsing, singing about and performing music in celebration of the fifth anniversary of equal marriage in Massachusetts.  Today, I walked nearly an entire parade route singing "Going to the Chapel" amidst enthusiastic applause.  It's been a wild ride (not to mention unbelievable) and one that required me to stand up in front of people and ask them to help us celebrate this historical event.  It's also put me in the unlikely position of cheerleader as, while we were rehearsing, four states joined Massachusetts, and the Supreme Court decision on Prop 8 in California was released. So it was a little odd to walk around all of that time with the voice of one of my friends in my head, asking me "So, why are you against same-sex marriage?".

No, I straightened her out.  I'm not against same-sex marriage.  I think it's a no-brainer.  I think it's just another one of the equal rights that gay and lesbian people should have as a matter of course.  But then again, I thought the equal rights amendment was a no-brainer too, so you probably shouldn't pay any attention to me. 

Imagine--Equal rights for women guaranteed under the constitution.  Just in case you weren't paying attention, it failed.  And just in case you still weren't paying attention, it has been reintroduced every year.  Still nothing.  And in the event that you STILL weren't paying attention, yes, women's rights and gay and lesbian rights are, in fact, related (since the opposition to both has a whole lot to do with misogyny).  I don't know.  Call me crazy.  I'm thinking that maybe, just maybe, full equal rights for half of the country's population might be a good place to start.

Yeah, I'm an old time feminist.  Oh, yeah.  I know.  You're a feminist, too.  Here's a tip.  The feminism of today is unrecognizable by the standards of 70's and even 80's feminism--the stuff I cut  my teeth on.  It's really a whole different animal.

Aha.  Maybe this is the problem.  See, I am the President and a singing member of a women's chorus that was founded upon feminist principles of community, inclusivity, activism, and education. Maybe that's where I got the idea that we were about feminism.  But I forgot to check which version we were using (I'm old, I sometimes don't think of things like that). And I forgot to check whether we actually talk amongst ourselves about exactly what that means, being "founded on feminist principles".  No wonder I so often feel confused.

But back to same-sex marriage. As I said, I think it's a no-brainer.  I'm not against it. On the other hand, I wouldn't exactly say I'm in favor of it either.  I mean, I am in favor of it because I think equal rights should be a given, and equal rights are equal rights.  But I'm not after what it means, how it gets played out, what it "turns us into" (and if you don't believe me on that one, you must not have enough gay or lesbian friends).  And I am most certainly not in favor of the rhetoric it has inspired.  The rhetoric of "legitimacy", of "normalcy", of "we are just like straight people!".  Yick.  It makes my skin crawl  (which I do recognize just might lead someone to conclude that I am "against" it, I do get that).

Listen up.  About the legitimacy thing.  We don't need to be "legitimized" by anyone.  Let's put that concept in the same trash heap as the archaic and insulting (and gratefully, nearly obsolete) concept of "illegitimate" children.  That term has, for the most part, died a blessed death, because, of course, every child is legitimate.  Every one of our relationships is legitimate too, with or without state sanction.  So let's just get rid of that one.  We've insulted ourselves for too long already.

And then there's the "normal" thing.   I'm with Jodie Foster here (not that there's anything wrong with that).  She apparently is credited with saying "normal is not something to aspire to.  It's something to get away from."  Enough said.  Amen, sister.

So we're left with the "We're just like you" argument.  Hand me one of those bowls over there, wouldja?  I think I'm gonna puke.

This is why people think I'm against same-sex marriage.  Because I not only do not seek to be "just like them", but I don't want to be a part of a community that holds that as an aspiration, or worse yet, says it out loud (and proud).  It's probably that whole Groucho Marx thing, not wanting to be a member of any club that would have me as a member.  Be just like them?  Ew.

No offense to my heterosexual friends and readers out there.  Really. This is not a throw-the-baby-out-with-the-bathwater (what a horrible turn of phrase) kind of thing. No, I don't think there's anything wrong with your lives (I don't mind straight people, as long as they act gay).  Like anything else, it's not about individuals.  It's about a generalization.  My guess is that pretty much any of my straight friends (yes, I do have them) would agree that, as a group, heterosexual marriages, not to mention dating rituals, are not exactly something to emulate or envy.  That's what I'm saying.

See, here's the thing.  I'm not one of those who "knew" when I was five. Or ten.  Or twenty.  I know they exist, I don't doubt their legitimacy (there's that word again), but it's not my story.  I have always hated the nature/nurture debate regarding the "why", most vehemently the "why would anyone choose this?" (or its more fervent cousin "no one would make this choice!").  Just for the record, I'm quite clear I chose it.  I feel no shame in that.  Not in the least.

I chose it because I love the company of women.  I love living and working and laughing and being in a community of women.  I love the energy and power of women.  I love the electricity that flows between women.  I love the connections between women.  And perhaps more than anything, I love and believe deeply in the tenets of the feminism of the late 70's and early 80's (when I came out).  And believe it or not, at that time, for some women, becoming a lesbian was one among many possible manifestations or outgrowths of adherence to that philosophy (which had as its core a rejection of patriarchy, by the way, a seemingly novel concept in today's world).  For some, it was almost a natural evolution, a logical conclusion.  I am one of those.  

(Whoa.  This is like a whole 'nother coming out.  I don't think I've ever said these things before, at least not "publicly".) 

Anyway, I'm quite certain that my chorus sister who informed me today that "lesbians 

aren't edgy" didn't intend to produce this level of introspection, bordering on identity crisis.  Poor woman.

Here's the deal.

If I had wanted to be like them, I would have been like them.  I didn't.  I'm not.

If I had wanted my life to be just like everyone else's,  I would have made some really different choices.  I never have wanted that.  I don't want that now.

It's a hell of a trade-off for equal rights.  It is politically intruiging, since it seems likely that the acquisition of equal rights is tied into a tacit agreement to be more "mainstream", more assimilated, less "in your face", less counterculture, less...well...less "gay".  

You know, less edgy.  

Remembrance

"Just imagine how forgetful I'll be when I'm eighty!"
(Anne Frank, May 11, 1944)

On this day, June 12, Anne Frank, the optimistic schoolgirl from Amsterdam, would have been 80 years old.

She might have been been someone's mother. Someone's grandmother. Someone's great-grandmother. Someone's Bubbie.

It makes my hands shake. It makes my mind spin. It brings me to tears.

Not just for her, of course. She was a bright-eyed, introspective thinker, eternally hopeful, a young woman who proved once and for all the power of writing. She had no idea that her deepest thoughts would be known worldwide. She wrote for expression, for company. In her words, she wrote becuase "otherwise, I'd absolutely suffocate". This is something we can understand, even if we can't fathom her experience.

But who is she to us? She is a stand-in, an icon, a symbol, a storyteller.

Her 80th birthday is all of the 80th birthdays never celebrated. So on this day, we stop, and we remember.

Have you been to Amsterdam, have you walked up that steep staircase behind the bookcase to the hiding place? Have you seen her pictures of movie stars, cut out from magazines, glued to the walls? If you have, you will not forget it. If you have not, go. Again, not because it's her house, not to "see it". She is not a celebrity. Stand in that space and breathe that air and look out that window. Just stand and forget that this is a museum, which of course it is and is not. It is a home, it is a place where people laughed, it is a place where people heard boots coming up the same stairs, where they knew and didn't knew and felt the fear of what that meant. Go.

I found this video, in which Anne Frank's "stepsister" (not during Anne Frank's life) responds to a computerized photograph that suggests what Anne might have looked like at 80. I found her response fascinating, especially the degree to which she found the "activist" in Anne missing from the photo, and her ending comment about the vulnerability to facsism in difficult economic times. Take a look:



And because this day is what it is, I defer to her words:

"When I write, I can shake off all my cares." - April 5, 1944

"It’s utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos, suffering and death. I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness, I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too, I feel the suffering of millions. And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too shall end, that peace and tranquility will return once more" - July 15, 1944

Anne Frank died of typhus at the age of 15 in March 1945 in Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. She was buried in a mass grave at Bergen-Belsen. The location is unknown.

Bergen-Belsen was liberated on April 15, 1945.

Words and other Picky Shit

"Stand before the people you fear and speak your mind--
even if your voice shakes" --Maggie Kuhn

Words are sacred to me. I am fiercely protective.

I am not so unlike those few people I have met in my life (and surely all those who I have not met) who respond with wounded and vehement outrage to the use of the word "God" as an expletive or even as expression. You know the ones. "Don't take the Lord's name in vain!!"

It's just like that. I'm a purist.

Call it what you will. Everyone does. Picky. Intolerant. Inflexible. Egocentric. Fine, all of 'em. Probably all true at one moment or another. I would say that I'm big on saying what we mean.

It is not elicited by a particular word. I mean, I'm not one of those who goes "nucular" at, well, that. It does annoy me, to be sure (can you tell I heard it again today, on NPR this time, no less) and makes me long to get those people in front of me, hold them firmly by the shoulders, and ask them to pronounce "new" as in recently purchased, "clear", as in transparent, and then to look them firmly in the eye and say, slowly, and with emphasis..."Okay. Now. Put. Them. Together." It's not exact, but it sure would be closer. But it doesn't bother me that much.

It is not about pronunciation or even definition. No, the place where my teeth start to clench and the hair on the back of my neck stands up is a whole 'nother kettle of fish. My issue is in the casual use of what I call "large" words, often in response to the popularization of them by others, from friends to the media. Let me explain.

Now this may come as a shock to you--it surely does to me--but I am apparently following a theme tonight. I've never done that before. What I mean is that in the three and a half months of writing daily posts (a la nablopomo), I have not once written on the suggested monthly "theme" offered by the nablopomo folks. It's not required or anything, just a friendly prompt to keep people writing or give them something to write about if they are grasping at straws--I haven't needed it, or, more to the point, it's just the kind of thing I rebel against. Don't tell me what to fucking write about, y'know? But here I am, through no intention of my own. Go figure.

This month, the theme is "heroes". This word--hero--bothers me. A lot.

It bothers me because of the way in which no one seems to have any idea what it means, becuase of the increasing cheapness of its use, and because we use it wildly, indiscriminately, and, worst of all (gasp) inconsistently.

It bothers me because like nearly all words that fall into popular usage, it is considered blasphemy to disagree on their usage or meaning, even if those using them don't, as I said before, have any real idea of their definition or appropriateness. Everyone's saying it, so you'd better say it. And you'd damn well better not question its use, either, for to do so would be to insult and degrade the very soul of the person or persons on whom others have bestowed the title.

Word bullies.

You know what they say, the truth is an absolute defense. So let's look at what it means, this word.

The word "hero" is originally derived from Greek mythology and folklore, and refers to the offspring of a human being and a deity. The literal meaning is "protector" or "defender", possibly associated with the goddess Hera.

A few more thorough and current definitions:

Merriam Webster: 1 a: a mythological or legendary figure often of divine descent endowed with great strength or ability b: an illustrious warrior c: a man admired for his achievements and noble qualities d: one that shows great courage.

The Oxford English Dictionary: 1 a person, typically a man, who is admired for their courage or outstanding achievements. 2 the chief male character in a book, play, or film. 3 (in mythology and folklore) a person of superhuman qualities.

The Free Dictionary: hero - a man distinguished by exceptional courage and nobility and strength.

That seems like enough.

This is the point where it gets tricky. This is the point at which, in order to keep writing, I have to remember my invisible cloak of steel, not to mention Maggie Kuhn's advice. Because it pisses people off if you say that the people they are calling heroes are not heroes. I could just save time and energy and go right to the front of the "Ignorant-and-Heartless-Bitch" line.

Let's put it this way: If I say that I don't believe such-and-such person is a hero, it is presumed that that means that I don't think s/he did anything special or that s/he is worthy of praise. It means that I am not grateful for and/or admiring of the risks that s/he may have taken.

And now I'm angry.

I'm angry because it's a faulty presumption. It is possible to feel all of those things, and still have the word "hero" be incorrect.

Hey, this is what I was trying to tell you. Sacred. Fiercely protective. Remember?

(By the way, the old movie Hero, with Dustin Hoffman, is a marvelous example of exactly what I am trying to say here. I highly recommend it.)

As you probably have guessed by now, the most current subject of my dismissive nit-picking is Stephen Johns, the security guard at the US Holocaust Museum who, sadly, lost his life at the hands of a man who, by all accounts, probably should not have been out on the street, and who surely should not have been allowed to own weapons. Correction--he's not the subject. The media and all of us are the subjects.

Let's get this straight. I am deeply sad at the loss of this man's life. This is a terrible tragedy--for Mr. Johns family, for the museum, for all of us. I am grateful to the men and women who take their jobs and their training as guards for the Holocaust Museum seriously, and who come to work every day with the awareness that anti-semitism is alive and well and with the knowledge that some crazy might choose this day to stake his claim and act upon his rage with deadly violence. I am grateful for all of the officers who were sharp enough and fast enough to stop James von Brunn before he did any more damage.

At the same time, let's look at what he did. He opened the door for an elderly man. That was nice. The elderly man proceeded to shoot him in the chest at close range. He died of his wounds. So help me out here. In what way was he a hero?

For taking the bullet, which requires the assumption that had it not hit him, it might have hit a visitor? Maybe. I can see that, though by all reports, he did not "step in the path" but was the first direct target. For serving as a security guard in the museum, risking his life every day? I can see that, but then we need to be sure to give that honor and title to every guard who works in the Holocaust museum, whether they have ever been injured, and indeed, even if they were not working that day. Or...was he a hero because he died in the line of duty, and when someone dies in the line of duty, we call them a hero. Bingo. (Hint: It's the third one. Plenty of evidence to support that conclusion).

I know, it sounds cold. But it isn't cold. It's not about actions, not about Stephen Johns, not about right or wrong or tragedy or not. It's about words, about "big" words, about taking care with how we use words for fear of falling into a semantic version of "the boy who cried wolf". If anyone is a hero, then what happens to the real heroes? Or are they all the same? I don't think they are all the same (but then you might have guessed that).

And yes, I understand that I'm splitting hairs. That really all we're doing is trying to express the tragedy of his death, and our appreciation for his and his family's sacrifice. What does the word that we use really matter?

It does matter.

Words are like the principles of economics--the more they are used, the more casually they are used, the less they are worth.

Words are sacred.

Hey, at least I don't correct grammar. Now, THAT'S annoying.

Dewey Decimal and All That

I am not a librarian, nor do I play one on television.  

I am, however, a bonafide library geek.   This will come as no surprise to my friend Susan, who is, in fact, a librarian, and also happens to be my twin-separated-at-birth.  

Libraries produce in me a sense of luxuriance.  They transport me to a simpler time, when shelves that seemed endless with colored spines set me to reeling.  They speak of unhurried time, curling up in a chair or a corner, free of worries--a quality hard to come by these days, as well as in adulthood.

Today, I lost that for a moment.  I was jarred.  And in those moments of imbalance, I remembered.  Funny thing, space.  Space created, space filled.  Amazing.

My dad used to tell me a story about the library he went to as he was growing up.  He made a plan that he would read the whole library--I assume it was a neighborhood library in Detroit where he grew up--starting at the beginning of A, and reading right through to Z.  It was a challenge.  I don't know how far he got, I don't remember that part of the story.  But he sure tried.  And he loved recounting the effort.  So did I.

I grew up in a library, getting my first library card as soon as I was old enough to write my full name--that was the requirement.  By that time, I had spent so much time at the library that achievement of that goal was like the fulfillment of a dream.  It meant I was "big", perhaps more than any other milestone.  I knew all the librarians by name, and they all knew my name and my mother's name--it seemed like a heavenly, peaceful, all-knowing occupation.   It was quiet there. And there was always enough time.  I watched the high school pages pushing their slate-colored wheeled cars around, and wished I were older.

I remember my first library card well.  It was a small white card, about 2 1/2" x 3 1/2", typed by hand on a typewriter behind the tall blond wood librarian's counter, and it slid into a small open-ended manila envelope of the same size, with a small thumb hole at the top for easy card removal.  I had it throughout my childhood--it's probably still somewhere at my mother's house, she saves everything.

I remember the children's library.  It was the best part, with its low 50's spindle-legged wooden tables, and its endless books...the visual memory is overwhelming, begging me to leave this writing right here, right now, get out my colored pencils, and draw the library of my youth, with its walls of windows looking out on a garden in which one could read, and with....sigh...its wonderful children's librarian.  Her desk was....right there.  She was wonderful, with her colored paper bookmarks, each with a list of suggested books for different ages.  I always longed for the color beyond my level.  And so I read.  She always had a smile, a book club, an encouragement, a scavenger hunt, a dead-on book suggestion, a joyful enthusiasm for any child who loved to read.  A knowledge of children's books that so few have, sort of like the conversation about the "shoes books" in You've Got Mail (which is, of course, a remake of The Shop Around the Corner", which is a great film.).  Island of the Blue Dolphins. A  Door in the Wall.  Beverly Cleary.  Half Magic.  Maia Wojciechowska.  A Wrinkle in Time.

In fifth grade, I did what any child who had spent six years in the library does.  I volunteered to work in the school library, shelving books and checking them out.  It was the best job I've ever had.  It made such sense.

I got older.  I ventured out of the children's library into the reference section (I told you I was a library geek), where I pored over "Who's Who" in the way that we now read People Magazine.  When a letter came in the mail for my dad, inviting him to be in Who's Who, and he threw it away saying "what a piece of junk", I was appalled.  I lingered over the tall round metal rotating racks that held the only paperback books in the library at that time.  Somehow they seemed less legitimate.  I became a voracious consumer of biographies, landing me squarely in the 900's (921's, I'm thinking?), the other end of the library, as far from childhood as one could go.

Well, these days, I'm working  at home, a task made more challenging by the persistent whispers (okay, shouts) of dishes and dirty clothes.  So I decided to go work at the local library.  I would spend a luxurious five, six, hours there.  Settle in.  Look at a few books, soak in the library-ness of it all, and get some work done.  I was excited. 

When I arrived, I found that all of the parking in the area of the library, including in the small parking lot immediately adjacent, had two hour parking meters (I live in the suburbs, it's not a place you'd easily take public transportation).   

It struck me--hard--something akin to the feelings that people describe when they find that church doors are locked: confusion, outrage, disbelief.  I was flooded with questions.  How does anyone settle in in one hour and forty-five minutes?  How will children in this community ever know that feeling of staying, exploring, reading as long as they want? How many people come to the library expecting to visit, and end up leaving because they don't have quarters in their pockets?  How can it be a home to people who want to do research?  Anyone knows that you can't get much done in less than two hours.  What if I want to snuggle into one of those soft chairs and read magazines, and what if I drift off?  What if I'm working on my computer and my meter is up, and I'm being warned not to leave any personal possessions alone on the tables?

A library I went to recently made you do all but give them your first born child in order to use their computers.  Another warns you that you cannot use the bathrooms in the children's department, those are for children only--meaning that if you are with your child in that section, you would need to remove them from their play, from their books, from that which interests them, and take them with you to the adult restrooms on the far side of the building.  I have met some good children's librarians, but have met many more who appear to be bothered by the presence of children, annoyed by questions, and resentful at the expectation that they will have an inventory of expressions beyond the scowl and the heaving sigh.  A third finally got wireless internet access, but requires that you speak directly with the reference librarian to get an outlet "unlocked" if you want to plug your computer in--the outlets are otherwise covered.  The infamous rules enforcing quiet seem to have all but vanished--it's been a good 20 years since I've heard a parent say "We speak softly in libraries".

It's no wonder that these days, I often have trouble keeping track of my now fancy magnetic-stripped library card, I routinely wind up paying late fees because I somehow "can't" make it back to the library, and that many days, I simply forget it's there as a resource.

I know that libraries, like all social and/or cultural institutions, are struggling financially.  Libraries have closed, shortened their hours, expanded their offerings.  

I know that, at least among members of my generation, we bemoan the frequent disconnection of children from books.  "Kids don't read anymore!", we say.  

Are we enticing them?  Not with video games, not with "choose your book, we have to get to soccer", but with the luxury that some of us knew, with the excitement of subterfuge as they select books that they will read, as I did, under the covers with a flashlight.  These are things I can only dream of for my daughter.

You may say that I'm living in the past.  And you may be right.  

But there are a few jewels there.  

These days, I'm more of a 100's, 200's, 300's kinda gal.  My daughter is more of a 500's person.  To each her own.

Two hours in a library?  Give me a break.

Fail

I'm a bit of a slow learner.

For instance, I don't know when to stop. I mean, I know when to stop for me, but my stopping place is so much further out than other people. Way out there where there's no mail delivery. That's all I'm gonna say about that, except to say that the other side of the same coin is some version of persistence that I realize may be more like beating a dead horse than it is about slaving over a bunsen burner in the interest of discovering a cure for cancer. Ya know?

It has to do with my transplant failure.

Wow, I can see your eyebrows raised from here. No, I didn't get a transplant and not tell you. I moved. A long time ago. A really long time ago, which in dog years is about three days ago, which in some ways is exactly what it feels like, so maybe I'm a dog. Except I don't think so.

I really don't want to be a complainer, a whiner (except on Secret Spineless Whine, which is just cool), a ne'er do well. Oh, wait a minute. I take it back. I've always wanted to be a ne'er do well, just so that I could use that name--ne'er do well. It's almost as good as hooligan. But the other two I don't want to be, I know that much.

There are stories I cannot tell without defeating myself in the very telling. Or maybe that's too much ownership. Maybe there are things that will never be understood.

(don't you just love passive voice? it's such a cop-out. I love it).

It's like explaining color to someone who has been blind from birth. How do you do that?

Here's the question for the ages. One of the ones that I have never gotten. And just possibly, one of my own personal little synaptic gaps.

What do you do when something bothers you (yeah, if you're one of those happy-go-lucky clicking-your-heels-in-the-air-on-the-beach people, you can stop reading here) and the act of sharing that or attempting to problem solve with someone--or anyone--reliably produces more of the same behavior?

Any and all genius (or even mediocre) suggestions welcome.

It Won't Take Long

I dare you.

I dare you to resist the power of this music, of this poet, of this writer, of this soul, of this woman.

I dare you to resist the American cult of popularity. Or at least to analyze it.

I don't care if you don't like folk music. This isn't about entertainment. As I say to my daughter, as maybe you say to yours, it isn't always about what you like. Sometimes, it's about what's good for you, what's important, and what's true. And real. It's about power. Power lost, power stolen, power embodied.

I'm not saying you should listen to it--that's up to you. I'm saying you should know it, like what I wrote about Bob Dylan. At least some of it. One song. Maybe you even do know it, and you just don't know.

I don't care if you are one of the people who think that "women's music" was a phenomenon, an artifact of a more segregated and oppressed time, a thing that is largely in the past (that is, if you've heard of "women's music", despite the fact that it's where Melissa Etheridge came from). I don't care if you think it's whiny, or self-serving, or something that only belongs to and in the homes of old lesbians who have at one time toyed with separatism, who talk too much about feminism (apparently no one has told them that that's all over), who have not shaved their legs or underarms since, oh, say, 1980. I don't care.

Yeah. This is preachy. And arrogant. I know. I don't care about that either. Some things are worth fighting for, and when you're fighting, you're not always cajoling and compromising. This is one of my protests.

In the United States, we do not show appropriate reverence to our artists and our poets. Our Great Ones. Every four years or so, we trot one out and they read a poem at an inauguration, and we all say "Wow." Do you know who the current poet laureate of the United States is? Do you know that we have a current poet laureate? Do you know that she's a lesbian? Does it matter? (oh, man, the times they are a-changin')

We smile, and laugh, and nod as we accept the notion of "starving artists", without questioning why those two words need go together. Well, of course a singer-songwriter or a poet or a stone-carver doesn't make much money, as if poverty is a choice of one who is called to their art. Of course? Why?

It bothers me. In the United States, all too often we follow who we are told to follow, we eat what is put in front of us. Yes, even you. Yes, even me. In large part, we do so with willful ignorance of the path. It troubles me that we pay painfully little attention to how those people, that music, that news story, that food, came to be in front of us, how we have quietly been guided to select them. Those who try to talk about it are called names--isn't that the American way--like "cynical", "politically correct", "anarchist", "overanalytical". They're told they think too much or they have too much time on their hands. Of course, that's only until we get sick, or there's violence in our communities, or someone hands us a poem or a CD that changes our lives.

Of course, there's the "right" music, food, writers in any given community--it's not universal. Mary Oliver is a great example of this. Don't get me wrong. I have been moved by some of her poetry, and there are many whose lives she has changed. At the same time, in certain communities (like, say, mine), she is often "the one". The Poet. As if there are not others lesser known who write just as beautifully, as movingly, as painfully, as evocatively. How many people do you know who have spent hours in a poetry book shop or the poetry section of a bookstore, leafing through the books, wondering at the amazing talent (and sometimes the lack of it) on those shelves? Not many, I'd bet. I'm guilty of the same thing, of course. I hear something on the radio, or a friend passes a powerful poem along, and there I am, in line at the local bookstore, buying a copy. I bemoan it in myself as well. Maybe it's laziness?

Here's a question. And, I suppose, an answer. We read books that Oprah tells us to read. Why don't we read books that Audre Lorde told us to read? What accounts for that?

I guess all I'm saying is that we accept things too easily. And in doing so, we miss nuggets of pure gold.

Ferron is one of those nuggets. She is a bonafide genius, a brilliant artist living and working and writing and singing among us for more than 30 years, and damn few know who she is.

Rolling Stone magazine called her a "culture hero" and referred to one of her albums as "a thing of beauty", likening her to Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan. "Cowgirl meets Yeats", they said. I don't know about the cowgirl part, but I get what they mean.

In Boston, at one time, she played to an audience of 2000 in the Opera House. The Boston Globe said of her "Someday, they will call Dylan the Ferron of the 60's". Yup.

And so why doesn't everyone know who she is, or know at least one of her songs? Well, I don't need to say it. She has said it herself. Hell, it's been in print. Here's how Ferron explains it:

"I can remember that the New York Times listed Driver as one of the top albums of 1994. Then, the ensuing article was all about Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell. I was on a plane flying home when I first read it. I was so happy, but I couldn't tell the guy in the seat next to me about it because under the photo of me was the caption 'lesbian singer-songwriter.' Neither Dylan nor Mitchell had been identified this way. Perhaps, they felt that I would have taken it as a sign of disrespect if they had not said 'lesbian,' but they didn't understand that this was not what I was selling. I was selling a way of thinking — a way of getting through a knot in your life."

Bingo.

The fact is that we ignore the genius of some and we idolize the genius of others, and the difference has nothing to do with...well, anything. Well, anything other than those silly little things called sexism, racism, and homophobia.

Yeah, it's preachy. I'm kinda angry.

I'm angry that I live in a culture where certain people are "in" and others are "out" and that it bears no particular relevance to their abilities, talents, or genius.

I'm angry at the violence that is done to our children, to women, to minorities of all stripes, some of which is perpetuated by the absence of their authentic voices in our daily lives. I'm angry that there is a head table, and that asking to have one of yours represented at the head table is presumptuous. I'm angry that people laugh, albeit in recognition and reminiscence, when I say that I go to Ferron's concerts. "Wow! Is she still around? Whoa, that brings back memories. I saw her in 1984!". Me too. Do they say that about Bob Dylan? Bruce Springsteen? Do I laugh when they say they're going to see the Indigo Girls or Tracy Chapman or Ani DiFranco, all of whom were mentored by Ferron? Why, if they loved her in the 80's, have they not continued to support her work?

I'm angry that Ferron has been overlooked.

Which is why I am beyond words about the new documentary about Ferron's life. It's called Girl on a Road (the title of one of her songs), and it is currently making the film festival circuit. If it comes to your town, please go see it. Here is the trailer:



So today, I am praying, even though it's the kind of thing I don't often do. I am praying that this movie does not fade into obscurity. I am praying that it makes it on to public television, as it already did in Canada. I am praying that its audience not be limited to those who are already spellbound. I pray that it will move people to listen to and purchase her music. I pray that she gets the praise and recognition she deserves.

Since I seem to have been ending posts recently with some words on blogging, I suppose the thing to do is to use Ferron's own words, here from an December 2008 interview. I offer them to the fellow bloggers who read here.

"If you write, you have agreed to take longer to think because other people don't have time because they are doing something else. You're taking on a commitment in the same way that a shaman has agreed to take on the illness of the village and ground it. So, in that sense, artists are shamans. They have agreed to reflect and take on the illness of the culture and remind us of what we may have forgotten."

This is why I write.

Angels and Packing Peanuts

By all appearances, I have had the whole day today to write, or at least to figure out what to write. It's the first day I have had in a good long while that holds that luxury. It has reminded me that writing and expression are rarely a neat and tight fit for the spaces designed to contain them, so unlike the styrofoam structures that surround audio-visual products in their original packaging, the ones that make the television or the DVD player or the computer so difficult to get out of the box, and which never seem to go back in the way they came out.

It is best to surrender. As ever.

Here are the three thoughts that have played through my head all day long. They began early this morning, when my dog got me up much earlier than I would have liked. Each has made it clear that it has no intention of being expanded much beyond itself, resisting every feeble attempt that I have made to "write about" one or the other. They appear here in the order of their intensity, repetition, and insistence.

Today, I am an old woman.

There have been more than a few moments in my life when I have believed that I actually have flown. Yes, like a bird. Briefly, but as my daughter says, "every second counts". And if I could remember how I did it on those occasions, I could do it again. You know the feeling of scrunching your eyes tight, covering your ears, and listening as hard as you can for a clear memory? That's the one.

One of my favorite books from childhood, From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, has suddenly and repeatedly inserted itself into my life again, popping up everywhere in the way things do that want you to notice them. Okay. I've noticed. I'm listening. Tonight, we watched the movie. I didn't even know there was a movie. The central character (in my opinion) is an angel, making me wonder about our fascination with images of people with wings.

To no one's surprise, I also got a song. Just now, actually, which probably explains why I waited until 9 p.m. to write. Strangely--or actually, not so strangely at all--it encompasses all three of the "messages" of this day. This time, it's Angel From Montgomery. Bonnie Raitt & John Prine. Cue it up. Listen closely.

Have you ever gotten a package with those cornstarch-based packing peanuts? Have you ever put them in water and seen how they disappear? Cool, right?

I'll take them over tight-fit styrofoam any day.

Chew Quietly? Is that what it means?

Today, I have a shortage of time, and an abundance of genuine, good-old-fashioned, as-it-was-intended-in-the-beginning things that I don't get.

So I'm gonna be brief (don't fall over).

What the hell is up with that Snickers public relations campaign? What does it mean? Is there anyone out there that gets it? Whose idea was this? Are they on drugs? Have you met anyone who says "That is a great campaign!", as opposed to, say, "Wha...?"

They call it Snickers Speak, apparently.

For the second time in a week...WTF?

I mean, this one, I kinda even get, it kinda even makes sense:



But what the hell does THIS mean?




Okay, one more question and then I really gotta go (concert tonight!). The best (and most humiliating) question of all: does the fact that I'm wondering, writing, and blogging about it mean that it worked?

I have visions of ad execs doing the hokey-pokey in party hats at this very moment. All because of me. And maybe you.

Horrifying.

The Change of Life

Flashes.

No, not hot flashes, though I mean those, too. Flashes. All sorts.

Sleeplessness.

Leaving space not only for fatigue but for increased liminal space, the space in which ideas blossom and messages slide right in like a lover surprising you by sliding into the airplane seat next to you at the last minute.

Moods.

Moods that make us hard to live with. Moods that make us inclined to ask what is so hard about living with someone who questions what “easy to live with” means, recognizing it as a smokescreen for submission, compliance, servitude. Personal power is never easy to live with, especially for those who have never felt it.

Aches. Ailments. Anxiety.

A Trilogy of A. Reminding us that we are not here forever, that much is uncertain, that the someday is now.

They don’t call it the change of life for nothing.

I will be an artist of my own making. If not now, when?

There is art in writing.
I will not apologize for writing here when I should be “working”.
I will not accept that writing is any less valid than any other effort that we do not hesitate to call work.
I will no longer flinch in defensiveness at those who read my writing and say “You have too much time on your hands.”. No. I don’t. There isn’t enough time for all the things I want to say, write, feel, do.

There is art in caring for children.
In the strategizing necessary to maintain an emotional tenor that leaves one available, caring, and open, yet not vulnerable to the deeply personal bait that children routinely dangle as they make their way through the maze.
There is art in knowing when to approach, when to stand back, when to hold on, when to let go, when to insist, when to fold.
There is art in talking to children, in answering their questions without answering too much or diminishing their curiousity.
There is skill in this. I am not ashamed of having those skills.

There is art is offering what you know to the world.
There is art in being able to translate from one world into the next.
There is art in finding the words that make someone recognize the alien as if it has lived within them their entire lives. Because it has.

There is art in traveling, in exploration.
What is art if not freedom?
There is art in respect, in visiting new places with a minimum of the egocentrism and privilege that is implanted in us with every group sing, every state of the union address, every parade, every page 72 of our history books.

There is art in argument, in curiousity, in insistence, in analysis.
We live in a country that is not shy about its disdain for intellectuals.
I will not play along, in spite of the onion skin that has never protected me from casual meanness, intentional or otherwise.

There is art in creating
children, jewelry, vessels, rituals, solutions, things never seen before, thoughts, words written on paper or screen, classes, training, tools.

I have told the story.

When I was in my mid-20’s, I wanted to move to Maui. I believed I could do anything, I could strike out, in a classically 20-something kind of way. I packed my bags, and put my belongings into storage. I got on a plane. I rented a sublet. I sought out temporary employment, doing…well, whatever. I went to the beach in Kihei and watched the whales spout. And then I went home, as nearly everyone does who leaps into the water with a foot still on the dock. It’s an uncomfortable stretch that’s bound to cause a cramp eventually. An adventure is not the same as a life.

When I was in my 30’s, I wanted to move to Hawaii. Again. I wasn’t specific this time. I thought about where the jobs were. I researched, I interviewed by phone, I traveled for final interviews. I got a job. A good job. I said my goodbyes, packed my bags, and put my belongings into a Matson shipping container on the dock in Oakland. I drove my car up a ramp to join them. I lived at the YWCA in Honolulu for a month or two, and then rented a house nestled in lush foliage on the side of a rainy valley that was fifteen minutes from the ocean. I kept a swimsuit and goggles in my trunk so that I could stop by the beach to swim on the way home if I so desired, though often I just wanted to go home after a day of work. Even in Hawaii, living is living.

One foot on the dock is no way to leap. Diving is not so good either, as we all know a story of someone who met an unfortunate end trusting the unknown depth of water. Jump. With both feet. It’s the only way. There is no such thing as careful.

When I was in my 40’s, I found myself in a place that was alien to me in nearly every possible way, and which remains so. I set myself on a path to make the best of it, because it was for my career, not for my life. I was reminded that, in a new place, you have to adapt to cultural norms in order to get along. You have to submit. I stink at that. So I continued to speak up here and there, just to remember what my voice sounded like, to remember who I was when I stood, in boots and heavy backpack, on a log bridge across a roaring river in the Sierras, defying the elements, when that same evening I played half of a recorder duet over a desolate lake on the longest day of the year, wondering at the light sky at 9 p.m. The pressure, subtle and overt, to silence that voice was phenomenal and often remains so—people can see you remembering that, and they don’t like it much, even when they don't know it. They have their own reasons, to be sure, but there’s that flaky skin to contend with once more.

I spent my 40’s in the illusion of profession, in the false promise of letters behind a name, and then with the birth of a child. Nurturing a child is as close to the core of life as you can get. I accepted my life in the space created by the intersection of a venn diagram.

Now I am in my 50’s, with the flashes, sleeplessness, moods, and A’s that grace those that are fortunate enough to make it this far. I have devised a machine, a clever Rube Goldberg inspired contraption, designed to extract (with a loud, obnoxious, sucking sound reminiscent of a combination of nursing and the last drops of a milkshake in a large metal cup drawn unselfconsciously through a straw) the power from each of them. It's going pretty well.

And I’m working on that onion skin thing, because I’m done apologizing.

I am an artist of my own making. In the last two months, I have been called “wild” and “fierce”, always by people younger than me. I am putting those on as a cloak. I may even get that purple streak in my hair.

They don’t call it the change of life for nothing.

WTF?

This goes way beyond "what I don't get". Somebody help me out here.

Tonight, I was perusing the news online (which I realize was my first mistake) and I found an article on Obama's planned visit to Buchenwald tomorrow. It drew my attention because its title claimed that survivors of Buchenwald consider Obama "family". This made me curious.

I have long been a big fan (not the right word at all, but it will have to do) of Holocaust literature, movies, documentaries. It's the legacy thing, the never again thing, the obligation, the learning from historical atrocity, the inspiration of people who lived, prayed, loved through that and managed to piece together a life when it was over, as if such things were ever over.

It turns out that Obama's great-uncle helped liberate a sub-camp of Buchenwald while fighting in World War II. My dad did that (different camp), so I understand the power of the images, the memory, the witnessing. I get that.

But then I kept reading. Perhaps you clicked on the link to the article. Maybe you read the whole thing. And maybe, just maybe, you stopped, frozen in your tracks, at the same point in the article as I did. But just in case you missed it, here it is:

"Every building in the Buchenwald complex radiates death, suffering and evil....In the crematorium, where tens of thousands of bodies were burned, the ovens have been restored and are fully functional."

What? WHAT??

Could someone, anyone, please explain to me what possible reason under the sun there could be for restoring Nazi crematorium ovens to be "fully functional"?

Please tell me this is sloppy reporting. Or a poor choice of words. Or a misunderstanding. Or a typo.

Please.

Brave New Voices, Indeed

I was just made aware of this, from Brave New Voices, which I've also never heard of before.

I am crying with admiration. I feel an obligation to pass it on.



Look for a clip of the show online, if you can. A packed auditorium, filled with most African-American youth, chanting "PO-E-TRY! PO-E-TRY! PO-E-TRY!", as if they were at the NCAA playoffs. Did I die in my sleep? Is this heaven? Oh. My. God.

These kids, these generations, they're gonna save the world.

You All Never Tell Me Anything

"Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar."

Yesterday, I said I was not well read, which may come as a surprise to people who know me (or maybe not). Like my former mother-in-law, who said, when she found out that I had not read Jane Austen--or some such thing--"but you seem so smart!". Yeah, I fool people like that.

So my question for today (when I can get over my humiliation) is: Why didn't I get the memo?

I know for a fact that a lot of you who read this (if I can be so bold as to use that phrase "a lot") are writers in one form or another. So I'm sure at some point, you have run across that little primer of writing, namely The Elements of Style. You know you did. Some of you even got all casual-like and familiar and started to refer to it the way you talk to your basketball buddies. You know, by last name. "Throw it to Peterson!" It's just like that. "You got a copy of Strunk and White around here somewhere?" You know you said it. And if you didn't, you knew what book to grab when someone else said it.

But. But. BUT.

DID YOU KNOW THAT IT WAS WRITTEN BY THE GUY WHO WROTE CHARLOTTE'S WEB AND STUART LITTLE???

I didn't know that. I'm crawling under a rock now.

Did you know? Why didn't you tell me?

This is so not what I meant when I said I was not well read. I'm starting to read tonight. I have to catch up. After chorus. And dishes. And laundry. Okay. Tomorrow, then.

And this all came up because of a simple quote on a magazine I received that caught my eye and spoke directly to my conundrum of a life. It's one of those things where you think "Wow, I could have written that" because it's sounds so much like you and your life, but then you find out it's an author that you really admire, and then you decide that maybe you're fooling yourself that you could write that, but it rings true nonetheless. Ya know?

Here it is:

"If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. That makes it hard to plan the day."

E.B. White. Of course. And in an instant, I realized I know so little about him, other than Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little (yes, the books, not the movies--most definitely one of those "the book was better" moments). I am a big fan of children's books. And what is there not to love about a person who can turn a spider into a poet and a mouse into an adventurer?

So I did what I always do. I researched. That's when I saw it, and was appropriately dumbfounded.

Yes, I know this is probably not as shocking news, nor as important news, to you as it is to me. It's not really all that important to me either. I mean, who cares? But sort of in the spirit of yesterday's writing, every once in a while I get hit hard over the head with something I don't know that it seems like I should know, and it just throws me for a loop. And besides, I like things like this that really knock me off balance. Keeps me on my toes.

Most importantly, I like things like this because they lead me to unexpected places, places that I had no idea I was going or even wanted to go when I woke up this morning. If this blogging thing has been about anything for me, it has been about paying attention. About noticing things that happen, about noticing what I notice, about noticing what I am moved to write about, and what just slips through like incidental slop. Today, I stumbled on to E.B. White. And in the end, it wasn't about children's books or writing manuals or surprises. It was about writing. Here's what my friend Elwyn (or Andy, as he was apparently called) had to say about writing. It's just what I needed today, and if it had to be through the back door, so be it.

"There is no trick to it. If you like to write and want to write, you write, no matter where you are or what else you are doing or whether anyone pays any heed. I must have written half a million words (mostly in my journal) before I had anything published, save for a couple of short items in St. Nicholas. If you want to write about feelings, about the end of summer, about growing, write about it. A great deal of writing is not "plotted"--most of my essays have no plot structure, they are a ramble in the woods, or a ramble in the basement of my mind. You ask, "Who cares?" Everybody cares. You say, "It's been written before." Everything has been written before."

The basement of my mind.

Damn good blogging advice.

Thanks, Andy.