Category Archives: BEING DIFFERENT

Diversity

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I was at a company meeting and people were excited to have me on the various client teams because “we need diversity”.  I realized they were talking about being a woman and I said, helpfully, that I satisfy two boxes.  “Which other one?”  “Gay,” I responded.  Then I was asked if I wanted to join the GLBT affinity group.  “No,” I said, “I am very comfortable being gay, and my only interest is satisfying client diversity requirements to get more business.  But if you have a working mothers’ affinity group, that’d be great.”

So, I’m here, I’m queer, they are used to it, but they don’t get it.

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Privacy, please

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It is funny how people give away private information about their kids without even knowing it.

I was at a meeting and we were talking about kids and dating and a colleague from the midwest said that her early-teens son was very friendly with girls but hadn’t decided on a girlfriend.  Fine so far.  Then she added, “but he is always out with them.  If there are seven girls going to the movies, he’s the only guy.”  Ok, ok, ok.

The difference between a New Yorker and a midwesterner is that we New Yorkers would know the implications of that fact pattern and would leave it to the son — and to time — to unravel the mysteries therein.

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Tiger

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Does anyone care if Tiger apologizes?  Why is it news?  Other than his family, whom did he let down?  Certainly not the women who wanted their 15 minutes of fame by having sex with him.  His fans?  Didn’t people root for him because of his athletic ability and his personal story?  Did anyone root for him because he was a faithful, family man?

The unfortunate truth is that if you know something sordid or unappealing about a person, it affects you more than if you knew something positive or simply neutral.  I didn’t listen to Tiger’s apology, but if it took this long to come up with one, then it is a public relations apology to regain sponsorships and not a soul-searching mea culpa.

A dear, wise friend once said, “you do it, you live with it.”  She also said, “the strong eat the weak,” although she has mellowed from that position.  But she is right, life is about taking responsibility and standing up for what is right or taking your lumps when you blow it.  We lived across the hall during senior year at college and I was having an — how shall we say — indiscretion and she cleared the hallway of people for me to avoid embarrassment.  (I am not giving details, so you need to read between the lines and draw your own conclusions.)  The next morning, she was knocking at my door, booming, “if you want to dance, you need to pay the fiddler,” which means if you can’t do something in the light of day (as it were), then don’t do it.

This friend probably doesn’t know that she caused me to look deep inside and start the process of coming out of the closet.  She continues to have high standards, tempered by compassion from life experiences.  She is the standard bearer and I adore her.  She and I have had professional upheavals these past few years and I admire her willingness to take on new challenges in new places.  She is my measuring stick for success and hard work.  If she reads this, she may be surprised that she had such a profound effect on me so many years ago and through to today.  I hope that she puts me in her “win” column.

She could have taught Tiger a lesson or two.  And she would have shaped him up faster than an army drill sergeant.  And, she has perfectly puffy hair.  So, Tiger (if you know what is good for you), be afraid, Tiger, be very afraid.

And, to my friend who is always in my court, long ago you re-directed my life on a bumpy but, ultimately, very happy course.  You make a difference just by your presence among us.  I love you.

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Gay Marriage

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Someone very dear to me mentioned that something was glaringly missing on my blog — my views of gay marriage and my response to all the current strides and defeats.  My response was that I couldn’t be funny or amusing about something that core to me.  But, I guess I need to vent.  So here goes.

I have had the many privileges of being raised white and upper middle class in this country.  Even in my lifetime being Jewish was only an issue at “elite” social levels (and I didn’t like those people anyway).

But I am gay and I have less civil rights than others because of it.  If I didn’t live in New York City, being gay could be dangerous.  We are well-educated, well-to-do and resourceful so we have created a legal web of “equivalents” so that the inability to marry does not affect our day-to-day lives.  Still, it does make me feel like a stranger in my own land.

Those against gay marriage hide behind the sanctity of the institution of marriage and the social fabric arguments.

First, if marriage were so sacred, the self-proclaimed family values politicians wouldn’t be crashing and burning in adultery and gay sex scandals every month or so.  Frankly, heterosexuals are destroying the sanctity of marriage.  Gays in long-term committed relationships would probably lower the divorce rates.

But all this obscures a central truth:  Marriage is not a religious law.  Civil law decides the rights of married people in the course of the marriage and its dissolution by divorce or death.  Therefore, all married people have civil unions.  Some of these are “consecrated” in religious ritual and clergy have the power to officiate pursuant to civil law.   Sometimes, a couple gets married in a judge’s chambers.  Sometimes, you read about a non-clergy, non-civil servant getting authorization to marry a couple.

Why is this important?  Because clergy are not necessary to create a “marriage” under civil law.  So, let’s fix the nomenclature and call everything a civil union — whether it is a heterosexual or gay couple.  Let religions call their rituals “marriage”.

The social fabric argument really riles me: my life with my partner and our son is destroying the social fabric of our country.  We pay more in taxes in any year than the average American family earns in a lifetime, we give to charity, we support universal health care, we help the elderly and the needy and we host all family holidays — civil and religious.  Nevertheless, the fact of our lives is why Bubba and Jolene  — who live in a rented trailer in some trailer park in Mississippi, who don’t have health care, whose children work at WalMart, run a meth lab or fight on the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan — can’t get ahead.  It isn’t because we have a broken public education system, non-existent health care, faltering manufacturing industries and young men and women who come back from (at least one unnecessary) war broken inside and out.  Clearly, Bubba and Jolene and their children won’t have a future if the states recognize our lives as a family.

Ok, I vented.

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The greatest generation

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I know, I know. I write about death and destruction a lot. But life is like that. And movies and TV depict death and destruction with a certain enthusiasm that seems, well, ooky.

Today, I went to a friend’s father’s funeral. I didn’t know my friend’s father but I knew about his life.  I heard him speak once.  And his is a life story worth telling again and again, over and over.

He was born in Turkey and raised — before World War II — in France. He was a Jew and fled to the forests in unoccupied France.  There he met his wife and together, with others they met in hiding, fought with the Resistance.

I remember his saying at a talk at our synagogue that he never really thought of himself as a survivor in the same way that those who survived the concentration camps were survivors.

At the funeral, the rabbi asked those who hid with him to stand and three very old people slowly, and with assistance, stood, two of them very stooped over.  These old people did heroic things in a world gone haywire and they survived in a jungle of sorts where other humans were hunters and they were the game.

This man did the exact opposite of what was done to him. He loved, he gave generously of his time and his resources, he was grateful for life‘s gifts and, as someone at the funeral said, he didn’t blink when adversity hit.

He is truly the epitome of our greatest generation.  He saw the worst, endured the worst and gave his best back.

I didn’t know him but I stand on his shoulders and those like him — my own parents and grandparents — and therefore I need to pay my respects to a man who made possible the opportunities in my life.  For the debt I cannot repay to those who so willingly gave to me, I promise to pay it forward to the next generation, all the while telling the heroic stories of those who came before me.

Monsieur Henri, your memory is a blessing to all who know you and your family.

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The hardest part about having kids? Living through their childhoods.

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So this weekend, we went to the birthday party of our son’s betrothed (she turned 8, he is 7.5).  He asked her to marry him at summer camp and she said, “sure!”  We adore her and her parents so life is good so far. And both children attend the same school (but different classes, thank G-d).

Her parents (machertunim in Yiddish) and we went out recently and, among the stories, there was one in which the husband, a gentle giant (did I mention giant?) went — in his own words — ape-shit on someone.  He was justified in his reaction but, still, I thought, I am not sure that I want to tell him about an “oops” that could occur in adolescence if our children are still betrothed.  So, I am thinking about a chastity belt for boys.  All this going through my mind as we listen to jazz at a club and eat great food and wine.  I then start thinking about body armor for my son AND me.

My son is a gentlemen and a hyper-heterosexual young man.  Oxymoronic in the truest sense.  I guess being raised by lesbians will do that.  I am afraid, like any sane parent, about adolescence and what kids can watch on TV and then do in the instant that a parent is not watching.  Case in point: we are watching the Jets game on Sunday and a Viagara commercial comes on.  Try to explain erectile dysfunction to your 7.5 year-old to whom, at age 3, we had to plead “point it down” (so the pee would go in the overnight diaper) after “exploring”.

SO, back to the party.  The birthday girl’s mother says that the leader of their play group, an experienced child expert in something (vays nischt, as they say in Yiddish), thinks they are like brother-sister and not boyfriend-girlfriend.  I am relieved only to the extent that I don’t have to worry about plastic surgery after the gentle giant is finished with me if, G-d forbid, I had to explain about crazy adolescence and hormones (think, military school).  The grandmother overhears this and says, “the way they touch each other and interact, it is DEFINITELY boyfriend/girlfriend”.  Mothers know these things and I am scared once again and thinking about multi-generational living as a consequence of my son’s future indiscretion.  Until POB (partner of blogger) tells me that I am over-reacting.  Then I remember that she thought that the “bad girls” in hebrew school (yes, we’ve known each other since age 10) were still virgins.  I sink into despair.  I check my investments.  I move money to a separate account for contingencies.  I rest easy while searching the internet for his and her matching chastity belts.

This parent thing could kill a person.  I KNOW I was easier on my parents.  Or maybe they were not as crazy as I am.  Maybe they should have been because I did some crazy things.  Ok, I am stopping this loop because only bad things can come of it.

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I’ve lost that blogging feelin’

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I need help.  There are not too many bloggable moments as of late that are not work-related (or family-related with an unappealing message about those still alive and able to read my blog).   In fact, life has gotten, in some ways happily, ordinary.  Even mundane.

I had to be Mommy in the middle of the day — something I secretly enjoy but is still anathema to corporate America.  I picked up my son and his “bethrothed” — the young lady, soon to be 8 years old — to whom he pledged his love and undying loyalty at summer camp — and took them to a play group.  They talked about life when grown up and in the “hereafter” so much so that I suggested that they had long lives ahead of them and the “hereafter” could wait.  They held hands on the walk to the street corner and made sure each other was buckled in for the cab ride to the play group.  As the adult/guardian/interloper, I felt it was my duty to let them converse as they wanted.  They surprised me at the good habits they learned from their respective parents.  Old beyond their years.  Which means wild days are to come.  Be afraid.  Very afraid.  Apparently my son’s betrothed wants a marriage proposal for her birthday.  I was relieved that a ring wasn’t requested.  Knowing what I know about my son’s feelings for this little girl, it would be a BIG ring.  The kind you mortgage your house for.  Luckily, a solid birthday present and a marriage proposal are all that are warrranted.   I have time to save up for the wedding, because by that time, the groom’s family will be paying for the wedding.

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Only in America and only in New York

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POST-SCRIPT:  The part about the beer is my imagination running away with me.

I get out of the 96th Street subway station at 94th Street (if you live outside NY, just trust me on this) when I go to the gym.  Invariably, I pass the same panhandler asking for change.  He is not earnest in his request (“spare change?”) because he sits on a standpipe in front of the storefronts and doesn’t really work the crowd.  I feel guilty not giving him something but I rationalize my hard-heartedness by concluding that if I were a beggar I would be the best damn beggar on the street and this guy is so mediocre at his job that he doesn’t deserve spare change.  And this beggar is rather, well, blasé about the whole begging thing.  You see why New Yorkers are a breed unto themselves; we even have jaded beggars.

So far, for a New Yorker, nothing new in this story.  YET.

As I pass him, and he is saying a half-hearted “spare change?”, his cell phone rings and he answers, “hey, where you at? I’ve been waiting for you.”

What, to go out for a beer?  Or does he meet his friend every night and while he is waiting, begs for change?  A kind of “fringe benefit” or “value added” for his wait time?

I couldn’t make this stuff up and I am really sure I wouldn’t want to.

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The Clan

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On Sunday we gathered at my sister’s house for the traditional Jewish post-Christmas brunch, to go over the number of tourists who got in our way and the number of merry people who infected the usual ennui and bad humor that are so quintessentially New York.  Because we are open-hearted, if narrow-minded, my sister’s Catholic husband was welcomed to join. We sat down to a traditional meal — high in salt smoked fish oils and low nutrition and low in any nutritive value.  Not a vitamin in sight.

But something different happened this Sunday, and I have yet to process the event fully.  I saw — or else I would not believe this — my sister cook something.  Our cousin can no longer eat the usual fare that is our cultural comfort foods.  My sister, who had never before used her stove, made our cousin freshly scrambled eggs.

Last year, she got married to a wonderful man who is kind and always in a good mood.

This year she is cooking nourishing food.  I can see a trend, but I can’t yet see the trajectory.

For background, my mother and I had suggested to my sister, when she bought her apartment in 1999, that she just convert the kitchen to a den.  All she needed were a phone, a stack of take-out menus and a mini-bar fridge for diet coke. But she insisted that an apartment needed a kitchen.  So we suggested that she get the fiberglass demo version of a stove to save some money.  A few years after she moved in, my partner finally took out the plastic envelope with the care instructions and warranties and turned on a burner.  (I was horrified that she diminished the resale value for no apparent reason.)

I was nervous seeing my sister at the stove, thinking she might hurt herself.  Our cousin was so touched at my sister’s domestic effort once he realized that she never cooked anything for anyone, even her husband.  Also, our cousin is a life-long bachelor (save for a short-lived marriage a long time ago) living in a tiny studio with a mini-bar fridge, and therefore unaccustomed to home-cooking.  He could not stop complimenting my sister on the eggs.

We forgot to kvetch about the tourists or the merriment that interfered with our hardened and mean personalities.  Instead, at this brunch, we just all talked and were glad to be together.

Next year, we may be singing folk songs and a bonus round of kumbaya or maybe my sister will have knitted each of us something in seasonal colors.  I think I’ll read up on Ebenezer Scrooge, so I know my part and can be the standard bearer against the march of time and humility.  I hope Scrooge doesn’t get nice.  I don’t “do” nice.

You see why I am worried.

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Don’t Impinge on My Holiday

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On Christmas, Jews go to the movies and, before the 1980s, ordered in Cantonese Chinese food (now we have more choices).  It isn’t as if we have a holiday to celebrate although the Federal Government long ago, in a flagrant “fusion” (I don’t want to say violation) of the separation of church and state, declared Christmas a national holiday.

It used to be that if you went to a movie theater you would see all your Jewish friends in the neighborhood.  And you knew NOT to talk about synagogue matters even in whispers because even a stone deaf Jew can hear when you talk about synagogue politics or intrigue.

Over the past few years, I have noticed that the movie theaters are crowded and some people are wearing new hats, gloves and jackets and talking about recently received presents.  Hmmmmm.  Chanukah has usually come and gone by that time.  Hmmm. 

I thought that the fun and cheer and Norman Rockwell-like frolicking started at sundown on the 24th when, magically, everyone you know has a beautiful voice and all (miraculously, one could say) sing Christmas carols in perfect harmony.  Everyone, of course, has a chimney with a fire (why, if Santa is supposed to climb down, would you want to roast him and your presents in the fire) or at least a broken window for the Great White Man from the North Pole to enter.  Then, off to Christmas Mass where long-lost friends, lovers, siblings and parents materialize right on the music’s rhythmic beat to surprised and loving looks, but surprisingly little body contact.  (In my family, I assure you, the music would stop and the prodigal person would be asked for an explanation of his or her actions and what atoning actions will be undertaken.)  Christmas morning, everyone wakes up cheerily despite too much eggnog and other Santa’s helper drinks.  Then everyone spends the day on the 25th having meaningful talks, kumbaya moments and epiphanies.  So, clearly no time for the movies.

Am I wrong?  This wouldn’t be the first time. 

But, it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t hang mistletoe or go a-wassailing because it is not my holiday.  So, don’t squeeze me out of tickets to the movies on December 25th because THAT part IS my holiday.

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