COMMENTS EVERYONE!

After just reading the latest issue of TIME, I came to Joel Stein's column about comments at the end of articles. His premise is that by giving the comments as much (or more room)than the original article, one can actually change peoples' views about a well-balanced and non-biased article into negativity towards the article, and the writer, themselves. He bases this premise on personal observation, minor research (which he readily admits--tongue in proverbial cheek) and one article by a researcher on media communications.

I have often found myself ploughing through an article, on-line, only to come to the comments list, hoping for further insight into the issues raised--or issues not raised. More often than not, however, the comments, after two or three at the top, de-evolve into shouting matches, wherein people's i.q., sexual preference; physical make-up and /or personal hygiene becomes the fodder. I have seen absolutely sane discussions dissolve into the crudest name-calling contests imaginable, and I substitute teach kids in middle-school! (Why does it matter that someone got two comments on Yahoo, while a competing writer got three?  What does one's breath quality have to do with anything online? Who cares if one sleeps with robots, or reads THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER for a hobby?)

A comment, after an article--whether the article was published in the NEW YORK TIMES, or on THE HUFFINGTON POST--should address issues raised in the article before it. It should ask questions that haven't been answered--or bring up points that were neglected by the original article's writer. Comments should be sane, and sanely represented. If someone is using the comment board to post racial, sexual, ageist, homophobic or bigoted slurs of any kind, they should be  somehow "rated", if not barred, by the editors of these boards--starred as the crap they are--irrelevent and uninteresting. Giving them equal time and equal space,(often more space than the original article), does validate what Mr. Stein was upset about--and also contributes to the dumbing down of the planet.

I have commented, on occasion, when particular articles have angered me, or moved me to tears. When beloved heroes have passed. When a special event touches us all, as a nation, or as global citizens--but I have commented where it would add to the conversation. Negativity has its place in the order of the Universe, as does everything that exists, but it seems, extended name-calling, and pointing out the foibles of an individual who has commented before you (and who is unknown to the rest of the readers), is just plain absurd. Whether there is endless space available or not, I know, for myself, it shuts me down,(and off) as a reader. It rarely changes my mind about the article--nor the writer of the original article. However, it does cut me off from fair exchange of original ideas with other readers. It turns me off to the entire process: I begin to search elsewhere.

My hopes have always been that the Internet is the first, real democracy on the planet. Everyone has an equal voice--if they can make their way into virtual space. With the advent of increasingly affordable technology and shared techno-support--even countries who are the farthest behind in technology can give rise  to their culture, their needs, their dreams. One doesn't have to be a President nor a Pope, to offer insight to the rest of the world. Soon, everyone, everywhere, will have this power. However, as with all power, the wisdom with which we use it will determine how it benefits the whole.

Comments are a perfect proving ground. If one doesn't feel ready to have one's own blog, or web-page, or even publish an article (or an entire e-book), a comment board is somewhere to cut one's teeth. Offering one's opinions to the world can be daunting. Learning to increase one's personal sense of power to help change the pattern of the world can be started through the use of simple comments. However, name calling, obscenity for the sake of being a wise-guy, crudity or just plain raunch has no good points--for anyone. Using precious space, polluting public arenas, or typing verbal garbage, reduces one to an angry five year old having a tantrum: something ugly and out of control.  Stein said, that for him, finding comments at the end of his published articles, was, at first, like having a signed yearbook all over again--but this time around, girls were signing it...for a while. Then, it degenerated and wasn't quite so interesting.

I welcome comments. Not for simple praise (or blame), but for insight into what people think/feel/come away with,after reading what I write. I am working on this blog to offer solace to all the loners and artists and teachers and independent ones out there, who maybe don't find their stories in the popular press. I want to hear your adventures, too. I hope you do leave some comments--and continue coming back, to see what transpires--however fast or slowly. This is a blog about one person's life--just one human on Earth. It is a history that, before now, might have been squelched. It is a record of hope in dark times. It could only be offered at this point in our evolution.(Because of the Internet's access and because of you, as accessible audience.) So, comments are an important ingredient in the exchange.

Recently, a friend was writing an article for a national newspaper. She mentioned that numerous famous and "almost anonymous" bloggers were addressing similar issues she was taking on, in their blog posts. Whether she numbered me among the "almost anonymous" bloggers or not, the description stung. For every writer who has published, mainstream, in solo books or anthologies or in magazines with any sort of distribution or even in other sorts of periodicals, worldwide, to be numbered among the "anonymous bloggers" stings. We are all toiling to communicate beyond  ourselves--believing in an unseen audience. Comments often are the only way we know anyone is listening--or reading. We may not be "famous"--at least not by today's definition of YouTube million-hit fame--but we are out here. We are touching readers; we are making people think, argue and discuss issues. Comments keep us in a constant reality-check. They have the power to count.

(In some sort of irony, my friend's article didn't get published. But my "anonymous blog" keeps moving on out into the world. Hmmmm.)

 

THE SOUND OF MEMORY

"Twenty-seven years ago, we were doing this, H.!"  I nudge my friend in the ribs.

"More like forty years ago, Minns..." she laughs as the line moves forward.

"Hey, Ms. Minns, so good to see you!"
"Hi Ms. Minns!"
"Ms. Minns, you made it!"

I wink, touch a shoulder and move through the crowd of high schoolers and their parents, all in the ticket line.

"You already have your tickets, right?" H. asks me, suddenly worried. "If they don't have your tickets, I'll buy my own--" H. sets her jaw. (She is gainfully employed as a real-life teacher in Worcester...she's arrived. I'm still "arriving". She knows she may have to pay her own way--as well as mine...)

"No, they'll have them," I insist, praying. "They got me to be a sponsor--kinda last minute, though. I guess the tickets are upfront."

I feel my face flaming beet-red, as the nearest parents begin to listen.

"Name please?" the ticket lady asks, thumbing through the shoebox of envelopes.

"Uh, Minns--" (I feel like a rube at my first Broadway show. How embarrassing if they forgot my tickets! No way--I bought they from Capt. Von Trapp, himself...)

For a second, the ticket lady looks as concerned--then sighs with relief ."Oh, yes, Karen, right?  Here they are!" The woman beams, handing me the envelope with my name printed across. "Enjoy!"

H. and I exhale.

H. hands me a copy of the program.

I try not to be obvious as I scan the list of "sponsors".
(I don't see my name...)

"Ms. Minns--you actually made it, tonight!" a student usher takes my tickets, grinning. Her "Madonna microphone" is caught in a long curl. "There are sponsor seats in the center."

(I am a sponsor; I laid out my donation; but I'm not on the list...will we be further embarrassed and asked to re-seat ourselves if we sit in the wrong aisle? God, High School never changes!)

"Wow, when WE did the show, there was NO sound-system..." H. (an original cast-member back then--one of the children--and again, in the community college's production, ten years later) comments. (I know this is bringing up all sorts of nostalgia for her, too.)

"Times do change, Minnsie," she sighs.

Off to her left, she begins a conversation with a couple I don't know. (The man looks to be about seventy--the woman fifteen years younger.) I busy myself with the program.

"Do you know who that is?" H. grabs my elbow and squeezes.

 "Nope." (Still scanning the program, I find that I am, indeed, on the sponsor list. However, they've mispelled my name.)

"That's OUR original Capt. Von Trapp! Remember what a hunk he used to be?" H. whispers.

(I do remember: football captain; six feet plus of pure muscle; great voice; had everyone swooning.)

"Of course, we all look different with a complete head of hair," H. waxes philosophic.

(I cough, brushing my hand over my own one-inch spikes.)

Suddenly, the orchestra walks in.

(In our day, there was a full orchestra--complete with strings. A handful of the high school's best musicians were asked to play alongside professionals, who had been paid for their three night run. It was a huge deal for the students.)

Tonight, there are five guys in black shirts and pants.

Two are students I've had in  my classes. (They make up the percussion section.)
Two adults play keyboards.
The fifth member is the Conductor--the band director for the high school.

"Hey, at least they have a sound system!" H. nudges me in the darkening hall.


Forty years ago: the rising swell of the overture poured out from the pit.The feeling of being on Broadway--or at least in Boston--took us over.

Forty years ago: rented sets (that we had paid a small ransom for), and rented costumes and professionally painted backdrops, filled the stage. I noticed each shining detail back then, as it was my first time being a member of the stage- crew--pulling the mighty curtain and helping to set lights for weeks. I was taught that everything depended on my getting the timing right--or fitting a gel correctly. (I believed it, too.) The entire production on my fourteen year old shoulders...

I remember the dramas that plagued the cast--how we revolved around their inflated lives for those months of rehearsal--how the primary cast members became romantic community icons for an entire year--whomever they were dating, or breaking up with, or upset at, becoming fodder for all of our conversations, both in school and outside. The only "social networking" were whispered rumors and hallway gossip--always tantalizing--always thrilling--fillling our lives with angst and emotion!

(I also remember having to go into the mighty Massachusetts winter; being bullied into selling tickets every weekend, to pay for the extravaganza.) Our director was a task-master; a bit of a meglomaniac--he would not allow an unsold performance on his watch. So, we assailed the neighboring communities, risking dog-bites and slammed doors, assuring people they'd miss a masterpiece of theatre if they didn't buy at least one seat.)

As kids from a football-only- town, we were sucked into the romance. It was a matter of pride and social cache, to be associated with the musical.  Those were the days when Gardner was known, without irony, as "The Chair City of the World".

Looking back, I wonder: whose aim did we serve? How many of us truly prospered under that stress?

It wasn't until college, where I began to be cast as a primary player, on-stage. In California, too, I had my taste of being a minor star--but never in high school.

 I was not a member of the beautiful set, nor the musically gifted-- I felt that lack, for years. (Still, I found a niche-- my starry-eyed, starring-role friends never held it against me.)

 Forty years later, I wonder, how many of these cast members will continue on?  How many chorus members will dream of being leading ladies? How many stage-crew will swallow their dreams? ( Or, does any of this matter, anymore?) Am I nostalgic or bitter?  I weigh it out...


The orchestra, though minimal, helps carry the voices. The students are bright eyed and earnest and some of them can really sing. Most impressive: the dutiful chorus of nuns--filling the live auditorium with Gregorian Chant. (Did our nuns do as well?) Certainly, there are fewer in this present-day production.

Another difference I can't fail to notice: in our day, no one was allowed backstage until the performance was through. No actors --not even a chorus member--could so much as peek at the audience. If anyone dared to join the audience while still in costume, well, that person was struck from the cast. We were to act as "professionals".

Was this maniacal? Necessary? Did it add to the community's enjoyment of the musical? Did it add to our understanding and appreciation of theatre? (At the time, we seemed under the spell of this man.  He represented the dreams we shared of leaving central Massachusetts and conquering the world. I only began to question his authority as a Senior--when I was tired of being forever relegated to the stage-crew, and never given an opportunity to act. But that was more my ego than his, I fear.) I wonder, if forty years later, such high anxiety and power-struggles still exist behind those curtains?  (If this is so, will kids be better or worse for it?)

No one famous came out of  our marathons.

Most of us fled the town and moved on to other dramas in the world.

A few of us returned to witness the reprise--by chance. (Only, by chance.)

(I do not feel forty years older.)


Kids are beaming as they take their bows.
Parents  hug and smile and pass out bouquets bought at Price Chopper and Stop and Shop (some with the sticky price tags still clinging to the plastic wrap)--but no less thrilling to the young actors.

Though forty years earlier we might have had a choreographer, no one giggled this time, when Capt. Von Trapp awkwardly kissed Maria. The audience held its breath--as it should.

(In the end, there was a standing ovation, even as there had been, in my day.) It was just as heart-felt.
The staff, and teachers in attendance, were just as proud--even if there seemed to be fewer of them.

I'm sure there were arguments about cast party attendance and missed dinners and forgotten homework. (Yes, they could have done without the spotty sound system. Better lighting design would also have helped.) However, the magic of theatre, for all of those involved, hasn't diminished.

(Even if the world of the Von Trapp Family Singers seems farther away.)

"Forty years, Minns--" H. squeezes my arm as we saunter back to my Subaru.

"Shit! We left the overhead light on!"

(I pray the engine will start and I can get her home.)

Some things never change.
 

ADIOS PAPI

The Pope is spending the day saying good-bye to his generals. The cardinals evidently have a personal "moment" in which to give their well-wishes (or ask for pardons) to the head of the Catholic Church. For many, it will be the final time they see this man alive. For others, it will be the final time they see this man as "Pope". From the moment his successor is chosen, he becomes "Pope Emeritus"--a title which is confusing, to say the least.

When an academic retires, the person (often) is given "emeritus" status.  (I've known several professors, deans, and even a president or two.) It is more than honorary; the people have earned the title through their toil in office, for sure. However, it IS honorary in terms of effects on the world--few people expect more than the occasional "historical remembering" speech from these folks. Even when it appears their wisdom is being tapped, from what I've experienced, their wisdom is largely ignored--however politely.

I imagine it will be so with this retiring Pope.

A bigger question remains for me, as a child of the 60's, brought up in a mega-Catholic household: if the Pope represents the living face of God, on Earth, as we were taught in school, can God retire?
(I am not waxing sarcastic here. I am serious.)

 Can God become "emeritus"?

What would that mean, exactly?

For millions of Catholics, the retirement of this Pontiff sends shivers down their spines. Popes normally do not have a certain "shelf life". We were always taught (by nuns;by priests) that "the Pope is Pope and head of the Church until he dies".
God was to determine this trajectory.
If the Pope was weakening, well, that was God's plan..(As masses involved in the pedestrian Church, believing anything less was almost a sin...)

As an adult and an observer of global politics, it seems that what we were taught was only a shadow of the true manipulations going on. This includes the shadow-boxing and scramble for power within Rome--much to my chagrin when realized. Of course, this holds true for all political organizations--as well as spiritual ones.But I digress: we are talking about the Pope, here.

On one hand, I tried to live my life in accordance with the infallibility of the Pope. (Not an easy path, as anyone growing up in the sixties and seventies can attest.) As I worked with people from all over the planet--some in abject poverty and illiteracy, others representing the richest countries on Earth--I began to doubt the Pope's basic understanding of "life in the 20th century"--I don't just mean in the First World locations, either. These were not lessons from books--these were experiences in life.

Issues such as: basic birth control affects poor countries more directly than those places where medical care, child-care and education are readily available; or that women make up fifty-one percent of the world; or that children are at the highest risk of hunger, abuse, and neglect.

How many children have lived horrendous childhoods; suffered agonizing deaths from disease, poverty, or abuse, simply because birth control (NOT ABORTION !) was forbidden by Papal decree? How the issue of abortion might be drastically reduced, altogether, if decent birth control methods were permitted--yet, the Church forbade the most effective forms. "Abstinence" was held up as the greatest birth control method of all--and yet--"abstinence" was something many of the highest clergy couldn't (or wouldn't) indulge in, themselves, even as they remained "unmarried"...(I won't go into the irony of people on picket lines with ugly signs illustrating dying fetuses, being some of the very people who molest children--whether at home or in the backrooms of schools and churches.)

While it isn't just the poor that suffer these hardships, a Pope who was compassionate (and who was in touch with the population he was "leading"), should have, long ago, led children to safety. So far, none have. Not really. Not with strength and the power of God behind them. Not courageously or with ultimate purpose and vigor. Why not? Christ did.

Of course, the Catholic Church, like all human-run organizations, has been involved in a variety of misdeeds through the ages. From the earliest oppression of those who dared to criticize, through the Crusades, the Holocaust and all the other genocides it has been late in raising white hands to halt (including the deaths of women), the Papacy has seemed absolutely more interested in "politics" and "money" than in the needs of the very population most beloved by Jesus, Himself : The poor. The disenfranchised. The criticized. The misunderstood. The oppressed.
Again, I must ask: why?

I was taught that the Pope is on a direct line to God--divinely inspired and divinely chosen. He cannot make a mistake. After being annoited as Pope, whatever he decides for the Church is for the ultimate good of all. (Yet, continued misogyny, homophobia, racism and the tolerance of injustice in its own ranks, prevails.)

 Edicts which promote inequality, allow poverty and bring spiritual (as well as emotional) insecurity to the masses, continue to flow from Rome. Historically, the Catholic Church has been no different than any other organized religion--except it has proliferated on a larger scale. Pointing to this as the absolute blessing of God and the clear proof of its Truth begins to wear thin--in my mind.

(It leads one to come to the conclusion that the words of the Christ are not its true mission statement. The words of men running the organization--and their political vices/needs/desires-- seem to be. I wait, with bated breath, praying I am wrong.) 

Does this mean that there is no good that the Catholic Church has accomplished?  Of course not!

Wherever there are spiritual people--truly spiritually-seeking souls--there is good. Countless generations of saints (and sinners) have found redemption in its ranks. Excellent nuns, priests and brothers, monks and lay-people have toiled for the good of others--choosing lives of unselfish dedication and devotion to a Higher Cause. (But we can find these champions of humanity in other religions, too, can't we?)

Hope is a lifeline for us all. It can lead us out of the suffering of our own, private hells. The best in the Church offer this to the masses--which is why people still come to Church. Why in the poorest countries the Church continues to grow--even today.

Yet, it isn't any of these Saints that seem to rise. It is always, historically, individuals in direct line with the elite, who clothe themselves in velvet and jewels, removed from the common people who support their endeavors. Fear (of loss of salvation; of damnation to Hell) keep the masses in check, still. Fear of "the unknown", especially in turbulent or changing times (When has life on Earth ever been otherwise?), insures that the weakest among us will seek shelter from something "Bigger than themselves". Again, it is the hallmark of most organized religions--the Church isn't alone here. But the Church is claiming the "living Face of God", in Rome. Doesn't God love the lost or heartsick or poor, anymore?  Jesus surely did. More importantly, He DID SOMETHING about it.

Even as some Popes of the past have been righteous, there have been the shadow-boxers behind them; the wealthy and political;the power-hungry.This is not the Church Christ spoke of creating when He told his apostles to go out and preach to the world. (At least, in my own limited vision, it doesn't seem so.)

Hey, I could be wrong. I'm no scarlet-cloaked, gold-ringed cardinal with a full-time staff working under me.  I'm only a woman. A woman whose family remains loyal, alms bearing and active, to a Church which continually threatens to close down around them and leave them (literally), outside on the sidewalk, in their old age. A Church whose "living face of God" is now retiring...to his mansion and servents and low-key status of "Pope Emeritus", while the rest of us have to keep fighting for our lives; our souls.        

POISONING THE WELL

In a time of self-publishing and self-filming, there seems to be a whole lot less self-examining.

I often wonder if folks even take a few moments from their busy lives to reflect on who they are, how they became this person and what they've done over their years. I'm  not criticizing--just wondering if this is seen as "too Catholic"--or too guilt-inducing--thus counter-productive to getting ahead in the world? I don't think Americans like to reflect too closely on their own roles in history--unless there is a movie in it.

Self-examination of one's past is not without its perils-excessive guilt over what one cannot change is one. (However,as a writer, reflection is my primary tool.) Writing necessitates examining the most minute  nuances of what one can remember. Every scent; every sound; every joy, heartache and headache, become the materials of construction. No way to avoid going back--even to those darker places I might wish to avoid.

Along with guilt, there is a nagging question of responsibility. Not so much "who caused the situation", but  more of a question of "will writing about this matter hurt anyone else"?

What outweighs human suffering? Anything?  Can we avoid hurting others, inadvertently? (In war there are always "civilian casualties", which are written off as necessary evils. I rail against that phrase--it reduces everyone to expendable. However, in war, when war is to save the planet, or country, or civilization, doesn't everything become expendable?) The argument is heavy on both sides. Writing isn't truly a war--even if it often spills blood. There can be casualties.

In an English class on creative writing, which I recently taught, the idea of upsetting others came up quite suddenly. Students were expressing difficulty in creating characters for their short story assignments. They asked how I come up with my characters--a question often posed at readings.

 Every writer has a strategy. However, for most, the amalgam of people they've met over their lives, condensed and manipulated, becomes the basic material. Disguising these folks and extending the attributes they offer, becomes the "craft" of the writer. What do these characters have to teach us? Show us? Prove through their actions and decisions? (Can these points be illustrated in any other way? How?)

I suggested my students think of a buddy, who perhaps entered their lives and then dropped out, without notice. Imagine what this person's life might have been--might become. Use these imaginings to create the basis of your character's story.

 Well, they did.

However, one student, upset about her previous teacher leaving the school (and my being asked to continue the class), complained that she was being assigned to write a short story "about someone who used to go to the school-- the attributes of this person were being listed and negative things were being written". (Of course this was not entirely true.) In fact, 99% of the class had no problem creating a new character based on the classmate who suddenly dropped out. But we are talking 21st century culture. One student complaint that even hints at something that could become problematic in the wider world, elicits the utmost scrutiny from Administration.

The explanation and documentation and results of the class excercise proved the good intentions of the assignment, as well as the positive effects on the writings the students produced. As a "life lesson", I used the "blip" to illustrate the conundrum we face, as writers; of getting too close to reality--or what some folks see as reality--when we create our literary worlds.

This has always been an issue for writers. Either we are too dead-eyed and piss people off OR we are too romantic and "soft"--which pisses other people off! A careful high-wire act is always the path we walk.

The rest of the short story class went on without incident. Most of my students felt it was a valuable lesson. We scratched those stories and went on in another direction. (I went on to remember this "sting"...mostly to my pride... as an educator in the public sector. (Visions of the novel PEYTON PLACE began to fill my dreams...)

Today, I find myself "self-editing" in a deeper way. Returning to  my birthplace, living shoulder to shoulder with blood family, under the same roof of my childhood, it becomes increasingly murky. Sense memories flood over me--good, bad, horrifying or comforting--a veritable well of material to pull new stories from. But there is a cost to this endeavor.

Along with the reclaimed images, come the real-life characters. Most are still alive. Most are still kicking. Some, I break bread with, on a daily basis.

To write the adventures I've shared, or share the truths I see, well, that's where self-examination rains down. (Eighty-percent of my day, I wrestle with this unexpected "weather".) Whose truth? Why? Where did those ideas originate? Who was right? Who was wrong? What was forced upon us all? How could it have turned out differently? What are the long-term answers?

As a writer,I realize the process of this self-examination is boring to a reader. All it can do is to temper what I turn out. My high-wire walk begins to sway. I don't want to be a tepid writer. I want to inflame my readers! I want to cause controversy and upheaval! I want them to come away with some kind of change, however that manifests in the world!

(But I don't want to "hurt" anyone...not really.)

So, this greatest of all mysteries: how to have an effect on the culture without causing pain to the individual members?

After all, as I have pointed out to my writing students, even Steinbeck was hated. At least for a while. (Residents of Oklahoma were furious he "created" the scenarios in THE GRAPES OF WRATH.) And of course, in the venerable "New York Times", around 1937, he admitted that Lennie Small, in OF MICE AND MEN, existed as a real man...someone he had met and witnessed murdering a foreman on a ranch, with a pitchfork...

So, in this room that was never my room, in this house that belongs to my parents, in a town that doesn't really know what to do with me (or maybe even trust why I've come back), I  pull up buckets of my past. I try to sip that minerally water, taking in what refreshment it has to offer. As I send the bucket back down the well, I hope my lips haven't left any poison on the rim.















      

COWGIRL BOOTS and WINTER BLUES

I don't get this New England weather...whether or not it is global warming or simply a lack of memory from my earlier life...but to go from "almost spring mud-luscious melting pools of goo" to below zero at sundown and black ice, is just Evil. Today: we aren't getting the predicted 24'' in "The Worcester Hills" (Gardner), but, we ARE getting this mix of heavy snow/melting rain/dirty slush piled up.Piled up and still coming down...

When I was a kid, winter weather was bad but predictable. I can remember that "snow days" didn't just mean no school and sledding and building forts with my friends. They meant getting up in the dark, as the factory whistle blew its bellow throughout our town, annoucing school closure. It meant hand-made  oatmeal in a huge pot on the stove, and bowls up to the brim, with just enough space left for a splash of milk and some brown sugar on top. Oatmeal that Mom and Nana cooked, earlier than our own rising. Oatmeal we all dreaded--that bloaty feeling might have warmed us up and fueled us for the snow-shoveling extravaganza we had to deal with--but which always gagged me and made me feel weighed down. The hot chocolate chaser was the reason to rise. It, too, made the old way, from real cocoa powder and hot milk, delicious--as long as there was no skin on the top...I hated that "skin". So did my siblings. We'd quick, suck the steaming stuff down, before the coating of "skin" could form, scalding our tongues in the process. What irony--about to enter the deep-freeze with scalded tongues!

Mom and Nana would remind us how some kids were waking up to factory jobs and no breakfast and how we should be thankful. We were, deep down. (Mostly for the school day off.) Thankful for the few hours of freedom which came after the snow shoveling and homework checks and getting our clothes ready for "tomorrow".

 Button checks. Zipper checks. Ironed pleats and hems and cuffs. Collars without rings or wear and tear. Spotless undies. Shoes polished. Sweaters without holes or with holes mended...We were a family that entered the world  "representing". (What? I'm still unsure...) Before jeans and frayed hems; before tee-shirts and tennies; long before hoodies and yoga pants. Not yet uniformed at school, but with family dress-codes that were far more strictly enforced, we dressed. So, before the next day's departure, we checked and laid out our school clothes. Then, we were "free".

The snow removal itself was an ongoing contest of wills: between the city snow- plows and our own efforts. We had a long, wide-at-one-end driveway, and a front walk that ran all the way to the road. Both would take hours to shovel, only to finish and find the city plows had pushed the street debris into the driveway and front path, effectively blocking both.

"The mailman can't get to the porch!" was a cry we dreaded.
"Your Father won't be able to get into the driveway when he gets home!" was the second clarion call.

So, off we went, out in cycles. Two or three kids to a shift. Sometimes Nana joining us--though we knew it wasn't good for her heart. (Mom has "memories" of shoveling with us, but they are false. Her role in the family was strictly 'inside the house'. Maybe she wanted to join us. Maybe her imagination allowed her to join us. In the recent weather, she has helped Dad "clear the macadam"--after youngest brother snow-blows. It is a matter of scraping remnants off to aid the melt--but it is NOT shoveling in the truest sense.)The truth of the matter is that we kids did the shoveling. Dad when he was home, too. But mostly, it was a "kids chore". Expected. Nagged until completed. Still guilt-tripped and "watched" from an upstairs window. Quality controlled to the point of neurosis...

(I'm told, however, that for thirty-years or so, Dad would allow no one but himself to snow-blow. As he has aged, in the last year, he now allows Kevin to take over--though Ann and I would gladly do it. Instructions, in Sharpie, on duct tape, run across the front of the blower--just in case. They have been pointed out to me numerous times. However, I have yet been allowed to make use of them...) Instead, I'm handed an orange shovel and then told I "don't do it right" by my sibs...

As we got into our teens, my memories of the shovel and salt-on-the-walk blur. Perhaps both brothers were old enough and rugged enough to take over for "the girls". Instead, memories of walking to High School, in legs only cloaked in panty-house and slip-on boots, skirts hiked high, fashionable ( But cold!) coats, and uncovered heads, no mittens, were the norm. Oh how I hated those days before girls were allowed to wear pants to school! When (finally) jeans were okayed, they were only allowed once a week, in our family...However, with five teen-agers, parents often lost count. By the time my youngest brother was at Gardner High, he got away with wearing pretty much whatever he wanted. For me, for three years, though, it was mini-skirts and panty-hose and legs smarting and reddened by those frosted mornings I hurried past Simplex Time Recorder factory,  up the hill to Elm Street, and sought the warmth of Gardner High.

When I stopped wearing glasses and upgraded to my first hard contacts, there was the added discomfort of tears freezing and eyelids sometimes stuck by the time I made it to my first class. Oh High School, for girls, was a constant fashion-test and comfort battleground! The cold only added to the challenge.

Sometimes, in California, on camping trips, in the rain, when a fire couldn't be struck, or jackets were soggy in the wind, I would pull inner resources from my early days and remember what REAL cold felt like. Today, I don't have to dream. Today, one step outside, it confronts me, all too readily.

 I pick up the shovel. I face the driveway (and my two aging siblings), already moving the slush. There is no avoiding it.

My cowgirl boots, however, are under my bed...a few pebbles from the desert still stuck to their soles. Ready for escape. Always.
   
 

CATFISH: the blogpost

Even as I fulfill my mother's worst criticism: "You don't even have a job to support yourself!" (tutoring and subbing at the High School and trying to get kids on the edge to graduate doesn't count, I guess.), I find cable t.v. a guilty pleasure--especially old movies and bad reality television. Recently, a re-run of "Catfish" (the movie) aired.

Somehow, in the drama of 2010, I missed the controversy of this documentary. Too bad. It is exactly the kind of question-raising, edge-blurring slice-of-recreated-life that perks up my sluggish imagination these days. Not only is the premise of the "docu-maybe" interesting, the fact that it might NOT be a for-reals documentary spices the pot. As with film medium itself, documentaries have evolved into entertainment vehicles utilizing all sorts of manipulations to frame "a story". Animation, recreation, staged meetings, rehabbed statistics, false interviews and in some cases, fake footage, are just a smattering of "new rules".

 Of course, what is any writing, really? All comes from the point of view of the creator. Same with film-writing. Same with videography. The one constant is "story". Does it pique the viewer? Does it infuriate or entertain or move the viewer in some deep way? Does it have a point of view that is clearly stated? Is it interesting? These questions seem to be a common ground. All else is up for grabs in a time when real-life actors aren't even required to show up on the set to shoot a full-length movie.

Basically, "Catfish" (for those of you who also have missed the 2010 premiere) is the supposed true life story of a FaceBook romance gone wrong. A young New York photographer took a picture that was supposedly "seen" by a younger artist--like a little kid artist. She hunted him down and found his page on FB and began contacting him.She liked his photograph enough to draw a picture based on it. He was charmed when he viewed her "work". She began sending him stuff in the mail, building the relationship. He responded, sometimes paying for the work and sometimes accepting it for free. Thus begins the documentary....maybe.

Along the way, the mother of the child becomes involved, of course.She begins to correspond with the NYer. Then, pictures of the family are shared, of course. There is one beautiful and older cousin whose photos capture the NYer's eye. Another "relationship" blossoms. Of course. Phone calls ensue. The documentary, written and filmed by the photog's brother and another friend (Ariel Shulman and Henry Joost) convince the brother to play the romance out...until it begins to smell...well...fishy.

"Reeled In" might have been a more sincere title for the work--not only is the photographer (supposedly) pulled into this very involved scenario of lies and betrayals and family dysfunction (including twin brothers, who, at 22 and developmentally disabled, need constant care; a loveless (it seems) and controlling marriage; uterine cancer and chemo; an estranged step-daughter; isolation on a far-away midwestern farm and an artless child, used for her identity), but the audience is reeled - in to believing this story is "for reals". However, it is like summer beach fiction: enough twists and turns, with just a smattering of "this almost happened to me", to keep us entertained.

I, too, was "reeled-in". I have also been "catfished"--that is, begun corresponding on social networks with individuals who were not who they claimed to be. It happens often enough in real life to make one wonder: Is this how humans actually relate?  Hmmmm....Is no one immune?

Later in the week, I found that the photographer, after the controversy of the film's release, went on to sell his idea to MTV, to begin a series called "Catfish" wherein he would be contacted by individuals who have had similar relationships, online, and are now wondering what is real and what is "made up". He and his team interview people and arrange for both parties to meet--to see who is telling the truth and who is hiding behind a contrived persona. Supposedly, this will bring true lovers together and weed out the "villains". However, in this series, there really are no villains. (How could anyone be a villain when the creator of the series perhaps created his own victim-persona to finish his brother's film?)

Just as in the documentary, the series only reveals very needy people reaching out, albeit via fantasy, to other needy people. Usually one of the pair is more attractive (in a mainstream way) than the other, and often people are hiding their true sexuality, or gender, or physical looks. It is sad when the photographer tries to play "therapist"...I think that is dangerous. Many of the expected emotions of the folks involved (as was the case in the film), seem dampened and unreal. When people find out they have been duped, for years, by someone who posts pictures (for years) of a twenty-three- year- old- Barbie- look-alike,who turns out to be a forty- year- old- male- office worker, well, it would seem that a little pissed-offness would be healthy. However, on "Catfish" the series, we find people willing to change their sexual preferences, geographical locations and lifestyles--forgiving any and all lies--and simply hugging it out; smiling;  moving on--usually with the same relationship firmly in place (if exposed). I guess real-love is a thing involving cameras...

I think the series lives up to the documentary by being a staged, pre-written (obviously), scripted thing. It pulls the viewer in, at first, the way a good mystery story does. There is a kind of crime; there is human outrage; there is betrayal of what one has come to believe.We must get to the bottom of it! But then, somewhere on the road, there is a turn. The story isnt' clear-cut. What is wrong begins to emerge wrong on both ends. Sadness is the link in all the stories. There is no satisfying wind-up--in fact, the wind-ups only bring up more questions. (Perhaps this IS the point?)

On the other hand: people lying about their personas online isn't new. People trolling for victims online isn't new, either. Fantasy is what fuels the Internet. Sometimes, it is all we need. Reality t.v., which began as "real life situations video-taped for our enlightenment", has become real-life entertainment, period. Maybe what we need to learn is to watch the edges and begin to discern. We need to teach kids critical thinking skills. (We also need to learn to get back in touch with our own true emotions and not rely on what might look good to someone else, onscreen.)

 Anyway, that's my two cents.

I recommend the film, "Catfish". I don't believe it is the truth as it played out. I think everyone involved in its making needs serious and long-term talk therapy (if not medication...). However, it is worth a screening. And if you get "catfished" yourself, don't say I didn't warn you!       

Ten Commandments and the Eightfold Path

I was brought up with the Ten Commandments, even before I went off to meet the Sisters of St. Joseph at Sacred Heart School. My Catholic familia pounded these laws into us from birth...It wasn't until I was almost seven that I found out one could be forgiven for one's popcorn-on-the-water transgressions...transgressions for which I usually received a whack on the behind or a slap in the face (often after asking such smart-assed questions as to "why?" something was considered punishable in the first case.)...transgressions which adults continued to imbibe in, and for which I got the worst punishments when I dared to point this fact out...(They could show up for "Confession" and emerge totally fresh, forgiven, and with a second wind for the next week's adventures.) Until I left home for good, I never had such a "Go to Jail Free" pass in my possession.

In Catholic School, the nuns were still allowed to put their hands on us at their discretion--much as the priests were--though the nuns' rough-handling was much different... When I was falsely accused of chewing gum and swallowing it (third grade, Sr. Concepta Agnes), my first thought was to try to explain that it was spit I'd swallowed and spit which was still stuck in my throat out of absolute fear of this four foot eleven eighty-six year old with the thick brogue and the gnarly muscles. (Why it did not occur to me that rational and truthful explanations to adults, who were just itching to whack somebody--anybody--for whatever frustrations their lives were currently filled with--would ever work, eludes me. Why I still sometimes believe this plan is also weird, I know. Must be hard-wired in my brain. God knows I've tried to therapize it out, over the decades...sigh.) Sr. C was no exception.

I found myself hung over the second floor stone windowsill of the red brick building, my upper body hanging in space, my eyes focused on the tarred schoolyard below. My lower body was tilting, off the ground, held by one mighty fist of Sr. Concepta, my dress knotted in her veiny right hand, my short legs dangling two feet off the classroom floor. I truly believed I was going to die--or, at the very least, be smashed like a pumpkin, my dress over my bloody head, flung into an afterlife that probably held even more humiliations, as I never got time for a final Confession. Luckily, the screaming and horrified shouts from the rest of the class (less in worry about my fate than in terror for their own third-grade lives) called another nun from next door. I was reeled in and set free. The nuns conferred in the outside hallway for all of three minutes. Sr. Concepta Agnes returned, alone, and the transgression was never discussed again. (Neither hers nor mine...)

As an adult, I have travelled seeking out Bigger Truths. I have sought ways to work out my angry memories and to find forgiveness for my sins. I have even re-explored the Catholic Church of my ancestors. Wherever I go, I find that our sins are mostly against ourselves. Seeking forgiveness from those we've wronged is the best medicine. Only then, can we begin to heal the rot inside our own lives which leads to our bad behavior against other beings. The ten commandments, it turns out, are a good blueprint--if hard to follow. Versions of their message can be found in almost all cultures, past and present, if one seeks a Higher Path. On my adventures, I came to the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path. They offered a slightly different (and more esoteric) "take" that spoke to me in a time of exploration of alternate realities--something even the highest Physics Scientists now attest to being real. During this time of Lent, it is something to consider. (An addition to the Survival Manual for life on Earth).
 Peace be with us all.
P.S. Allow the kids' questions...

My take on what I've discovered:

FOUR NOBLE TRUTHS
All life is sorrowful, suffering
The cause of suffering is ignorant craving
The cessation of suffering can be achieved
The way is the Noble Eightfold Path

THE EIGHTFOLD PATH
Right views (keep your mind on the study of Higher Stuff)
Right aspirations (try to follow the good stuff)
Right speech (no mean speaking; no negative gossip; no lies)
Right conduct (kindness; gentleness)
Right means of livelihood (do no harm in your work, to the Planet, or yourself, or others)
Right endeavor (pursuit of Higher Spiritual Awareness)
Right mindfulness (awareness of Higher Self )
Right contemplation (education, prayer, meditation)