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The Algae Lady


2011
07.29

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In keeping with my “BLUE”mood, and as Creative Every Day’s BLUE-themed month draws to a close, I have one more item to share – another poem.  After writing I was Robbed Yesterday and The Algae Woman, it was as if my mind had cleared and the mood lifted.  Writing is indeed therapeutic.

The Algae Woman

The Algae Woman

I have become the algae woman.

I’m that person out by the pond every day

As golf carts roll by and the regulars look.

I’ve become the weird one, that woman,

You know, always out in her yard.

What the heck is she doing?

 

I’ll tell you what she’s doing,

Besides removing algae from the pond.

She’s wondering if she’s old.

She knows she’s the algae woman and doesn’t really care.

Isn’t that a sign of getting old? Or is it just getting careless.

 

She goes out first thing in the morning in her nightgown

Just to see if there’s any new water lilies.

She figures if a golfer goes by, he won’t even notice it’s a nightgown.

That’s old-person thinking, but at least she’s thinking.

Or she’s careless, or just doesn’t care.

 

She’s noticing that everything seems like too much trouble.

Is she just old chronologically, or emotionally, or what.

Is she slowing down, or has she chosen to slow down.

There’s a big difference.

But should she care?

 

Plagued with questions that shouldn’t be asked,

She’s thinking, sorting, observing, saying no thank you.

 

She’s snipping. Cutting notices from the paper.

Tai chi, yes, she should get back to that.

Concert, yes, she wants to see that.

Drink recipes, she wants to learn umbrella drinks.

Snip snip snip.

 

The stack of notices sits on the table until finally,

As always, she throws them away.

Why did she cut them out anyhow?

Everything seems like too much trouble.

 

She stays up until midnight,

But staying out past eight sounds awful.

She doesn’t like to drive at night, but that’s nothing new.

Last year she got lost coming home after dark

On a route she’s driven hundreds of times.

It’s just a whole lot of trouble.

Is it wisdom or age?  Maybe both.

Shooting for wisdom though.

It’s supposed to come with age.

This she cares about.

She thinks about this.

 

So that’s what she’s doing, that woman by the pond.

She’s pulling out algae.

She’s me.

 

I’m the algae woman,

But removing algae isn’t as simple as it looks.

 

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Losing Mom, Part Two: The Final Goodbye


2011
06.27

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Mom and Dad with me

Note about the photo: My dad was back from World War II, he had built their first house, and the first baby was born – me.   I can hardly imagine the excitement and hope for the future that Mom and Dad had as their lives together began to unwind and reveal the joy, the pain, the adventure, but mostly the love that led them through 68 years of marriage.

……

I began this 12 days ago.  Mom died on June 17 at 7:00 a.m.  It’s been 24 days since my sister and I have functioned in anywhere approaching a normal pattern.  That’s ok.  We both had 24 days to spare for our mother. We will forever be grateful that Mom’s pain did not last very long, that she was able to go out under her own terms, and that she died comfortably at home.  At least one of us was with her at all times, holding her hand, telling her how much we loved her, what a good mother she’d been, and that it was ok for her to go, we understood.

We had a memorial on Friday, June 24, before Janine went back to Alaska.  It was small and intimate, at my house, and it was a good send-off.  I had made photo boards and I’m going to do some blog posts matching my eulogy to photos – partly because I think it’s interesting to look at old photos, but mainly as a tribute to Mom.

Even though we hadn’t really had mom for years because of her dementia, I still miss her terribly.  Even though she was 87 and deserved to die on her own terms, I miss her.  I’m at Pismo Beach now, alone, hoping to catch up on sleep and quietly contemplate mom’s life.  In all the hubbub, no one has had time to properly mourn her or consider her life.

It’s still perplexing how all of this happened so fast.  We knew, of course, something big would happen soon.  Each day that something didn’t happen was one day closer to the “event:” losing a parent.  I mean, Mom was 87 and Dad is 93.  We knew it was looming.  We’d been blessed by all those years. But then it happened.  So fast.  June 1 was the first time we knew we were in trouble – 17 days.

Mom had been in pain before June 1, but it was perplexing.  Dad would call and say, “Your mother is in terrible pain.  We have to go to the hospital.”  One of us would rush over and Mom would be sitting on the couch laughing or standing at the stove.  So we’d leave only to get another call the next day.  Looking back, she may have had a small fracture that was irritated more and more by certain movements – I don’t know – until it reached critical.

People ask – doctors, officials – when did she fall?  But how would one know unless that person was present?  With elderly people who don’t remember so well, it’s likely that you’d never know when a fall occurred.  Elderly people fall at home, they fall in hospitals, they fall in nursing homes, they fall in supermarkets – they just fall.  Sometimes Mark has gone over to help Mom up from a fall, but not often and not for a while.  The doctor said she may have fallen sometime that we didn’t know about and had a hairline fracture that could have worsened just by leaning hard against something, i.e. a fall that didn’t quite happen.

But now I understand why broken hips and broken pelvises often spell the end for the elderly.  It’s too much for an already frail body to recover from.

Mom, rest in peace.  We knew you and loved what we knew.  Our kids and grandkids – your great grandkids – all knew you and loved you.  You made us all better people just by being you.  You will not be forgotten.  You made a difference.  We will try to continue that difference, learning from you as we contemplate the details of your life and fully understand your tremendous courage.

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My Mother is Dying


2011
06.26

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Karen Patricia Stevens Reep circa 1938

Mom in her garden last year

Begun June 14, 2011

My mother is dying.  It’s so bizarre.  First everything is fine, then there is pain, then a fractured pelvis is diagnosed, and then dying – in the space of two weeks.  Activity is frantic as caregivers are lined up, the house rearranged, and a story line develops that changes three or four times by the end of the day.  Death moves quickly when one has decided to die.

Mom is heavily sedated right now – thank goodness.  We called Hoffman Hospice yesterday since hospice nurses are always amazing, always available, and always knowledgeable.  I knew deep inside that she wouldn’t make it, but mostly, Mom needed pain control and that’s one of many things hospice does well. Part of me thought, if the pain can be controlled…but the other part remembered… she’s not eating.  She doesn’t want to eat.  She doesn’t want to be alive.

Neither my mom nor my dad has ever wanted to live in an incapacitated manner.  When mom was first home from the hospital, she realized she couldn’t move or walk without great difficulty and extreme pain, and she said she can’t live like that, she’s just a big lump, she doesn’t want to live like that.  And I knew she meant it.  Maybe if we could have gotten the pain controlled earlier…but thoughts like that are futile because it was what it was.  A fractured pelvis can take up to a year to completely heal, and months until the severe pain goes away.  Mom wouldn’t be able to do that.  She always said it, and she meant it.

Mom actually asked me how long it would take to heal and I told her the bone can take a long time but the pain should be able to be controlled and might go on for a few months, but not as bad as now.  She said, “Susan, I know I can trust you.”  In retrospect, I realize she was deciding whether to live or die.  She knew that asking Dad was impossible since he’s 93 and has loved her deeply for almost 70 years; she knew asking my sister was impossible since she is so emotionally invested that she’d just be encouraging. Not that I am not emotionally invested, but it’s different. I marvel at Mom’s clarity in this as she’d suffered from dementia for years and couldn’t remember one minute to the next. I’m glad I didn’t know the burden that was placed on me until afterwards.  Burden is perhaps not a good choice of words, because Mom would never have intentionally burdened her children with anything.  I’m glad I was truthful even though I made it a little rosier than it would have been in reality.

Yesterday and today, at least this morning, Mom kept telling my sister and me how much she loves us.  Over and over again.  She’d say, “I love you.  I love you so much.”  Every time someone visited, like Daniel, when he left she said “I love Daniel so much.” She was emphatic, making sure we really understood.  She was saying her goodbyes and I knew it. She repeated to herself over and over, “It’s going to be all right, it’s going to be all right,” by which she meant it was ok to leave us, she was comfortable that Dad would be taken care of and we would be all right.  She was convincing herself that she could safely leave us.  This, too, I understood in retrospect.

This morning she described a beautiful green lawn she was seeing.  She was looking for Grandma Betty, her mother.  She was reaching out with her hands to things invisible to us.

My mother-in-law did that when she was dying, and a dear friend did that when he was dying.  I read about it in a hospice booklet but now that I’ve seen dying people do it three times, I believe it. Dying people reach out to the unseen and recognize people who have passed before them.  Reconnecting.  Being helped over to the other side.

So my mom is dying.  She’s on the hospital bed that was delivered today to her bedroom.  She’s on oxygen, and when that was delivered this morning I said, “Oh, we’re not going to need that.”  How fast things change.  Within hours.

Mom’s been suffering from dementia and her personal hygiene hasn’t been good the last few years.  Now she’s as clean as a baby.  The “bath” nurse came.  To move her to the hospital bed, hospice called the transportation team who knows how to do these things incredibly gently.  Josh, the wonderful equipment guy, brought the bed and oxygen.  Another nurse came and spent hours with us.  And then the “bath” nurse came.  Who would have known?  She very gently bathed mom, washed her hair with real water and real shampoo, carefully put lotion on, and even filed her nails.

Tonight the “tuck in” nurse is coming to make sure everything is set for the night.  Our night caregiver, Katie, will be here and we were all going to sleep at home in our beds.  Now, that’s impossible.  I will – I can hardly hold my head up now.  But my sister is coming back – once it became clear what was happening, no way would she not sleep here.

While this was going on we were in a race to get our sister who lives in Alaska here in time.  She had been planning to come on Saturday, but it all moved so fast and we realized she had to come – now.  She got here by Wednesday afternoon; my husband raced to LAX to pick her up and get her here in time, and although Mom was not responsive when Janine arrived, I know she could hear and was aware that Janine was there.  Janine had all day Thursday with her because Mom died on Friday June 17. (the link is to the obituary).

We have Sharon, someone dropped in our laps from heaven I think.  She took care of a relative of my friend Pat in Utah and was highly recommended and she was available.  How quickly we came to depend on someone who was a stranger just days ago.  And Katie – she’s just 18 but she went from being someone new to a member of the family just like that.

Mom’s respirations are slow now.  Partly from the morphine, but mostly because her body is shutting down.  Looking at her, I just feel an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude that the unbearable pain is gone.  I’m fighting off the sense of loss that is trying to creep in.  I don’t want to feel it or deal with it until I’ve done what needs to be done and can collapse.

To be continued…

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We don’t have a Christmas tree; we have a window.


2010
12.15

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Many years ago we were struck with a thought: why did we buy dead trees every year and put them in our living room? And just like that, we stopped.  We devised a Christmas window.  Mark built a frame, we wound lights back and forth, and hung the ornaments.

Somehow, hanging the ornaments became more interesting and fun because we could really see each one and reflect on what it meant.  All our ornaments have a story – some funny, some poignant, some tragic, some satiric, some historic, but all with a story.  I thought I’d share just a couple.  And that’s a relative statement.  By just a couple I don’t mean two or three, but not many compared to the total mass.  I’ll do some every day for a while.  At least it may give people the idea that anything at all can be an ornament, and as such, ornaments can tell a family history.

This decorated the top of our wedding cake in 1968.  It hung around the house for years – in a box here, a cupboard there.  Couldn’t quite bring myself to throw it away even as it became more tattered and stained.  Finally the answer presented itself – make it a Christmas ornament.  So I did and now it’s a reminder every time I hang it of 42 years of marriage.  Overall they’ve been good years, or I guess I wouldn’t still be married.

This ornament joined the family in 1997 when my daughter Karen’s childhood friend Carrie Coons got married to Julian Harvey.  These were the favors and we’ve enjoyed this ornament for 13 years now.  Carrie and Julian dropped by for Easter dinner last year – I love being friends with my kid’s friends still.  When I look at this, so many memories flood my mind besides just the wedding.  For example, I think of the time Karen was riding on the handlebars of Carrie’s bike and she was so nervous and guilty because she knew we wouldn’t think that was a good idea.  I think she did fall, or maybe I’m making that up.  At any rate, all parties survived without permanent damage.

Anything can become an ornament.  This was on a drink stirrer in Haiti that our friend Don McLaughlin brought to us.  Don was more than a friend – he was our best man, he was the kid’s Godfather, we were students together at Cal Berkeley.  Don traveled to Haiti and other countries as an auditor for Bank of America and came back with tales that got less and less believable.  Tales about being followed, spied on – but during those years that sort of thing was happening to American business men in South America.  There was a spate of kidnappings.  So even though we didn’t believe these tales were true, we did believe them.  It came to pass that Don had paranoid schizophrenia and eventually he committed suicide before he was 30.  We still think of Don and love him and I’m so glad I saved this inconsequential drink stirrer.

Mark and I entered the Peace Corps in Morocco in 1971 when our daughter Jennifer was two years old.  Sometime during the subsequent two years I purchased these little dolls and eventually they found their way to the tree and then the window.  I stuck paperclips through their hair to hang them but hey, it worked.

Now they will remind us of more than the Peace Corps years.  Our country director was Richard Holbrooke, the American diplomat who just died.  He was a man of destiny even back then – he had such a towering intellect and such drive that you just knew he would become a force for good.  Now we’ll never know what he would have forged from his position as President Obama’s special envoy to Pakistan and Afghanistan.  I do know he would have made a huge contribution toward a solution to those problems, and perhaps even bring the countries together as he did in the Dayton Accords which brought peace to Bosnia.

This ornament of the Coliseum is more lighthearted, especially if you don’t consider all the gladiators, servants, and common people who were killed for entertainment in this venue.  Retailers and manufacturers know what we all want – we want memories.  So Cost Plus World Market has ornaments each year of landmarks around the world.  And people like me buy them – in my case, an ornament for each country we’ve visited.  I still get shivers thinking of the excitement of seeing the Coliseum in person.

This was given to me by Esmerelda Ramirez when I taught 5th grade at Voorheis School.  My students always brought presents carefully picked out from the Dollar Store and I treasure them all.  This one is meant to hang on a wall – it weighs a ton but I manage to find someplace on the Christmas window to support it.  Many of my Voorheis students are graduating from college, one is going to medical school – such wonderful kids from a school many considered hopeless.  Far from hopeless, they are carving out good lives for themselves and I remember every one.

Last one for tonight.  One of my grandkids made this pink flamingo and it had been hanging around for years – sometimes from a piece of luggage, a purse; sometimes it sat in a box in the closet.  And one day, voila! I thought to use it as a Christmas ornament.  I don’t remember exactly which grandkid made this, but perhaps they will remember.  Perhaps not.

That’s only seven ornaments from the Christmas window, but it’s seven stories and memories, seven meaningful decorations.  I’ll do some more tomorrow.

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The Surreal Conversation


2010
12.04

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More and more, phone conversations with my parents  (because if you call and Dad answers, the first thing he says is, “Pat, pick up the phone, Susan’s on the phone.” And if Mom answers, the first thing she says is, “Eddie, pick up the phone, Susan’s on the phone.”) are like Marx Brothers movies.  Yes, they feel this zany.

I spoke to my parents this afternoon on the phone.  I haven’t seen them since we got back from Thanksgiving because I’ve been sort of sick, but I have talked to them on the phone several times.  But no one remembers anything so this is how today’s conversation went.

“Susie, you’re home! How are you?”

And right away, after that beginning, I knew I couldn’t have a real conversation.  I couldn’t say, “I got home almost a week ago, remember?  And I haven’t been feeling well so I haven’t been over, but I’ve called you three times.”

So I said, “Yes, I’m home and doing fine.”

And my dad asked, “How is the house?”

And instead of saying, “What do you mean, how is the house?  The house is just like we left it and we were only gone 3 ½ days,” I said – “the house is fine.”

After a few repetitions of the above, I reminded them that Sunday was Chanukah at Wendy and Gene’s house.  My mom said, “Chanukah?” in a worried voice.  My dad said, “Chanukah!” in an excited voice.  And I said “Yes, Chanukah.  Mark will pick you up at 4:15.  Can you write that down?”

So mom headed off to find a pencil while Dad was telling her to find a pencil, and then saying she wouldn’t find a pencil, at which time Mom said she had a pencil, but no paper.  So we all laughed about that.  She got a paper.  And I said, “Write down Sunday, 4:15, ok? Chanukah.”  So she did.  So she says.  I can guarantee you she had not written it down right, or if she has, the paper migrated instantly to an unrecoverable location.

Mom asked what she could bring, bless her heart.  She doesn’t know she’s not capable of bringing anything.  So I said Wendy had everything ready, but I was going to bring something.  The talk turned to food.  I said I was going to make a squash kugel.  Then I had to repeat the words “squash” and “kugel” many times until Dad got it, because he doesn’t hear well.  A discussion of kugel ensued.  Which led to a discussion of helzel and gribenes and schmaltz.  Schmaltz is chicken fat and a necessary component of helzel, which is made by stuffing a poultry neck with a stuffing-like concoction that includes schmaltz, and then sewing the end of the neck up.

Let me tell you, helzel is delicious and probably about 5,000 calories a bite.  But as we were discussing it, I made the mistake of saying “poultry” neck (because you can use goose or duck) instead of “chicken” neck.  That took lots of clarification until dad understood I had said “poultry.”  From there we went to gribenes, which is like the kosher equivalent of pork rinds and it’s a byproduct of making schmaltz.

Then my mom said, “I have a cookbook with some recipes you could use.  Let me get it.” And she did! She read me the recipe for knishes, and then said should she read another? I didn’t bother saying that I could not write down the recipe as quickly as she read it, and I wasn’t making knishes, I was making kugel, and at any rate I had it all on the computer.  I said, “Thanks Mom, but that’s enough.  Just the knishes.”

Somehow we concluded the conversation with another reminder about Sunday.

Follow-up

  • I called my sister right away to tell her I’d just had a strange conversation with mom and dad and realized that from now on, I’ll just make up answers to whatever they ask.  And Cris said that she had told them several times during the week that I was home but sick, which always produces a stricken “Oh, no, is she all right?” Well, no, I was sick but it was minor and not life-threatening although from my dad’s reactions, any illness is life-threatening and the entire fabric of the family could fall apart.
  • Then Cris said she had found a note at Mom and Dad’s that said “Call Cris.”  Cris suspects that that’s why Mom all of a sudden has been calling her three or four times in a row.  She probably finds the note that says “Call Cris” and calls her.  She hangs up and sees the note that says “Call Cris” so she calls her again.  You’ve just got to laugh.
  • AND Cris said that Dad said he wanted to make kugel! So could Cris get him some matzos.  She did, and you can use matzah flour in kugel but I’m not aware you can use the matzos themselves.  So maybe he’s just going to cook the matzos with eggs like we used to eat – because Dad doesn’t really cook anyway.  The whole thing is a mystery.
  • Finally, Mark and I went to an art opening at Metro Gallery tonight where we saw Wendy and Gene.  I asked again what time was Chanukah and Wendy said 6:00.  ” Oh,” I said, “I told Mom and Dad 5:00 and Mark would pick them up at 4:15, I need to tell them the correct time.”  And immediately I said, “But they won’t remember anyway so it doesn’t matter.”

But you know what?  I have to tell them because this will be one of those inexplicable times where they get it right and do remember and expect Mark to be there at 4:15.  So I guess we’d better have the whole conversation again tomorrow.  It’s possible we’ll have the exact same conversation again tomorrow.  Whatever it is, I’ll just make it up as I go.

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The final score: a perfect ten


2010
10.30

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A perfect ten.  I’m talking grandkids. With the arrival of Samuel Mark Jefferson Davies on October 28, we went from an excellent nine to a perfect ten.

This is how our grandkids go: junior in high school; sophomore in high school; freshman in high school; two in eighth grade; fifth grader; first grader; kindergartner; three-year-old, and newborn.  Quite a spread.  Thinking back to the first grandchild means thinking back 16 years.  How is that possible?  When Ali was born, her mom was still in college so we babysat Ali LOTS.  Finishing college was a priority; at least it was a priority for us that our daughter finish.

Ali was a wonderment. Mark and I would hold her and watch every little move.  We’d ask each other, “Did our kids do that?” If she fell asleep in my arms, I sat with her, no matter how uncomfortable it got.  Our patience was endless.  Then Sarah was born. She was just a little Jennifer – we saw so much of our oldest daughter in her right away.  Kim was next with her second.  The oldest and youngest daughter traded off.  After Daxton, it was Jen’s turn again and she had twins, Sophie and Joe.  There was a three-year pause until Kim had #3, Xavier.  Daughter’s #1 and #3 were finished.

And then came Karen, daughter #2. So exciting when Annabelle was born.  Then Jackson came along quickly – pretty hard having babies a year apart.  And the Colorado adventure commenced.  They moved and all of a sudden some of our grandkids were out of state!  We had the Bakersfield Six and the Colorado Three.

Three years ago I was out here for Cooper’s birth.  Taking care of a two and three-year-old was tiring.  A few days ago, along came Sam, and taking care of a six, five and three-year-old is not nearly as tiring.

I do have a way of complicating things, however.  I plan activities. Weeks ago I sent out a box full of fabric paint, glitter glue, Halloween candy, and assorted other decorations so we could decorate trick-or-treat bags. I sent out Halloween cupcake papers and paper umbrellas so we could make cupcakes.

Karen and Sam beat me.

My kids and I are pretty good at popping babies out, and they all weigh 8+ pounds.  Except the twins of course- they were smaller.

Sam arrived on the 28th and I got here on the 29th.  Steve picked me up at the airport in Grand Junction and we all went to the hospital to pick up Karen and Sam.  Annabelle, Jackson, and Cooper got their first look.

Jackson is scrambling – he must be headed towards Karen’s lap.

Abbo and Jacks took a closer look, and Abbo made a pronouncement: “He’s a girl.”

We’re pretty sure that by now she’s decided he indeed is a boy.

Abbo was still focused on Sam, and Steve had him ready to go home.  But Jackson got excited, so he ran around the room holding his pants up.

He thought this was the most incredibly funny thing ever.  Listening to his joyous laughter, we couldn’t help but laugh too.  I tell you, as the mom of three girls, boys are a different breed. When Joseph and I had our first tea party he was two. And when we were done, he threw his cup against the wall.  The girls never did that. The girls never did things like Jackson, either.

So we came home to Paonia.  And today being the day before Halloween, we did our Halloween activities.

First, decorating bags for trick or treating. Gads, setting up everything for the bag decorating was like herding cats.  Sit still, no, don’t touch, hang on, wait until we’re ready.  We’re ready.  Finally.

Abbo is a first-grader and she understands glue.  Cooper watched and then started gluing herself.

But none of that boring white glue for Cooper – nope, she used glitter glue, not quite understanding that she was supposed to use glitter glue on top for decoration.  Whatever – I didn’t bother to try to get her to change.  She was having fun.

Jackson concentrates intensely when he paints.

I had some googly eyes, and Jack realized it would be funny if he held them to his eyes.

Abbo loved that idea.

When Abbo concentrates, she sticks her tongue out, so her upper lip is chapped.  Plus she’s lost a tooth, has another growing in, so along with the googly eyes, she is quite a sight.

Sam made an appearance.

The finished products:

They turned out lots better than I expected.

Moving on to cupcakes.  I sent the kids into their room for quiet time while I baked the cupcakes.  The kids were decorating, not baking, and that meant eating frosting.

So that was that.

Yeah, I knew it was silly to buy pointy things to stick in the cupcakes, but I’ve always loved those little umbrellas.  Karen made an appearance and put one in her drink.

All in all, the day was a success.  Tomorrow I’m taking Abbo to Montrose to get her some winter school clothes, and then Monday it’s school.  How different it will be with both Abbo and Jacks at school all day!

Right now, the wind is howling, there’s a smattering of rain, and the air is cool.  Winter is coming to Colorado.  All the more reason to get snuggly inside with the Colorado FOUR!

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When did you decide? You know, if you were going to be gay or not.


2010
10.05

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So many suicides last week.  It was a bad week to be LBGTQ. One of last week’s suicides was here in Kern County.  Seth Walsh, a 13-year-old in Tehachapi.  I’m having a hard time getting my mind around what it would be like for a 13-year-old gay student.  What would drain his hope and spark for life so completely that he turned it off.  Forever.  That no one in his relatively small community saw even a warning flag. Or if they did, they didn’t want to cause a stir or put themselves out there publicly. Or no one listened and they gave up.  Or they got empty reassurances from someone who supposedly knew better.  Or they didn’t want to look stupid.

Here’s a snapshot of September.

  • Billy Lucas on September 9, 2010
  • Tyler Clementi on September 22, 2010
  • Asher Brown on September 23, 2010
  • Seth Walsh on September 28, 2010
  • Raymond Chase on September 29, 2010

Tyler Clementi is the hardest to understand.  We know kids do stupid things, make rash decisions, push it to the max. They drink way too much, use drugs.   But what in the world could cause someone to breach the decency barrier far enough to do something as base as Tyler’s roommate?  Film him having sex with another guy and show it online as it was happening.  And then do it again, letting people know ahead of time that they could watch.  And no one stood up to say this is not right. No one told a person with authority.  No one stood up for Tyler. These are college students and they should be able to get past not wanting to look stupid.  They should have some measure of personal courage.  But the decency barrier shattered.  Tyler put a message on his facebook of what he was going to do and where he was going to do it. In the instant communication world, you just know someone saw that and could have at least called police.  Everyone cares right now, but no one who was in on the video broadcast cared enough then.

You know what they say? If someone threatens suicide take it seriously? I think each of us has heard someone threaten suicide and thought, well, he doesn’t really mean it. I don’t want to look stupid and make a big deal.  I’ve looked stupid many times but I really don’t care.  I even talked to my daughter’s ex-boyfriend’s parents long ago because he was so despondent over the breakup. He mentioned suicide. Everyone thought I was  reacting too strongly, but again – literally, it’s a life and death situation and I don’t want to choose wrong.  I’d rather be seen as someone who overreacts.  I’d rather send the police to the bridge and find out Tyler had no real intention of killing himself, than not send them and he jumps.

Social media figured into Tyler’s death and others, but it’s not an excuse, a true cause, or an “if only.”  Even with the ability to connect instantly, that barrier of decency, of right and wrong, should be in place. But this is the world we live in and the social media are not going away.   So what’s the real problem?  Some people are still more equal than others.

I was at a political luncheon recently and a college-age boy was sitting next to me.  We started to talk, I commented on the lanyard around his neck and said “I’m a little monster too.” (Lady Gaga’s fans are little monsters.)  He was going to see Lady Gaga in concert and  I told him I’d just seen Adam Lambert in concert. He immediately said he didn’t like Adam Lambert.  Why? Because of his performance at the AMAs.  I didn’t like that performance either, but I’m not going to condemn someone forever for bad judgment.  Lambert’s bad judgment didn’t kill anyone.  Plus, he’s one of the kindest people ever to hit the stage, with his message of love and positivity and doing good.  But this young man was gay and he took it more personally.

Somehow the talk turned to gay marriage and the young man said he didn’t believe in gay marriage.  The older man across the table then said he was gay too.  But marriage should be between a man and a woman.  Why, I asked? We went through all the “talking points” which really aren’t valid at all.  I pointed out that if they married men it was not going to cause me to divorce my husband. Marriage would remain intact, and so on and so on.

I asked them both if they valued themselves so little that they were willing to be second-class citizens.  If they had so little self-respect.  I asked them when they had made the decision to be gay.  That stopped the kid in his tracks.

Right. They didn’t make the decision.  There is no moment like, “should I take chemistry or biology,” or “should I go to France or Spain on vacation,” when a young person sits down and says, “so -should I be gay or straight?”  It just is.  Black people didn’t choose to be black, I didn’t choose to have brown hair, and no one decides to be gay.  And what the hell do we care anyway? I am flummoxed by the people who so urgently want to make others straight, who are so threatened by their sexual orientation.

The answer is so incredibly easy.  But it’s not so easy to establish, because people still like to marginalize others.  Remember Orwell’s Animal Farm? The pigs were living high on the hog (excuse me) while the other animals toiled.  They followed seven commandments, the last of which was “All animals are equal.”  But later on the sign was amended and one day the worker animals awoke to the message “All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.”

That’s why the answer is easy.  Unless we want to return to the days of slavery, when white people were more equal than black people; or the women’s suffrage struggle, when men were more equal than women; or the days after Pearl Harbor, when American citizens were more equal than Japanese-American citizens.  I could go on and on.  There is always someone to marginalize.  Once LBGTQ acceptance is solid, who will be marginalized next?

In America some people are not more equal than others.  All share equal rights. Or should.  And that includes gay marriage.

As I was giving my little lecture to the young gay man and the old gay man, the young man’s mother was giving me the thumbs up behind his back.  That led me to believe that she also has tried to put her son on an equal footing and he is too indoctrinated in his lesser worth to believe.  To believe that he needs to value himself and respect himself and quit worrying about being gay or not. But last week was not a good GBLTQ week, so how can he quit worrying?

The answer is easy.  Implementing the answer is not. Throughout history, when one group gains acceptance, another is marginalized.  If being gay were matter-of-fact, Tyler’s roommate would not have done what he did. Tyler would not have jumped off a bridge to his death.  Seth Walsh would not have hanged himself.  But the roommate  might have done something equally as base to the next group to be on the bottom of the totem pole.

So really, it’s not just LGBTQ people who must be given equal status and respect as human beings.  They shouldn’t have to be given anything because they aren’t missing anything.  The issue should not exist.  But it does, and what we have to do is internalize and live our American creed that all people are created equal. We need to live it with courage so we will step up when any kind of bullying is happening, anywhere, to anyone.  Easy to say, isn’t it? How do you make it happen? You start with a conversation.  Seth and Tyler’s and the rest of the suicides have to stay in the conversation even after the immediate shock fades.  We need no more Trevors, no more Matthew Shephards, no more Tylers and Seths. We must keep the conversation alive, on the front burner. Because some people are not more equal than others.  At least they’re not supposed to be.

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On the Other Side of Life: The Story of the Keys


2010
08.07

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Posted in Essays about Life, General | 4 Comments »

Six Keys by Don Whittemore

August. On the other side of the year, counting down. Life is Creative Every Day’s theme for August, and today I had a stark reminder of being on the other side of life.

My dad is 92.  His memory is going.  There are visible changes daily, and he’s in that delicate stage when he recognizes it.  On the other hand, my mom’s been beyond that stage for so long that she has no idea she doesn’t remember. She thinks she still does things like cook dinner.

Walking in yesterday morning at 9:30, I found Dad at the breakfast table with a handful of keys.  He was agitated because he had lost his keys the day before and was trying to scare up extras.  As he fiddled with the keys on the table, he got more and more disturbed.  I know some of it was caused by him knowing he’d lost something he couldn’t find, knowing his usually well-orgainzed keys were missing tags, knowing he was losing his grip on things.

Mom walked in and said, “Do you remember this?”  She was holding the key rack I made in Camp Fire Girls so very long ago.  It’s green with two big flowers and three hooks, and I thought those were the very most beautiful flowers ever painted.  (I probably can’t do much better right now.)  We talked about it and she wandered off with the key rack.

Dad caused a lot of this agitation himself because he is who he is.  Some of us have insight into ourselves and can make changes.  Some of us, like my dad, both do and don’t have insight.  I’m not sure I understand it: he can bemoan some of the habits his father had, yet have the same habits himself without recognizing them.  He knows he can be difficult (difficult is an understatement) but he’s never been able to modify his behavior.

So my sister had told him she wasn’t going to be there the day he lost the keys, but for him not to worry, there were duplicates and she’d get them made.  She thought she had finally gotten through and he’d just relax and wait.  But that’s not my dad.  Even though he is 92 and knows his stamina is limited, he spent the rest of that day looking all over the yard, even raking it, sure he had dropped the keys when he was fiddling with the fountain (a whole other story).  I’m sure he lost sleep over it, and he hadn’t even eaten breakfast when I walked in.

He just couldn’t stop being him.  He never would have lost keys in the first place; if he did he’d find them right away, and everything would be in order and in its place.  Basically, he would have been in control.  He never recognized that he always had to be in control, yet he understood that about others.  How can a person have awareness, even self-awareness, yet be blind at the same time?

One thing led to another: my sister had taken the extra mail box key so he didn’t know how he would get his mail! (No, she had one made for herself and checked the mail frequently for them.)  If only mother would have agreed to put a mailbox key on her key ring, he’d have that. But Mom can’t even find her purse usually.  Dad knows that.  He was worked into a fine froth.  I made a mistake, trying to divert attention.  I said, “Dad, speaking of purses, do you ever wonder what Queen Elizabeth carries in her purse? You know, she always has a handbag with her wherever she goes.  I think it’s empty.”  The mistake was, he didn’t laugh.  He said he knew why she carried a handbag! To carry her intimate items.  I’m thinking sanitary pads (except that she’s a bit old for those), but Dad was thinking lipstick.  Oh well.

So I said, “Dad, I’ll look and I’ll find the keys.”  And I set out, outside, since he was convinced that’s where he lost them.  But my sister called and asked me to check between the dryer and the wall.  I did.  I saw something that looked like it could be a key tag, but the space was tight and I couldn’t budge the dryer.  So I got a meat fork and tongs from the kitchen, used the fork to snag and pull out what did turn out to be keys, and the tongs to secure them and lift them out.  I noticed the key rack was right above the crack (somehow Mother put it back where it belonged), and Dad had probably returned the keys to the right place but missed the hook. He was so positive they were outside.

I stood up, Dad walked in, and I said, “Are these the keys?” He leaned on the dryer and began to cry.  He was exhausted from this incident. He was hungry, tired, and emotional.  I think mostly he was crying because he knew just how close he was to the other end of life; he knew how much he couldn’t do, and it was just too much.

Portrait of an Old Man by Egon Schiele

I moved the key rack to the other wall so if things dropped, they wouldn’t disappear into the gap.  Mind the gap.

When I left I called my sister and asked her not to tell Dad that it was her idea to look between the dryer and the wall.  Because I was a hero, and I just let myself be a hero.  I knew it was useless to try to explain that it was Cris, not me, who thought to look there.  In his emotional state he couldn’t have processed, so I let him laud me as the hero, the person who could solve anything.

Besides, I think it brought back some luster to my branch of the family after my husband tarnished it in the plumbing incident.

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All You Need is Love


2010
06.20

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Posted in Essays about Life, General | 5 Comments »

I’m exploring the topic of LOVE for Coach Dian’s blog challenge. Everyone has been invited to discuss in any way at all one of the twelve subjects this particular art installation (click on “art installation” to find out what it is) addresses, plus a thirteenth added by Dian. The art installation itself is from a Burning Man festival, and asks us to what do we pledge allegiance, learning to see with new eyes and act with new vision in the web of life.  The theory is that if enough people turn their attention to one or another of these qualities, maybe change can be effected.  So far I’ve talked about courage and intention, and for another blog challenge, bliss.  Now for love.

The Beetles said, “All you need is love.”  Were they right? If you listen to the lyrics of almost any pop or country song, love – especially unrequited love or lost love – is all there is to sing about.  It’s like every song is the same song.  The same is true of books – every book is the same book about life, just expressed in different settings with different characters and plot development.  In fact, instead of “all you need is love,” it seems like love, while desirable, messes things up – at least love as we commonly view it.

It must say something about the importance of understanding life and love that we listen to music and read books that can be boiled down, at their essence, to almost the same topic.  I suppose because there are endless variations on love and life, and they both involve each of us, we are endlessly interested.  There’s a variation of love going on right outside my window at this very moment.  Froggie love.  Our backyard pond is outside my window and a frog is croaking; then there seems to be a corresponding “plopping” sound, as well as croaks that might fit a category of desire.  Of course I can’t go outside to look because it would ruin everything.  Although my husband and I did go out earlier to find frogs, and we saw this cute little guy heading for the bushes, I hope to eat lots of insects.  Now I’m hoping for lots of tadpoles.

Can love be distilled down to a universal truth? Are the longing, mournful, sad, or happy, joyous and euphoric lyrics about love as  universal truth? I don’t think so.  They are about longing, desire, sex, the idea that the next thing that happens will be the one that sets your life to rights.

Just yesterday, I attended two events that I think define love as it should be, love as a concept that we can pledge allegiance to, and love that can change the world.  Because love isn’t reproduction, infatuation, sex, romance, and it’s not that tingling feeling you get right down to your fingertips when you have physical contact with that one desirable person.  Those are all lovely things, but love is broader than all that.  The first event, a graduation, describes it perfectly.

My dear friend Michael, whom I love deeply, was graduating from a two-year intensive program to be a practitioner at Agape International Spirit Center. Agape is the Greek word for unconditional love.  Through intense self-examination, many essays, and weekly classes, Michael, as a practitioner, can now engage in prayer sessions with people who request that service.  In essence, it’s counseling through self-examination and love.  So Mark and I drove to Los Angeles for his graduation.  This is what we saw.

We saw a sanctuary with walls covered with spiritual images – from Jesus to mandalas to Buddha, from images of Judaism and Hinduism to pictures of nature.  In other words, we had entered an inclusive environment.  Love is inclusive.  Love doesn’t have the energy to waste on exclusion.  We heard Reverend Michael speak, and he referenced God – or “whatever it is you call God, or the universal spirit, ” etc. – in other words, inclusive of beliefs from the traditional to spiritual to any notion you might have of a unifying force.

My Michael had been elected by his class to speak.  As he approached the stage, the spotlight shone on him as if he was a heavenly creature of some sort.  It was just the spotlight – but it created an image of love.

He was received with love.  Love for who he is, happiness that he was speaking – and if there was any jealously or resentment that he was the speaker, it was not evident. He gave a wonderful speech with just the right mix of humor, reverence, thankfulness, and love.

Reverend Michael approached his own remarks without negativity.  He spoke of what graduates had discovered about their strengths and their opportunities for improvement – not their weaknesses.  That may be a small thing – but really, it’s not, because negativity drains us of creativeness, forward movement, and love.  Wouldn’t you rather have an opportunity for improvement than a weakness?

Now, I’m not getting all sappy or anything.  I wasn’t amongst perfect people who float through the week leaving love and peace in their wake.  It’s just interesting to be in an environment where everyone is aiming for that ideal; to be in a place whose very premise is love and peace and inclusion among all faiths, races, nationalities, political leanings – in other words, a place where everyone just gets along.  That doesn’t seem too much to ask, does it? Couldn’t we call that love?

If we could all pledge our allegiance to that kind of love – a peaceful, accepting, inclusive love, and go about our business in that vein – imagine the change we could bring about.

I took a picture of Michael afterwards with Reverend Michael, and when my daughter saw it she said, “I know that guy.  I saw him on Oprah.  I really liked him.”  Apparently he was on Oprah talking about Proposition 8, the California initiative that banned gay marriage.  Which, of course, he thought was a very bad idea – a very divisive, exclusionary, hateful proposition.  He spoke about all the ways the Bible does not ostracize or speak against homosexuality. But Prop 8 passed.  I have to say, personally, that I don’t understand why anyone would meddle in anyone’s private life.  That is definitely not about love.

This next picture is of Michael with the Practitioner who helped him through his studies.  This is what love should be – just sincere joy and pleasure with and in the other person.

The graduation certainly set the stage for thinking about love as it should be – love as inclusion and peace.  That’s doesn’t mean we have to like everyone, but it would sure make life easier if we didn’t waste effort on not liking someone.

Graduation over, we drove back up to Bakersfield (takes 1 1/2 to 2 hours) for our oldest granddaughter’s Sweet 16 birthday party.

All nine of my grandchildren are equally special and amazing individuals, all with distinct personalities.  But I’ll just talk about Ali, the oldest, because it was her birthday and that, together with the graduation, tied in so well to love as it should be.

Ali is beautiful and brilliant.  She is also a person who doesn’t know how to exclude anyone.  Who truly does not have a mean, spiteful, jealous bone in her body.  She must have been born that way, but I know she has deep insights for her age on human nature and has spent enough time observing to form her character in the direction she chooses.

Watching Ali open her gifts was an atypical gift-opening experience.  She took the time to read, enjoy and appreciate every single card – and there were dozens of them – and gift.  She looked at and thanked each person.  She was equally as joyful at finding her favorite gum as she was at finding substantial cash.

You can see the kindness in her face. 

This exhibited to me what love is and should be – just like the morning’s graduation: inclusiveness, joy with every effort, gift or accomplishment, kindness.  How could this kind of behavior fail to spread peace among all peoples and be the true nature of love?

This pure happiness is love.  Ali is holding up a picture Jackson sent for her birthday (or Jackson’s mom, my daughter Karen sent).  Apparently it is a dinosaur brain.  Jackson’s almost five, and dinosaurs are very much on his mind, so what more precious drawing could he make?

I’ve probably run on enough about this.  The Beetles are right. All you need is love.  Love that embraces, includes, celebrates everyone.  Behavior that leads to peace.  It would be hard to kill someone whom you celebrated, wouldn’t it? War might disappear.  Don’t think it’s going to happen anytime soon, but the more of us that join the positive force, the sooner it will happen.  For me, that’s love.

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Intention – I’ve Been Intending to Write About This


2010
06.15

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Posted in Essays about Life | 4 Comments »


Before we start: I’ve realized that some folks are unaware of some of the features of a blog.  Whenever something is underlined, and putting your cursor on it shows it to be a live link, you can click and go right to whatever is being referenced.  Then just back arrow to go back to the blog post, or if it opens a new window, click back on the blog window.  Also, you can click on any photo to make it bigger and use the back arrow to get back to the blog.  With photos, keep in mind that the resolution has to be reduced to post, at least in Word Press, which is what I use, so you may not see the quality of photo you might expect.  The bigger you make a low-resolution photo, the grainier it will be.

"Jewels of Intention" by Michelle Oravitz

Intention on a personal level: Another quality on Coach Dian’s blog challenge is intention.  We all understand intent – the specific purpose for whatever it is we’re doing, and the end result of that purpose – what we hope to accomplish.   We don’t give it much thought usually.  We know in a vague sort of way that we need to do the laundry or water the plants, go to the market or call someone.  Then as we progress through the day, we either do or don’t do those things.

I think many of us are now thinking of intention differently, more fully.  We are thinking of actually acting with intent – not sleepwalking through something.  If we go through the day with intention, we have to think about what we’re doing.  It gets a bit muddled with purpose, or even something like being responsible.  What’s the difference and why does it matter?

Take, for example, visiting my parents.  That’s something I usually don’t look forward to these days.  But I do it.  I don’t have to technically, but of course, as a responsible daughter, I do.  My purpose for doing it isn’t often well thought out – I just know I’m going to, and if it ends up I don’t make it today, there’s always tomorrow.  To a degree.

What if I approached my visits with intention? Knowing it’s an important part of the day for my parents, and giving them the time it takes to have a comfortable conversation, I could relax during the visit and stay present.  After all, they spent a lot of time raising me – now I’m “raising” them.  Strange things happen when you relax and stay present – you may learn something,  internalize and remember the story that’s being told for the hundredth time, actually have a good time.

So that’s the difference then.  Visit perfunctorily, or visit with intention.  Either way, I’m going to do it.  It brings the concept of intention to a new level, rendering the dictionary definition sterile.

The artist who did the installation at burning man, asking us to consider different attributes and how actualizing those attributes would make America better, is having an effect on many of us, and we never heard of him and never went to Burning Man (although I’d like to).  Such is the power of art.  Because this person asked how we would pledge our allegiance to something, what it might mean for the world, we’re thinking about it.

I think one effect of people truly acting with intention is unexpected: the end of multi-tasking.  Yes, I know we are never going to not multi-task, especially women, because we can do it so well.  But if we telephone someone with intention, knowing we are going to set a lunch date, or just catch up, we’ll really concentrate on it.  I always find it unnerving to talk to someone and hear pots clattering in the background.  I know that person is putting an equal importance on doing the dishes – but not intentionally.  With the concept of intention, we could have a meaningful conversation and actually remember what we talked about.

I Skype with my friend William.  If we’re doing it on video, he concentrates on the conversation.  Kind of has to or he’ll appear very rude.  And basically I’ll say, let’s talk later when you can concentrate.  But if we’re Skyping without video, I know that he’ll be talking to me, perhaps someone else on Skype, there may be a Facebook chat going, and he’ll be responding to text messages, and looking up something on the internet.  If we were conversing with intention, it would go faster (there wouldn’t be huge gaps in response time), meaning trains of thought wouldn’t be broken and we might actually consider what the other is speaking about.

What this multi-tasking may be doing to young people as far as attention span, quality of work, and ultimately quality of life, is a whole other subject.

On a larger scale: If we all improved our intention personally, pledged our allegiance to living with intention, we would have a more focused, meaningful world.  We’d improve our quality of life.  More and more people think, however, that if enough people collectively focus on the same thing, change could be made to occur, perhaps even physical change.  Pooh, you say, that’s ridiculous.  Maybe it is, but I can’t say that with certainly because I just don’t know.  I’m willing to entertain any thought to improve our planet. -  they do stuff like that on Star Trek, pretty much my Bible.  We’ve only touched a small part of our minds.

Tomorrow I’m going to watch two world cup soccer games, write some fundraising letters for the Fannie Lou Hamer Statue Fund, refine my list of what I need to do, and start doing some of it.  I’m going to make a turkey meatloaf for dinner, finish off the marinated beets I made earlier this week, and have a gigantic salad (I have so much lettuce to use.).

Soccer is a good example of intention, because you can’t watch a World Cup game meaningfully unless you sit down with undivided attention.  You have to understand what you are going to do and do it entirely, or there’s no use.  You’ll miss it all.  Try it.

These are just my thoughts, off the top of my head, without reading anything about intention first except the definition.  I may have it wrong, but I don’t think so.  And writing this is a good reminder for me to act with intention – I’ve been trying to make it something I internalize this year, with varying degrees of success.


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