“In 1985, blind faith in your leaders, or in anything, will get you killed.” These words were spoken by Bruce Springsteen just as he launched into the Vietnam era protest song, “WAR,” by Edwin Starr. Although not originally written as a war protest song, it was adopted by college students in the early 1970’s and became an anthem, along with many others of that time.
How prophetic was Bruce twenty years ago? I wonder if he remembers saying those words. Never one to consider myself an activist, I can’t help but feel that we were *blindly led* into this war by George W. and his cronies. In this new life of mine, I have a lot of opinions, some that people will agree with, and some not. Partially it’s our fault for believing his line of bullshit. Traumatized by 9/11, with our grieving psyches collectively sucked into this administrations web of lies, many of us bought the bullshit. I did, at least for a short time.
“The next time they’re gonna be looking at you and you’re gonna need a lot of information in order to know what to do,” said Bruce. Well, it’s not us that they looked at, it’s our children.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Memorial Vigil Mourns 3,000 Deaths
January 7, 2007
The Long Island Advance
This was written by me and published in the LIA as a news story. I've added an additional comment in blue.
“Not One More Death, Not One More Dollar,” were the words sent out last week by the Long Island peace groups in order to invite others to mourn with them the 3,000 men and women of U.S. Armed Forces, who have died in Iraq since the beginning of the war.
Last Saturday, as dusk slowly blanketed Long Island, a candlelight vigil was held from 4:00 to 6:00 PM at the Armed Forces Plaza, outside the H. L. Dennison Building in Hauppauge. The vigil was sponsored by The Long Island Veterans for Peace, Suffolk Peace Network, Pax Christi Long Island, and Code Pink LI, along with other local peace groups.
Memorial vigils and peace rallies are being held across the Nation in order to remember the 3,000 men and women who have died between March 2003 and December 4, 2006, and whose numbers have now exceeded those killed on 9/11.
On a hillside in upstate New York a women plants small yellow flags that can be seen by passing cars, each one symbolizing a lost life. The women of Code Pink Long Island write those names on pink ribbons and tie them all together. 3,000 is just a number, until one actually sees in a concrete way, what 3,000 really looks like.
“We felt it was essential to have a memorial for the 3,000 who have died in Iraq in this so called war on terror,” said Thomas Brinson, a Viet Nam war veteran and head of The Long Island Veterans for Peace, Chapter 138. “It’s a sad benchmark in this illegal, inhumane and unnecessary war.” Brinson also said that many believe "One man's terrorist, is another's freedom fighter." I had never quite looked at it that way and think there might be some validity to that statement.
Standing along the inner edge of the plaza were the women of Code Pink. Code Pink is an International grassroots organization of women who want peace, with 250 Chapters in the United States and Europe. “The name Code Pink is taken from the color code alerts that are used by the government when terror warnings are posted,” said Loretta Gallion of Hauppauge. Gallion was there with women from East Meadow, Holbrook, Melville, Huntington and Syosset. “We march in parades, wear pink feathered boas, and do banner drops from highway
overpasses, anything to call attention to who we are,” Gallion added. It was two members of this organization who spent months writing the names and ages of all who have died, on the pink ribbons used at this memorial. “If we don’t stand out, we don’t get seen,” said Judi Gardner, a member of the group. The women of this chapter of Code Pink will join others in Washington D.C. on January 27th in order to participate in a much larger peace rally that will be held there.
“We want to call attention to all who have died in Iraq,” said Veronica Fellerath, a member of Pax Christi who lives in Bay Shore. “I don’t think more killing is the answer. We need to find a peaceful solution and as soon as possible,” she added.
“This event is a testament to our commitment to change course in Iraq. We believe not one more Iraqi or U. S. soldier should be killed; not one more U. S. dollar should be spent sustaining war and occupation. Instead of adding more troops to Iraq, the U. S. should focus on diplomatic efforts and Iraqi-led reconstruction of their country,” said Sheila Croke, a Pax Christi member.
The air was warm and balmy as evening descended and the vigil began. There was no speech making and there were no politicians. All one could hear was the rustling of the 3,000 pink ribbons, each with a name and age on it, as the wind blew around them. All these ribbons, tied to a strand of rope that was hung from tree to tree around the Armed Forces Plaza.....and it was as if each and every one of the dead were there, silently watching as the peace groups circled the area with their signs and flags. Little by little their circle became larger and extended out, past the perimeter of the plaza and onto the grassy area between it, and Veteran’s Memorial Highway. Some stood along the road, candles lit, signs with the words “How Many More,” “3,000 + US Dead,” and “660,000 Iraqi Dead,” while passing cars sounded their horns, lending support as they drove by.
The young, the old and those in between, all solemnly marking the passing of this number to the beating of a drum, the wail of a bagpipe and the sound that could be heard above all else, the whispering in the breeze of the 3,000 pink ribbons. Ribbons with the names, James W. Cawley, age 41; Roderick A. Solomon, age 33; Patrick R. Nixon, age 31; Brian Rory Buesing, age 20; Eric Orlowski; age 26, Luis A. Perez, age 19; Tyler Prewitt, age 22; Mark P. Phelan, age 44; Omead Razani, age 19; and so many more, written upon them.
(It's too bad I can't post a picture of those ribbons....they were so very powerful.)
The Long Island Advance
This was written by me and published in the LIA as a news story. I've added an additional comment in blue.
“Not One More Death, Not One More Dollar,” were the words sent out last week by the Long Island peace groups in order to invite others to mourn with them the 3,000 men and women of U.S. Armed Forces, who have died in Iraq since the beginning of the war.
Last Saturday, as dusk slowly blanketed Long Island, a candlelight vigil was held from 4:00 to 6:00 PM at the Armed Forces Plaza, outside the H. L. Dennison Building in Hauppauge. The vigil was sponsored by The Long Island Veterans for Peace, Suffolk Peace Network, Pax Christi Long Island, and Code Pink LI, along with other local peace groups.
Memorial vigils and peace rallies are being held across the Nation in order to remember the 3,000 men and women who have died between March 2003 and December 4, 2006, and whose numbers have now exceeded those killed on 9/11.
On a hillside in upstate New York a women plants small yellow flags that can be seen by passing cars, each one symbolizing a lost life. The women of Code Pink Long Island write those names on pink ribbons and tie them all together. 3,000 is just a number, until one actually sees in a concrete way, what 3,000 really looks like.
“We felt it was essential to have a memorial for the 3,000 who have died in Iraq in this so called war on terror,” said Thomas Brinson, a Viet Nam war veteran and head of The Long Island Veterans for Peace, Chapter 138. “It’s a sad benchmark in this illegal, inhumane and unnecessary war.” Brinson also said that many believe "One man's terrorist, is another's freedom fighter." I had never quite looked at it that way and think there might be some validity to that statement.
Standing along the inner edge of the plaza were the women of Code Pink. Code Pink is an International grassroots organization of women who want peace, with 250 Chapters in the United States and Europe. “The name Code Pink is taken from the color code alerts that are used by the government when terror warnings are posted,” said Loretta Gallion of Hauppauge. Gallion was there with women from East Meadow, Holbrook, Melville, Huntington and Syosset. “We march in parades, wear pink feathered boas, and do banner drops from highway
overpasses, anything to call attention to who we are,” Gallion added. It was two members of this organization who spent months writing the names and ages of all who have died, on the pink ribbons used at this memorial. “If we don’t stand out, we don’t get seen,” said Judi Gardner, a member of the group. The women of this chapter of Code Pink will join others in Washington D.C. on January 27th in order to participate in a much larger peace rally that will be held there.
“We want to call attention to all who have died in Iraq,” said Veronica Fellerath, a member of Pax Christi who lives in Bay Shore. “I don’t think more killing is the answer. We need to find a peaceful solution and as soon as possible,” she added.
“This event is a testament to our commitment to change course in Iraq. We believe not one more Iraqi or U. S. soldier should be killed; not one more U. S. dollar should be spent sustaining war and occupation. Instead of adding more troops to Iraq, the U. S. should focus on diplomatic efforts and Iraqi-led reconstruction of their country,” said Sheila Croke, a Pax Christi member.
The air was warm and balmy as evening descended and the vigil began. There was no speech making and there were no politicians. All one could hear was the rustling of the 3,000 pink ribbons, each with a name and age on it, as the wind blew around them. All these ribbons, tied to a strand of rope that was hung from tree to tree around the Armed Forces Plaza.....and it was as if each and every one of the dead were there, silently watching as the peace groups circled the area with their signs and flags. Little by little their circle became larger and extended out, past the perimeter of the plaza and onto the grassy area between it, and Veteran’s Memorial Highway. Some stood along the road, candles lit, signs with the words “How Many More,” “3,000 + US Dead,” and “660,000 Iraqi Dead,” while passing cars sounded their horns, lending support as they drove by.
The young, the old and those in between, all solemnly marking the passing of this number to the beating of a drum, the wail of a bagpipe and the sound that could be heard above all else, the whispering in the breeze of the 3,000 pink ribbons. Ribbons with the names, James W. Cawley, age 41; Roderick A. Solomon, age 33; Patrick R. Nixon, age 31; Brian Rory Buesing, age 20; Eric Orlowski; age 26, Luis A. Perez, age 19; Tyler Prewitt, age 22; Mark P. Phelan, age 44; Omead Razani, age 19; and so many more, written upon them.
(It's too bad I can't post a picture of those ribbons....they were so very powerful.)
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Love at first glance?
Published in The Long Island Advance, December 28, 2006 Edition
In my regular work world I supervise a department of eight women who primarily do social work with the developmentally disabled. In our office, it’s common to know about everyone’s drama. Not only is it drama, but life in our office has taken on a Soap Opera-like quality in recent weeks. And boy, are we sucked in, and possibly me more so than others due to my skeptical nature.
Internet dating seems to be the thing these days, what going to bars to meet people, or running into potential dates at work use to be. It’s sort of like blind dating, yet not quite. And for a number of the single women in my department, Internet dating gives them an opportunity to meet and date when working in a world that’s essentially occupied by women. And right now, one of our own is being courted by a cowboy from Oklahoma. This particular cowboy has been nudging her since summer, sending her an email here and there, attempting to engage her in conversation. According to her, his latest try was successful.
There’s this thing in Internet dating called “winking.” One can wink at another without having to do any sort of writing. Apparently he kept winking at her until she finally broke down, wrote back and said, “You live 1,400 miles away from me, why are you winking at me?” We were riveted at work to that little exchange as it lead to an actual conversation in the “real world.” A conversation that sent her running in the other direction and cooled the soap opera off for a few months. According to Liz, this was a man on a mission….a politically liberal guy, home grown in a red state and looking to escape to a blue one. She did not want to be the reason for anyone’s relocation. That was until three weeks ago. Persistence seems to be one of his character traits and it has apparently paid off, at least for now.
Three weeks ago, the cowboy sent an email forward which according to Liz got her dander up. She responded back, in a not so nice way and as a means to discourage his continued attention, although considering the fact that said attention only occurred once every few months, it wasn’t stalker-like behavior. Only what ended up happening was that the cowboy got his wish and found a way to engage her in a conversation. This was all he needed to do.
We work in a field where listening and talking is something that people do a lot of, so for him, getting the conversation going was a step in a positive direction. Liz currently is loosing her mind as the cowboy recently told her that he thinks he loves her. Me, being the skeptic that I am, chimed in by saying “That’s impossible. There is no such thing.” Although, according to the cowboy, “You can’t help who you love any more than you can pick your parents.” Apparently he has no problem waiting for her to come around to his way of thinking. And when talking to her and saying “This is too crazy,” you can almost see her thinking that in fact, maybe it’s not.
I suspect that it will be a little inconvenient to have to call in to my old job, from a new one in order to get the daily update. But, like any good soap opera, I may be able to wean myself down to just getting my update on a Monday and a Friday. And this is the question that I’ll just leave hanging in the air for now or at least until Brian vacations in AZ and loans me his column again. Do you believe that this new age version of “love at first sight is possible? And consider that “at first sight,” in this case, means love at the glance of an Internet dating profile, a whole bunch of emails and phone conversations. Feel free to chime in and let me know what you think, about this, or anything else you might like to comment on.
In my regular work world I supervise a department of eight women who primarily do social work with the developmentally disabled. In our office, it’s common to know about everyone’s drama. Not only is it drama, but life in our office has taken on a Soap Opera-like quality in recent weeks. And boy, are we sucked in, and possibly me more so than others due to my skeptical nature.
Internet dating seems to be the thing these days, what going to bars to meet people, or running into potential dates at work use to be. It’s sort of like blind dating, yet not quite. And for a number of the single women in my department, Internet dating gives them an opportunity to meet and date when working in a world that’s essentially occupied by women. And right now, one of our own is being courted by a cowboy from Oklahoma. This particular cowboy has been nudging her since summer, sending her an email here and there, attempting to engage her in conversation. According to her, his latest try was successful.
There’s this thing in Internet dating called “winking.” One can wink at another without having to do any sort of writing. Apparently he kept winking at her until she finally broke down, wrote back and said, “You live 1,400 miles away from me, why are you winking at me?” We were riveted at work to that little exchange as it lead to an actual conversation in the “real world.” A conversation that sent her running in the other direction and cooled the soap opera off for a few months. According to Liz, this was a man on a mission….a politically liberal guy, home grown in a red state and looking to escape to a blue one. She did not want to be the reason for anyone’s relocation. That was until three weeks ago. Persistence seems to be one of his character traits and it has apparently paid off, at least for now.
Three weeks ago, the cowboy sent an email forward which according to Liz got her dander up. She responded back, in a not so nice way and as a means to discourage his continued attention, although considering the fact that said attention only occurred once every few months, it wasn’t stalker-like behavior. Only what ended up happening was that the cowboy got his wish and found a way to engage her in a conversation. This was all he needed to do.
We work in a field where listening and talking is something that people do a lot of, so for him, getting the conversation going was a step in a positive direction. Liz currently is loosing her mind as the cowboy recently told her that he thinks he loves her. Me, being the skeptic that I am, chimed in by saying “That’s impossible. There is no such thing.” Although, according to the cowboy, “You can’t help who you love any more than you can pick your parents.” Apparently he has no problem waiting for her to come around to his way of thinking. And when talking to her and saying “This is too crazy,” you can almost see her thinking that in fact, maybe it’s not.
I suspect that it will be a little inconvenient to have to call in to my old job, from a new one in order to get the daily update. But, like any good soap opera, I may be able to wean myself down to just getting my update on a Monday and a Friday. And this is the question that I’ll just leave hanging in the air for now or at least until Brian vacations in AZ and loans me his column again. Do you believe that this new age version of “love at first sight is possible? And consider that “at first sight,” in this case, means love at the glance of an Internet dating profile, a whole bunch of emails and phone conversations. Feel free to chime in and let me know what you think, about this, or anything else you might like to comment on.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Christmas card slackers
Published in The Long Island Advance
December 21, 2006
December 21, 2006
Well, here it is, just a week away from Christmas and I have yet to write or send a card. Last year I was so much better organized and very excited that I found Christmas labels in Staples. I was able to go to the website listed on the package, download their label program and print out beautiful seasonal labels for my cards. And this year, unless a miracle happens the cards are not going to make it out of my house.
Back in October while walking through Macy’s, I began to wonder how we got into the habit of decorating for Christmas before Halloween had actually happened. Yes, it was the week before Halloween and Macy’s not only had the beginnings of Christmas decorations hung, they were lit too! In retrospect I should have gone home that very day and written out my Christmas cards. I could then have mailed them a few days after Thanksgiving and would not be sitting here, thinking and writing about them now.
I like sending Christmas cards. There are people who say, “Why send cards to people you never see?” Those are the people I like to send cards to the most. It’s this one, tenuous connection to others that may only happen once a year, but at least it happens. Writing out the cards gives me the opportunity to think back to all these people and remember what they mean to me. There’s my friend Cathy in Florida, who I worked with in the old Loft’s Candy Store on Main Street when I was in high school, or old friends of my parent’s who made it from their Christmas card list, to mine and who although I rarely, if ever see, remember with great fondness. I get to think about all of them, even if it’s only one time a year while writing out their Christmas card.
And this year I’m being a slacker. I have no idea how we went from September to December without my noticing it. Not only do I have the cards, the labels are printed and the stamps have been purchased and yet I have resigned myself to the fact that they’re not getting into the mail this year. In my old life I would have felt guilty for weeks about this, in my new one I’ve given myself permission not too.
My little 4’ Martha Stewart, pre-lit Christmas tree is decorated and sits in front of my bedroom window…with all the bags of Christmas gifts, still unwrapped and strewn around it. I have not baked one cookie or made one chocolate covered pretzel and the Gingerbread tree kit that I bought a few weeks back, is still in the box. I have yet to finish shopping, am not really sure what’s going to be on the menu for Christmas Eve dinner and have no idea what I’ll be wearing.
Here are the things I do know. I know the shopping will get finished, the presents will get wrapped, and we won’t suffer for lack of cookies or chocolate covered pretzels when we can go out and buy them. Between my mother and I, we’ll figure out what’s for Christmas Eve dinner and I’ll be able to pull something from my closet to wear, even if it’s a sweater with snowmen all over it. And, most importantly, the world will not end for my friends and family if they even realize that Susan did not send them a Christmas card this year.
In my head though, I’m drafting a New Year’s letter. Possibly it might say something like, “Happy New Year! During the time leading up to Christmas I was researching 17th-century witch trials in England and how they related to the play Vinegar Tom, by Caryl Churchill. Now that that part of my life is over and has been turned in, I can dig out my Christmas cards and get an early start for 2007.”
So, for this holiday season I’ll take a breath and wish you all a happy one. Be it Christmas, Hanukkah or any other celebration, enjoy, be well, have a safe and Happy New Year and for those who are like me, learn how not to sweat the small stuff all the time. I’m going to start practicing that soon, right after I get out the cards I want to start writing for next year.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Procrastination
Published in The Long Island Advance, December 7, 2006 Edition
I am a procrastinator and feel as if I should be standing in front of a support group announcing this fact. I vacillate between being either totally driven and focused, or completely unfocused and lackadaisical. This sort of behavior causes me a huge amount of stress and I often ask myself why I do it.
This very minute, as I write this piece, I am procrastinating the writing of two papers that are due in four days. Four days sounds like a long time to write two papers, and in fact would be more than sufficient if I didn’t have to have a day job. Having a day job significantly interferes with the writing that I would much rather be doing.
My mission when I awoke this morning was to get started. I’ve done all the reading which for me was the easy part, and the writing isn’t hard either and yet, I wait, and I wait, and I wait. Mulling over getting started and finding every conceivable excuse not to.
So, after waking up this morning I needed to spend minimally two hours sitting on my bed with my laptop, reading ever bit of news I could find. Then there were a few essential phone calls to make prior to actually getting moving. After breakfast I decided to sort laundry. My plan was to go to my parent’s house, laundry in tow, with my laptop and books, and start paper writing in between trips down to the washing machine. Since my parents are away I figured their house would have fewer distractions for me, allowing me to concentrate better. Well, I’ve made it over here, there’s laundry sloshing around in the washer and I’m writing about procrastination as a means to continue doing it.
Prior to actually sitting down at this table and opening up a blank Word Document I had to stop at 7-11 for coffee. Once I finally arrived here, I had to leave again so that I could bring a container of beef stew my mother wanted passed along to brother and sister-in-law, over to their house. I then had to stop back where I’m living….again, in order to find the first paper I had written for this particular class, on which I had jotted the notes about the second paper when last meeting with my professor. While running up and down the stairs, fetching these items, this little bit of writing hit me. What could I do? I had no other choice but to sit down and write it.
I often wonder how I can be a Virgo. Not one who really believes in the whole “horoscope thing,” I do recognize that I have many of those, over-planning, over-thinking, over-organizing traits that Virgo’s are known for, and yet they don’t carry over into all areas of my life. And this is certainly one area where I need those traits to kick in, or more like kick me in the butt to get me moving.
I’ve been procrastinating long enough to recognize my patterns and I’ve come to learn over the course of attending “nontraditional college,” that I need structure. I am not one who the professor can hand the course outline to and say, “See you at the end of 15 weeks with the work done.” That has happened and believe me; I almost did not survive doing 15 weeks of work, in the space of two. That lesson I learned well.
Now that I have procrastinated yet another half hour away there are no more excuses left to put off writing about Jane Austin, so….I guess I should get started. Well, maybe I should check on my laundry first.
I am a procrastinator and feel as if I should be standing in front of a support group announcing this fact. I vacillate between being either totally driven and focused, or completely unfocused and lackadaisical. This sort of behavior causes me a huge amount of stress and I often ask myself why I do it.
This very minute, as I write this piece, I am procrastinating the writing of two papers that are due in four days. Four days sounds like a long time to write two papers, and in fact would be more than sufficient if I didn’t have to have a day job. Having a day job significantly interferes with the writing that I would much rather be doing.
My mission when I awoke this morning was to get started. I’ve done all the reading which for me was the easy part, and the writing isn’t hard either and yet, I wait, and I wait, and I wait. Mulling over getting started and finding every conceivable excuse not to.
So, after waking up this morning I needed to spend minimally two hours sitting on my bed with my laptop, reading ever bit of news I could find. Then there were a few essential phone calls to make prior to actually getting moving. After breakfast I decided to sort laundry. My plan was to go to my parent’s house, laundry in tow, with my laptop and books, and start paper writing in between trips down to the washing machine. Since my parents are away I figured their house would have fewer distractions for me, allowing me to concentrate better. Well, I’ve made it over here, there’s laundry sloshing around in the washer and I’m writing about procrastination as a means to continue doing it.
Prior to actually sitting down at this table and opening up a blank Word Document I had to stop at 7-11 for coffee. Once I finally arrived here, I had to leave again so that I could bring a container of beef stew my mother wanted passed along to brother and sister-in-law, over to their house. I then had to stop back where I’m living….again, in order to find the first paper I had written for this particular class, on which I had jotted the notes about the second paper when last meeting with my professor. While running up and down the stairs, fetching these items, this little bit of writing hit me. What could I do? I had no other choice but to sit down and write it.
I often wonder how I can be a Virgo. Not one who really believes in the whole “horoscope thing,” I do recognize that I have many of those, over-planning, over-thinking, over-organizing traits that Virgo’s are known for, and yet they don’t carry over into all areas of my life. And this is certainly one area where I need those traits to kick in, or more like kick me in the butt to get me moving.
I’ve been procrastinating long enough to recognize my patterns and I’ve come to learn over the course of attending “nontraditional college,” that I need structure. I am not one who the professor can hand the course outline to and say, “See you at the end of 15 weeks with the work done.” That has happened and believe me; I almost did not survive doing 15 weeks of work, in the space of two. That lesson I learned well.
Now that I have procrastinated yet another half hour away there are no more excuses left to put off writing about Jane Austin, so….I guess I should get started. Well, maybe I should check on my laundry first.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Guerilla Gardening
While lying in bed this morning, thinking, which is something that I’m really good at, I started to dwell on my old flower beds. The first year after leaving them in the care of someone else was an extremely stressful one for me, and I often found myself riding by them on a daily basis, becoming more alarmed with each trip down the street. Over the course of that long, hot summer, they had become sad and neglected and their condition just fueled the abundance of tears that I had been crying then.
I spent a great deal of time digging around in those flower beds and I loved weeding. Never a chore, like washing a floor or cleaning a bathroom, weeding was relaxing. My mind could wander where it wished, to think or not, whatever I desired. Weeding became a form of meditation, soothing, even though physical labor was involved.
Inheriting a love of gardening was a gift that my mother gave me. As a child I can remember wondering why she would want to be out in the heat of the summer, hot and sweating, and God forbid, getting her hands dirty. It wasn’t until I got older and had empty spaces around my house and yard that I was able to appreciated what growing flowers meant, and how they filled my life with beauty.
My flower beds started out straight and narrow and yet looking back I realize that over the years they gradually changed, as did I. Never one who liked things with hard edges, they evolved to become more winding and rounded and less severe. I liked them full and a little wild, lined with natural rocks or field stones, or just edged with a shovel to keep the crabgrass at bay. I was always looking for a place to plant something new, which often meant needing to dig another bed, pretty much running out of room in my yard as the years went by.
That first year after my house was sold I had a really difficult time coming to terms with the fact that the person who now lives in it, is not a gardener, and which truly is an understatement. Prior to going to closing I gave him a tour of all the plants in my yard, and tried to impress upon him the heirloom quality of some of them, and what they meant to me. Judging from the looks of things now, I’m sure he wasn’t listening. This experience has taught me that there are some people who should never own homes with yards or gardens. Sweeping off green tinted concrete is as close as they should ever have to get to yard maintenance.
Not being a gardener does not make one a bad person. It was just hard to watch as those beds became overrun with weeds that grew up past the dining room windows or watch plants that had been there for years, wither away to become brown and dead from lack of water. I often fantasized about becoming a “guerilla gardener,” sneaking over in the dead of night wearing a coal miner’s hard hat with head lamp, and secretly weeding and watering. I don’t think he would notice, and I do believe my old neighbors might appreciate the effort.
I’ve come to terms with this now though. I am not gardening anywhere at this point in my life. Maybe I’ll do it again and maybe I won’t. I’ll always have a pot of herbs or a geranium on a windowsill somewhere and can be content with that. Despite the fact that they are now overgrown and unloved, I remain hopeful that one day the gardens in my old yard will bloom in all their previous splendor, and will be lovingly tended by some gardener yet to come.
I spent a great deal of time digging around in those flower beds and I loved weeding. Never a chore, like washing a floor or cleaning a bathroom, weeding was relaxing. My mind could wander where it wished, to think or not, whatever I desired. Weeding became a form of meditation, soothing, even though physical labor was involved.
Inheriting a love of gardening was a gift that my mother gave me. As a child I can remember wondering why she would want to be out in the heat of the summer, hot and sweating, and God forbid, getting her hands dirty. It wasn’t until I got older and had empty spaces around my house and yard that I was able to appreciated what growing flowers meant, and how they filled my life with beauty.
My flower beds started out straight and narrow and yet looking back I realize that over the years they gradually changed, as did I. Never one who liked things with hard edges, they evolved to become more winding and rounded and less severe. I liked them full and a little wild, lined with natural rocks or field stones, or just edged with a shovel to keep the crabgrass at bay. I was always looking for a place to plant something new, which often meant needing to dig another bed, pretty much running out of room in my yard as the years went by.
That first year after my house was sold I had a really difficult time coming to terms with the fact that the person who now lives in it, is not a gardener, and which truly is an understatement. Prior to going to closing I gave him a tour of all the plants in my yard, and tried to impress upon him the heirloom quality of some of them, and what they meant to me. Judging from the looks of things now, I’m sure he wasn’t listening. This experience has taught me that there are some people who should never own homes with yards or gardens. Sweeping off green tinted concrete is as close as they should ever have to get to yard maintenance.
Not being a gardener does not make one a bad person. It was just hard to watch as those beds became overrun with weeds that grew up past the dining room windows or watch plants that had been there for years, wither away to become brown and dead from lack of water. I often fantasized about becoming a “guerilla gardener,” sneaking over in the dead of night wearing a coal miner’s hard hat with head lamp, and secretly weeding and watering. I don’t think he would notice, and I do believe my old neighbors might appreciate the effort.
I’ve come to terms with this now though. I am not gardening anywhere at this point in my life. Maybe I’ll do it again and maybe I won’t. I’ll always have a pot of herbs or a geranium on a windowsill somewhere and can be content with that. Despite the fact that they are now overgrown and unloved, I remain hopeful that one day the gardens in my old yard will bloom in all their previous splendor, and will be lovingly tended by some gardener yet to come.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Val and The Italian Patio Boys
OK...here's the next column for the LIA. I'm going to stop counting them down now and just tell you that yes, this piece appeared in print in a real paper that people read.
There’s a brown, webbed folding chair that sits at the head of a driveway down on Park Street in south Patchogue. This particular chair use to belong to Val DeCarlo, a long time resident of Patchogue and a retired English teacher in the Patchogue-Medford School District. The DeCarlo’s lived in that house for as long as I can remember and moved to Louisiana last year to be closer to their daughter. It’s odd to see that chair still sitting there and I wonder if the new owners have left it on purpose, a shrine to one of the more fascinating people who has ever walked through my life.
It was not easy to get an A or even a B on a paper written for Val’s class, and yet, I somehow managed too, a miraculous feat for someone who would often cut math in order to sit in the library and write those papers the day they were due. (I do my best work under pressure.) I doubt there were many who ever showed up without their work done, as he was not a teacher whose bad side you ever wanted to experience. And, as intimidating as he was, his classes were always full because in spite of the fear, you couldn’t help wanting to be there. I read my first R rated book, “The Godfather,” in his Ethnic Lit class. He had the best stories to tell and to this day, I still wonder if he really lived them.
Over the course of my adult life Val would drive by the house I use to live in and he would wave or stop to briefly to say hello. Throughout those years I would stop once or twice a summer to talk with him as he sat in his driveway. He would pull out a spare folding chair from the garage and we would sit and have a visit, which in actuality was really more like a very intense chat.
I use to think of Val on those summer nights when my son and his friends would haul all the lawn chairs from our yard and place them at the head of the driveway, in front of our pock-marked metal garage door. There they would sit and visit with all their other friends who would pass by. I started referring to them as The Italian Patio Boys, my son being half Italian, and the whole “sitting around in the driveway, watching the world pass by,” becoming their patio. Val was the first Italian Patio Boy and this past summer was the first that I did not sit on a folding chair in his driveway at least once and visit.
There are no more Italian Patio Boys sitting in my old driveway anymore. They are all grown up and the driveway no longer belongs to me. It now has weeds growing up through the seams in the concrete and exists in a yard whose new owner gives little care or thought about it. And that is a story for another time.
On my last driveway visit with Val and his family, we talked about my “getting a new life” experience. In his old fashioned way, he assured me that I would soon attract a rich guy to take care of me, the thought of which made me laugh. The whole point I explained to him, was to prove that I could take care of myself, yet I’m not sure that I convinced him.
Val, his wife Ronnie and son Peter are people I will always remember with great fondness. I miss the driveway visits and yet, it makes me very happy to see that his chair is still there. I can still imagine him walking out to the driveway and settling down in it, watching the world go by and waiting for someone to stop and visit. And although he no longer lives here, he will always exist in my memories in a larger than life kind of way. Life changes, people move on and yet we still have the ability to keep those memories alive within ourselves. So, to whoever owns Val’s house now, thanks for keeping his chair there, allowing me to pass by and in my minds eye, still see him sitting there, reminding me not only of him, but also of my other Italian Patio Boys and the driveway they use to sit in.
There’s a brown, webbed folding chair that sits at the head of a driveway down on Park Street in south Patchogue. This particular chair use to belong to Val DeCarlo, a long time resident of Patchogue and a retired English teacher in the Patchogue-Medford School District. The DeCarlo’s lived in that house for as long as I can remember and moved to Louisiana last year to be closer to their daughter. It’s odd to see that chair still sitting there and I wonder if the new owners have left it on purpose, a shrine to one of the more fascinating people who has ever walked through my life.
It was not easy to get an A or even a B on a paper written for Val’s class, and yet, I somehow managed too, a miraculous feat for someone who would often cut math in order to sit in the library and write those papers the day they were due. (I do my best work under pressure.) I doubt there were many who ever showed up without their work done, as he was not a teacher whose bad side you ever wanted to experience. And, as intimidating as he was, his classes were always full because in spite of the fear, you couldn’t help wanting to be there. I read my first R rated book, “The Godfather,” in his Ethnic Lit class. He had the best stories to tell and to this day, I still wonder if he really lived them.
Over the course of my adult life Val would drive by the house I use to live in and he would wave or stop to briefly to say hello. Throughout those years I would stop once or twice a summer to talk with him as he sat in his driveway. He would pull out a spare folding chair from the garage and we would sit and have a visit, which in actuality was really more like a very intense chat.
I use to think of Val on those summer nights when my son and his friends would haul all the lawn chairs from our yard and place them at the head of the driveway, in front of our pock-marked metal garage door. There they would sit and visit with all their other friends who would pass by. I started referring to them as The Italian Patio Boys, my son being half Italian, and the whole “sitting around in the driveway, watching the world pass by,” becoming their patio. Val was the first Italian Patio Boy and this past summer was the first that I did not sit on a folding chair in his driveway at least once and visit.
There are no more Italian Patio Boys sitting in my old driveway anymore. They are all grown up and the driveway no longer belongs to me. It now has weeds growing up through the seams in the concrete and exists in a yard whose new owner gives little care or thought about it. And that is a story for another time.
On my last driveway visit with Val and his family, we talked about my “getting a new life” experience. In his old fashioned way, he assured me that I would soon attract a rich guy to take care of me, the thought of which made me laugh. The whole point I explained to him, was to prove that I could take care of myself, yet I’m not sure that I convinced him.
Val, his wife Ronnie and son Peter are people I will always remember with great fondness. I miss the driveway visits and yet, it makes me very happy to see that his chair is still there. I can still imagine him walking out to the driveway and settling down in it, watching the world go by and waiting for someone to stop and visit. And although he no longer lives here, he will always exist in my memories in a larger than life kind of way. Life changes, people move on and yet we still have the ability to keep those memories alive within ourselves. So, to whoever owns Val’s house now, thanks for keeping his chair there, allowing me to pass by and in my minds eye, still see him sitting there, reminding me not only of him, but also of my other Italian Patio Boys and the driveway they use to sit in.
Monday, October 23, 2006
An act of kindness
Today I had a dramatic, very invasive medical procedure done at my local hospital. I say dramatic because I’m a Virgo and we tend to have a streak of hypochondria that runs though us. For others it might have only been considered on the semi-dramatic side. I do try to keep my medical drama in check and yet we all know how well I handled that Thallium Stress test a few months back.
The procedure I had done today required that it be done under general anesthesia in the outpatient surgery department. Of course when hearing I need to be knocked out two thoughts ran though my head. First, this must be some painful test since you need to be unconscious for it, and second, I might go to sleep and never wake up again. For a week prior I tortured most of you who read this blog with these dire thoughts and do appreciate how patient you all were, while probably thinking, “Susan, please shut up about this already!”
I think that the whole idea of no longer having a “significant other,” in my life waiting in the waiting room for me, is what freaked me out the most. Certainly my mother is a “significant other,” in my life and I am most grateful to have had her with me. Yet, it’s not the same as having someone with you, who is your partner in all senses of the word. I know that I’m whining and I can’t help it. My friend Joanne went through radiation therapy for breast cancer, without her “significant other,” the bastard left her three weeks into her treatment. I have no right to whine about this as I cannot imagine what that must have been like, and yet, I do it anyway. And, I think that Joanne understands my angst about this and forgives me for it.
I adore the two main doctors in my life and both are women. My primary care physician has been known to hug me good-bye, which is not something any doctor I’ve even had, has done…and it’s nice. My “other doctor,” is more reserved, professional and business like. They have two very different bedside manners, and yet I appreciate them both for their care of me.
Today, while lying in the OR waiting for the anesthesiologist to put me under for the cervical biopsy I needed to have done, trying to do some Zen breathing so as not to cry because I’m a baby…. and was terrified and very anxious, my very professional gynecologist came up beside me and held my hand while I faded off into oblivion. I wonder if she has any idea what that meant to me?
The procedure I had done today required that it be done under general anesthesia in the outpatient surgery department. Of course when hearing I need to be knocked out two thoughts ran though my head. First, this must be some painful test since you need to be unconscious for it, and second, I might go to sleep and never wake up again. For a week prior I tortured most of you who read this blog with these dire thoughts and do appreciate how patient you all were, while probably thinking, “Susan, please shut up about this already!”
I think that the whole idea of no longer having a “significant other,” in my life waiting in the waiting room for me, is what freaked me out the most. Certainly my mother is a “significant other,” in my life and I am most grateful to have had her with me. Yet, it’s not the same as having someone with you, who is your partner in all senses of the word. I know that I’m whining and I can’t help it. My friend Joanne went through radiation therapy for breast cancer, without her “significant other,” the bastard left her three weeks into her treatment. I have no right to whine about this as I cannot imagine what that must have been like, and yet, I do it anyway. And, I think that Joanne understands my angst about this and forgives me for it.
I adore the two main doctors in my life and both are women. My primary care physician has been known to hug me good-bye, which is not something any doctor I’ve even had, has done…and it’s nice. My “other doctor,” is more reserved, professional and business like. They have two very different bedside manners, and yet I appreciate them both for their care of me.
Today, while lying in the OR waiting for the anesthesiologist to put me under for the cervical biopsy I needed to have done, trying to do some Zen breathing so as not to cry because I’m a baby…. and was terrified and very anxious, my very professional gynecologist came up beside me and held my hand while I faded off into oblivion. I wonder if she has any idea what that meant to me?
Friday, October 20, 2006
Stuck in a Hallway - Lond Island Advance Column
This is my fourth guest column for The Long Island Advance. It may sound familiar to some of you who have been reading this blog for a while. It's the second "Stuck in a Hallway" piece, and yet, this is a bit different from the first....
I really dislike the expression “When one door closes, another door opens.” Especially when you’re really feeling like you’re stuck in a dark hallway with the door behind you almost completely closed, and you have no idea where the end of the hallway is, or if there will be another door once you get to it.
I was stuck in a hallway for long time. Probably close to a year. And it was dark and I had no flashlight or even a book of matches. In my case, a scented candle would have been nice, but I didn’t have one of them either. I had to start out walking down my hallway pretty much in total darkness. For about a year, I just stood…. still bathed in a tiny bit of light from that almost closed door, and when I finally started to move and got further away from it, the journey became more difficult, at least for a while. Gradually though, I started to see a glimmer of light ahead of me, and now, after two years I think I’m about ready to finally step through the door that I found at the end, and wow, does it look bright!
I did a lot of walking to get down this hallway and it wasn’t always easy. Patience was needed to accomplish this and it is not one of my virtues. I painted a bedroom, purchased a small amount of furniture, found a part time writing job, went back to school, bought a car, sat on my parents and my friend’s couches and cried, started going to the movies by myself, learned to balance my checkbook, went through a lot of boxes filled with stuff from my old life and had a yard sale, learned to smile at interesting people, joined a writing group, and have made a number of new, interesting friends. I will soon graduate with a Bachelor’s degree and have started interviewing on a quest for a new job that will hopefully allow me to swim in deeper water. Yes, it has been a busy year and a year that has finally allowed me to see the progress that I have made in very concrete ways.
It’s hard to do this sort of personal writing in a small, local newspaper. In many ways it would be far easier to write for a much larger publication, which would feel more anonymous. It’s difficult to be an unknown when you are writing about what it feels like to get a new life and your picture and name appear above your writing, in the small town that you’ve lived in for your entire life. It makes writing the more difficult stuff, impossible. For me though, this is the only kind of writing that I can do right now. It sounds a bit self-centered, this writing that is “all about me,” and yet it really isn’t just about that.
In the short time that I’ve had to “write in my own voice” in this space that Brian Curry so graciously loans me, I’ve had the pleasure of talking to people who have read what I’ve written here, and who are able to relate to the experiences that I talk about. It’s reinforcing to realize that I am not alone in this “getting a new life” experience, and to have someone tell me that the words I have written have made a difference in their lives, is truly huge for me. Certainly we’re not talking major life changing differences, but subtle difference in the way people view themselves, where they are heading, and helping them realize that they can get there in one piece.
So, yes, in many ways this is all about me, and yet it is about so much more. If just one person reads this and realizes that although they may be stuck in a dark hallway now, that does not have to be the case forever, then my job for today is done.
I really dislike the expression “When one door closes, another door opens.” Especially when you’re really feeling like you’re stuck in a dark hallway with the door behind you almost completely closed, and you have no idea where the end of the hallway is, or if there will be another door once you get to it.
I was stuck in a hallway for long time. Probably close to a year. And it was dark and I had no flashlight or even a book of matches. In my case, a scented candle would have been nice, but I didn’t have one of them either. I had to start out walking down my hallway pretty much in total darkness. For about a year, I just stood…. still bathed in a tiny bit of light from that almost closed door, and when I finally started to move and got further away from it, the journey became more difficult, at least for a while. Gradually though, I started to see a glimmer of light ahead of me, and now, after two years I think I’m about ready to finally step through the door that I found at the end, and wow, does it look bright!
I did a lot of walking to get down this hallway and it wasn’t always easy. Patience was needed to accomplish this and it is not one of my virtues. I painted a bedroom, purchased a small amount of furniture, found a part time writing job, went back to school, bought a car, sat on my parents and my friend’s couches and cried, started going to the movies by myself, learned to balance my checkbook, went through a lot of boxes filled with stuff from my old life and had a yard sale, learned to smile at interesting people, joined a writing group, and have made a number of new, interesting friends. I will soon graduate with a Bachelor’s degree and have started interviewing on a quest for a new job that will hopefully allow me to swim in deeper water. Yes, it has been a busy year and a year that has finally allowed me to see the progress that I have made in very concrete ways.
It’s hard to do this sort of personal writing in a small, local newspaper. In many ways it would be far easier to write for a much larger publication, which would feel more anonymous. It’s difficult to be an unknown when you are writing about what it feels like to get a new life and your picture and name appear above your writing, in the small town that you’ve lived in for your entire life. It makes writing the more difficult stuff, impossible. For me though, this is the only kind of writing that I can do right now. It sounds a bit self-centered, this writing that is “all about me,” and yet it really isn’t just about that.
In the short time that I’ve had to “write in my own voice” in this space that Brian Curry so graciously loans me, I’ve had the pleasure of talking to people who have read what I’ve written here, and who are able to relate to the experiences that I talk about. It’s reinforcing to realize that I am not alone in this “getting a new life” experience, and to have someone tell me that the words I have written have made a difference in their lives, is truly huge for me. Certainly we’re not talking major life changing differences, but subtle difference in the way people view themselves, where they are heading, and helping them realize that they can get there in one piece.
So, yes, in many ways this is all about me, and yet it is about so much more. If just one person reads this and realizes that although they may be stuck in a dark hallway now, that does not have to be the case forever, then my job for today is done.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Another Birthday
Today I am 49. It’s amazing what a difference a year can make. In the whole scheme of life one year is such a short amount of time, yet while it was passing it seemed so long. And now that it’s gone, it went by in a heartbeat.
The year between age 47 and 48, I spent crying. I cried the entire year and on my 48th birthday I was still crying. I can distinctly remember the three days prior, crying off and on, not feeling as if I had made enough progress in my quest to get a new life. Feeling frustrated and unhappy with where I was at. The day of my birthday I was either sitting in my computer chair, crying, or laying on the couch, crying, or laying on my bed crying, or driving in my car, crying. I wrote about all that crying last year in this very spot.
On my 48th birthday Jane happened to call me, not realizing it was my birthday….. and she listened to me sob about how I couldn’t stop crying. (It was the psychic twinkle thing that made her call me, that I’m sure about.) She sent me “Happy Birthday” flowers that very afternoon and they sat on the dinning room table where I live, long after most of them had died.
Last year was the year I wanted no birthday at all. No cake, no presents. Of course my mother was having none of that and we eventually got around to cake and some presents, but that was a few days after the birthday and by then, I had recovered and resolved to stop all the crying.
This has been a much better year! It has been a year with no real crying to speak of. It’s been the year when I’ve made all sorts of progress…..the kind that I can see. My biggest accomplishment has been school. This is the year that I will finish a degree started long ago. It’s been the 13 year Bachelor’s degree (with an 8 year break in the middle….what was I thinking!). And, with that degree, I can move on to look for a different career path to take….in the hope of being able to finally afford an apartment of my own to live in….. a home of my own…..I think that my 50th Birthday might possibly be even better….. At one time I dreaded the idea of ever being 50; to think that I might now actually be looking forward to entering my 50th year is more progress that I ever thought possible.
I am however, making a birthday resolution, similar to the New Year’s resolutions that people make and never keep. I do really try to keep mine and actually am somewhat successful at the whole resolution business.
A new friend that I made this past spring told me that one of the good things about me, is that I see the potential in people, even if they haven’t reached that point yet. She said that’s it’s a wonderful quality, yet at times does not work to my benefit. I have trouble letting go of those who have yet to meet the potential that I see in them. I need to let go of a few people in this new birthday year. I'm not waiting for them to "come around" any longer.
So, there you have it, another birthday, with a resolution to boot. And new plans being made. I wonder where I will write next year’s birthday blog from. I truly am hoping that it will be from some nice little apartment in NYC….. Only time will tell that story.
This is enough writing about a birthday for one year…….
The year between age 47 and 48, I spent crying. I cried the entire year and on my 48th birthday I was still crying. I can distinctly remember the three days prior, crying off and on, not feeling as if I had made enough progress in my quest to get a new life. Feeling frustrated and unhappy with where I was at. The day of my birthday I was either sitting in my computer chair, crying, or laying on the couch, crying, or laying on my bed crying, or driving in my car, crying. I wrote about all that crying last year in this very spot.
On my 48th birthday Jane happened to call me, not realizing it was my birthday….. and she listened to me sob about how I couldn’t stop crying. (It was the psychic twinkle thing that made her call me, that I’m sure about.) She sent me “Happy Birthday” flowers that very afternoon and they sat on the dinning room table where I live, long after most of them had died.
Last year was the year I wanted no birthday at all. No cake, no presents. Of course my mother was having none of that and we eventually got around to cake and some presents, but that was a few days after the birthday and by then, I had recovered and resolved to stop all the crying.
This has been a much better year! It has been a year with no real crying to speak of. It’s been the year when I’ve made all sorts of progress…..the kind that I can see. My biggest accomplishment has been school. This is the year that I will finish a degree started long ago. It’s been the 13 year Bachelor’s degree (with an 8 year break in the middle….what was I thinking!). And, with that degree, I can move on to look for a different career path to take….in the hope of being able to finally afford an apartment of my own to live in….. a home of my own…..I think that my 50th Birthday might possibly be even better….. At one time I dreaded the idea of ever being 50; to think that I might now actually be looking forward to entering my 50th year is more progress that I ever thought possible.
I am however, making a birthday resolution, similar to the New Year’s resolutions that people make and never keep. I do really try to keep mine and actually am somewhat successful at the whole resolution business.
A new friend that I made this past spring told me that one of the good things about me, is that I see the potential in people, even if they haven’t reached that point yet. She said that’s it’s a wonderful quality, yet at times does not work to my benefit. I have trouble letting go of those who have yet to meet the potential that I see in them. I need to let go of a few people in this new birthday year. I'm not waiting for them to "come around" any longer.
So, there you have it, another birthday, with a resolution to boot. And new plans being made. I wonder where I will write next year’s birthday blog from. I truly am hoping that it will be from some nice little apartment in NYC….. Only time will tell that story.
This is enough writing about a birthday for one year…….
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
A birthday present from my daughter...
For my 49th birthday my daughter took me to get my nose pierced. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while and for some reason, today seemed like the day to do it. It just felt like it was the “right day” to get my nose done. I can’t wait until it’s healed and I can get a little tiny diamond to wear in it. Of course my parents will be appalled. I am, however, entering my 50th year. If I want to have my nose pierced…then that’s what I’m doing. It’s not a tattoo!
Maybe I’m in yet another of these “life crisis” I seem to go through from time to time. Over the course of this past year I’ve had so few of them that I’m almost feeling normal again. Normal in the sense that my life feels like my own, like I recognize who I am. I think having a small diamond stud in my nose is part of who I’m meant to be.
When I called Erin at work this morning to relay my piercing epiphany, she was right there with me, having had hers done over the summer. I mentioned going tomorrow, on my birthday; she said we should go today. I think she was afraid that I might change my mind again if I waited until tomorrow. I made this decision at 9:30 this morning while sitting at my desk. There was no more debate. It was a done deal.
Yes, I do believe that I was meant to have my nose pierced. Radical for an almost 49 year old…yet it feels right to me. And it looks so cool!
Monday, September 11, 2006
I AM A NEW YORKER
We collectively mourn today, in varying degrees of separation. Those families who were directly affected "that morning" five years ago, loosing husbands, wives, sons and daughters, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends and coworkers....first responders, there to save others, and just ordinary people, trying to make a living.... who vanished into thin air...we can't feel the depth of the pain that their families experienced, yet we can understand it.
We can understand the anguish felt by emergency personnel who spent hour upon hour, days upon days, searching in the massive pile of smoking, pulverize rubble......their mission always to save....... and knowing that would not be the case.
We mourn in degrees of separation.....those who can still smell the burning jet fuel, or who walked the area of lower Manhattan, pictures in hand, endlessly searching for their lost loved ones. They mourn the most fiercely.
We mourn in degrees of separation....those of us who watched helplessly on our televisions...further removed, yet mourning nonetheless. No, we could not smell the smoke, nor *feel* the wailing of the sirens....yet we mourned too.
We mourn in degrees of separation.......those of us who live in tri-state area, but especially those of us who are New Yorkers. We mourn in a different way than the rest of the country. Just as those in Washington D. C. and in Pennsylvania, and all those with loved ones on four planes mourn. We collectively mourn together in a way that the rest of the nation cannot. Oh, yes...the rest of the nation mourns....but from further away....Separated by many degrees from the anguish that we, as New Yorkers feel.
The following was posted on My Space as a bulletin. The author is unknown....
I AM A NEW YORKER
-author unknown
I am a New Yorker. I was raised on Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and Rockefeller Plaza, the Yankees or the Mets, Jones Beach or Smith Point, or one of the beaches on the sound or the bay. I know the "THE END" means Montauk. Because I am a New Yorker.
I am a New Yorker. When I go on vacation, I never look up: skyscrapers are something I take for granted. The Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty are part of me. Taxi's and noise and subways and "get outa heah" don't rattle me, because I am a New Yorker.
I am a New Yorker. I was raised on cultural diversity before it was politically correct. I eat Greek food and Italian food, Jewish and Middle Eastern food and Chinese food because they are all American food to me. I don't get mad when people speak other languages in my presence because my relatives got to this country via Ellis Island and chose to stay. They were New Yorkers.
I am a New Yorker. People who have never been to New York have misunderstood me. My friends and family work in the industries, professions and businesses that benefit all Americans. My firefighters and police officers died trying to save New Yorkers and non-New Yorkers. They died trying to save Americans and non-Americans because they were New Yorkers.
I am a New Yorker. I feel the pain of my fellow New Yorkers. I mourn the loss of part of my beautiful city. But then I remember......I am a New Yorker.
And New Yorkers have:
Tenacity, strength and courage way above the norm
Compassion and caring for our fellow citizens
Love and pride in our city, in our state, in our country
Intelligence, experience and education par excellence
Ability, dedication and energy above and beyond
Faith--no matter what religion we practice.
Terrorists hit America in its heart but America's heart still beats strong. Demolish the steel in our buildings, but it doesn't touch the steel in our souls. Hit us in the pocketbook; but we'll parlay what we have left into a fortune. End innocent lives leaving widows and orphans, but we'll talk care of them, because they are New Yorkers.
Wherever we live, whatever we do, whoever we are. There are New Yorkers in every state and every city of this nation. We will not abandon our city. We will not abandon our brothers and sisters. We will not abandon the beauty, creativity and diversity that New York represents. And most importantly, we will never forget.
Becasue we are New Yorkers.
And we are proud to be New Yorkers.
We can understand the anguish felt by emergency personnel who spent hour upon hour, days upon days, searching in the massive pile of smoking, pulverize rubble......their mission always to save....... and knowing that would not be the case.
We mourn in degrees of separation.....those who can still smell the burning jet fuel, or who walked the area of lower Manhattan, pictures in hand, endlessly searching for their lost loved ones. They mourn the most fiercely.
We mourn in degrees of separation....those of us who watched helplessly on our televisions...further removed, yet mourning nonetheless. No, we could not smell the smoke, nor *feel* the wailing of the sirens....yet we mourned too.
We mourn in degrees of separation.......those of us who live in tri-state area, but especially those of us who are New Yorkers. We mourn in a different way than the rest of the country. Just as those in Washington D. C. and in Pennsylvania, and all those with loved ones on four planes mourn. We collectively mourn together in a way that the rest of the nation cannot. Oh, yes...the rest of the nation mourns....but from further away....Separated by many degrees from the anguish that we, as New Yorkers feel.
The following was posted on My Space as a bulletin. The author is unknown....
I AM A NEW YORKER
-author unknown
I am a New Yorker. I was raised on Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and Rockefeller Plaza, the Yankees or the Mets, Jones Beach or Smith Point, or one of the beaches on the sound or the bay. I know the "THE END" means Montauk. Because I am a New Yorker.
I am a New Yorker. When I go on vacation, I never look up: skyscrapers are something I take for granted. The Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty are part of me. Taxi's and noise and subways and "get outa heah" don't rattle me, because I am a New Yorker.
I am a New Yorker. I was raised on cultural diversity before it was politically correct. I eat Greek food and Italian food, Jewish and Middle Eastern food and Chinese food because they are all American food to me. I don't get mad when people speak other languages in my presence because my relatives got to this country via Ellis Island and chose to stay. They were New Yorkers.
I am a New Yorker. People who have never been to New York have misunderstood me. My friends and family work in the industries, professions and businesses that benefit all Americans. My firefighters and police officers died trying to save New Yorkers and non-New Yorkers. They died trying to save Americans and non-Americans because they were New Yorkers.
I am a New Yorker. I feel the pain of my fellow New Yorkers. I mourn the loss of part of my beautiful city. But then I remember......I am a New Yorker.
And New Yorkers have:
Tenacity, strength and courage way above the norm
Compassion and caring for our fellow citizens
Love and pride in our city, in our state, in our country
Intelligence, experience and education par excellence
Ability, dedication and energy above and beyond
Faith--no matter what religion we practice.
Terrorists hit America in its heart but America's heart still beats strong. Demolish the steel in our buildings, but it doesn't touch the steel in our souls. Hit us in the pocketbook; but we'll parlay what we have left into a fortune. End innocent lives leaving widows and orphans, but we'll talk care of them, because they are New Yorkers.
Wherever we live, whatever we do, whoever we are. There are New Yorkers in every state and every city of this nation. We will not abandon our city. We will not abandon our brothers and sisters. We will not abandon the beauty, creativity and diversity that New York represents. And most importantly, we will never forget.
Becasue we are New Yorkers.
And we are proud to be New Yorkers.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Me and Gloria
For some time now, I’ve been wondering about Condoleezza Rice. Wondering why her name has all those e’s and z’s in it? Don’t they seem unnecessary? One each would certainly do. I’ve been wondering other things too though. Like why she never looks happy. Or why I’ve never heard her speak about women’s issues at all….even in the context that one might speak about women’s issues as a Secretary of State. Yes, it’s possible she’s done so and I’ve just missed it, but I read the news on a daily basis and don’t recall reading anything she’s ever said in this regard. And even when she’s smiling, she just never really looks happy.
However, she does play the piano well… and we can all assume that she’s a very smart woman, considering she is the Secretary of State. We, as women can be proud of that accomplishment. She does not appear to be one of those warm and fuzzy people though and she certainly does not seem interested in women’s issues. Here she is, this really smart woman, who seems so out of step with the rest of her gender.
Gloria Steinem is wondering similar things about Condoleezza.
New York Times Magazine, September 3, 2006, “All About Eve” an interview by Deborah Solomon (excerpt):
“Q: Is Condoleezza Rice and ally of women?
Gloria: I wish someone would write an article called ‘How Did Condoleezza Rice Get That Way?’ She’s so separate from the welfare of the majority of Americans and especially the female and African-American communities to which she belongs.”
How weirdly cool is it that Gloria is in her house thinking about this, and I’m in mine, doing the same thing? (And she looks damn good for 72!)
However, she does play the piano well… and we can all assume that she’s a very smart woman, considering she is the Secretary of State. We, as women can be proud of that accomplishment. She does not appear to be one of those warm and fuzzy people though and she certainly does not seem interested in women’s issues. Here she is, this really smart woman, who seems so out of step with the rest of her gender.
Gloria Steinem is wondering similar things about Condoleezza.
New York Times Magazine, September 3, 2006, “All About Eve” an interview by Deborah Solomon (excerpt):
“Q: Is Condoleezza Rice and ally of women?
Gloria: I wish someone would write an article called ‘How Did Condoleezza Rice Get That Way?’ She’s so separate from the welfare of the majority of Americans and especially the female and African-American communities to which she belongs.”
How weirdly cool is it that Gloria is in her house thinking about this, and I’m in mine, doing the same thing? (And she looks damn good for 72!)
Friday, August 25, 2006
Fortune Cookie Fortunes
My order of steamed vegetable dumplings from the local Chinese restaurant came with the best fortune tonight!
"Life is not a problem to be solved but rather a mystery to be lived."
"Life is not a problem to be solved but rather a mystery to be lived."
How cool is that? I’m going to tape it somewhere so that I’ll see it on a daily basis. Sometimes *my life* gets in the way of my ability to remember these more inspirational points. I wonder if it might be possible to live your entire life, based upon these little strips of paper that inhabit fortune cookies. I imagine that one would have to eat a whole lot of Chinese food in order to collect enough of them to make it worth while. Maybe not though……I think I might possibly be able to live the rest of my life based upon that one little fortune that is written above.
I wonder who thinks up these little sayings and who decides if they’ll make it into a cookie.
I’ll bet there’s a book out there somewhere in the world that is just filled with the sayings that pop out of fortune cookies. I must admit, the cookies themselves do nothing for me. Mainly because there’s no chocolate in them. They don’t really have any taste at all. Actually, they might rival the taste of a Communion wafer….and somewhere out there, there’s a Christian Fundamentalist from the Bible Belt, saying to themselves, “She's goin’ to hell talkin’ like that.” Once again I have digressed though. Christian Fundamentalists are an entirely different story.
I break open fortune cookies, trying to make as little mess as possible, slip out the strip of paper, and read. If I were a gambling person I might also consider playing the numbers written under my fortune. Has anyone ever won the lottery based upon the use of those numbers? All these questions that have come to mind, all because of a little piece of paper, hidden inside a stale, hard, very crunchy item, that pretends to be a cookie. I have just spent way to much time thinking about fortune cookies….and now writing about them as well. Possibly I should move on, get out the tape and find a place to immortalize my one and only cool fortune cookie fortune, and continue on, living my mystery.
I wonder who thinks up these little sayings and who decides if they’ll make it into a cookie.
I’ll bet there’s a book out there somewhere in the world that is just filled with the sayings that pop out of fortune cookies. I must admit, the cookies themselves do nothing for me. Mainly because there’s no chocolate in them. They don’t really have any taste at all. Actually, they might rival the taste of a Communion wafer….and somewhere out there, there’s a Christian Fundamentalist from the Bible Belt, saying to themselves, “She's goin’ to hell talkin’ like that.” Once again I have digressed though. Christian Fundamentalists are an entirely different story.
I break open fortune cookies, trying to make as little mess as possible, slip out the strip of paper, and read. If I were a gambling person I might also consider playing the numbers written under my fortune. Has anyone ever won the lottery based upon the use of those numbers? All these questions that have come to mind, all because of a little piece of paper, hidden inside a stale, hard, very crunchy item, that pretends to be a cookie. I have just spent way to much time thinking about fortune cookies….and now writing about them as well. Possibly I should move on, get out the tape and find a place to immortalize my one and only cool fortune cookie fortune, and continue on, living my mystery.
Monday, August 14, 2006
The Gym...and Salt & Vinegar Potato Chips
How I wish I were one of those people for whom a love of exercise came naturally. I am not. I’ve learned to appreciate it over the past two years and think that I can say with all honesty that I like it, but doubt that I will ever love it. I am not one of those chicks that dress in their color coordinated spandex outfit and do an hour on the elliptical, while their pony tail swings back and forth to the rhythm of their work out. Having a sense of fashion in the gym is not high on my list of priorities, although I am really into wearing cool sneakers.
My first priority in regard to the gym is to get in the car and drive there. Once I’m there then everything else falls into place. That is unless the battery has gone dead in my mini disc player leaving me without the Goo Goo Dolls, Matchbox Twenty or Third Eye Blind to work out with. Then, I either have to go and buy batteries… or go home. Without something other than the Dance Party music they play in the gym, I can’t concentrate on what I’m there to do. It’s hard to work out when you are perseveratively thinking about how crappy the music sounds. My second priority would be making sure I have a pony tail holder so that as I sweat, my hair is not sticking to my neck, driving me crazy and causing me to loose my concentration, or the Zen place I sometimes manage to achieve as I climb treadmill hills. And my third is to work hard enough to actually sweat.
Tonight was the first night I’ve been to the gym in a month. It’s been a long *gym vacation*. The longest I’ve had in the two years that I’ve had a membership, and I’ve missed it. Some of what I consider my best writing has started in my head while on the treadmill. After walking up and down hills anywhere from two to four miles I find myself sitting in my car, scribbling down all the random thoughts I’ve thought about while sweating. I’m not sure why that happens. Maybe it’s because I walk with my eyes closed, music in my ears and no other distractions, allowing my mind to free associate and go where it wants…. running amok without a mother to say “stop that…you can’t possibly think you can do that!”
My original purpose in joining the gym was to become healthier. I made a decision that I did not want to become permanently imbedded on a couch, only to get off of it every ten years to shop for a new one to sit back down on. I did not want to wake up at 60 with diabetes and a heart condition and not be able to participate in my life, nor end up with the osteoporosis that the women in my family seem to be prone to…..so the only choice was to get off my butt and get to the gym. A recent consult with a cardiologist, that required me to participate in a bit of torture called a Thallium Stress Test, has proven that the gym works. (And I do thank all of you who I moaned and groaned to about “the test,” calling you all to say my final good-bye’s, thinking I might die of the side effects of said test. I would like to add here, that for me this particular test rated right up there with child birth, and I’m still not sure which I think was worse.)
I am in excellent cardiovascular shape. That alone should be enough to keep me going, and actually it is. Yet, the benefits for my mind far surpass the benefits for my body. In the first year of my “getting a new life,” I cried….a lot. Without the gym I would probably never have gotten out of bed. Some days, other than work, the gym was the only place I went, at times working out very late at night in order to be exhausted so that I could sleep. Physical exertion made me feel better. I even experience from time to time “runners high.” I may not run, but I work hard and once through that wall of resistance I feel as if I can go on forever. I think…. I meditate…. I visualize my new life…a new job….a new apartment….new people in my life….I write. I do all of this with my eyes closed, music in my ears and beads of perspiration trickling down my neck.
Yes, there are some days that the only thing I’m thinking about is that Quizno’s is next door and they sell small bags of Salt & Vinegar potato chips….which I really love and rarely ever buy. Once in a while I'll play “Let’s Make a Deal”…….walk 800 calories worth and buy a bag of chips. It’s not like buying the big bag in the grocery store. I can have the small one and be content, knowing that I didn’t just consume 800 plus calories worth of a food item that is horrible for me. And, that’s OK. I like the gym and I like the Salt & Vinegar potato chips and if I want, I can have both. My days of thinking about all the other things I think about, far outnumber the Salt and Vinegar Potato Chip days. And, it’s probably a good thing that they do....
My first priority in regard to the gym is to get in the car and drive there. Once I’m there then everything else falls into place. That is unless the battery has gone dead in my mini disc player leaving me without the Goo Goo Dolls, Matchbox Twenty or Third Eye Blind to work out with. Then, I either have to go and buy batteries… or go home. Without something other than the Dance Party music they play in the gym, I can’t concentrate on what I’m there to do. It’s hard to work out when you are perseveratively thinking about how crappy the music sounds. My second priority would be making sure I have a pony tail holder so that as I sweat, my hair is not sticking to my neck, driving me crazy and causing me to loose my concentration, or the Zen place I sometimes manage to achieve as I climb treadmill hills. And my third is to work hard enough to actually sweat.
Tonight was the first night I’ve been to the gym in a month. It’s been a long *gym vacation*. The longest I’ve had in the two years that I’ve had a membership, and I’ve missed it. Some of what I consider my best writing has started in my head while on the treadmill. After walking up and down hills anywhere from two to four miles I find myself sitting in my car, scribbling down all the random thoughts I’ve thought about while sweating. I’m not sure why that happens. Maybe it’s because I walk with my eyes closed, music in my ears and no other distractions, allowing my mind to free associate and go where it wants…. running amok without a mother to say “stop that…you can’t possibly think you can do that!”
My original purpose in joining the gym was to become healthier. I made a decision that I did not want to become permanently imbedded on a couch, only to get off of it every ten years to shop for a new one to sit back down on. I did not want to wake up at 60 with diabetes and a heart condition and not be able to participate in my life, nor end up with the osteoporosis that the women in my family seem to be prone to…..so the only choice was to get off my butt and get to the gym. A recent consult with a cardiologist, that required me to participate in a bit of torture called a Thallium Stress Test, has proven that the gym works. (And I do thank all of you who I moaned and groaned to about “the test,” calling you all to say my final good-bye’s, thinking I might die of the side effects of said test. I would like to add here, that for me this particular test rated right up there with child birth, and I’m still not sure which I think was worse.)
I am in excellent cardiovascular shape. That alone should be enough to keep me going, and actually it is. Yet, the benefits for my mind far surpass the benefits for my body. In the first year of my “getting a new life,” I cried….a lot. Without the gym I would probably never have gotten out of bed. Some days, other than work, the gym was the only place I went, at times working out very late at night in order to be exhausted so that I could sleep. Physical exertion made me feel better. I even experience from time to time “runners high.” I may not run, but I work hard and once through that wall of resistance I feel as if I can go on forever. I think…. I meditate…. I visualize my new life…a new job….a new apartment….new people in my life….I write. I do all of this with my eyes closed, music in my ears and beads of perspiration trickling down my neck.
Yes, there are some days that the only thing I’m thinking about is that Quizno’s is next door and they sell small bags of Salt & Vinegar potato chips….which I really love and rarely ever buy. Once in a while I'll play “Let’s Make a Deal”…….walk 800 calories worth and buy a bag of chips. It’s not like buying the big bag in the grocery store. I can have the small one and be content, knowing that I didn’t just consume 800 plus calories worth of a food item that is horrible for me. And, that’s OK. I like the gym and I like the Salt & Vinegar potato chips and if I want, I can have both. My days of thinking about all the other things I think about, far outnumber the Salt and Vinegar Potato Chip days. And, it’s probably a good thing that they do....
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Building sandcastles
This afternoon as I sit here on the beach, sand sifting between my purple polished toes, I am watching as the sandcastle that is so diligently being built by a young father and his children continues to wash away a little at a time. Yet, it seems to matter not to them. They dig the trench around it deeper, and pile large buckets of sand onto it in order to shore it up; squeals of laughter from the children and smiles from their father, neither caring that the waves steals bits of their ocean front home with each roll onto shore.
Sitting on my borrowed sand chair, I watch three, thirty-something father’s play with their young children. One holds his daughter who looks no more that four on a Boogie board as it skates around atop the small waves that curl near the shore line. Little boys, also with Boogie boards run out to meet these waves and ride them back onto the beach, future reflections of the older men who are playing with them now, and I wonder…..how do my children feel about their *not so long ago* childhoods? Just the other day my daughter declared that she does not think she like’s being an adult and I felt a sense of relief after hearing that.
I’ve been wondering lately if my children missed that they didn’t have parents who “played” with them. Sure, we had fun from time to time, but most of what I remember was tinged by stress, those foreboding feelings that always existed for me as an adult. If I could go back and rewrite any part of my life and theirs, this is the part I would rewrite….the childhood of my children. I would go back and try to have more fun with them, not letting those adult stresses that I felt so acutely in the past, impact on them, or at least trying not too. Yet given the fact that my daughter would like to go back to her childhood, maybe my stress didn’t affect her or her brother as much as I fear that it did.
Do my children remember their childhoods with fondness? Perhaps they do. Erin could not wait to grow up and become an adult and do the things that adults get to do. And here is she, now an adult, wishing to be a child again.
I’m hoping to be in a position to one day have fun with my children, even if they are grown. To do some of the things I would like to have done with them when they were young, but that for reasons beyond my control and theirs, we did not. To one day be able to take them on a great vacation and have fun with them, free of the worry about what shoe might possibly drop next.
Erin’s desire to go back to that place and time gives me hope that both she and her brother did have childhoods that they will cherish as they grow older. Maybe it’s the *mother guilt* that I suffer periodically from that colors my perception of what their childhood was like?
For now I’m just going to enjoy watching these young men playing with their children and hope that one day, my adult children will be on a beach somewhere, playing with theirs, and that their children…my grandchildren, will have a grandmother who has learned how to laugh and have fun and play. (Let me just add here though, I am not in any rush to become a grandmother!)
Sitting on my borrowed sand chair, I watch three, thirty-something father’s play with their young children. One holds his daughter who looks no more that four on a Boogie board as it skates around atop the small waves that curl near the shore line. Little boys, also with Boogie boards run out to meet these waves and ride them back onto the beach, future reflections of the older men who are playing with them now, and I wonder…..how do my children feel about their *not so long ago* childhoods? Just the other day my daughter declared that she does not think she like’s being an adult and I felt a sense of relief after hearing that.
I’ve been wondering lately if my children missed that they didn’t have parents who “played” with them. Sure, we had fun from time to time, but most of what I remember was tinged by stress, those foreboding feelings that always existed for me as an adult. If I could go back and rewrite any part of my life and theirs, this is the part I would rewrite….the childhood of my children. I would go back and try to have more fun with them, not letting those adult stresses that I felt so acutely in the past, impact on them, or at least trying not too. Yet given the fact that my daughter would like to go back to her childhood, maybe my stress didn’t affect her or her brother as much as I fear that it did.
Do my children remember their childhoods with fondness? Perhaps they do. Erin could not wait to grow up and become an adult and do the things that adults get to do. And here is she, now an adult, wishing to be a child again.
I’m hoping to be in a position to one day have fun with my children, even if they are grown. To do some of the things I would like to have done with them when they were young, but that for reasons beyond my control and theirs, we did not. To one day be able to take them on a great vacation and have fun with them, free of the worry about what shoe might possibly drop next.
Erin’s desire to go back to that place and time gives me hope that both she and her brother did have childhoods that they will cherish as they grow older. Maybe it’s the *mother guilt* that I suffer periodically from that colors my perception of what their childhood was like?
For now I’m just going to enjoy watching these young men playing with their children and hope that one day, my adult children will be on a beach somewhere, playing with theirs, and that their children…my grandchildren, will have a grandmother who has learned how to laugh and have fun and play. (Let me just add here though, I am not in any rush to become a grandmother!)
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Stop messing with our staute!
In today’s New York Times there was a story about a church in Tennessee that took it upon themselves to remake Lady Liberty….you know, *The Statue of Liberty.* I understand the concept of this being a free country and people are at *liberty* to express themselves as they wish, as long as they aren’t endangering others that is, but this make over is just WRONG and I doubt that the Ms. Liberty would appreciate what they’ve done to her one bit. Jane and I certainly don’t.
“As the congregation of the World Overcomers Outreach Ministries Church looked on and its pastor, Apostle Alton R. Williams, presided, a brown shroud much like a burqa was pulled away to reveal a giant statue of the Lady, but with the Ten Commandments under one arm and "Jehovah" inscribed on her crown.
And in place of a torch, she held aloft a large gold cross, as if to ward off the pawnshops, the car dealerships and the discount furniture outlets at the busy corner of Kirby Parkway and Winchester that is her home.” (July 5, 2006, NY Times, Shaila Dewan)
Jane is a New Yorker who through no fault of her own, has had to relocate to Tennessee. To the Memphis area of Tennessee which is where Arkansas, Alabama, Mississippi and Tennessee meet. For Northerner’s this part of Tennessee is a forbidding place to live. For months now, Jane has sent all of her friend’s horrifically humorous emails about what living in that part of the country is like. I sent her the NY Times article this morning to see what she thought and found out that this particular version of the lady, is five minutes from her house and her husband drives by it every day on his way to work. Needless to say, she is less than pleased.
As New Yorker’s I think we have a special affinity for the Statue of Liberty, after all she does live in New York. Collectively we have become very protective of our landmark statuary and very possessive of it all. I also believe that after 9/11 we became bigger New Yorker’s (if that’s possible). I often wonder if that has any bearing on this huge desire I have to move to the city. That I can’t truly feel like a New Yorker unless I have actually lived in NYC. Jane is a big New Yorker who for now, lives in Tennessee. Here are her thoughts on the recent make over and what it’s like to live in the Bible Belt. Keep in mind please that Jane is a very religious woman, much more so than me:
Given further thought...I have some observations about the "Bible Belt".
Living in the Bible Belt seems to give people license to create new religious sects that single out certain people either for an "Up" elevator ride or a treacherous "Down" trip upon their demise. Proximity to "The Belt" allows you to express very twisted, prejudiced and in many cases outlawed ideals by which society should abide.
Perhaps my affinity to Lady Liberty as she stands was reinforced the day I cried for our lost friends and feared that some unknown, perverse enemy might fly a plane into her next. To mutate her for religious cult purposes seems obscene.
We sat at dinner with a lovely couple we met last year. They never appeared to be substance abusers or in any other way criminal. All of the sudden, in the middle of a sentence, the gentleman took his beer (the only beer he had all night) and tucked it behind the salsa and chips in the middle of the table. He hastily explained that their pastor had just walked into the restaurant and if he wanted to be allowed to volunteer for any groups in the church, he'd better not be seen drinking. And I thought "Or cavorting with sorts like us!!". He explained that Southern Baptists only drink in their homes so as not to be found out by their co-congregants. There are a bunch of restaurants down here with little sectioned off rooms for privacy. I thought it was for the old Southern gentleman's discretion with his mistresses (which is probably also true), but our friend explained that the little booths were designed so that your neighbors couldn't see you imbibe. The rooms are still very much in use.
One of my male friends from work (another director) made several rude jokes and comments about homosexuals while in my company during our training in Chicago. I said to him at one point that I found the jokes unfunny and that we had left a church in Memphis due to anti-homosexual remarks made during a sermon. It took him 4 months to tell me that he is gay; he was afraid if anyone knew they would ostracize him. He acted in a self-hating way because of the sick, antiquated ways of the South. I found that so painful. If I was him, I would get in my car and drive North or West or East...I don't know-anywhere but here.
I hate that so many down here truly believe that they have more rights, deserve better access to services and luxuries... freedom to speak their minds (no matter how narrow they are) based on the color of their skin. And it's the same color as my skin and I am embarrassed by that.
So, these are some of the serious reasons I would like to leave this area someday soon. I have met people from Georgia, SC, NC and Oklahoma. They all feel the same way, as though we are caught in some kind of time warp. Memphis as Time Warp....sounds feasible. Even people from Nashville claim a different mind set entirely. We are in the vacuum that is Arkansas, Alabama, Mississippi. Places where time stands still.
Beam me up, Scotty!!
-Jane
“As the congregation of the World Overcomers Outreach Ministries Church looked on and its pastor, Apostle Alton R. Williams, presided, a brown shroud much like a burqa was pulled away to reveal a giant statue of the Lady, but with the Ten Commandments under one arm and "Jehovah" inscribed on her crown.
And in place of a torch, she held aloft a large gold cross, as if to ward off the pawnshops, the car dealerships and the discount furniture outlets at the busy corner of Kirby Parkway and Winchester that is her home.” (July 5, 2006, NY Times, Shaila Dewan)
Jane is a New Yorker who through no fault of her own, has had to relocate to Tennessee. To the Memphis area of Tennessee which is where Arkansas, Alabama, Mississippi and Tennessee meet. For Northerner’s this part of Tennessee is a forbidding place to live. For months now, Jane has sent all of her friend’s horrifically humorous emails about what living in that part of the country is like. I sent her the NY Times article this morning to see what she thought and found out that this particular version of the lady, is five minutes from her house and her husband drives by it every day on his way to work. Needless to say, she is less than pleased.
As New Yorker’s I think we have a special affinity for the Statue of Liberty, after all she does live in New York. Collectively we have become very protective of our landmark statuary and very possessive of it all. I also believe that after 9/11 we became bigger New Yorker’s (if that’s possible). I often wonder if that has any bearing on this huge desire I have to move to the city. That I can’t truly feel like a New Yorker unless I have actually lived in NYC. Jane is a big New Yorker who for now, lives in Tennessee. Here are her thoughts on the recent make over and what it’s like to live in the Bible Belt. Keep in mind please that Jane is a very religious woman, much more so than me:
Given further thought...I have some observations about the "Bible Belt".
Living in the Bible Belt seems to give people license to create new religious sects that single out certain people either for an "Up" elevator ride or a treacherous "Down" trip upon their demise. Proximity to "The Belt" allows you to express very twisted, prejudiced and in many cases outlawed ideals by which society should abide.
Perhaps my affinity to Lady Liberty as she stands was reinforced the day I cried for our lost friends and feared that some unknown, perverse enemy might fly a plane into her next. To mutate her for religious cult purposes seems obscene.
We sat at dinner with a lovely couple we met last year. They never appeared to be substance abusers or in any other way criminal. All of the sudden, in the middle of a sentence, the gentleman took his beer (the only beer he had all night) and tucked it behind the salsa and chips in the middle of the table. He hastily explained that their pastor had just walked into the restaurant and if he wanted to be allowed to volunteer for any groups in the church, he'd better not be seen drinking. And I thought "Or cavorting with sorts like us!!". He explained that Southern Baptists only drink in their homes so as not to be found out by their co-congregants. There are a bunch of restaurants down here with little sectioned off rooms for privacy. I thought it was for the old Southern gentleman's discretion with his mistresses (which is probably also true), but our friend explained that the little booths were designed so that your neighbors couldn't see you imbibe. The rooms are still very much in use.
One of my male friends from work (another director) made several rude jokes and comments about homosexuals while in my company during our training in Chicago. I said to him at one point that I found the jokes unfunny and that we had left a church in Memphis due to anti-homosexual remarks made during a sermon. It took him 4 months to tell me that he is gay; he was afraid if anyone knew they would ostracize him. He acted in a self-hating way because of the sick, antiquated ways of the South. I found that so painful. If I was him, I would get in my car and drive North or West or East...I don't know-anywhere but here.
I hate that so many down here truly believe that they have more rights, deserve better access to services and luxuries... freedom to speak their minds (no matter how narrow they are) based on the color of their skin. And it's the same color as my skin and I am embarrassed by that.
So, these are some of the serious reasons I would like to leave this area someday soon. I have met people from Georgia, SC, NC and Oklahoma. They all feel the same way, as though we are caught in some kind of time warp. Memphis as Time Warp....sounds feasible. Even people from Nashville claim a different mind set entirely. We are in the vacuum that is Arkansas, Alabama, Mississippi. Places where time stands still.
Beam me up, Scotty!!
-Jane
Saturday, June 24, 2006
The Meaning of Peace
Someone sent me this in an email. It hangs on the bulletin board in my office so that I can glance over at it, and remind myself that yes, despite how overwhelmed I feel at times, I really do feel peaceful.
There was once a King who offered a prize to the artist who could paint the best picture of peace. Many artists tried. The King looked at all the pictures, but there were only two that he really liked, and he had to choose between them.
One picture was of a calm lake. The lake was a perfect mirror for the peaceful towering mountains all around it. Overhead was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. All who saw this picture thought that it was a perfect picture of peace.
The second picture had mountains, too. But these were rugged and bare. Above was an angry sky from which rain fell, and in which lightning played. Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall. This did not look peaceful at all.
But when the King looked, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock. In the bush a mother bird had built her nest…..a perfect picture of peace.
Which of the pictures won the prize?
The King chose the second picture.
Do you know why?
“Because,” explained the King, “peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. Peace means to be in the midst of all those things and still be calm in your heart. That is the real meaning of peace.”
That is the REAL meaning of peace.
-Author Unknown
There was once a King who offered a prize to the artist who could paint the best picture of peace. Many artists tried. The King looked at all the pictures, but there were only two that he really liked, and he had to choose between them.
One picture was of a calm lake. The lake was a perfect mirror for the peaceful towering mountains all around it. Overhead was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. All who saw this picture thought that it was a perfect picture of peace.
The second picture had mountains, too. But these were rugged and bare. Above was an angry sky from which rain fell, and in which lightning played. Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall. This did not look peaceful at all.
But when the King looked, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock. In the bush a mother bird had built her nest…..a perfect picture of peace.
Which of the pictures won the prize?
The King chose the second picture.
Do you know why?
“Because,” explained the King, “peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. Peace means to be in the midst of all those things and still be calm in your heart. That is the real meaning of peace.”
That is the REAL meaning of peace.
-Author Unknown
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Red Corvettes and Yard Sales
This is my third "guest column" as published in the Long Island Advance on June 22,2006.
“IHD2HVIT” was what was written on the license plate of the red Corvette that pulled out of the 7-Eleven parking lot in front of me. It took me a few seconds to figure out exactly what it meant, and when I did, I laughed out loud and thought to myself, “how very creative.” While riding down Roe Boulevard behind the “I had to have it” guy, I continued to smile and decided he would be my act of bravery for this day.
Recently a new friend suggested to me that in order to continue down this path I’m on; there are some things I need to do, with becoming fearless in the forefront. Although much braver than I have ever been, I’m still nurturing this trait that in some ways is so foreign to me, yet in other ways, not. My friend suggested that I could either ask myself in certain situations throughout my day, “What I would do if I were not afraid,” or I could actually do one brave thing every day. I haven’t actually done one brave thing every day, but on the days that I haven’t, I do ask myself that question.
My act of bravery for this day was to pull up next to the man in the red corvette, lean out of my car window and compliment him on his license plate, telling him that it made me laugh. I should also have thanked him for giving me something to write about, but at that time had no idea he’d be making an appearance in this piece of writing.
I am much more comfortable initially being an observer, a watcher… prior to opening my mouth to express an opinion. I like to have a sense of who people are and where they’re coming from before I reveal myself. But, certainly there’s no reason to hold back complimenting someone on an item such as an amusing license plate, or a cute dog they might be walking, or in my case a really nice pair of shoes or a bag they’re carrying. My friend Nina will chat with anyone, on any line, at any time, and by the time she’s done paying for her purchases, will know all kinds of things about them. I have not completely developed this skill, and I’m working on it as a means to change old patterns. And although sometimes just a little stressful, it’s very exciting as well.
The same friend who suggested that I might want to try being brave on a daily basis, also recommended that I clean out my closet. Somehow, at least in my mind, these two ideas go hand in hand. She said that I should get rid of anything in my closet that is no longer “me,” regardless of what it is, or how much it may have cost, and to wear what I want to wear, no matter what anyone else may think or say. This would have been my sister’s philosophy as well, so I’ve decided to adopt it and think that I may very well shop for that black tulle skirt and combat boots, an act of a woman not afraid to be who she really is. Maybe they won’t be items of clothing to wear to work, but I would certainly wear them to lunch in Chelsea.
Also in that closet are many, many boxes filled with items from my old life. For some time now, I’ve been thinking that I needed to go through them as I cannot possibly take all that’s in them, to a small apartment somewhere. The other reality though, is that so many of those items in those boxes, no longer “fit me,” physically or emotionally.
So, I’m going to continue to compliment creative men in red corvettes, women who have their own sense of style and don’t care what others think, and practice chit-chatting while waiting on lines. I’m also planning a really big yard sale in July in order to finally divest myself of all those items that are no longer me. And, if I see the man in the “IHD2HVIT” red Corvette tooling around town, I might just have to beep my horn and wave at him.
“IHD2HVIT” was what was written on the license plate of the red Corvette that pulled out of the 7-Eleven parking lot in front of me. It took me a few seconds to figure out exactly what it meant, and when I did, I laughed out loud and thought to myself, “how very creative.” While riding down Roe Boulevard behind the “I had to have it” guy, I continued to smile and decided he would be my act of bravery for this day.
Recently a new friend suggested to me that in order to continue down this path I’m on; there are some things I need to do, with becoming fearless in the forefront. Although much braver than I have ever been, I’m still nurturing this trait that in some ways is so foreign to me, yet in other ways, not. My friend suggested that I could either ask myself in certain situations throughout my day, “What I would do if I were not afraid,” or I could actually do one brave thing every day. I haven’t actually done one brave thing every day, but on the days that I haven’t, I do ask myself that question.
My act of bravery for this day was to pull up next to the man in the red corvette, lean out of my car window and compliment him on his license plate, telling him that it made me laugh. I should also have thanked him for giving me something to write about, but at that time had no idea he’d be making an appearance in this piece of writing.
I am much more comfortable initially being an observer, a watcher… prior to opening my mouth to express an opinion. I like to have a sense of who people are and where they’re coming from before I reveal myself. But, certainly there’s no reason to hold back complimenting someone on an item such as an amusing license plate, or a cute dog they might be walking, or in my case a really nice pair of shoes or a bag they’re carrying. My friend Nina will chat with anyone, on any line, at any time, and by the time she’s done paying for her purchases, will know all kinds of things about them. I have not completely developed this skill, and I’m working on it as a means to change old patterns. And although sometimes just a little stressful, it’s very exciting as well.
The same friend who suggested that I might want to try being brave on a daily basis, also recommended that I clean out my closet. Somehow, at least in my mind, these two ideas go hand in hand. She said that I should get rid of anything in my closet that is no longer “me,” regardless of what it is, or how much it may have cost, and to wear what I want to wear, no matter what anyone else may think or say. This would have been my sister’s philosophy as well, so I’ve decided to adopt it and think that I may very well shop for that black tulle skirt and combat boots, an act of a woman not afraid to be who she really is. Maybe they won’t be items of clothing to wear to work, but I would certainly wear them to lunch in Chelsea.
Also in that closet are many, many boxes filled with items from my old life. For some time now, I’ve been thinking that I needed to go through them as I cannot possibly take all that’s in them, to a small apartment somewhere. The other reality though, is that so many of those items in those boxes, no longer “fit me,” physically or emotionally.
So, I’m going to continue to compliment creative men in red corvettes, women who have their own sense of style and don’t care what others think, and practice chit-chatting while waiting on lines. I’m also planning a really big yard sale in July in order to finally divest myself of all those items that are no longer me. And, if I see the man in the “IHD2HVIT” red Corvette tooling around town, I might just have to beep my horn and wave at him.
Monday, June 05, 2006
One year ago..it began
I started this blog one year ago today. And, I'm still here. I've looked back at this past year of writing and realized just how much I've changed. How much more confident I am about where I'm going and what I'm doing. I'm finding that living my life on the edge is a very cool place to be. I've grown so fond of edges over this past year and have a far greater appreciation for those people in my life, who have them.
Once you start to take the risks, they get easier, and in my case, have become a part of who I am *becoming*. I just joined a writing group, and am looking forward to writing and reading my work, out loud and in public. The idea of possibly reading something I've written, out loud, would so not have been me one year ago, yet now I find myself open to the possibility of doing so. To surrounding myself with others who can appreciate what it's like to have something to say and a huge desire to say it in a more public manner. To be able to say, "Hey...here I am. Listen up....please read me."
I can look back on this year's worth of writing and see how I've grown and how happy I've become. I am jazzed about my life and about all the possibilities that still remain. I love all of you, my old friends........those of you who read me and cheer me on and who have so many times dried my tears and called me to make sure I've left the house once in a while, or fixed me tea. And now I add all the new friends I've made over this past year, those of you I'm still getting to know and whose potential I see, even if you may not see it in yourselves or have reached it yet. I adore each and every one of you, old and new....and hold you all, close to my heart.
And my children, who know nothing of this blog filled with writing....maybe this will be the year I share it with them. They, who have become so supportive of me and who I am hoping have come to the understanding that I was not abandoning them, but trying to save myself. And that by saving myself, I will always be here to catch them if they fall. Dramatic..yes, I know. But, that's who I am....I am dramatic. I have lived my entire adult life, not being who I was meant to be.....I was the person who never made waves, never expressed an opinion, never felt as if she really existed.....that person is gone now, she exists in memory only....how wonderful it is to be free! And, yes.......it is....dramatic!
~Susan~
Once you start to take the risks, they get easier, and in my case, have become a part of who I am *becoming*. I just joined a writing group, and am looking forward to writing and reading my work, out loud and in public. The idea of possibly reading something I've written, out loud, would so not have been me one year ago, yet now I find myself open to the possibility of doing so. To surrounding myself with others who can appreciate what it's like to have something to say and a huge desire to say it in a more public manner. To be able to say, "Hey...here I am. Listen up....please read me."
I can look back on this year's worth of writing and see how I've grown and how happy I've become. I am jazzed about my life and about all the possibilities that still remain. I love all of you, my old friends........those of you who read me and cheer me on and who have so many times dried my tears and called me to make sure I've left the house once in a while, or fixed me tea. And now I add all the new friends I've made over this past year, those of you I'm still getting to know and whose potential I see, even if you may not see it in yourselves or have reached it yet. I adore each and every one of you, old and new....and hold you all, close to my heart.
And my children, who know nothing of this blog filled with writing....maybe this will be the year I share it with them. They, who have become so supportive of me and who I am hoping have come to the understanding that I was not abandoning them, but trying to save myself. And that by saving myself, I will always be here to catch them if they fall. Dramatic..yes, I know. But, that's who I am....I am dramatic. I have lived my entire adult life, not being who I was meant to be.....I was the person who never made waves, never expressed an opinion, never felt as if she really existed.....that person is gone now, she exists in memory only....how wonderful it is to be free! And, yes.......it is....dramatic!
~Susan~
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)