Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Macrocosm vs. Microcosm

     Dog treats from China are killing American dogs. My old publisher is moving to China to begin "a new adventure". Several of my "old" students are currently living/working in China and having a fabulous time. Most of the sneakers I own have been made in China. At least two of my closest friends have lived in China for some period of their lives. I have blog readers in China. China and Tibet remain at odds. The Dalai Lama seeks peace. I have always wanted to visit China.

     As one of millions of Americans drastically affected by Obamacare, I worry how I am going to afford health insurance of any kind OR pay for the meds my aging self now relies upon, without a full-time job--a situation also incurred during this current Presidency.  Mom and Dad continue to fall down, bruise and batter their eighty-plus year old bodies and have several different doctors' appointments each week. Medicare and their supplemental insurance plans cover their physical woes. They are far better covered than I have ever been. How can I afford to get new glasses and new lenses and fit in an eye appointment without my current health care plan? I can't get a full-time job without an updated pair of specs, yet, every time I make enough money substituting or tutoring, to afford new specs, my insurance plan is cut.

     War in oil producing zones (with the U.S.) raises heating and gas prices and destroys the planet. Oil production and gas production destroys the planet. Use of automobile and gas-guzzling transportation destroys the planet. Human existence destroys the planet. The gas and oil and auto and human industries offer jobs and sustenance to millions of humans and allow human beings to possibly have increased comfort, health and personal lives. Pollution causes cancer and destroys lives. Destruction of all human life may save the planet. For what? For whom?

     Getting myself healthy via diet and exercise will reduce the need for meds and doctors. Affording fresh produce and vitamins can only occur with a well-paying and sustained employment opportunity. Looking good means: neat and up to date clothing kept sharp; contemporary eyewear that matches my current prescription; a reliable means of transportation; make-up and hair products; a safe environment in which to keep clothing, health products, make-up, etc. and to sleep eight hours a night; a kitchen to cook healthy meals and keep to a clean diet; a safe place to exercise and good health care to keep exercise related injuries healing; which means ability to pay rent; have healthcare; have access to transportation and afford necessary clothing, food and medical supplies. Mental health means community; friends; romance and family--not necessarily in that order. Mental health means sobriety; self-esteem; self-worth and direction. Mental health means jobs; hobbies; activities and connections. I cannot afford to leave my parents' home because of their health and mental health needs; my own lack of a full-time income; family connections. Because I need to live at my parents' home, I have no community and few adult friends in this place. I have a car that I cannot drive outside the outskirts of this town because of gas prices; repair costs and its aging condition. I cannot afford gym membership nor pool membership without a full-time job. Without an arts and feminist community and the support of such communities and the day to day life with age-appropriate friends outside of familial support, my self-esteem, sense of purpose, growth and romantic life fades away. Without confidence, self esteem and direction, the motivation to exercise, even in the cold of New England winters, withers. Without health care and easy access to it, the body also goes downhill.
Without good health, one cannot work nor will one be likely hired to begin work. I cannot see past my parents' demise.

     If Dad goes first, all goes to Mom and she wants to get rid of this home--the childhood abode of my sibs and myself and the adult crashlandingpad for all of us. If Dad goes first, Mom wants to be in an "adult community"--where all of her savings will go to keep her in care. She has never lived alone nor in such a place and has fantasies that it is like a college situation--only you have your own apartment. She has fantasies that she will be surrounded by friends and family will constantly be over to visit--as they are, now, in the family abode. Most of her friends have passed. The family is scattered and use the family home as a center of connection. The center of connection would not hold in an adult assisted living apartment complex. We have experienced several aunts and uncles end their days in these places...Mom has always paid more attention to "her version" of reality than what is going on in the world.  If she goes first, Dad will not leave this house until he's dead. But Mom takes care of his "personal needs"--including accompanying him to all the doctor visits, nursing him when he is sick, here, and "keeping house"--mostly vacuuming and cooking his dinner. If he goes down, as he has been doing a lot, lately, and breaks something and gets bedridden, one of us will have to be with him, fulltime. If one of us is with him fulltime, that person can't have a job of any kind, beyond his care. The sibs aren't in a position of paying whomever is taking care of him, fulltime, even if one of us wanted to do it. Millions of people face this position. I have read the novels and non-fiction accounts. I have seen the plays and movies and interviews. Most of my best and closest friends have begun losing their parents...but most of my best and closest friends are also married, with partners, and their lives are not so intimately connected on a daily basis. I fear being weak. I fear being selfish. I fear knowing what to do and question if I'm here for them, the family or just for myself, because I still don't have a full-time job. Millions of Americans are now without full-time employment and barely getting by. Because I'm living at the family home and Dad has a pension, I don't qualify for state healthcare--I made five thousand dollars last year, in total. If I moved onto the street I would qualify--and maybe for food stamps and housing, as well. It would kill my parents if any of their educated children were on the street. It would kill me if I was on the street.
Many people ARE on the street, or in shelters, or hiding in their cars or in the woods.

     Many millions of people are refugees, with nothing.
     Many people are refugees because of what this country has wrought.
    
    Tomorrow night, it is supposed to snow.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

TAKE A CLOSER LOOK, BABY

The first time it happened was when I finally got my ponytail clipped. I had been forced to wear hair past my shoulders for much of my early life and hated every minute of it. It got tangled. It made my head hot. It made my neck itchy. Mom had to grab me and hurry a hurtful comb/brush through it, daily, before dealing with my four siblings--an unpleasant task for both of us. (No luxury time spent with a beaming nurturer who blithely glided a gilded comb through Goldilocks' locks...at my house it was grab, rake, pull and yell.) I allowed the ponytail only because it got the long hair out of my way, AND an older, gorgeous cousin, wore her hair that way. But by age five, I'd had enough.

It was only days into my "Pixie cut" that Dad took me along to the garage, where he worked, part-time.(Often, I'd accompany him on Saturday afternoons--playing in the rusty-water streambed behind the gas-station.) Dad could "sort of" keep an eye on me and still pump gas, make change, check tire pressure and change oil for his customers. I was thrilled with the pseudo-freedom. (Polluted or not, frogs croaked along the streambed, and dragon flies filled the air with rainbows.)

As I entered the garage doors to claim an afternoon grape soda from the machine,one of Dad's "cronies" made a crack about my new haircut: "When did you get the new son, Jim?"

Dad's face colored almost as red as mine.

"I'm a girl!" I stammered, wanting to defend myself before Dad was forced into it.

Dad and his buddy deflected my upset with guffaws. I spun out of the garage, running back to the streambed, furious.

Not only had Dad not defended me, when we got home, he yelled at my mother to make sure my hair was never again cut so short!  (Something in me broke at that point.) My sisters had long hair--one, a deep brown and curly; the other, golden blonde and falling to her butt. My brother had a crew cut--his blonde hair so light, he looked bald in the sun.  I wanted something of my own: out of my face and in the middle of the extremes. (I didn't want to BE a boy--I just wanted to be able to DO the fun things the boys got to do: wear comfortable clothes; get dirty and not be reprimanded for it; collect frogs or sticks or stones in their pockets; run outside, without having their hair pulled by its roots, everyday; hang out with Dad and not be made fun of for doing it...

A week later, Mom came home with my first "Toni Perm"  My sisters and I were doused with the stinky, stinging chemicals for what seemed like an entire day. The results were typical 60's home permanents: brillo pads atop little kids. (At least  I looked somewhat "girlish".)  Dad was relieved. My heart remained bruised, however,even as my head continued to be battered.

Until I left for college, I let my hair brush my shoulders. Photos from those years capture the attempts at feminine gracefulness that was never mastered. It was while at college when my hair rebellion burst forth, finally full-throttle. The summer before I left for Los Angeles, I had a friend shear my locks down to a punky inch and a half--tinted and ready-- for the Left Coast.(Oddly,once there, I grew it out, again, seeking employment, and living with 70's boys who were all "Stayin' Alive". Beegee shags were being sported, and I wanted to somehow fit.)

When the boys left the condo (and radical women friends moved in), I was punked out, again, shorn to an inch of my life and experimenting with color. If someone approached me from behind, I found that I'd be called "boy", or, "kid"--the implication that I was a young man. As soon as I turned around or they came full-face with me, the apologies would begin.(No mistaking me from the front.)
Still, my face would redden--as much because of their discomfort as from my own.

I came to painfully understand that we don't really look at each other in this society. We make flash judgments based on hair and height and clothing just as readily as we make judgments about skin color or wrinkles or weight.

I began to play with people's minds, then.(Even wore my hair in a crewcut, several times--but always with make-up and lots of jewelry.) Still, the  hair was judged, first.  It was only as Sinead O'Connor burst on to the scene --and the rise of cancer survivors was paid attention to in the mainstream press-- that people didn't suck in their breath when a woman sported a buzz.

I prided myself on raising the consciousness of hundreds.

One day, in a crowded classroom of  loud middle schoolers, I had to keep reprimanding a student for interrupting the class. (No matter who had the floor, this kid wouldn't stop talking out of turn.) It was a new group of kids, so I hadn't memorized every name nor even every face. This student was seated  at a round table in the corner, surrounded by friends. Short, pudgy, motor-mouthed, reminding me much of myself at that age--the chatter was hijacking the entire morning's lesson-- interfering with other students' presentations.

"Will the talkative ladies in the back please stop, now?  I've asked  you, politely, to keep  quiet several times--"  I shot my darkest look in the direction of the corner table.

The class turned around in their seats and grew silent.

We went on with the oral presentations.

Again, noisy chatter, giggles, the sounds of pushing and moving chairs, erupted from the back table.

"Hey! I'm not kidding! You girls are being very rude to your classmates and disrespectful to all of us! Please stop talking and pay attention!"

Again, silence rose in the classroom.

We went back to the presentations.

Within ten minutes, there were giggles, voices almost at full volume, and the sound of horse-play from the back of the room, including a stack of books falling to the floor with a  thud.

"Okay, that's it! You girls at that table will see me after class!"

Not a single word rose up after that.
The energy in the room, however, wasn't one of relief. It was almost morbid. (Gone was the excitement of kids wanting share their research.) The joy of the assignment was banished. I knew I was now the "Ogre Queen" and my hoped for English Adventure in Oral Reports was a negative experience. ARRRRRRGH.

The class filtered out quietly.

Finally, the two girls from the back table, who had found it impossible to be quiet during class, were in front of me.

The most talkative one, with the thick, auburn ringlets to her shoulders, the wide brown eyes and cupid's bow lips scowled. Short, chubby, dressed in baggy sweatshirt and baggier jeans, she spat out the words," I'm NOT a girl!"

(I adjusted my glasses.) I coughed.

"He's not a girl..." the taller student, his friend, whispered, staring at him, and then at me, behind my desk.

"I, uh,...oh...I...guess...you know, I don't know you all, yet...so..." I stuttered, lamely, the instant blush, plastering my cheeks.

"We tried to tell you...I'm a guy..." the boy said, half -believably.

"I guess I need to get my glasses checked...you know how it is when you get older..." I answered, also telling a half-truth.

"Okay." The boy generously forgave me.

(Both students blithely went on their way, justified, and off the hook for detention.)

I finished the day without further incident--forever schooled, from the other side of the fence.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Malala, Noble Prizes and "American Horror Story:Coven"

While my familial world rocks and rolls with mothers going down and bruising ribs in the middle of the night, ambulance rides in the cold darkness to the hospital, new bells and buzzers for each parental unit to summon me from anywhere in the house, and a confused dog who doesn't know what the hell is going on, the outside world spins merrily on.

This past week, the Noble Peace prize was awarded to a wonderful peace activist technology group that monitors and disarms chemical weapons of destruction. They narrowly "beat out" Malala, the young woman education activist who was shot in the head for merely going to school--surviving the attack, healing in England, and returning to organize peace and education workers around the globe, all for the rights of girls to become enlightened in a male dominated world. As some newscasters in America commented: "She's young; she's amazing; she is going on to a stellar career that will surely include a Noble Prize down the road...chemical weapons, given current events in Syria, are more in the forefront right now..."

(Well, I disagree, but, again, who am I to say this? Just another female educator in a western country, far from the wars' edge...hmmm.)

Also in the American news this week: the third season of the t.v. series "American Horror Story". This year, the storyline involves witches--witches who have fled persecution in New England and sought refuge in New Orleans. Witches who truly possess magical powers--talents passed down through their genetic code. These aren't the innocent bumpkins seeking emotional release, from Salem's uptight communities in the 1600's, but are powerful females who fight back when discriminated against--even against each other.  As I tuned into the season opener, I was shocked and delighted to see that the series continues exploring many of the "taboo" subjects from American history usually swept under the carpets (or into the closets). Issues of slavery, misogyny, rape, torture, sadomasochism, illicit love, poverty vs. over-abundance, and the on-going stereotypic roles of women through the ages--and how individuals are always striking out against these stereotypes. Quite heady stuff as the world goes into another cycle of wars, misogyny, government corruption, shut-down and overall mayhem. (How ironic when a "horror series" isn't quite as horrible as the everyday reality surrounding us...maybe it is this irony that demands horror films to now include humor, in order to be lauded by viewers of the genre?)

I must admit that "American Horror Story" is well acted, paced and written. It is "smart t.v."--and it knows that it is, even as it delivers. The returning cast from the other two seasons are familiar faces with new roles to flesh out. They include actors from all races, some with disabilities, some old and some new. The prevailing common denominator is that each one is a superb craftsperson and a consummate ensemble member. While this plot has, in its first hour, countless threads flying off in many directions, I have no doubt it will spin them together and catch us in its inevitable web of terror.
Still, the real world intervenes...

As I watch my parental units struggle with yet another round of illness, bodies letting them down, weakness and lack of freedoms hemming them in, I see women in Syria suffering from their own lack of freedoms, lack of access, their bodies both prison and destiny. I also watch Kathy Bates and Jessica Lange bemoan their losing battles with age, physical rot and secondary power, surrounded by men who rise without even one wit of their intelligence or ability. Yeah, its t.v. mirroring world politics. Yes, it is the political and the personal meeting in my living room. Yes, if you involve the stories of women--real or imagined--there is a history of blood. There is betrayal and frustration and too much hiding behind whatever disguises society deems necessary to control our rawness, power.

As an educator, I smile when Jessica Lange's "head witch" character chuckles at the school for young witches in New Orleans (run by her daughter) teaching young women to "blend in"...she compares it to another dream: Harry Potter's Hogwart's. (Art imitating art, while, in real life, women's educational activism is seen as secondary to chemical weapons of destruction...)

A witches' school for empowering young women, gone rogue, doesn't seem like such a bad idea...O how different our reality would be...girls taught to claim their God-given gifts most profoundly...without the  need for disguise or regret. What a world...what a world, indeed.

Malala, you should have won...Girls, we have to keep pushing to remember who we really are...We have to set ALL the slaves free.