‘Berry Darling —
You are the first thing I look at in the morning and the last thing I see at night. You are next to me as I sleep.
I know these economic times have been hard on all of us; still you don’t always light up with a message when I look at you. Is it something I did or didn’t do, dear?
Don’t I take you everywhere? Haven’t we traveled to Europe and lazed on the beach together? Remember, when you fell into a puddle and I lovingly dried you out? I know you don’t such take good pictures any more and there is a lingering buzz. But I still love you. (And I don’t remember your bringing me flowers and complimenting on my outfits.)
Yes, I still love you, even though there are brighter, more fun models. I think one even makes coffee . . . no matter.
The important thing is that we communicate. So I am going to tell you what I need from our relationship: I need you quietly by my side, until I look at you, and then I want you to have messages that bring business and good and happy tidings from friends. Is that so much to ask?
Dearest ‘Berry, think about this — and us — and let me know what you think, but don’t buzz. I’ll look at it in the morning.
Goodnight, my sweet.
Most every other family can get it together to take a photo, get prints done, put in envelopes, address the envelopes and mail them. We can’t.
In fact, POB (partner of blogger) would rather do laundry and I would rather destroy the house under the guise of “home improvements” than undertake this gargantuan task. (As an aside, we have had to contract repairman to correct my home improvement projects, but I digress. . . )
So . . . Not happening until our son is of an age where he can do all of that.
But we love getting the holiday pictures from our friends and family. (Note to friends: we love seeing your kids, but we also want to see you in the picture as well.)
SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) especially likes the pictures of the kids he knows. Even he says stuff like, “wow, they’ve grown!!” There is one family with an adorable little girl and two younger twin boys (you know who you are) whose card was particularly of interest to SOPOBAB. (I think he likes the willfulness in the girl.) But he is betrothed to another (this, he decided at the tender age of 7, so his interest in the willful one is merely big-brotherly.)
He also likes to see pictures of my college friends’ families. A group of us female friends have remained tight-knit (the “Soeurs”). SOPOBAB asked POB, “when are the Soeur kids getting together?”
He also asked POB, “[Blogger] is a Soeur, and I am a Soeur kid, then what are you?” POB responded, somewhat sheepishly, “I am a Soeur Consort.” Since not everyone has a spouse and partners may change from time to time, it seemed like a suitable name — heck, Queen Elizabeth’s husband is called “The Queen Consort” (I think). Unfortunately, it sounds a little tawdry. Maybe we will all get married by the time he is old enough to think the name is ooky and then “Soeur Consorts” will be “Soeur Spouses”.
But our boy is used to eccentricity.
Ok ok ok ok ok ok .
I was nearly getting beheaded on the subway by the Grizzly Adams-sized backpack being wielded by a tall, outdoorsy-looking tourist (why is he in NYC, do you think?).
Then I take a cab and after repeatedly asking the cab driver not to talk on his cell phone, because my head was pounding (concussion?), and having him slam the divider shut, I got angry. I opened the divider and told him that as a matter of law, he had to stop talking on the phone. He denied he was talking on the phone. Maybe he was talking to his demons, but I am not a shrink. He started speeding to my destination because he was angry at me. I yelled “Stop!!” followed by a heart-felt “WHAATTT IS WRONG WITH YOU???”
He called me a whore. Ok, no one has ever called me a whore (or at least not in such a dismissive, contemptuous tone). I started yelling that he needs to learn how to drive, etc., but no cursing. I was being as polite as possible under the circumstances. He jerked the car forward and started to call me things related to my womanhood in a very condescending way. Such denigration of women was so foreign to me that I was a little gobsmacked and so I didn’t end up denting the car.
I believe that people can find common ground, but right then I wanted to haul him over to the police and have him stripped of his hack license (assuming he had one). I think I would still want to kick him you-know-where even when I calm down.
I lodged a complaint with the Taxi and Limousine Commission. I am ready to appear at the hearing.
Yesterday was Veteran’s Day.
I was thinking a lot about war and life yesterday. When I became a mother and god-mother, I understood that if my son (or god-daughters) went to war, I would have to go as well, because anything that is worth my child’s life, is worth my life. (And the corollary: if you mess with my children, you mess with me.) Of course, I think it would be hard to take your mom into battle. But if you know me, you know that the enemy should be really, really, scared.
So, I am grateful to the young men and women who routinely put their lives at risk for the high stakes political chess that our world leaders play with way too much glee and ooky blood lust.
And I am grateful to the veterans of prior wars for their sacrifices. It is hard to imagine old men and women in their prime, as spies (www.dailymail.co.uk/…/Tragedy-WWII-spy-Eileen-Nearne-escaped-Gestapo-died-alone.html) and soldiers and nurses on the front. They look so old and enfeebled now.
Today, as I was leaving my office, I saw two old men in wheel chairs. Using “old” is somewhat euphemistic. “Ancient” is more appropriate. Incapacitated and dependent. When I see random ancient people on the street (as opposed to family), I cannot think of them as once young and vibrant. I just see strangers with no past and probably not much of a future.
Except the two old men in their wheelchairs with their attendants were wearing war medals and insignias of their military service. All of a sudden, they were not inconvenient and uncomfortable reminders of my future decrepitude. I know that when they were young, they were warriors. Given the number of medals, they were brave warriors. And they have stories, of war and peace, love and hate, passion and indifference. Maybe these were good, generous, upright men. Maybe they weren’t. Probably, like all of us, they fell somewhere in between.
Two of my uncles were reluctant warriors in WWII. One was captured and imprisoned. I know his story, which is powerful (www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/Shapiro.html). It was hard to know these things about my uncle. I know it was hard for my uncle to remember, transcend the evil, and have his story known.
It wasn’t until my other uncle, Uncle Al, died about 9 years ago that I learned he fought in the Pacific in WWII. He never talked about it (or maybe we just didn’t see enough of him to draw him out). My father thinks he was at Guadalcanal. Of course, that generation never talked about the war, even when the effects of the war crippled, or at least altered, the trajectories of their post-war lives.
Truth is that I didn’t know this uncle very well. He was the third of five sons and got short shrift by three generations of our family. He was a quiet man with great artist skill. I wonder if I would have interacted with him differently if, while he was alive, I knew to look at his life through the prism of the bloodshed he must have witnessed and (possibly) perpetrated in some of the most grisly fighting of WWII.
Today, we have veterans who need our support. Whether or not we agree with the politics, their mere willingness to go to war to protect and defend us is heroic. We owe it to these young men and women to learn their stories, help them re-acclimate to post-war lives, and protect them from their deepest, darkest memories of combat and, yes, deal with the bad things they did “over there”.
It is hard to imagine that some of our warriors and their families have not yet been granted US citizenship. It is hard to imagine that some of our warriors and their families are treated like second class citizens because of sexual orientation. It is hard to believe that anyone thinks our returning veterans don’t deserve the very best in medical care and social services.
I just hope that no one has to wonder, when the veterans of our generation are in wheelchairs with attendants, if they will be remembered and honored. I hope the next generations remember that they once were warriors, protecting and defending us.
I bumped into a former colleague and friend a couple of weeks ago who said, “I read your blog from time to time — pretty much the usual: family dinners, why don’t people act better, and a few heartbreaking moments.”
And I think: What IS so wrong about wanting peace, love and understanding. (With all due gratitude to the Elvis Costello song, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1XYFJUP84lE.) In order to evoke the true Elvis Costello, please sing along to the Youtube clip, playing your tennis racquet and looking like you have to go to the bathroom and are holding it in. See below for a visual guide.
Ok, so my blog is pathetically maudlin, navel-contemplating and ego-centric. I write about what I know and see. And I write late at night (before that Biblically-promised joy cometh in the morning).
Maybe I should take up something more life-affirming or planet enhancing. Except I live in a coop and I think if I were to tend a compost, that would raise a stink (as it were). I am sure that my fellow coop shareholders are relieved that I blog instead.
If I had a good singing voice, I would wax melodic about peace, love and understanding. You get the point. I am giving the best that I got to paraphrase Anita Baker (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WsMHjbfFEjU). (Her picture is not instructive. Think, instead, of Tina Turner singing “What’s Love Got To Do With It?” for the proper gyrations of the mouth.)
I digressed so far that I didn’t even get to talk about President Obama’s trip to India. Oh, well. You know the drill — An entree portion of What’s So Funny About Peace, Love and Understanding, mixed in with, I’m Giving You the Best That I Got, with a side of What’s Love Got To Do With It. So, you could write the blog without me. Discuss.
Yesterday op-ed by Bob Herbert of the New York Times really got me nuts. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I don’t care which party “gets it” or not. That is not even a relevant question.
That we have a president named Barack Hussein Obama is in fact a delivery of his campaign promise of change. The fact that he is decried as not that much different from other presidents is another delivery of his campaign promise of being President of all citizens, not just blue states.
You see, you may not have noticed, but the President of the United States is African-American. Now, I am a middle-aged, white, Jewish lesbian (MWJL). And I have no idea what it is to be anything or anyone other than who I am. But from my perspective (for what it is worth):
The President may be post-racial, but the country is not. (We are making progress and, as we do, sometimes there is backlash that makes us think we are losing ground.) The fact of his presidency is a challenge to much of the nation. The fact that he is continuing some of the Bush policies in matters of war means that his opponents (the Grand Old White Man Party) need to frame his domestic policies as so radical as to threaten our very existence as a nation. Thus, the charged rhetoric.
Because it is, at least in part, about race. (Please no eye rolls — I am a MWJL, remember?)
Lest we forget that John McCain and Sarah Palin got a lot of votes and stirred up fears of the end of the reign of the Old White Man.
Remember when he let a little of his anger show when Professor Gates was arrested? You would think that he created an international incident. All he did was call the actions of white cops stupid. Imagine George Bush doing that. Not even a blip on the radar.
Listen to the racist language of the Tea Party. These people are scared that they will be treated the way they have treated minorities. They know that karma can be a painful boomerang. So, now that the Establishment is run by an African-American, they are fighting the Establishment tooth and nail.
I had an epiphany the other day about DADT. The President is Commander in Chief of a military run by conservative white men. When he leads, they need to follow. So, he needs to show he will listen, too. So, maybe he needs to protect DADT for now as it winds it way through the courts and the Congress.
The President is the embodiment of the American dream, with the picture-perfect American family. But he is not a reflection of America yet, but an aspiration of what America can be. We all have some work to do.
Yesterday, POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) and I joined HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and FOB (father of blogger) went to the Met to look at the Kubla Khan exhibit (everyone now spells Kubla in a more authentic way, but it was 10am on a Saturday and that kind of information will not get absorbed into my brain).
SOPOBAB is studying Chinese and the information on a significant dynasty was appealing to him. Also POB talked up the portraiture galleries which had pictures of Revolutionary heroes, etc. SOPOBAB has read a lot about that, too, and seemed interested.
Great, I think, ancient Chinese dynasties and portrait galleries, could there be anything else I would want to see LESS on a Saturday morning at 10am? Arms and Armor. Ok, I am lucky I think. At least no trifecta.
As a child I hated going to the Met. It was an overwhelming place with furniture exhibits, armory and ancient Greek statues. None of it mattered to me. As an adult, I enjoy the Modern Wing and some of the African art, probably because I have studied some about the art in these areas.
I actually enjoyed the Kubla Khan show, most especially because I watched SOPOBAB find things of interest and talk to FOB and HOSOB about portions of the exhibit. SOPOBAB, at 8 years old, is a young man who can navigate an exhibit at a museum.
The American Wing was closed for renovation. The gods were smiling on me. No portraits of American heroes. Phew. Waaaaaitt!!! Where are we going now? Not to the diner for lunch? no? Arms and Armory? Really?
Ok, so I walk through the exhibit that totally freaked me out when I was a kid. All of this body armor. I am a sport and try to focus and learn something.
I look at the body armor and read about the history. And then, in a moment, the one sight that compelled a blog entry:
It is hard to see, but Kind Ferdinand of Spain needed a lot of extra space for his genitals. No other body armor has this. I think this was a message to his adversaries.
So, I learned that in every exhibit, there is something for everyone.
For over 46 years, I was an American. I was one of us — even though I am Jewish, an unrepentant liberal, and gay. There was room in the tent, even if a few people called me unpatriotic for opposing the Iraqi invasion.
But this year, things are different. Was my grandmother a citizen when my mother was born? Yes. Does it matter? Maybe I get dispensation because I pay in taxes what most people earn in a decade. I thought that in this country, one no longer had to buy freedom or the right to be protected from government interference. But if neo-fascists get their way, birthright citizenship goes away. If that happens, hell, I am moving because I am not paying my tax dollars into a system that makes me prove my mother’s citizenship. I bet that America would find that most of their tax dollars comes from second generation Americans and not the Tea Party Express members who fear that their status as descendants of European conquerors doesn’t buy a loaf of bread.
Then there is this talk about the oppressive Atheists who deprive Christians of their right to pray in schools. News flash: it isn’t just the Atheists. It is every mainstream of every minority religion that wants breathing space from fundamentalists — of whatever religion. As religious as were the founders, they believed, and the case law of our nation’s highest court supports, that there be a separation of church and state, mostly for the protection of the minority against the tyranny of the majority (thank you, Thomas Jefferson). Chew on that, Christine O’Donnell.
Protest is the hallmark of our nation. We were founded upon the belief that we had a right to protest the edicts of King Charles of England. So when video captures a campaign aide stomping on the head of a protester, one has to wonder who has hijacked our nation. I disagree with the campaign aide’s candidate on more things than I can count but I support his right to campaign on his ideas. If his staff cannot support the right of the opposition to protest, then they are totalitarian thugs. They don’t belong in the great experiment in democracy that is America.
Also in this election cycle, we learned that there are those who believe that if this nation were to allow gay marriage, it would be tantamount to allowing a person to marry a piece of furniture. No joke. Try telling that to your girlfriend.
Where did the ideals and dreams of America go? I am a stranger in my own land.
On Thursday afternoon, I slipped into the bathroom of my office and transformed into a girlie-girl. I traded my clogs for pantyhose and heels and my turtleneck and blazer for a sleeveless black number that swirls when I walk, along with some serious bling and a full face of make-up. POB (partner of blogger) insisted on the serious bling (she wanted anyone who might flirt with me to know I was expensive). G-d bless her to think that someone at this outrageously hetero event (for which I was dressing up) would even look twice at me.
Of course, I ripped the hose as I put them on and — uh oh — this was not my pair of hose. POB and I are different sizes, so I felt the sli-i-i-i-ide down below my waist happening almost immediately. Ripped and sliding. Dressing up is always epic.
The event was a fundraiser for one of the most worthwhile organizations (outside of refugee relief) — The Hole in the Wall Gang camps for kids with life threatening illnesses.
I left my office to meet a colleague who was flying in for the event. We were going to the pre-party that started at 5pm. Nothing like alcohol at 5pm for pickling your brain. And goyishe hors- d’oeuvres — meat and cheese or pork. Not even mixed nuts for the Jews. I realize this is going to be a long night featuring a liquid buffet. And that is so not my cultural upbringing — run out of booze, ok. Run out of food? Change your name and leave town because you’ll never live it down.
We attended the main event — a concert at Avery Fisher Hall, featuring Meryl Streep (looking fab without plastic surgery), Emmy Lou Harris, John Cougar Mellencamp, Bill Cosby, Lyle Lovett (I kept thinking, Julia Roberts, really?), Bette Midler (who got middle-aged), Renee Zellwegger (she looked so much better before all the plastic surgery) and Stevie Wonder.
More important than these luminaries were the campers who helped emcee the show, and the video of Paul Newman, who together with Joanne Woodward, founded these camps. One of the campers belted out “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. I think everyone was crying. Here is a terminally ill tweenager singing THAT song. A song of the downtrodden, the sad, the defenseless, those with hopes and dreams that seem destined not to be realized. THAT song. My heart ached and my mascara ran all over my face.
Paul Newman (may he rest in peace) was so eloquent — in the video made some years ago — about why he started these camps. (I am paraphrasing, but I recollect it this way:) “I have been lucky all my life and I wanted to help people who only knew the other side of luck.” He is a good man but I hate his salad dressings.
He looked at luck as a zero-sum game. And if luck is a zero-sum game, then our luck means someone else has less (or no) luck. Contrast that with people who say today, “I make my own luck.” As if to impart that those who are “unlucky” don’t deserve success. Ok, let’s super-impose this paradigm on children. Can anyone with a sense of humanity say to a terminally ill child, “you could’ve made your own luck”?
Surely, we can share our good fortune — our luck — with the children. The children.
Of course the evening got lighter when Stevie started playing Cherie Amour and a few other standards. My colleague and I were standing and singing in Avery Fisher Hall while everyone else politely sat. After an evening of ill children with fight in their hearts, it was good to be on our feet and singing. It was life-affirming.
There was an after-party. Cheeseburger sliders were served. Really? Goyishe v’hetzi (150% non-Jewish). Still with the vodka drinks.
There was a Motown band and singers who were awesome. I dragged my colleague out on the dance floor. I told her, it’s New York, no one cares if two women dance. We totally rocked out. Of course, at that point my hose were dangling dangerously low like the pants on some young men and I was scared that they would just drop. And it was getting late and really I wanted to get home, get in bed and feel the serenity of having my family safe and asleep around me. We were waiting for Stevie Wonder to show up at the after-party so my colleague could meet her idol.
Finally he showed up and she was star struck and frozen in place. The batteries in her camera ran out. I had to elbow my way to spend a few minutes talking to Mr. Wonder while I motioned for her to get next to me. Mr. Wonder’s bodyguards were concerned that I was doing something dangerous and were ready to drop me. Finally she got near enough to put her hand on his shoulder and I snapped the photo using my blackberry. I thanked Mr. Wonder for his patience (and holding on to my hand for what seemed an eternity as my colleague got close) and the conversation and I receded into the crowd.
My colleague is on Cloud Nine. We have bonded. I can call her “friend” now. Without a hard-headed New Yorker, she would not have even gotten close to Mr. Wonder. As a friend, I tell her, “I have been in heels for seven hours, my pantyhose are almost falling off, and I need to go home now that we have a picture with you and Stevie Wonder.” I am walking you to your hotel and I am throwing myself in a cab. The alternative is to put a sign on you that says ‘return after 3 days to . . . .’ I would get to sleep but I would get fired. So you decide: How is this evening turning out?”
Having gotten a picture of Stevie Wonder, she didn’t put up a fight. Thank G-d. I got her back to her hotel and in 15 minutes I was in my comfy apple-green jammies in my comfy bed and ready to sleep.
I laughed, I cried, I danced, I shook hands with a celebrity, I was moved to help others. A great day.
