Guest Blog from Ian Elder about an Unusual Night at the Opera

I have struggled since 2016 to find my way back to being a humorist, and to giving my blog readers a laugh, an insight, and a worthwhile read all rolled into one. I hope to get better at that in the coming year. (Is that a New Year’s Resolution? Uh-oh.) I want to end this dreadful year with something fun and different. I have never had a “guest blogger.” My friend Ian, who lives in England, sent me the following account in an email. It’s just too good not to share, so I asked him if I could put it up on the blog and he gave me permission to do it. (You will notice that there are some “Britishisms” in the language.) Without further ado, here is Ian’s description of an unfortunate performance of Tosca that he witnessed in Prague. Enjoy, my friends.

Tosca was an opera I had never seen and I was really looking forward to it, at the National Theatre in Prague. Unfortunately, the director was determined to impress the production with his own stamp of creativity. Would that he had not.

There is a scene in a church where Tosca prays and asks for divine guidance in her predicament. At this point the set included a statue of the Virgin Mary. The problem was that this was not an inanimate marble statue as such, but a very much alive young woman, wearing a white see-through piece of chiffon. This revealed her very perky bosom which, being naked under the shift, instantly distracted everyone’s attention from Tosca - including mine. Worse was to come.

At the conclusion of Tosca’s prayer, the Virgin slowly descended through a trapdoor. Unfortunately the device which provided the powered platform for her disappearance needed badly to be oiled; it therefore shuddered and jerked. As a result, the perky bosom was jiggling up and down for all to admire, the more so as the trapdoor kept getting stuck, then suddenly released. Whatever it was that poor Tosca was singing, it was to nil effect - since everybody was focused on the bouncing bosom as it left the stage, destined for the crypt (and probably a warm pullover).

Following on from this example of the director's wizardry, as the entire audience tried to switch back to Tosca’s plight, a conveyor belt started up, above the stained glass window. What now?

This was a young man of about twenty or twenty one, I would say, who reminded me of Rocky in the Rocky Horror Picture Show - well built, tanned, and good looking. He was wearing a pair of angel wings on his back and a posing pouch in front. 

Of shining golden hue. 

Nothing else. 

Just a posing pouch. 

Of golden hue. 

Glittering.

Riveting indeed.

Now, I might have admired such a view of youthful athleticism had it been in the “Escape Nightclub” of Prague - wings optional - but in Tosca??? Again, the eponymous heroine was sidelined, as all attention (well, at least mine) was now diverted to the hope that the conveyor belt would not judder and make the angel jiggle. Too much, perhaps. His journey from East to West complete, he disappeared from view, leaving me puzzled, perplexed, and bamboozled. What did all this mean? Did it mean anything? What was the angel doing after the show? 

Of course, I felt sorry for Tosca and in my sympathetic imagination, during the interval, recreated the moment she received the letter from the Czech State Opera asking her to take the starring role. At last, her years of training and acting presence would reap rewards. "DIVA! Moi?" For this? I read in the programme that the director was known for his wacky approach. Indeed, he had won an award for it. From South Moravian Television. Enough said.

Act 2 was more orthodox. Tosca was back in church (her being devout is part of the drama). The audience was on tenterhooks as to whether Mary and Gabriel would reappear. They did not. Tosca was getting the attention she deserved. Until ... the angelic conveyor belt started up.

This time, there was a fat lady making her way across the stained glass window, with all the convenience of the transport assistance. At least she was fully clothed - to everyone's relief, as she was a mature matron. But why was she there? What was the symbolism? Was it that “it is not over until the fat lady sings”? No, it could not be that: Tosca still had a ways to go before thwarting an attempted rape by stabbing her seducer to death, as is the frivolous frippery of an opera libretto. Nor did the fat lady sing, scotching that theory.

The dénoument (Christian woman murders rapist in self defence) was eventually reached. But it was all a blur. I confess - I wouldn't recognise a single note of this opera, were I to be tested. All I remember is the wackiness and the facetiousness of props and personages.

That is the story.

 

And Ian is sticking to it. Thank you for this, Ian. For more laughs, I recommend Dave Barry’s year in review roundup of 2020. Here is a link to it at the Boston Globe, but it’s around at other sources. Now there is a master at humor. Happy New Year all.

What I Learned from Living in the Pandemic

 

Recently, after living in the pandemic these many months, I paused to reflect on the ways in which the pandemic has changed my life. I was already somewhat of a recluse and I have worked from home for more than twenty years. I do like to socialize, but on a limited basis. I enjoy solitude, especially walking in wild nature and reading or writing in the privacy of my home. So my lifestyle has not changed that much, but more has changed than I might otherwise have thought. I have learned a thing or two. 

The most important thing I learned about myself from this pandemic is that l live too far away from my grandchildren. I live in NorCal and they live in Portland. Before the pandemic, I flew to Portland to see them every two or three months. Now, with air flight out of the question, my husband and I resorted to driving, and we have visited only twice this year. In the meantime, we skype with the boys, now ages three and one. I have wondered if the baby thinks we live in a computer and how he reconciles that image of us on the screen with the real people when we arrive at his door. The three-year-old can carry on a complex conversation with me on skype, and we have established a cherished habit of reading stories so when he sees me on his computer he will chat for only a few minutes before he says, “I want a book, please.” I learned from this pandemic that I want to live near those children and I want to be a large part of their everyday lives as they grow up. They are my greatest joy. The logical step is to move to Portland. Follow the gold. My husband heartily agrees. The pandemic brought home to me the realization that after four terrific decades, my time in California has come to an end. 

Even prior to the pandemic, and for many reasons, we contemplated moving to a different living situation. The rampant fires in California have had a powerful impact on us. For the past four years, we have remained evacuation-ready for half of the year because we live in one of those notorious urban-to-woodland-interface areas. Our lives are already precarious enough without the added stress of remaining on alert to evacuate at any moment in the midst of a pandemic. There are other compelling reasons to move, such as no longer wishing to maintain such a large house and yard. While we have discussed a move, we never summoned the energy or impetus to do it. The pandemic brought our priorities and vision of the life we want to live in the coming years into perspective and gave us the push we needed to get real and get busy. Does anyone want a lawn mower? 

The pandemic has very much reminded me that people matter the most and belongings are extraneous. As we check in with loved ones regularly about health and financial security, avoid seeing people in person, and watch the death toll rise, we cherish even more all those dear to us whom we may lose to this thing at any time. Because my husband has diabetes and other serious health issues, I have lived with death at my elbow for decades. I lost track long ago of how many times I have saved his life during a severe hypoglycemic episode. Diabetes is no picnic. But loving someone with it makes for an intense and deep relationship because we are keenly aware that we may be parted at any moment. His precarious health helps me let go of the small stuff, and to feel grateful to still have this man no matter what foolishness he manages to get up to. We share the belief that our marriage is sacred and we do not take it lightly. So I already had a sharp awareness of what matters even before the pandemic, but it certainly has a way of reminding me of it every day. 

I love to share the story of my friends Ken and Carol, whose house was struck by lightning and caught on fire. I met them in college where I took a class from Ken (then a graduate student) in romantic poets. They have been married nearly fifty years and have raised two children together. They were at home when the fire started and they grabbed their computers and car keys and fled. While waiting for the fire department to arrive, and watching their home go up in flames, Ken (a Wordsworth man to the core) turned to Carol and said, “You are all the home I need.” The house did not burn down, but required extensive repairs to several rooms. 

As an exercise in finding truth and meaning in the experience of living through a plague, I am working on a list of things I have learned from the pandemic. At the risk of making assumptions about my own self-importance by imagining that you might find my list of interest, I share it with you below. Here it is so far. 

- I’m insignificant in the grand scheme of things, less than a speck in the universe.

- I want to help make the world a better place, but my impact ability is limited. Small things can make an important difference. There is great value in doing small things.

- Walking alone is a gift and I am grateful to be able to do it every day. It’s my meditation and it keeps me balanced.

- I must make an effort to communicate regularly with people dear to me using the technology available because life is fleeting and I may lose them at any time.

- Good scotch whiskey is wonderful.

- I love the sensual pleasure of reading actual physical books.

- There is a massive amount of lousy content available for streaming and trying to find something worth watching is a plunge down a rabbit hole. On the other hand, finding something worth watching is great fun and a delight. So I shouldn’t give up on TV.

- I miss my children and want to spend more time hearing about their lives.

- I can cut my own hair and it doesn’t look half bad. It looks better on screenchat than in person. Cool.

- I don’t need to leave my house for much. If I have food and books then I’m good.

- Almost anything can be bought online and delivered to my door. God help me.

- My house and my yard are too big and require too much work. I would be happy renting (not owning) my home for the rest of my life. The American Dream can go hang.

- My husband and I only need one car between the two of us.

- My luck at cards is rotten.

- Rereading books I loved the first time around is a pleasure.

- I’m relieved not to participate in airline travel and encouraged to see how much reduced air travel has positively impacted the environment.

- Eating sandwiches and snacks in the car during a road trip is excellent and I like it that we reach our destination sooner because we don’t stop.

- My hearing is so compromised that I can’t understand people unless I can see their mouths to read their lips. Masks make that impossible. Accessibility is a huge issue for me and many other people.

- The up side to zoom synagogue is that I can sing along on mute as loud as I like and have a blast without concern for the sensibilities of the other congregants.

- Millions of people would rather die than recognize scientific fact or truth if they think science or truth threatens their political allegiance or sense of self. Go figure.

- Roses continue to be the most extraordinary creatures.

- Politics can destroy families and friendships even though it shouldn’t be that way.

- An awful lot of people eat out a lot of the time and either don’t know how to cook at home or don’t like to do it. This astonishes me. I never eat out. What is the appeal of having someone else make you a sandwich?

- If I could have a superpower I would like the ability to make people laugh. Either that or the ability to know lots of languages, starting with ASL.

- Making love to my husband never gets old. That was not meant to make you laugh but if it did then maybe I’m on my way to a superpower.

- My story is not as interesting as other people’s stories. I need to shut up and listen.

- Health is multidimensional and maintaining health is a spiritual exercise.

- When you are living at ground zero for climate chaos during a pandemic, and the trees are in flames around you, an earthquake is small potatoes.

- It’s astonishing how far a vitamin pill can bounce when you drop it on a tile floor.

- I have so much for which to be grateful and gratitude is the basis for joy.

- My greatest joy at this time in my life is my grandchildren. 

Not everything on my list is something I’ve learned exactly right now in the pandemic – some of it I knew already but it seemed relevant or I feel it more acutely these days. It’s a bit difficult to reflect on living through historic times while right in the middle of living through historic times, a bit like time traveling. I wonder what children and young people will have to say about this time in history when they grow up and look back on it. What will they say they learned? What will we say about how it changed our lives and the world in which we live? What have you learned from the pandemic? 

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Love happens. Grief happens. Death happens. Life happens. Joy happens. Grandchildren happen. Yay for grandchildren.

 

A wee dram of  Scotch whiskey to warm me up and see me through troubled times.

Election 2020 Diary

Election Day One 8:00 AM

I start my day by reading the roundup of late night comedy. Last night Jimmy Kimmel said, "The best way to describe how I'm feeling right now -- it's somewhere between Christmas Eve and the night before a liver transplant." I miss my sense of humor, which went packing in November 2016. I must depend on the humor of others. I have had glimmers of humor around the edges. I have faith it will return.

8:15

Store fronts in major cities are boarded up to prevent looting. Residents have stocked up on food and are hunkering down. Here in my small town in NorCal there is nothing more wrong than has already been wrong for the past four years. But seeing pictures of the boarded-up windows in DC, I feel like I am living in someone else's country in another time.

 

8:30

It’s on, voting is happening. I have fortunately survived these four years. Not everyone has. I vividly recall the horror of Election Night 2016; the rage, the grief, and the heart-stopping vision of what was to come. I sat in my husband’s lap and asked him to hold me and I wept in his arms. The night after the 2016 election, some friends came to my house for our monthly book group. One of them brought her 20-something daughter. The young woman is an environmental protection activist and deeply aware of the dangers ahead because of climate chaos. She baked an election cake the day before to celebrate our first woman president. When they came into the house for the book group, she carried the cake, uncut. I took the cake from her, handed it to her mother, and embraced her as I said, “I’m so sorry for you and all the young people.” We wept in one another’s arms. Last night I dreamt that she came to visit me riding a magnificent charcoal horse.

 

9:00

I go for my daily walk behind Lake Mendocino where I take my thoughts into the wild. My beloved NorCal is burning up in climate chaos. Will today’s election results restart the process of making the changes needed for a viable future for humans on Earth? It may already be too late for the trees and other living creatures in my beloved homeland.

 

11:30

I try to concentrate on work. It will take days to count the votes, and there will be no result by tonight.

 

12:00 Noon

The brightest, shiniest moment was when we found out Obama had won in 2008. Oh what a night. I had friends in the house and we were watching Jon Stewart. He said Obama had taken Ohio and that put him over the top for a win. We didn’t know if that was true or not because it was The Daily Show, so we flipped the channel to MSNBC and sure enough, Obama had won for real. My phone rang at that instant and it was my husband Ron who was in Chicago with his family. He was calling to celebrate that Obama had won. I burst into tears. Couldn’t speak. I heard his relatives whooping in the background, Black folks who grew up in poverty in the ghetto. Descendants of slaves who endured centuries of oppression in this cursed country. He asked me, “Are you crying, baby?” and I was speechless, could barely squeak out a yes. Each of my children called, so excited, talking a mile a minute in their new future. My friends at my house were on their cell phones with their children. The exhilaration we felt! When I think of that night now, I want to cry for all we have lost and all that has been taken from our children in the past four years. Can we please begin to climb out of this pit?

 

2:00

I finish a conference call for work. It was a welcome distraction. No one mentioned the election or the disastrous state of the nation. We focused on the project before us and left the planet to its own devices for a short time.

 

2:15

I’m thinking positive thoughts and practicing patience. It’s going to be an excruciating week. We are not a patient nation.

 

2:30

It’s a clear and sunny autumn day. The birds hop in the bottlebrush tree outside the window of my study. There is a breeze, which is not good at this time of year in this dry land at the end of summer in the place where I live. If a spark of stray fire catches, it could burn down a town. Yet everything looks so normal. It feels a bit like the placid scene in a sci-fi thriller right before the aliens arrive and start offing people. I check the online news and read that Typhoid Donny has formally started the process of pulling the U.S. out of the Paris Climate Accord. He has no shame. Biden says he’ll put us straight back into the Accord on Day One if he wins. The Accord is essentially just a promise to set and reach a goal, but I want that promise. Bring the promise, Biden.

 

3:00

Polls close in FL and GA in one hour. Will this be a nail-biter or not? The ground moves beneath my feet as I feel the 2016 Election PTSD creep in.

 

3:30

Puerto Rico is voting about whether to become a state. Why would anywhere want to join this dysfunctional nation? All we did for Puerto Rico is nothing. It got devastated by a hurricane and Typhoid Donny said “not my problem.”

 

4:00

Results are starting to come in but there is not enough information to figure anything out. I keep reading things Republicans have done to try to subvert the election process. Setting up false ballot drop-off boxes, running Democratic voter convoys off the road, going to court to prevent mailed-in ballots from being counted, making threatening robocalls to voters, and urging followers (i.e., white supremacists) to harass and threaten Democratic voters (i.e., black voters) in any way they can, including by pointing guns at them. I don’t understand the mindset, the internal narrative that can justify these things for these people. They drank the Kool-Aid and can no longer distinguish right from wrong. How do they live with themselves after doing things like cheering for the separation of children from their parents at the border or the push to put ACB on the Supreme Court? (They should have called the push to confirm ACB “Project Warp Speed.” What kind of childish idiot calls any government project “Warp Speed”?) Moscow Mitch is obviously not afraid to go to hell. I figure he doesn’t believe in an afterlife. I need chocolate.

 

5:00

We don’t know anything.

 

5:20

Moscow Mitch is still in his seat. No surprise there but it makes me furious. KY votes the devil into the Senate yet again.

 

5:30

I make scrambled eggs for dinner. I can’t think to cook anything more complicated and I need something light on my stomach. I also eat some apples and honey, as if it’s Rosh Hashanah. Am I subconsciously wishing for a new beginning?

 

5:45

There’s something awful about the way most of the old-time slave states go for Typhoid Donny and the other states for Biden. The Civil War never ended.

 

6:00

Why do we still have the Electoral College? Can’t we get rid of that dinosaur already?

 

6:15

My Patronus is my grandchildren.

 

6:20

My husband turns to me in a panic and asks, “Where do we go if he wins again?” I tell him to just stop. Be positive. Biden will win. (When Reagan was elected I went to the New Zealand embassy and talked with them about emigration. Good times.)

 

6:40

I don’t understand how they can declare a winner in states with only 65% of the vote in. Or less. How can I believe these projections?

 

7:00

We don’t know anything.

 

7:15

Remind me why the country needs Kentucky again.

 

7:30

I have to reread the last Harry Potter book when he defeats Voldemort again, to remind me it’s possible.

 

8:00

Polls close in my home state. There is nothing to know tonight except that once again the power of Typhoid Donny to gain votes was underestimated. The pollsters were far off the mark yet again.

 

9:00

I’m done. I decide to go to bed, to dream of my beautiful grandsons. I hope there will be a future for them when I wake up in the morning.

 

Election Day Two 2:00 AM

My husband is not in my bed.

 

6:00

My husband comes back to bed, crashing around the room and flashing lights, like only a man can. I wonder if he was looking at election returns. We don’t speak so I don’t know. I go back to sleep.

 

7:15

I am up and I wonder if this is the ending or the beginning.

 

7:30

I think of the expression “it’s not the end of the world” and I think well actually it could be. I’m afraid to plug in and find out what’s going on out there.

 

7:45

A buck with a rack of antlers stands as if posing for a magazine photographer on my neighbor’s lawn across the street. Little yellow finches perch in my bottlebrush tree. It’s another crisp autumn day in scorched but glorious NorCal. Beauty walks in the world for a while longer.

 

8:00

I go to the online news. No outcome. I know that the ballots now being counted in the swing states are mail-ins and those will lean Democrat. We knew going into this that a protracted period of counting would occur, but it’s another thing to live through it. The fact that it's this close is horrifying and does not bode well for the future of this country, the world, and on a personal level for my children and grandchildren. Even when (being optimistic) Biden wins, we must live in this country loaded with millions of people who still think Typhoid Donny was a good choice, and would choose him again to lead us to our doom. They may be in the minority, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that there are so many of them. The pollsters once again scratch their heads and wonder how they could be so far off in their predictions. I’ll tell them why. They don’t count Typhoid Donny’s followers. They don’t poll them. They don’t ask them their opinion. No wonder these people are angry. Who do the pollsters poll and how? Disenfranchised and marginalized people come in many colors. As long as divide and conquer is the norm, we will never come together to agree on anything.

 

9:00

Typhoid Donny says he wants the Supreme Court to stop the vote count in states where he is ahead and to have the count continue in states where he is behind. And his followers have no problem with that line of thinking. He is right about one thing. He really could shoot someone dead on the street and his followers would love him anyway.

 

9:30

Mississippi voted yesterday to stop using the Confederate flag as part of the state flag. Are you kidding me? The Civil War officially ended in 1865. Same year they abolished slavery. I guess Mississippi remains nostalgic for the institution of slavery.

 

10:00

Ron is still asleep. I think perhaps he was up all night.

 

1:00

He was up all night. He couldn’t sleep so he listened to music and watched clips from old movies. I went to the grocery store and he was awake when I returned. After lunch, I went for a walk in the great outdoors as I do every morning. Things are looking up. Biden has won WI and will probably win MI. Typhoid Donny has started kicking, screaming, litigating, and generally throwing a toddler tantrum.  But it won’t do him any good. Biden may not even need PA at this rate. I am disappointed that the Dems did not flip the Senate. That will make things tough. It’s a stark reminder of just how backward this country is at its roots. Moscow Mitch has permission to continue doing what he does best. Obstruction. He has no skill at legislating or even building anything. He’s an expert at standing in the middle of the road with his hand up and at punting to the judiciary. He thinks everything will be resolved in court and Congress will become obsolete. This is not what the founders intended by the creation of the federal courts.

 

3:00

Typhoid Donny says he will “take this to the Supreme Court.” Take what? Legitimate votes are being counted. What is there to litigate? Biden is almost at 270. Obviously, even when Biden gets the votes and the Electoral College certifies his win, Typhoid Donny will not concede. I hope Biden is declared the winner soon. Please put us out of our misery.

 

4:00

I’m thinking chocolate brownies for dinner.

 

7:00

We watch a John Cleese film for some laughs and to take our minds off this madness. John Cleese for president.

 

9:15 PM

I floss my teeth and lose myself in a good book. I hope Ron can sleep tonight.

 

Election Day Three 7:30 AM

I plug in and read the late night comedy roundup while sipping my morning matcha. Jimmy Kimmel says “I thought if you have an election that lasts more than 48 hours you’re supposed to seek medical attention.” Trevor Noah, speaking about the legalization of hard drugs in OR, says “At least Oregon has a backup plan if Biden loses.”

 

1:00

Apparently Typhoid Donny has proclaimed himself the winner numerous times while simultaneously claiming the election is fraudulent and demanding that they stop counting legitimate ballots. He has either won an illegitimate election or lost one that will go on forever.

 

3:00

We are packing to go to Portland to visit the grandchildren. Since they legalized psilocybin mushrooms in OR, if Biden loses, we may be there for a while. (Not to worry, though, since Biden will win. I have faith.)

 

6:00

There are no definitive election results. They are still counting ballots. Typhoid Donny is still thrashing and fuming. Biden is still urging patience.

 

9:00

Even with no conclusion, all signs point toward a Biden and Harris win. We go to sleep hoping this misery will end soon.

 

Election Day Four 12 Noon (written in the car on Highway 5)

Online news says PA is nearing completion of the tally and Biden will win. I’m glad to be unplugged and offline today while traveling to Portland. I can do without hearing how Typhoid Donny is thrashing around in the throes of his loss. They will probably have to shoot him with an elephant tranquilizer dart, drag him out of the White House, and put him on a helicopter to FL in January. FL can have him. They deserve him. They earned him with the malfeasance that gave us W over Gore in 2000. The past four years have been so bad that W has begun to look like a kindly, misinformed, bumbling, slightly senile grandpa. It’s shocking how good W looks in retrospect compared to this. And we had a countdown clock on our wall for eight years! I guess the lesson there is “it could always be worse.” It was.

 

Election Day Five 9:30 AM

We are getting ready to sit down to breakfast with our two sons, daughter-in-law, and two grandsons when the news breaks. My daughter-in-law calls me over and shows me the news on her phone. I whoop. I dance around the living room with my grandson singing, “I love my new president.” My children connect with their friends, sharing jubilant texts and looking at responses from around the country and the world. We break out a bottle of champagne with breakfast and toast to the future. I hold my grandson in my lap and fight back tears. I remember 2016, weeping in my husband’s arms. I try not to weep with joy since I don’t wish to alarm my grandson. It is a sweet moment that I will always remember to counteract my memory of 2016. That was then. Now I have this.

 

11:00

I watch Van Jones break down on TV as he says, “It’s easier to be a parent today…. This is vindication for a lot of people who have suffered.” People are gathering in BLM Plaza in DC and in front of the White House with signs that say, “You’re fired.” Revenge is sweet. Victory is sweet.

 

1:00

I spend my day crawling around the floor with the one-year-old and reading stories to the three-year-old and generally engaging in small child shenanigans. My son, grandson, and I go for a walk in the rain. The air is clear and smells of flowers. I bake bread and my sons bake chocolate chip cookies.

 

3:00

We play happy music and dance around wildly, filled with the joy of being alive on this historic day and experiencing it here together. Even the baby is bopping to the beat. We celebrate a chance at a decent future. I no longer despair for what lies ahead for my grandsons. I’m grateful that the verdict took this long and arrived when it did so I can celebrate here with my children and grandchildren.

 

5:00

I take a break from preparing dinner to watch Harris live as she and Biden come out to speak to the nation. I unexpectedly break down in tears when she takes the stage. Hilary paved the way for this. Four years later, at last, a woman VP. It means that much. Many women suffered and died to get to today. I lived to see it. From Harris’s speech:  “And to the children of our country, regardless of your gender, our country has sent you a clear message:  Dream with ambition, lead with conviction, and see yourself in a way that others might not see you, simply because they’ve never seen it before. And we will applaud you every step of the way.” What a relief to hear true, articulate, intelligent, inspiring words coming from our nation’s leaders again. Vocabulary is back in vogue.

 

6:00

Euphoria. I have spent most of my day outside time, living in the moment with small children. Whatever troubles happen in the world, they remain far away and don’t touch us here in this place. Love floats us above the fray, sweet and enduring. The little arms of the three-year-old that wrap around my neck and the babble-talk of the baby are all that matter. They are everything. I have faith that there will be a viable future.

 

6:15

I turn to Ron and say, “Let’s live here.”

Drash on Noah and the Flood

A drash is an interpretation of text or a teaching based on a passage of the Old Testament (Torah). The portion of the Torah that Jews the world over read this past week was the story of Noah and the flood. In zoom-synagogue, my rabbi shared some thoughts about that story. She reflected on the fact that the Noah family became the first climate chaos refugees, fleeing an uninhabitable environment in their homeland. How many of us will become climate chaos refugees in the future? I will become one soon myself, starting over in a different place from the one I have called home for more than forty years because the California that I love is drying out and burning up before my very eyes. 

My rabbi said that she has difficulty wrapping her head around the fact that God chose to destroy all the other people of Noah’s time because they were all “bad.” She wonders how all of them could actually be so bad that they deserved to perish in the flood. How could God be so heartless as to kill off so many souls, all the humans in creation, except for the Noah family? Without actually believing in a Judaic God as such (wrathful, judgmental, deadly, a monotheistic entity), I still find myself contemplating my rabbi’s question. I agree that it seems extreme for God to destroy all humans except Noah's family. How could all of them be that evil, that deserving of annihilation? 

The purpose of a drash, of course, is to make some sense of a biblical story so that it informs our lives. Here is my sense of the Noah story. The culture and society of humans of Noah’s time had evolved to the point that humans placed themselves above all other species and viewed the planet as a resource for them to exploit. They thought that all the other species, in fact the planet itself, existed to serve the purposes deemed applicable to human desires and endeavors. Earth existed for human profit, human comfort, human amusement. Anything on Earth was there for the taking by humans, with no regard for other life forms. Sadly, many humans live within this mindset today, caring nothing for the preservation of the beauty of Earth or the future generations of humans or any other species that will attempt to live here. They do not recognize “sentience” in other living beings, both animals and plants. How do people not see that trees are sentient beings? This baffles me. How do people so devalue other creatures? I feel spirit flowing throughout everything, as part of a oneness. But I live in a time and a place where humans devalue other humans, let alone recognizing the value of a tree or a bird. I imagine that the people who perished in the flood of Noah’s time were not much different from the many exploitive, self-centered, profiteering people in my time who contribute to climate chaos, and that is why God destroyed all of the people in Noah’s time. Even the best of humans in that society lacked the ability or motivation to alter their perceptions or actions. They believed that they mattered more than all the other creatures on Earth. God doesn’t even need to raise a finger to destroy humans nowadays because we’re doing a good job of it all on our own.

My rabbi explained that Noah is portrayed in the Torah as a humble and unassuming man. He didn’t think he was anything special. He never understood why God chose to save him. He never felt worthy of that, although he tried to live up to the honor. So I would say that God chose one humble man with the potential to learn, and set him and his family afloat for a year on the ark, tasking them with caring for the animals, those other lovely and radiant creatures with whom they shared Earth. God left them on the ark until Noah and his family fully understood that humans must care for other earthly creatures, learn from other earthly creatures, and appreciate other earthly creatures. We must care for the planet and all who live here with us. Exploitation for profit is sinful. We need to be good stewards, and to go even beyond good stewardship to the level of living entirely as a contributing part of the overall Earthly family, interwoven with other species, valuing other creatures, as we share Earth, our mutual home. That is the only way all of us will survive and, if we are lucky, thrive.

  

Letting Go of the Cardboard “Brick Blocks”

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far away, I spent my days raising children, working a fulltime nine-to-five, managing forty acres of land, keeping up with friends, serving on the Board of Directors of my synagogue, writing a novel at 5:00 in the morning, and generally juggling all the pieces of an extremely full life. Oh yes, and there was a husband too of course. Those were happy years, full years, busy years, and challenging years. During that time our family had limited income and I found myself constantly engaged in creative financing to make ends meet. I came up with many schemes and strategies (all perfectly legal – I have never robbed a bank) both great and small.

One Christmas during those lean years, when we had little money to spare for gifts, I had one of my proudest moments as a low-income mom. I bought two sets of large, brightly-colored, cardboard, brick-patterned building blocks (“brick blocks”) and had them shipped. They arrived in flat boxes, unassembled. On Christmas Eve, there was almost nothing under the tree when we put the children to bed. Then Ron and I, with the help of two intrepid friends (who had come to the Ranch for the holiday) stayed up late into the night assembling the blocks and individually wrapping them in newspaper. When the children woke up on Christmas morning, the space underneath the tree overflowed with wrapped blocks. Magic. The children went wild with glee tearing off the newspaper. The cat wore himself out chasing the wrappings all over the living room. The adults drank coffee and laughed and laughed. Then came Dad’s best pancakes for breakfast, followed by construction of brick block forts, walls, thrones, bridges, vehicles, rocket ships, castles, and fantastical realms. Our entertainment with them was limited only by our imagination.

Those blocks were perhaps the best plaything I ever gave my children. We used them for everything; in a million different games we played and structures we constructed. We laid them out in a trail around the house and steppy-stoned our way around without touching the floor for a minute (hot lava beneath, don’t step foot in it or you die). We used them to prop things up and hold things down and connect one thing to another and everything in between. We invented worlds around them.

These days, I feel as though my children have been grown for a long time, but relatively speaking that’s not true. The youngest left home only a decade ago. Even so, I certainly have no use for these battered, chewed, faded, peeling, squashed, dented brick blocks that I have clung to for that decade. Every once in a while I have had children in the house who played with them. But I can’t remember the last time we took them out. They are in no condition to be of any use for anything, battered as they are. Still, I have not been able to bring myself to part with them. Am I a hoarder? Perhaps a hoarder of memories. What is it about beloved objects that makes it so hard to let them go? They are not people or places or living creatures. The blocks are not a repository for my memories. I hold my memories in my head and in my heart. So why does it feel as though the very energy of good times has crept into these objects? We humans so easily imbue objects with the essence of the experiences associated with them. This week, I finally tipped the brick blocks into the recycling bin (after all, they are pure cardboard). They have outworn any earthly use and yet, I have such difficulty saying goodbye to these old friends. I think back to that Christmas Eve night when we stayed up late folding them into shape. One of the friends who helped that night has since passed away. The blocks survived her by many years.

Oh how I have loved this life, these people, our connections and times together, even down to the smallest detail, even down to a dog-eared chunk of cardboard. In the midst of the horrors and catastrophes befalling us in this anguished moment in history, the burning inferno of the Western fires bringing climate chaos to our doorstep and destroying our beloved forests and glorious wild lands, the centuries-old systemic racism and oppression of those who think they are better than others exploding in the cities, a deadly plague bringing heartbreak, the absence of leadership at the national level, the terrifying financial collapse of individuals, families, and communities bringing with it hunger and homelessness; even in the midst of all this grief and loss and anxiety, I think of how much I love this life. I feel grateful that I am one of the fortunate ones. I have been blessed with times like waking up on Christmas morning with three spectacular young children, my husband, dear friends, and a rambunctious cat romping around in the house, filled with joy, adventure, delight, hilarity, creativity, and pancakes.

The time has come for me to part with the brick blocks. I will never part with the stories of them or the memories of good times they represent. Life has treated me well. Thank you and more please.

 

 

Yom Kippur 5781

 

Another year on the Jewish calendar has passed and this one was a doozy. I feel the need to ask for forgiveness from everyone this year. I have not been myself. Or rather I have been myself under duress. This is me running on a high level of anxiety, a reservoir of suppressed anger, and a great deal of straight-up grief. This is me taking leave of my senses, and the one I probably miss the most is my sense of humor. I apologize for not being funnier. I would like to give you a laugh because humor heals and I wish you wellness.

This year I have often not given my full attention to relationship. I have struggled to hear and respond appropriately on screenchats. My social skills have atrophied. I feel flat-footed, unintuitive, misinformed, awkward. So I ask your forgiveness on Yom Kippur. If I have hurt you, embarrassed you, or made you feel uncomfortable in the past year, forgive me.

I feel spectacularly insufficient to the task right now. The task of responding to the moment, to this phenomenal mess. The task of communicating well. The task of loving from afar. The task of resisting the powerful negative forces tearing down our society and culture. The task of not believing everything I think. The task of exercising my imagination. The task of having faith in the future. The task of feeling grateful for the present. The task of accepting human failing – mine and everyone else’s. I hope I will make a better job of it all in the coming year.

Forgive me if I have caused you harm with word or deed.

Scheherazade Project

Last night I was the featured artist on Julia Alvarez and Lisa Leibow's Scheherazade Project. Here's a link to the YouTube of my my three minutes sharing my story about my birthday quilt. The material in the YouTube is pretty much the same as my blog post about this last month so if you read the blog, this is nothing new. Scheherazade is a wonderful project and I'm happy to have been included. For the project, women writers and artists share a few minutes of their creativity as a gesture of putting positive energy into the world as we hope for the upcoming election to rescue us from the tyranny, disaster, and horror of another four years of failed leadership. As stated on the website, it's "activism through storytelling arts." Find out more at the Scheherazade website.

The Bravest Thing I Did This Year Was Have My Teeth Cleaned

What matters enough for me to risk my life or my husband’s life? A microscopic life form has forced me to ask myself this question daily. The pandemic has turned me into a first class coward. I fear coming in contact with other people. I fear leaving my house. I fear breathing at the grocery store. The bravest thing I have done this year was go to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned. I spoke at length with the hygienist before my visit to find out everything they are doing to keep their office safe and I was satisfied with their efforts. So I removed my mask and allowed the hygienist to put her hands in my mouth. Upon returning home, I distanced myself from my husband for several days. Just in case.

While nothing is guaranteed in this world, I believe that I would survive this virus with my strong immune system and overall good health. But my husband is a different story; he is in the most vulnerable demographic. If he gets the virus then the chances are far greater that he will die than that he will survive. He is a stubborn man who has eluded death often enough. I lost count years ago of the number of times he has nearly succumbed during a severe diabetic low blood sugar episode. I don’t know how many times a paramedic has told me, “his heart rate is dangerously low,” and I have replied calmly, “just give him a minute.” Therefore, I wouldn’t entirely discount his ability to kick covid. He can be shockingly hard-headed. Perhaps that would be no match for an indifferent virus. I don’t wish to find out. I also don’t care to experience covid in my own body firsthand.

During 2018 and 2019, I went to a demonstration for one thing or another pretty much every month. Women’s March (every year). Gun control. Climate chaos and environmental preservation. Immigration issues and deportations. Families separated at the border. No Bret Kavanaugh. Black Lives Matter. DACA. Preserving the ACA. Voting rights. Preserving democracy, as flawed as it may be. I went out and stood and showed my face, added to the numbers protesting, and put one foot in front of the other to claim my voice. Sometimes I went to small protests in my rural hometown and sometimes to larger ones in urban areas, such as Santa Rosa, Oakland, San Francisco, and the former INS detention center in Richmond. So many things have fallen apart in the past four years. So many losses. So much progress earned hard through pain, suffering, sacrifice, and death has been rolled back with the stroke of a pen, the careless utterance of a word. Of course I am aware that life is ever tenuous and fragile, but it astonishes me how much unraveling, how much reverse evolution has occurred, or was even possible. The speed and ease with which hard-earned advances have been erased takes my breath away. Whatever happened to lasting change?

A few weeks ago, a friend in England sent a commiserating email expressing sympathy for our woes in America with the lack of leadership and spiraling disaster that has befallen our country. He said, “I hope you are able to remain calm.” I laughed out loud. Calm? CALM?! Before covid I was in the streets. I called congressional offices, emailed senators, wrote postcards to leadership, demonstrated, marched, wrote articles, helped organize, and spoke out at events. I am exhausted and feel as though I am hanging on by my fingernails until November and clinging to the hope that the election will bring a change. But there are no guarantees.

In 2020 this scourge arrived, and I have rarely attended a protest in person since (and then only small local events while wearing a mask and standing apart). These days my activities are restricted to things I can do from home. If not for the pandemic, perhaps I would have gone to Portland to don a yellow T-shirt (even though it’s not my best color) and protest with the Wall of Moms. Attending any demonstration that could turn ugly is particularly dangerous for me because I can’t hear well enough to figure out what’s going on around me half the time. Would I have risked it? I don’t know. I do know that the courageous, fierce woman I once was who went to jail to protest nuclear weapons is hiding behind a facemask these days. So I call the offices of Republican senators after hours and rant like a crazy woman on their answering machines. Obviously this is more for my benefit than anyone else’s. It makes me feel like I didn’t just roll over quietly.

In the first volume of his Southern Reach sci-fi trilogy, Jef Vandermeer writes “The madness of the world tries to colonize you from the outside in, forcing you to live in its reality.” Oh yes. My mind has been colonized and with each passing day I have more difficulty envisioning a different reality. Hope is no longer enough. I must find my way to faith, to the ability to believe without evidence that my belief has any basis. Dr. King said that the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice. Does it? I must have faith that it does, because I see no proof of that. I must believe that Voldemort won’t win this battle. I must have faith that with or without my voice in the crowd and my feet on the ground, the good, the right, and the just will prevail. I would prefer to raise my voice and put my feet on the ground, but in the present situation that will not occur. John Lewis sure set the bar high. While I have done a few courageous things in my life of which I remain proud, I would have been too terrified to walk the Pettus Bridge. The most courageous thing I have done recently is to have my teeth cleaned. Now at least I can bare my teeth proudly and fiercely when roused to anger. But I am a coward. I will not risk it all to save it all. Forgive me.

65th Birthday Quilt

Last August, as my 65^th birthday approached, I asked the members of my immediate family to each give me a half a yard of brightly colored 100% cotton fabric as a birthday gift. I explained that I would use the fabric to make myself a quilt. I have made quilts for others for new babies, graduations, and weddings; but I had never made a quilt for myself.

 The fabrics they gave me are exquisite and in many instances quite representative of those who selected them. My son who has a passion for anime gave me fabric covered in Totoros (a famous Hayao Miyazaki character) that he special ordered from Japan. My daughter-in-law the florist chose a fabric that features flowers. My grandson who adores anything that “goes” chose a print with cars and airplanes. My son the musician chose a woven fabric, which I feel represents the action of weaving his musical competitions from different strands of sound. His girlfriend is an artist who does a lot of printmaking and she gave me a fabric that’s a print. I also received bright purple fabric from my husband and bright orange from my daughter. From these raw materials provided, I pieced my personal story cloth of family, home, ancestry, land, and the fruition of a decades-long marriage to my husband, keeper of my heart.

The quilt contains my family’s gifted fabrics as well as fabrics I have used in the past to make quilts for lifecycle events, fabrics handed down to me by my mother and grandmother, and fabrics taken from clothes I wore when pregnant and during my years raising my children. The square representing my baby grandson is made from the fabrics I used to make his baby quilt. 

One square features a Hmong story cloth given to me as a farewell gift when I left a city job that I loved to move to my home in the country. The Hmong historically have no written language. They preserve the narratives of their lives and history through story cloths. The one included in my quilt depicts their grief when forced to leave their ancestral home and the plants, animals, and natural environment they cherished. I identify with this loss. It grieved me to leave my home in the forest where I raised my children when Ron and I accepted the limitations brought on by age and moved into town. It will always grieve me. 

The individual quilt squares represent my husband, my three children, my daughter-in-law, my youngest son’s girlfriend, my two grandsons, my matriarchal ancestors, and the home I left in the forest. One additional square represents future grandchildren I may have. The Hmong story cloth that resonates with me provides the final square to make one dozen. 

I pieced the quilt (top and bottom) and then I paid a quilter to stitch the quilting using a computer program on a long-arm sewing machine. The quilting pattern I chose is hands. You can see them more clearly on the back of the quilt than on the front. Finally, I sewed the binding by hand to complete the project. 

It has been nearly a year since I turned 65. My birthday gift was both the process of making my own story cloth and the finished product. When I wrap myself in my birthday quilt, I feel embraced by family, home, land, and personal history. It comforts me in these miserable times we are living through and helps me cling to hope for a better future. May love wrap us in its embrace and save us all.

This Is Not the Apocalypse

Quite a few people have taken to saying they are living in the apocalypse. These may be miserable times but it’s more than an exaggeration to characterize our present situation as the apocalypse. This doesn’t look like the end of days to me. I have developed a brief quiz to help you determine if you are living in an apocalypse or not.

1) Do you have access to food and potable water?

2) Do you have a safe and sheltered place to sleep at night?

3) Have you seen a tree lately?

4) Do you have electricity in your home?

5) Are you able to communicate with distant loved ones using an electronic device?

6) Was your trash collected at curbside as regularly scheduled?

7) Can you flush your toilet?

8) Have you been attacked by giant mutant wolves?

9) Have you seen aliens in your attic?

10) Have you noticed any dead bodies lying about in your neighborhood?

11) Have you found yourself interacting with a different version of yourself from another space-time continuum?

12) Do you suspect you or someone you know is a zombie?

I’ve made my point. Case closed.

Granted, we are experiencing a number of post-apocalyptic scenarios that contribute to people describing this as the apocalypse. These scenarios include 1) people dying of plague and 2) an ignorant, degenerate president and his military bullies committing violence against our country’s own citizenry, commonly referred to as fascism. But I wish to point out that I am not eating acorns and dandelion greens yet. Many people have apparently mistaken this historical moment for the apocalypse. Consider this moment as an awakening instead. It’s a catalyst for us to think about what we cherish and want to fully appreciate in case the systems do fully collapse and humans vanish from Earth in massive numbers, or entirely. Consider this a moment of reckoning, to motivate us to make the changes necessary to avert an apocalyptic full collapse.

Some days as I swim to consciousness from sleep, I wonder what planet I’m on. After six months of only seeing one another on screenchat, my three-year-old grandson and I finally, joyfully, saw one another in person when my husband and I drove (taking precautions en route) from California to Oregon for a recent visit. When we arrived at my grandson’s house, we emerged from the car and walked over to him in the front yard. He looked us up and down and asked, “How did you come to Earth?” While I can’t truly know what he meant by that or what he perceived in his toddler mind, I imagine he wondered how we got out of the computer and landed in his yard in flesh and blood. I replied “Greetings Earthling.” While I might wish I could go home to a different planet, I remain deeply earthbound in a vulnerable human body.

This virus has laid us humans low, but it has not killed all of us off, and our systems still work even if not as well as they once did. Many of our systems, such as the healthcare system and the economic system (that has resulted in egregious income inequality), never did work. But a full systems collapse of the magnitude of an apocalypse has not happened. It may feel like an apocalypse to people at ground zero of the pandemic. But, face it, we know well that a full-on apocalypse would be exponentially worse than this.

This not-apocalypse simply poses new challenges and requires that people learn to adapt, and, dare I suggest, use their creativity. Humans need to care, think, innovate, and imagine. We need to rise to the occasion. We need to change. Americans don’t have a good track record when it comes to these kinds of things. The inconveniences, challenges, and tragedies of the present situation do not an apocalypse make. For example, a failed trip to the grocery store is not apocalyptic. Yes, I am going to share this story because that is how I wish to work through the trauma of a singularly dreadful morning food shopping. Last week when I went to my local natural foods store, I discovered a sign on the door informing me that they had closed because two employees had tested positive for the coronavirus. They would remain closed until all employees could be tested and the store could be deep cleaned. So I reluctantly proceeded to a grocery store that carries many natural and organic products. I don't know my way around that store, and consequently it took me a long time to shop. I had to locate my preferred products and had to make many substitutions. I was finally almost done shopping when I went to the restroom, and in the time it took me to sanitize my hands, my shopping cart disappeared! After looking for it myself for a few minutes with no luck, I spoke to an employee. Several employees then helped me comb the store for the cart but we couldn’t find it. If this were a real apocalypse, my cart would have been abducted by aliens or I would discover that I had made a space-time continuum leap. In the not-apocalypse, I had to do my shopping all over again. Two hours after I entered the store (or perhaps two hundred years in a different space-time continuum), when I got to the checkout stand, a store employee came over to tell me that they had just discovered that another shopper had taken my cart, thinking it was hers. How senile was she? My cart was fully loaded with a week’s worth of groceries. How could she possibly mistake all the items in that cart for her own? Was she me in a different space-time continuum? Possibly, because I never saw her. Did it seriously take her an hour to realize it was the wrong cart? Honestly, a real apocalypse would go unnoticed in this country because America is basically already full of zombies.

The frustrations of my ill-fated shopping trip, caused by the coronavirus situation, do not match the horror of a full-on apocalypse. Let’s all take a step back and recognize that things could be considerably worse. Even so, I’m hanging on by my fingernails until the election in the expectation that we might have some actual leadership waiting in the wings to step up in 2021. After four years of this mayhem, rampant ignorance, injustice, catastrophe, death, and fascism, I’m exhausted. If an actual apocalypse occurs, I wish to go gently in my sleep to a surprisingly marvelous afterlife with no zombies. Either that or send me through a space-time continuum vortex to eighteenth century Scotland with the characters in Outlander where I will happily finish out my days drinking excellent Scotch, cooking and baking for my favorite fictional people, spinning wool, and cultivating a Scottish accent. Aye, I am a fan. Outlander helps me survive the pandemic, economic meltdown, long-overdue reckoning with racial injustice, and threat of a fascist dictatorship. Pass the whiskey. Sláinte.

Remembering John Lewis

Rest in power.

On Sunday July 26, the body of John Lewis traveled once again across the Edmund Pettis Bridge. Few have been so brave. Few have made such a difference. 

Black Lives Matter

The fact that Black lives matter even needs to be said breaks my heart. With gratitude to Touré for stating things better than I could, I want to rerun my blog post from March 2012 after Trayvon Martin was murdered. My position in this struggle is complicated because I am not Black, yet I am no mere ally. I am the wife of a Black man and the mother of Black sons and a Black daughter. Blood of my blood. Beloved of my heart. I fear for the safety of my immediate family as they go out into the world every day in this racist country. My husband spent a weekend in jail in his youth for “dirty license plates,” or, as commonly called in the Black community, DWB (driving while Black). This man, to whom I have pledged my soul, could have died right then for one mistaken movement, one eye roll, one unfortunate word; and I would never have met him, married him, bore his children, spent 42 years loving him and being held in his love in return. I am more than an ally. I am the wife and mother of Black men. I claim that. I live inside it. Grant me the right to speak the truth of my narrative. Without further preface, here is a revised version of my blog post from eight years ago. A blink of an eye. Has anything changed in that time? Tell me, what can I find to give me hope?

March 25, 2012

One day in 1996, I received a phone call while at work from my friend S., who lived about 45-minutes-drive from town in our rural community. S., who is part Black and part Native, was in a panic because her son, R., who was 20 at the time, had called to tell her he had been arrested for “making an unsafe maneuver on his bicycle.” She begged me to go to the jail to make sure R. wasn’t mistreated or injured before she could get into town. She was terrified he would be beaten. Or worse. When she called, I was about to leave work to pick up my boys (ages 8 and 4) from daycare. I promised her that as soon as I had my boys I would go to the jail.

As I drove over to retrieve my own Black sons, it dawned on me that I would have to explain to them why R., who often babysat them, was in jail. And to explain that, I would have to explain why the police arrested him on a false charge. And to explain that, I would have to break the news to my children that the police were not always your friendly neighborhood helper if you happened to be a Black boy (or a Black man). And if I did that, it meant that their dad and I would have to have the talk with them, the talk that I hadn’t expected to have with them until they were much older. How could we explain to such young boys that they were less safe than their white peers, and why? How could we explain the precautions that Black young men must take to attempt to stay safe in America? They were so young, so trustful.

We later learned that R. had crossed the street on his bike in the middle of a block instead of at the corner. A police car immediately bore down on him. R. was in front of the house where he rented a room from our friend J. and he was terrified when the police pursued him. He panicked. He threw his bike on the front lawn and ran into the house. Within moments, a half a dozen police officers forcibly entered J.’s house, with a police dog and weapons drawn, threw R. on the floor, cuffed him, and accused him of resisting arrest. Meanwhile J. (who was physically restrained in her own home by officers) was screaming at the officers that they had no legal right to enter her house without a warrant. Later, when the dust cleared, the city offered to drop all charges against R. if he agreed not to sue them. R. wanted to put the whole awful experience behind him and he took the deal. S. didn’t want him to have a criminal record and the agreement would ensure that his record remained clean so she didn’t protest either. The police department should not have walked away from that filth unscathed, but I understand why R. and S. made the choices they made. Not everyone is a hero.

I remember this story today because of Trayvon Martin. The most insightful, moving, and useful words that I have read in the wake of the murder of this Black child in Florida were written by Touré for Time Magazine in an article entitled “How to Talk to Black Boys about Trayvon Martin.” It is a healing and honest discourse. You can read Touré’s full list of talking points here in the Time archives. Allow me to share some of Touré’s words because they touched me so deeply as the parent of Black children. He provides excellent advice to Black young men regarding how to respond in potentially life-threatening situations. Here is an excerpt from Touré:

It's unlikely but possible that you could get killed today. Or any day. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. Black maleness is a potentially fatal condition. I tell you that not to scare you but because knowing that could save your life. There are people who will look at you and see a villain or a criminal or something fearsome. It's possible they may act on their prejudice and insecurity. Being black could turn an ordinary situation into a life-or-death moment even if you're doing nothing wrong.

There is nothing wrong with you. You're amazing. I love you. When I look at you, I see a complex human being with awesome potential, but some others will look at you and see a thug--even if their only evidence is your skin. Their racism relates to larger anxieties and problems in America that you didn't create. When someone is racist toward you--either because they've profiled you or spit some slur or whatever--they are saying they have a problem. They are not speaking about you. They're speaking about themselves and their deficiencies.

What if it's the cops who are making you feel threatened? Well, then you need to retreat. I don't mean run away. I mean don't resist. Now is not the time to fight the power. Make sure they can see your hands, follow all instructions, don't say anything, keep your cool. Your goal is to defuse things, no matter how insulted you are. We'll get revenge later. In the moment, play possum. Say sir. They may be behaving unjustly, but their lives aren't in danger. Yours is. If you survive, you will be able to tell your lawyer what happened. If you don't …

Never forget:  As far as we can tell, Trayvon did nothing wrong and still lost his life. You could be a Trayvon. Any of us could.

I have often wondered if Emmett Till’s mother had a 1950s version of the talk with him before he left Chicago and went to visit her people in Mississippi in 1955. If she didn’t, how she must have wished that she had. If she did, why did he forget her words? If only something she said had stuck in his mind and prevented him from risking and losing his life at the age of 14 for the foolish act of whistling at a white woman, the wife of a white supremacist. His gruesome and brutal death was a significant event in the advancement of the civil rights movement. But if you were to ask me, to ask any mother, to choose between having my sons make history and having them alive and well, you can guess what we would choose. I have asked my children to read Touré’s words. His advice could possibly save their lives sometime. I wish it were otherwise, but we have chosen to live in America, choose it again every day. My husband’s ancestors did not have that choice, and the legacy of that crime will not go away.

Father's Day Reprise

In 2012, I posted the following blog about my father on Father's Day. A lot has changed in eight years, with both of us slower than we were in 2012 and the world going all to hell. But for those of you who have stuck with me and still read, I want to repost this blog entry. Dad is still with me at 91. Lucky me.

Here's the 2012 blog:

When I started my blog a few years back, Dad requested that I respect his privacy and not talk about him on it. I have mentioned him from time to time, but I have consciously left him out of most of my musings. Today he will have to suffer being the subject of my blog entry of the week. After all, he’s 83 years old, and although he’s going strong, I treasure every Father’s Day that I still have him around. If I want to take a minute to appreciate my dad, then I will. I think he can handle it.

One of the greatest gifts that Dad has given to me, his only daughter, is the ability to have a positive attitude. I have received this from him as a result of genetics, of having a get-up-and-go Daddy as a girl growing up, and of watching how he continues to maintain his positive approach as he has aged.

Life is not easy; and it becomes more and more difficult as the years go by and we must assimilate the inevitable challenges, losses, and disappointments that accompany aging. Loved ones pass on. Our bodies don’t work so well anymore. We must reconcile ourselves with the differences between the life we imagined for ourselves in our youth and the life we actually lived and are living. Dad has never been one to dwell on the negative. He wakes up every morning ready for an adventure and eager for a new discovery. He works at not letting things get him down. He looks for the good in other people, delights in the wonders of the natural world, makes opportunities to enjoy the creative efforts of others (in art, writing, song, dance, etc.), uses his extraordinary gift of mathematical ability to contribute to the advancement of his field of inquiry, and generally explores the world. He loves to travel, to meet new people and try new things. He is always hungry to learn. The entire world is his playground. Nothing is beyond the potential realm of his vastly inquisitive mind.

Although I may not be quite as adventurous as my globetrotting father, I share his enthusiasm for life and his desire to make good use of my time here, not to squander my gifts or fail to notice the miracles of everyday. Having a positive attitude has made me resilient. I have been able to cope with worries great and small, obstacles, those losses and disappointments I mentioned already. It is my positive attitude that has made it possible for me to persevere as a writer, recover again and again from rejection, and eventually achieve publication. I try not to have regrets. I try not to hold grudges. I try to let go of anxiety, frustrations, and anger. I try to appreciate the beauty and the wonder. I try to be creative, to find humor, to act from love, and to listen to others when they speak their truest selves.

In some ways, my most fundamental philosophy about life, my way of being in the world, came to me through Dad. I believe that our purpose as human beings is to promote positive energy and that when we engage in positive acts, acts of kindness and compassion, acts of creativity and preservation, we have a positive impact on the universe. Through the gift of a positive attitude, Dad has given me abundant joy. What greater gift from a dad to his daughter? Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Love you.