goooooaaaalllls, large and small

This time of year is hard. (okay, I admit, I say that every time of year...) Graduations, weddings, vacations, things I watch others celebrate that hold a mirror to what we lack. I know that's not a useful way to look at things; besides being solipsistic it's unavoidably disappointment-laden.  Yesterday in the car listening to "Old Man" from Neil Young's album Harvest, on its 40th anniversary. Wow, I'm old! But Neil is even older - 72! The song is a tribute to the caretaker of the ranch he bought and where he still lives.  Unusually gracious for a young guy, but that's part of what I've always loved about him: he was an old cranky soul in a young man's body, and now a youthful spirit in the old man he's become.

I start crying at the song, and the fact that I've been singing it for 40 years, and whatever else it stirs up in me. Stop! I tell myself, and I park the car and look in the rear view mirror to put on some lipstick, for color and protection, and also to encourage me to smile, even if it doesn't feel sincere.

I go to meet my friend, one of the few people I regularly get together with in this town. We go out to eat at a popular place - deservedly so, given the delicious Israeli food - and I see four people I know, parents of kids in B's class, including one of his best friends, and a neighbor.  Saying hi over and over but having no connection to any of them, I am aware of how much social rejection I've had here.

My friend has experienced the same, which makes it less personal and more situational.  Our sons have been in the same class - at two different schools - since they were about 6,  and while her encounters haven't been quite as hostile as mine, she has had plenty of  incidents where people stare or act uncomfortable, and times when an effort to socialize has been rejected.

She's really smart and warm and fun to hang out with so there's no reason that anyone wouldn't want to be her friend, I'm able to see from the other side of the table.  It makes me feel bad, but also normalizes the experience, that there is nothing either of us have done wrong except for move into a place where people are too busy or popular to add anyone new to their circles, especially someone with a family that they don't really want to spend time with, if they're honest with themselves.  And honesty is hard to come by.

I've projected my underdog nation mentality onto the World Cup.  Let's go Morocco, Tunisia, Iran! There was a slight earthquake registered in the Zocalo in Mexico City after the winning (and only) gooooaaaallll of Mexico's game against Germany. Take that you arrogant Europeans! 

Go Saudi Arabia, go Nigeria, Egypt, Iceland, Senegal and Morocco.  I watch sporadically, returning occasionally to check in.  Too much I should be doing instead, and watching is so much more fun with others who appreciate the sport, recognizing that the low scores that Americans cite as a reason that the game is so dull is actually proof that it's not: opposing teams race across an enormous field with foot work worthy of the greatest ballerinas. And even though the underdogs - they have that status for a reason - don't win much, the occasional upset energizes me.  Gooooaaaallll! Yes, we can!

Gooooaaaalllll!What if we responded to smaller achievements in the same way? I finally put away the winter clothes! I got in all the paperwork for summer camp!!  I'm up to date on paying bills!!! Except for that crazy-big dental bill that would pay for a week away with help for V so we could have a real family summer vacation for once...but we can't so we won't.  Damn our expensive mouths, our expensive health and neurological and mental health needs.  Damn all the uncovered services that leave me burdened and wistful. Damn my mind for spinning out into story lines like this...I'm on top of the end-of-year teacher gifts.  I cleaned out the condiment shelf. I meditated, drank a green smoothie and used my Water-pik this morning.  Gooooaaaallll! 

Things could be so much worse, I remind myself. According to family lore my great-grandmother, for whom I am named, went years without leaving the tenement apartment in Brownsville where she raised ten kids. She'd stick her head out the window and chat with the neighbors everyday, catch up on news, connect socially without ever leaving home.  I'm so lucky - I get outside every day, even when I don't talk to anyone.

Gooooaaaallll!  My gardening efforts are starting to yield fruit/vegetables. There are a few small peppers and the bud of an eggplant and a patch of lettuce. It's not as prolific as any garden I see on my walks with Ruby (thanks girl, for getting me out so much) but things are growing.  I'm posting every week, creating a chronicle for myself, the seeds of something bigger I hope to create.  I'm more Iran than Brazil, just barely in the game. But you have to start somewhere, right?   

week 3: end of school year scrapbook/vision for the future

Here is a photo of V and B walking, which I've made the screensaver on my phone because it makes me smile and feel ever so slightly hopeful for a future when something as ordinary as a walk on a nice spring day might be the norm. You don't have to know that I ask B to do this because I no longer can safely keep pace when he giddily starts skipping ahead, and because this is something they can do together and enjoy equally, a way to spend time, which there is so much of - vast and unstructured and challenging to fill. 

A goal in disability policy/planning is to have people in your life who are not immediate family or paid helpers, but wider community that will spend time and know your loved one. For our cohort this is rare, a dream that is part of my vision for the future when we find or create an intentional community where we all can be accepted and accommodated.

On my list of "what you don't get': Those with mild disabilities have fan clubs: whole communities filled with people who will smile and say hello by name, go out of their way to be helpful and show how open and welcoming they can be.  The rest of us have  cult followings: small tribes of family members, teachers and therapists, and paid help that know and love our kids for who they are, able to appreciate what is special and magical about them while dealing with all that is challenging and difficult.

For V, a good part of this is provided by his school. I'm thankful, yet this time of year it makes me all the more aware of the enormous gap when school is out. (The young woman who cuts my hair yesterday: "It's already mid-June: only 10 weeks left of summer!" with a sort of wistfulness at how short that is. Meanwhile I think "It's already mid-June, and there will be 10 more weeks of summer", with an anxiety and dread at all the time without structure or help.)  It also makes me think of the future life after school, when at 21 he falls off the cliff, and how daunting the task of creating a life where he can continue to be celebrated, to find what we have never had in this surprisingly unfriendly town.  Which makes me all the more grateful and delighted at these end of year events.


Spring concert

V enters through the back door of the theatre, down a hallway of cheering staff. He covers his ears because it's too much on a sensory level, but emotionally, he's happy and proud.  Here everyone is a star.

And when we see him on the stage with the help of his aide and after months of rehearsals, he participates in his class part in the production.  We're so proud because for him it is a great feat simply to be on a stage and not freaking out from all the noise and hub bub. In fact he's enjoying himself and participating fully.  [great video clips which I can't figure out how to get on here right now...]  All of us in the audience cheer and kvell, because we know the hard work it has taken to get here.

Luau party

Next up the BBQ/luau for his after-school program, where he has his weekly social skills group.This more than anything is a vision of what I'd want his/our future to be:  enjoying the camaraderie, engaging in activities and socializing to the best of his ability, but even when not he is comfortable and happy. There are friends/mentors who push him to try badminton, conversation, games, yet understand when he needs a break, laying in the bouncy house looking up at the sun dappled trees, a big smile on his face it's hard to see through the netting. 

End of school picnic

Another perfect spring day for the end of year picnic and annual egg drop. He has no interest but I watch, listening as each name is called as an accompanying hand-crafted object is thrown from the roof.  His aide retrieves his, an egg in bubble wrap encased in a tissue box designed as a guitar. "Look, here it is, it didn't break!" And V takes it from his hand and throws it down on the ground, watching it splatter on the grass.  He never did like eggs, except to break them...
We laugh and let it go. No judgement. No struggle. Just another beautiful day. And I let myself believe there will be many more of them.

week 2: hearts & spades

Week 2 has officially been commandeered by the suicide of Kate Spade...

and the public discussion of depression and mental illness it has engendered. as is often the case with the suicide of a beloved public figure [as I am writing this, add Anthony Bordain to the tragic mix]  In her case the public persona being so fun and quirky, an icon of the urbane, styling city gal many of us aspired to be. 

I've been riveted by the story and its impact, obsessively reading articles and comments from hundreds of readers. There are all the letters from women reminiscing about when they got their first Kate Spade bag, which I didn't realize was a rite of passage for many affluent young women entering the workforce. This is the less interesting part of the story for me, given how it's more about the brand than the person. Also I acquired my Kate bags in an altogether different way:

My parents spouse went to Florida a swanky gala 

and all I got was this lousy t-shirt  fabulous handbag.

Every year she donated them as the most-coveted contribution to the swag bags for attendees of the annual benefit for a wonderful organization that helps women in need: a generous donation, which like most items in such bags, end up in the hands of people who could afford their contents. But for me, they were a treat of something I couldn't swing, not a step towards young adulthood but a nod back: an annual reminder that conjured the spirit of my younger self: adventurous and funny. relatively carefree, frequently in the thick of politicians and fashionistas and performers and all sorts of bold face names, in but not of, a constantly amused and amazed interloper. 


The comments and letters that have been pouring in are heartfelt, especially on Jezebel, where readers have let go of their frequently snarky tone for touchingly honest conversation among a wide range of women.  They speak with candor of depression and how misunderstood it is, especially the peaks and valleys that people with mental illness experience.  As Kate's family described, you can seem and even be fine one day (because they are not the same thing, not by a long shot, as the millions of us who feel compelled to hide our worst moments because of the enormous social stigma that still exists can attest) and be drowning the next.

Jezebel is an online site geared toward a young female audience - frustrating because I'm just as interested in their feminist take on the news and pop culture - and often dismissive or condescending to anyone over a certain age: 40? 50? At what age are we suddenly referred to as grey's or old's? Why isn't ageism as verboten as racism and sexism?  Hey girls, we're all going to get older...if we're lucky!

Kate Spade was not. Even being rich and successful and well-known, even having a beautiful and loving family isn't enough to save someone in the fierce undertow of suicidal depression.  She was 55, which is only young when you're dead. (that alone should be enough to change how we view women no longer in their youth.) 
Over and over I read some version of my story,  as women connect with each other in a way they likely don't in person (outside of a therapy setting):

Oh my God, are you me? I generally feel like a naturally happy person; at the same time, it is pretty easy for me to end up getting swamped by the depression that coexists with my baseline level of happiness.

These threads of women telling their stories is social media at its best: a way to connect and feel that you were not all alone in whatever you were going through, the viral arms embracing strangers in the depths of loneliness, providing a lifeline to the hopeless. And yet that sort of raw honest sharing is far outweighed by millions of self-promoting or highly curated depictions of idealized personas or brands of how we wish to be seen.  Even knowing the effort made to maintain the brand, having it in my face obliterated my inner wisdom, the pointlessness and possible danger of "comparing our insides to others' outsides". 

It’s time for brands to go back to being depersonalized concepts with a fictional logo or mascot. Most people aren’t constituted to represent some huge concept with and for their entire lives.  It also puts the livelihoods of too many people at risk based on missteps or weaknesses of the human who supposedly epitomizes the brand. 
  
But even the most enlightened and useful articles tend to put too much of the onus on the sufferer and not enough responsibility on the rest of us to listen without judgement, to stop offering uninvited, useless advice, to stop dismissing those with depression as complainers, people who just don't try hard enough.  I've become a phone-aphobe, someone who dreads social gatherings and rehearses my response to the inevitable "How are you?"s from people. I realize for the most part they don't care about the answer, but I don't like to be dishonest. I've settled on "Hanging in there" with a shrug of the shoulders and a slight smile, and then without missing a beat I ask about the other person or bring up some shared topic of interest so I don't have to continue the sham.  

If we really worked on removing stigma then I and the millions of people like me could say - not to everyone, but with discretion, to those who really do or might care: I'm really depressed, I'm not doing well, I'm having a hard time lately, whatever our truth is we would speak it and people would look us in the eyes and say, I'm sorry to hear that, and then they'd listen.  They wouldn't offer unsolicited advice or ways to fix things or reasons why you should feel better. If warranted, they'd offer a hug or help if there was something they could do, like taking care of some of the daily living tasks that are especially challenging when you are feeling completely depleted from depression.  Most of us don't have the option to lie in bed with the covers over us.  We carry the burden while holding down jobs or raising children or taking care of homes and pets and loved ones and the many tasks of daily life, no matter how dreadful that life can feel. We are grateful. We are invested in pulling ourselves out of the deep holes we find ourselves in. We are seeking professional help or going to support groups. And still sometimes it's not enough. 

Major depression is not the same as having a bad day or being a little sad about something it's appropriate to be sad about.  Depression and PTSD and bipolar disorder are diseases, people! Just like high blood pressure or epilepsy or asthma, requiring treatment. Often long-term.   

I feel fortunate that I've never been suicidal at all; I'm deeply greedy for a long life, in part because the last decade has been so mentally exhausting and I want to compensate with a happier old age.  In fact even with depression I am an easily happy, appreciative, delighted person.  Give me a smart funny person to hang out with, a well-written article/movie/sitcom, a good cup of coffee, a perfectly grilled fish taco, a hammock under a tree, the sound of water, a great piece of music, I could name hundreds of things I enjoy, that bring me joy.  Like this bag. Every time I put it over my shoulder it made me smile. I wore  it until it became unusable from wear and tear.  It's a reminder now, of smart funny creative women who carry their secrets.

week 1

Going to church: preface to a new phase

Last week. The monthly support group I attend at a local church falls on on my birthday. We are making Vision Boards, which seems like a great way to start a new year of life. I’m not a very crafty person, and I can be cynical about this sort of exercise, but I’m feeling pretty hopeless these days so I figure what can it hurt to cut and paste an assemblage of words and images that represent those things that bring us joy, and the faith that we can access them.

I’m here for the fellowship more than the activity, the chance to connect with this small group of women  – all mothers of children with disabilities or mental illness – that I have grown to know, admire, and love.  Seeing each other just once a month we have the perspective to see the growth and change we've experienced, to gain strength in seeing how others persevere through even the most dreadful of circumstances: hospitalizations, confrontations with police,  struggles to find schools and therapy that will help our children to thrive, challenges to keeping ourselves from sinking into despair.  We listen, commiserate, laugh, connect and after an hour and a half I have a bright green poster board filled with what for the moment, I can imagine returning to my life:  financial security, rewarding work, freedom to travel and explore, joy, faith, community.

I go to use the bathroom before leaving, which requires going through an AA meeting in progress in the large kitchen/dining room down the hall. As always, I avert my eyes in respect of the anonymity of the program.  As I’m leaving I hear someone ask, “Any anniversaries?” And a barely audible voice responds, “I’m celebrating one year.”  I exit the room to the sound of applause.

One year, what a great accomplishment! I think of all the hard work he’s done to get there, and the people in the room that continue to help him, the way that he in turn inspires those new to the program or struggling to keep their sobriety, just as he has turned to his sponsor and other old timers, the circle of service and camaraderie that lifts all spirits.

One year, I think, and it inspires me anew. One year from now, what might I be celebrating? Is it possible that my work or ideas will ever be valued, my voice will be listened to again?  Can I be of more service? What if I simply celebrated the effort, the act of not giving up? Of allowing my life to be what it is with all the insight and humor and honesty of someone who doesn't look away from the truth.  Could I do that as a way to inspire and encourage even one other person who feels as I do now, to show that nothing is permanent, including our darkest moments?

I stopped writing this blog, as I have several times before, because it seemed to confirm my worst fears about the frequent chasm between having a voice and being heard. I recently read that over 90% of blogs are abandoned within the first year because of disappointment that no one is reading them; at least I'm in good company.  

So I'm going to reclaim this space because it's free real estate, and a more cohesive, manageable way to chronicle the next year than the half dozen notebooks I scrawl with my thoughts and daunting to do lists with items that will take years to complete. (1. research, visit and  get on 5-10 year waiting lists for residential programs for V while simultaneously finding resources and then coordinating help to increase the independent living/community safety/social skills that will make it more likely to be accepted into said programs)  If anyone out there wants to read it, knock yourself out. Seriously, I'd love the company but I have no expectations anymore, which is very freeing.

So here’s Week 1:

1. Home

Glad it's June because May has been flowering trees followed by lots of rain and challenges.V has been obsessively putting on layers and layers of shirts, sweatshirts, jackets, sometimes four or five at a time. He’s been wearing hoodies over a pressure vest for sensory input (and yes, I realize that if I had a black teenager with autism there would be higher stakes for that uniform), but clearly he needs even more input, hence the layers.  As is often the case when problem-solving with someone with constrained verbal skills and lots of sensory issues, we can conjecture but it’s hard to solve these continual mysteries.  

It's a struggle to remove all the layers once he has them on. He's 17 now - lanky and lean yet strong and stubborn so when he refuses to take them off, there's not much we can do. Often the only option is to suggest a bath so that he will undress. He's been exceptionally clean lately, and we finally just emptied out the closets and the hallway hooks and put everything  in the attic or in hiding.  

So now he’s become obsessed with...the hangers! Yup, he's carrying wooden hangers around wherever we go, which reminds me of many years ago when he had a similar affinity for pieces of wood he would find outside. He even had a pet log for a while which he tried to take everywhere. (He cried when the bus driver wouldn’t let him carry it to school.) 

Yes, it's okay to laugh. And later, to cry. And to know that some days all the meditation, walking, deep breathing, journaling and healthy food in the world won't do as much good as a long Netflix binge, dissolving ourselves into the lives of others, as Auden wrote.  

B is home for the summer. Hard to believe he is half-way through college. Great to have him home although he is not around a lot, between starting a summer job and hanging out with his high school buddies. I’m glad he has such a great tight-knit group of friends, a social life. It makes me feel a little better about being stuck here, that it's been a good place for at least one member of the family.

2. The world: Idea of the Week

From the network that didn't bring you Girls, Friends, or the many other comic collections of relatively privileged, photogenic young people making their way in the world, we bring you: Darlenes.  

While thousands of articles, tweets and thought pieces have predictably dissected the recent downfall of Roseanne, the second most prolific tweeter of racist, anti-Semitic rants and unfounded conspiracy theories that are now acceptable to air in public, let's remember the short-lived attention on the heart of the show: the trajectory of Darlene, the smart, sarcastic, talented younger daughter who broke free and pursued her dreams (college, writing, life in the city) only to find herself a broke, single mom in her 40's with no health insurance - yikes! - moving back in with her parents.

She & her kids, her Aunt Jackie, and a wild and crazy group of economically insecure women in their 40s-60s (kids welcome) pull a big heist (update bank to some deplorable dot.com billionaire?) and use the money to:  start a kibbutz; fund the campaign for one of them to run for public office (season finale: she wins); open a communally run farm-to-table restaurant/animal rescue center/affordable daycare center and job training program for people with disabilities...the possibilities are endless when you have a group of smart funny older women who have a reason to be bitter. Bring on Barbara Eirenreich as a consultant along with a member of the civil rights brain trust that helped with the Starbucks 'sitting at a table while black' incident, and a writing staff - including any of the original writers who are game - that is diverse and funny in every way.   There is an audience for this, really.

3. Grace in Dirt 

I’ve planted most of my garden, which is physically and spiritually fulfilling. I prepare my plot, pull weeds, mix seeds with egg shells to help enrich the soil, plant and water.   With each seed I name and envision all the transformation I dream of, and the dirt holds the memory of things taking root.  Gardening is the perfect activity for someone in the depths of despair, a way to cultivate faith that things do grow and change.

Stay tuned as sprouts push through the ground...

absence and presence

The endless Winter ends.

And just like that, it’s cherry blossom season in nearby Branch Brook Park in Newark, and in Brooklyn, where the online cherrywatch alerts visitors that it is now peak blossom time.  Cherry blossoms are lovely, but I’ve always been more of a magnolia girl; there’s something so lush and luxurious about those silky pink petals.  And like their better publicized cousins, I’m aware of what a precious short season they have, which I follow on my increasingly longer walks with Ruby.                      

Like their owners, her furry friends suddenly appear in neighboring yards with the warming weather:  there’s Juno and Titus and Jamie, all coming out to greet her from behind their fences.  “How ya been girl?”  There is much tale wagging and sniffing and some excited peeing.  They're all back out except for Nibble, the sweet little beagle who lives a few doors down with his extended family. They  own our local Chinese restaurant, and could be a textbook case of the immigrant experience: the elders/grandparents speak only a few words in English; the parents/middle generation are fluent but retain their accents and some issues with tense; their children are typical teens, no different from their peers walking to school plugged in to their phones and music and helping out in the restaurant on weekends when they aren't busy with soccer practice or exams.  I don’t understand how anyone can be anti-immigrant -- I can’t think of anything more all-American. 

The grandfather collects recyclable bottles and is often outside sorting them in an elaborate array of bins in the yard, so I see him the most. Our conversations:  "Good morning! Is Nibble home?" "Yes, Nibble”, he nods and goes and opens the porch door and out comes Nibble. Or “No Nibble”, as he shakes his head and I know that she is somewhere in the house, or out on a walk to the restaurant.
 

Last week I see the dad, an affable friendly guy. "Good morning. Beautiful weather finally. Where’s Nibble been? We miss her," I say, looking down at Ruby as if she were the one with that sentiment. "No Nibble," he says and shakes his head and looks at the ground.. His normally friendly demeanor seems a bit flat, and I suddenly realize that he doesn’t mean "No Nibble" the way his father always did. "This winter she get sick. We take her to doctor but too late. (pause) No more Nibble."

I let out a gasp of surprise. All these months assuming she was inside safe and warm when in fact she was gone.  On the way back home we pass the yard, with the bins for the sorted cans, the chair by the door, a big tree and I feel his absence. No Nibble, ever again.

Absence is also why I’ve stopped posting on this blog.  I still write because that is what I do and who I am, but with no sense of anyone out there, blogging  compounds rather than alleviates my sense of isolation, especially disheartening given how social media is supposed to connect us.      

Years ago, when I was able to spend much of my time writing (both commissioned reports, articles and solo theatre work) my friend F approached me after a performance and said  that she thought my stories would be great on the radio, and offered to put me in touch with D, a radio producer she knew.

Soon after I met with D and shared some of my work,  slices of city life and the people I met. I was especially fascinated by those moments and places where worlds collided or you could see the shifts in neighborhoods: immigrant housekeepers and young apartment dwellers at the laundromat, inter-generational audiences in rapt attention at the free concerts I’d frequent in city parks, the newly landed hipster population rubbing elbows with the older construction workers at my local coffee shop, where a great tuna sandwich was a common denominator.

D liked them and agreed they’d work well on the radio, and he asked me to go make some recordings of around 3 minutes each.  I got in touch with a nonprofit I worked with, a wonderful place that provided affordable recording time to musicians and performers, booked a space with a technician one afternoon and told those same stories with sound effects:  the washing machines, the clanking of dishes as the busboy cleared tables,  horns honking and horns playing as I rode my bike to a concert.…

It was an arid cavernous space but the most amazing thing happened. I sat on a stool and spoke into the dark void - alone, yet with an absence of loneliness. I could feel the presence of  people I was speaking to, sense them listening and laughing, and taking it all in.  For a windowless room it felt terrifically alive, with a palpable sense of communion.

D liked the recordings enough to share them with the executive producer of public radio’s most popular show, and gave me her private number. I called and she actually answered her phone (clearly another era) and spoke to me with enthusiasm and encouragement. Make more and send them to me, these will work.

I have no recollection of why I never followed up or made more recordings. At the time I had a lot doors open to me but I can’t imagine why I would shut one with so much promise. All I remember is how much easier it was to connect before the internet,  how much more generous people were with their time, how exhilarating it was to feel possibility in the presence of things not seen.

About five years later D won a MacArthur Genius Grant for “making the listener complicit in the act of imagining other people’s lives” as he continued to connect storytellers with an audience; and I was the mother of two with a trajectory that would simultaneously take me further away from that land of opportunity than I ever could have imagined, and connect me to a wealth of lives I never could have envisioned: hundreds of remarkable people representing millions more who through some combination of disability, illness, addiction, age, race, income, or other factors are far less likely to have their stories heard.  "Nobody has a clue what our lives are like," is a line I hear often.  I hoped I might find a way to change that  but I haven’t found it yet.  I'm feeling hopeless lately, but I haven't completely given up.  I keep walking and taking it all in and hoping my mind and the universe will provide some answers.

Every tree, every animal, every person has their own arc, and change is unavoidable. My story is still being written and if there's anyone out there, don't give up - your story isn't finished yet either.

wonderful wednesday (thursday, friday...)

Another parent at V's school started something called Wonderful Wednesday.  Simple and sustaining:
Once a month, provide  a generous breakfast for the whole staff as a way to show our appreciation.  Most who contribute do so financially, but I choose to bake since it's such a delicious and fun way to say thank you to people.

And like maintaining a gratitude list, once a month WW starts the week off on the right track, because I have to decide what I'm going to make on Sunday or Monday and go to the store for whatever ingredients I need and then bake on Tuesday - occasionally I'll get up really early on Wednesday morning, but I worry about how just out of the oven goodies will hold up in the back of a van.  It puts me in a giving-back mode and a generous mood all week. 

The fact is if I gave them all the lovin' from the oven they deserve, I'd be sending in a feast every morning to eat on fine china instead of paper plates, with fresh flowers in a vase. It would be first class all the way.  I wish I could raise salaries so that's the way they'd roll all the time!

I grew up with this poster in my room, so that awareness of teachers and social workers and everyone else contributing so much for so little is ingrained in me.  (The second poster below is a modern update : )

This month I made cornbread. And though it is a version too sweet for purists (no sugar in real cornbread, which should be made in a cast iron skillet with buttermilk and free-range eggs) I am not making it for them but for the hardworking teachers, aides, therapists and administrators who get up early in the morning and whatever else is going on in their lives, put it aside to take care of our kids/teens/young adults with respect and kindness, earning less than they deserve given the impact they have on a whole generation.

I mix up old favorites with an occasional new recipe: scones, coffee cake,  bread with pumpkin or apples in season, an assortment of items I no longer eat regularly but still enjoy preparing, and of course, tasting. I actually had three big pieces of this cornbread, I couldn't resist.  (I always make an extra for the bus drivers and us, just to make sure it's good enough to share...)  It was warm and moist and I couldn't stop, and while I mostly was motivated by pure gluttony, there was a bit of simply wanting to pause and take in the love and gratitude with which it had been  made. Everyone wants to feel valued, even the baker.

So when you read this on Thursday, or Friday, or whenever you get around to it, please stop and let someone who teaches or helps others know how much she's appreciated.

reluctant spring

It’s been a sluggish start to Spring, but I’m determined to get on track. From the season's first day, back in March: 

On NPR this morning a reporter from Iran talks about Nowruz, the Persian/Iranian new year, with its ritual of making small bonfires and jumping over them, praying that the fire will give health and wealth and burn up all that is painful and bad in your life. 

I am listening to the radio on my way to Shoprite hours before the next Nor’easter, the third of the month, which has become a ritual of its own.

There are women with carts piled full of provisions more fitting a survivalist commune than the affluent suburbanites bracing for another six inches of soon to melt snow. Behind me an older man who appears to be doing a weekly shop on his social security check waits behind the hoarders with just a can of coffee, a large container of Cremora, some cheap frozen meat steaks and a bag of rolls. It could be worse -- at least he will have coffee and sandwiches, but it makes my own modest array of fruits, vegetables, yogurt and crackers look positively luxurious.  Abundance is all relative, as is isolation. 

Spring is reluctant to show its colors. Snow days, dental surgery, trying to keep up with bills (even with dental insurance, three implants and two bone grafts cost as much as a year's college tuition!) and restore some lost services for V while spending many hours job hunting: if only I could put a full description of my job as CEO of VH Industries at the top of my CV, with all its enormous responsibilities and achievements, I’d be able to apply for more than entry level program associate positions that don’t even touch on my skills. I’d be running an organization, a movement or campaign. At the very least I’d have a TED talk rather than the self-motivating meditation I use to push me out of bed each day.  

The snow thaws and the ground warms, my gums heal, I grow slightly less grumpy so I can get back to faking it till I make it, feigning optimism as best I can. 

Yes, that was from a few weeks ago.  The fact is I have gotten a lot done, although it doesn’t show up on the page.  Inspired by Khaneh-Tekani (literally, shaking the house) the thorough spring cleaning that precedes Nowruz, I ignore the computer for the  debilitating clutter that surrounds my little upstairs office space in an attempt to clear the path for new things. Four large garbage bags later and several bins remaining, I’ve at least made a dent.

Plus there’s dozens of resumes sent out (they don't yield any results, but at least I’m putting in an effort) along with several drafts of proposals for what I’d really like to be doing, still on hold because the fact is, ‘up by our bootstraps’ cliches to the contrary, we all need social capital in order to accomplish much of note, and I’m in a relative drought in terms of networks, the collaboration with others that had enabled me to be more productie in the past.

It’s the 50^th anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr’s death this week. He’s long been a role model and inspiration for me, so fiercely and fluently melding the spiritual and political to fight racism, classism, the forces that keep us from  recognizing how "we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality." as he so eloquently put it.  Five decades later, we still have isms up the wazoo that wear us down. Facing ableism, ageism, and sexism on a regular basis, I have a better grasp of the hostility he faced, although I recognize our privilege: we may be treated with contempt, but we're never in imminent danger.

It is hard to explain to others what holds each of us back, but I would say that along with the  individual and collective stories Americans love to celebrate, we all have our unique math: a distinct roster of needs and demands, funds flowing in and cash withdrawn, energy expended, and strength restored.  Advantages beget opportunities, and what seems like depression is often more depletion, an equation unsolved.   

With every season along with the tasks, the change of clothes, the revived dreams, in these modern times there are shows that arrive like crocuses, restorative as all the turmeric lattes, SAD lamps, and breathing exercises combined. For the start of Spring, I've devoured the revamped Queer Eye [formerly Queer Eye for the Straight Guy] and the new season of Call the Midwife, the English show about nurses and nuns in post-war working class London.

I know lots of people who go for home renovation, baking shows, travel documentaries, but for me there’s nothing like a good dose of Socialist Porn.  A pregnant teenage prostitute? A sailor of filthy mouth and body? An immigrant who knows not a word of English?  There’s enough tea and provisions for all of you!   This season, even a leper is treated with kindness and respect, receiving the care he needs far more swiftly than V ever has.  I hunker down and inhale its charms, as every hardship is lovingly addressed. 

Queer Eye is all that kindness in a slick, fun bubble: a group of telegenic and charming men,  emotionally sensitive, but oblivious to systemic inequity. Someone working two jobs and getting three hours of sleep a night just needs, like the rest of his cohorts: a decent haircut, some patterned button-down shirts, a few avocados, and a fresh coat of paint. While male and Southern, I relate to every one of the subjects, all in some state of stuck-ness. I even buy a few new shirts on sale, crisp cotton patterns like the ones the guys put on to complete their transformation.

The Southern charms are as captivating, in their way, as those of London: I can't think of anything more heartwarming than some hardy rural firemen learning how to ballroom dance with a group of urbane gay men.  And it may sound sacrilegious to make the connection, but King did dream "that one day in Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners would be able to sit together at the table of brotherhood" so it's nice to watch a whole season of his dream coming true!  Still, there's no mention of a living wage, or the fact that the rest of us can’t afford that home makeover team.

It reminds me of the time Barbara Ehrenreich (author of Nickel and Dimed and many other books addressing inequality in her inimitably accessible way) was a guest on Oprah, and talked about all these hardworking housekeepers struggling to make ends meet, and Oprah nodded enthusiastically. Yes, we have our Angel network and I gave all these fabulous prizes to a former maid!  And Barbara, bless her heart, kept her usual droll humor in check and nodded, Yes, that’s nice, but, um, maybe we can help all the rest of them earn a decent wage so that they can afford healthy food and medical care and a decent home for their kids instead of microwaving dinner in dreary motel rooms?  Americans don’t like to think that way, with a context - it takes all the fun out of our fantasies.

No wonder King was so depressed at the end of his life. Like Ehrenreich exposing the challenges faced by housekeepers, he spoke of the struggles of sanitation workers. And fittingly for Passover, his last speech in Memphis referenced that period of slavery in Egypt, when Pharaoh wanted to keep his slaves fighting among themselves but they instead worked together. ‘When the slaves get together, that’s the beginning of getting out of slavery. Now let us maintain unity.’ And with all his despondency and setbacks he experienced those last few years, in the last words he ever publicly spoke in this life, he said that he was happy, because he that he knew he was doing God’s will. He had faith in our ability to change.

I know I’m not alone in struggling to keep that faith, in grappling with weather and challenging math and relentless bad news  The fact is most people in the world have it far worse, while a few have it much better; they're just more visible, so it seems like there are more of them.  We all…"are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.  Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. " I'm going to take that to heart as I try to make my way back into the world: to button my shirt, smile at what's ahead, and remember that none of us are alone in this life.