POOLS

It's four in the morning and I'm thinking of September.
Of all the Septembers I've begun new chapters in new places, often alone.
Is it the "forever a student" consciousness that teachers carry with them their whole lives?
Or is it a New England trait? (The leaves about to turn colors of fire.) The wind, smoky and chilled, hinting at what's to come? What IS to come?

I'm praying someone will win the lottery and leave their job in the English department and the newly appointed Principal will "get" that I'm more than just "a substitute teacher" and I will be given a full-time position in my old school--finally getting my parents off my back as their "failure child"--finally giving something back to this ghost-town that is concrete and markedly from me. (I will never be their most famous inhabitant--nor their most touted citizen--but I may be remembered for something other than slinking back with my tail between my legs and eyes downcast and beaten. ) Meantime, I've been swimming in my successful sister's pool.  Like a chlorinated otter far from the sea; swimming blue laps on my back; able to float for hours--could even devour a clam or two; my furry places slick and wet, in their own element; it's a kind of moving meditation. Clouds above me; gentle woodsy sounds from the forest behind the house; the scent of mown lawns and crab apple trees just dropping their fruit.

Only the occasional gunshots from down the road mar these hours.

(This like every neighborhood I've lived in all my adult life...on either coast...now it's the "gun club", in town, a mile or so through the woods; behind the house. Target shooting. Testosterone hobby. Pop pop pop. Even the birds are used to it, though. Just like in L.A....)

My siblings are in Maine, at the family summer rental, right on the coast. I'm with the dog, who is not fond of the pool. Instead, she watches me from the safety of the deck, sunning herself and wanting her "mother" to come home from Maine.  I'm all she's got, for now. So, she "guards" me, half-asleep, minding more the grasshoppers flitting by her head than the distant gunfire.

I think of Egypt, erupting, as I do my laps.
I think of the land of swimming pools I left, out West. Of friends from the desert to the valley, immersed in aquamarine: some swimming like Greg Louganis (and hitting on their swim teachers); others barely adding chemicals to their own pools in this time of mass recession...How many midnight trysts bouncing from hot tub to cool pools, over the years?  How many summer evenings looking up at the flashing stars, floating on my back in the night, amazed that I was somewhere this  miracle could occur?

Now, my successful sisters have a house and a large garden and lawns to trim and a koi pond and each a two car garage. (One also has moved her boyfriend inside.) The other has the dog. They share the pool. With all of us.
I am the only one who floats like a sea otter far from her kelp.
Listening to gunshots in the woods.
Praying for Egypt.
Missing my friends
at the end
of
summer. 

AMERICAN MEAN

As I flip through my "guilty pleasures" of American Reality T.V., I am struck by the mean-spiritedness evident in all of the shows. From the "Real Housewives", to all of MTV's "teen reality dramas", there is this sense of privileged back-stabbing.(As if this is THE WAY to behave--regardless of one's age. ) Being "popular" is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Gaining popularity through bitchiness (and wealth) is the only road to success.

Whether it be gay, straight, transgender or bi-sexual individuals, there is so much jealousy, name-calling and materialism, rampant in these  productions, I wonder if the rest of the world "gets" that much of the footage is NOT spontaneous(or real). Many scenes are "recreated" for dramatic effect--or  just outright scripted.  (I know because I have met producers, writers and crew members of these shows, over the years in Los Angeles...) The demand for these seedy tales is only exceeded by the poor table manners and lack of conscience most of these shows portray. How did this happen?

If you listen to the arguments between "stars" on these programs, you can't help but notice the paucity of vocabulary employed by the characters. Whether it be "teens", or aging California housewives (from Bev Hills to Orange County), the verbiage is shockingly limited (and unusually mundane). No wonder it is so easy to pick up English. Perhaps the exception is the "countrified" (redneck) reality series, which follows its own set of rules: colorful,ignorant slang, which often becomes the running joke of the series... Makes me wonder if the world sees us as either a.) absolutely selfish or, b.)  completely ignorant. (Whereas our "leaders" are sex-crazed and world-domineering, our "people" are just crazed...hmmm.)

We know we are not at the top of the heap when it comes to education. Perhaps we never really were and were just led to believe we ranked highest...statistics are so easily manipulated by those creating the studies. (Or by those PAYING for the studies...) If you watch American "reality" t.v., you can  witness the dumbing of America and its resultant mean-ness.What bothers me most is the passive acceptance of this trend. Whereas once I worried about my nieces growing up in the shadow of white, coiffed Barbie dolls (as role models), I now worry that they are in a world of Heathers and Tamaras and sculpted, plastic- fleshed Vickis. Screaming fights between aging women in high-heels and bustiers, with tanned, pinch- faced "professional men" ogling them on. The shriller the voices, the more prosperous the life-style...sigh.

At middle-school and high school levels, across all socio-economic and racial/cultural boundaries, American kids are conditioned to believe that designer clothes (even if they are rip-offs), cars,  and plastic surgery are necessary accoutrements to growing up. Forget the older days of shopping for pens, or notebooks. Now, the first day of class may include one's new nose-job...Friendships are based on what kicks one wears to school; the newest electronics; what kind of car one rides in. Forget kindness. Forget true loyalty (except to "the hood"--even if "the hood" is a gated community in "the OC"...)Forget shared experience or bravery.

Even kindergarten kids are begging for "mani-pedis". (If one can't afford a new "tablet" or smart phone, one can at least afford a tiny tattoo...or a tinier weave...) Girls mentioning "Brazilians" aren't discussing exchange students, either...While physical adornment (bling) has been with us throughout civilization, it seems to me a great irony that obesity rates, heart disease and childhood diabetes continue to plague us.(Sucking back "champs" instead of soda, and hoping for a rich spouse to pay for the liposuction, are touted as "miracle cures".) Stress relief comes in the form of behind the scenes nannies or thirty-five dollar designer cocktails after breakfast. This "will come" in adulthood--ask any fifth grader what's in store down the road. Expectations abound when it comes to the material gains in one's future. Spirituality, finesse, culture--those are never listed. (Why should one strive to paint an original piece when one can hire a decorator to procure one to match the settee in the great room?)

In the so-called "redneck America", there is a cartooned life that is held up as "authentic", but is equally charade. "Road-kill" cuisine; moon-shine; farting as family bonding; "skin crust" and "forklift-feet"; or being as loud as possible whenever one is in public: all touted as "more real" than what passes as culture in Beverly Hills. Poverty is simplified; white-washed as Tom Sawyer's fence. (Every redneck comes on t.v.  with their own houses, farms, four-wheel vehicles, recreational weapons, and Wi-Fi connectivity. The kids may be unwashed, uncouth and/or uneducated, but Hell, they all have smart phones and get their nails down in a salon.)

In my growing-up period, I remember laughing at the t.v. shows, "The Beverly Hillbillies" and "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air". (Poor people suddenly given the spotlight in situations they were unprepared for...hilarious.) However, these "poor folk" were not real and not really destitute. The humor came from their elaborate solutions to upscale encounters--absurd. (For example: the Three Stooges crashing a black-tie ball.) Nobody confused the escapades with reality. No one wanted to grow up and have a "Stooges lifestyle".

Today's reality shows warp America's truth: the hidden poor; the truly homeless: shoeless and hungry. (I suppose they also warp the super-rich: bound with sleepless nights worrying about Obamacare; estate management; tax loop-holes and their nannies.) In any sense, these shows are filled with a meanness that the t.v. shows of my youth (however inane) didn't push.  Nose-jobs were sometimes discussed but rarely seen as "necessary" (or "a rite of passage").  If hissy fits and calling one's best- friend- of- the- month a "bay-itch" happened in those adult realms, it was rarely a story-line.

Passing dysfunctional people off as "the new stars" of America, makes me terribly upset. It robs our kids of the world-wide role models who are changing the planet for the better. (Who are working for the advancement of all people, not just to be "rich and famous".) Outward beauty is to be appreciated. It will always have its place. But standards of beauty should be expanded, not set in silicon. Cultural beauty should be relished--and shared. Not homogenized.

 Nature abhors sameness. (If we get addicted to only the "sugar", it will kill us.) Differences are  valuable. When was the last time you heard that? (Score: "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo!"--I gotta give props when props are due...)  Let's not just mouth the platitudes about "inner beauty", though. Let's show inner-beauty as glorious; worth cultivating. Something as valuable as cut abs or a Beamer.

 Let's celebrate friendships that last more than one episode; don't change season- to- season, or get shifted over someone's blog-fight. Let's not ridicule a family's ignorance while turning around and lauding their loyalty--as if giving back-handed compliments are true rewards. Let's teach through our own reactions and become better friends, ourselves.

 More than anything else, let's stop calling these scripted shows "real"--confusing our kids AND the rest of the world. Americans aren't any "meaner" than people in other countries. We have just as many real-life problems behind the materialism you see portrayed on our television shows. Our poverty remains(mostly) shoved out of sight.  It is grindingly real to the folks trying to survive.

Let's stop stereo-typing cartoons in place of true cultural identity. (We don't all eat "sketti" made from margarine and ketchup, even if we live in the South. Not everyone in OC --or even Beverly Hills, for that matter-- is white. Nor a millionaire --even if they'd like to be). Every girl isn't given a nose-job for her sixth birthday, nor breast implants when she hits puberty. Loyalty isn't limited to the backwoods--nor is wrestling and mud-driving.

While coming to these frightening realizations, I must admit: I'm hooked too.

Just as we all slow down for car wrecks on the freeway, "to see"; watching these shows becomes a compulsion.

No one is immune--which is most insidious of all..

So, be careful, Honey Boo-Boo! The zombies are coming to get ya'll...
   

WALK A MILE IN MY FETISH

Perhaps it was because I was born with weak ankles and tiny feet. Perhaps it was because, on some deep level, I knew that life was going to be a tough adventure and I should be prepared to run. Perhaps it was because I loved women but always cringed at their high heels and flimsy fashions. Perhaps it was because I was destined to "walk a mile" in the shoes of many, different people from all over the world. Perhaps it was because I have never loved being barefoot--except in bed--and in bed, always insist on having clean feet...

Perhaps it was when I realized: so many people in the world have no shoes. Nor sneakers. No boots of any kind...and the ground they walk upon is not safe...

My remaining "addiction" is to shoes that get me someplace. Shoes that protect and comfort me and make me feel like moving. Shoes that carry me over miles of glass or rock or burning macadam but also leave my toes and heels unblistered. Shoes that are a wee bit distressed--they show the miles they have earned. They boast "dangerous roads crossed" or "we've experienced something remarkable". Shoes that are at home in the pine-needle carpeted forests of New England or the rocky coast of both shores. Shoes that cradle me and make me want to attempt the next mile.

I am in a constant search for "the perfect adventure shoe"--even as I am in a constant reverie about the perfect adventure. I don't know if it will be a short hiking boot or a tall cowgirl fancy-stitched wonder. Maybe a hand-sewn chukka will enter my field of vision. A double-sewn Indian-made moccasin, deer-tanned and fitting like newskin across the face of my sole? Fur-lined or sheep-lined or gum-soled and supple; ready to be pulled on after the beach or before the blizzard. Brilliantly hued and high-tech or canvas based and low; made for people who really don't want to have to wear ordinary shoes but need the support (in more ways than one).

Never sandals--not even Birkenstocks! Nor flip-flops...too many twisted ankles and blistered between-toe injuries--even sun-burned foot-tops! Give me sneakers or give me death. Like the young boy in the Bradbury novel, DANDELION WINE, I want spongey new spring-colored lightning on my feet for the beginning of summer--even if I'm fifty-seven and more sedentary than my youth. My spirit sings with sneakers.

Some fetish moments: The first time I finagled boys' high-top basketball sneakers--almost. White and really tennis "shoes", Mom let me get them by accident. The local shoe store was out of "Keds"...I wore them to a Catholic Girls' Retreat Weekend, secretly stashing them in my luggage and only taking them out when we arrived. Yes, I wore the requisite linen, flowered dress, but my sneakers snuck me through, intact.

My first really amazing hiking boots: Montaine's. Thick, black, oiled leather. Women's size 8--to allow for the best hiking socks I could find. Worn on most backpacks during my years at The UCI Farm School, and packed to make the move to L.A., when Farm School went "kaput". (Sadly left in L.A., as I was called East.) Never replaced...at least not yet. Now, I have some fabric and suede light boots to tramp the woods, but nothing like those well-worn war horses, my Montaine's.

My first pair of classic oxford Earth Shoes: orange leather, hard-soled, as uncomfortable as they were interesting. I wore them until my blisters turned to callouses, but never got used to them. The 70's, Wells College and those Earth Shoes will always blend together in my memory- closet dreams.


Cowgirl boots that are always beautiful art but never seem to fit; square-toed, round-toed, high or walking heel; ropers or fancy-worked leather...my best memory is "scoring" a distressed suede walking-heel pair in Pasadena, at a thrift store, for two bucks. I wore them to the pool hall that night, drunkenly tottering around the table, accepting bets (unwisely) from the "sharks" who inhabited the club...then shocking everyone as I won game after game...(Wonder where those boots disappeared to?)
    

Rainbow sponge sneakers and one particular love, who gave me my most (at the time) pricey pair, for Valentine's Day. (As the relationship fell to pieces, so did the sneakers.)

The weirdly wonderful non-shoes, made for surfers and hippies and rebels of all ages; usually organic and looking hand-made; often using materials like hemp and gum-rubber and sustainable fabrics...Sanuks got me through my last year on the side-streets of metro L.A.; Toms' shoes offer a simple solution that is great for the conscience and planet's kids...Simple was a wonderful outfit with amazing comics included in the box, until it sold out and began to make shoes that were just not as comfortable or...dare I write: simple.

I'll still check out Earth Shoes and Birkenstocks, hoping to find a pair that is as comfy as they look (at a price that doesn't burn my wallet)...I'll always be looking for another seventies fashion fad (to complement our white carpenter's pants): shit kickers--that orangey leather lace up waffle-soled workboot that even the famous pianist, Mona Golabek, wore, the first night I met her in upstate New York (along with tight bell bottom jeans and a real fur, full-length coat...) I swear I can die a satisfied woman if I can find another pair of those funky work boots that I ripped off from my younger brother, just before heading to Wells.

And, of course, I must mention, my sister's favorite "clogs"; my best-friend Marcia's ubiquitous (and now making a comeback--which gives me hope about the search for excellent shitkickers...) Dr. Scholl's exercise sandals, with the wooden sole. (I never understood these one-strap platform sandals, but then again, I've never been a professional dancer!) These are my private, fetish-fueled dreams, in a rainy August.

Thirty-five years ago, I made a prediction, to the same lover who bought me the Valentine New Balance classics: if the world wore sneakers, everyone would feel better.
I'd like to expand that: if every person in the world bought a pair of sneakers for someone who didn't have any, the world would feel much better.

I truly believe.
   

HUMPBACKS, DOLPHINS AND ORCAS, O MY !

Recently posted on You Tube: two scuba-divers, allegedly swimming not-too-close to feeding humpback whales, got You Tube worthy footage when the whales chased their food source (swarming sardines) directly under the men, then came up, to scoop and siphon the tiny fish, as humpbacks do. The men "narrowly escaped death"--or so they said, on camera--and so it was carried on the morning and evening newscasts.

The footage catches the humpbacks--which seem to this blogger, not at the distance recommended for watching whales, but much, much closer. Then, the divers go into the water. Someone on board shoots footage as the whales breach, about ten feet away, sending the men sliding on whale-waves, and the sardines flashing away from the humans. Finally, we see the whales flipping their tails and continuing to feed in the distance.

Hmmm....

Interesting that the camera on the boat "caught" the event as it naturally occurred. Also interesting that these guys were diving that close to feeding whales.  The warnings, massive bubbles from below; flocks of circling seagulls feeding off what the humpbacks don't take in the school of sardines; the whales themselves, breaching close...How innocent are these two divers?  How "dangerous" are the humpbacks--who don't eat humans and stick to small fish they filter through their baleen slits in their mouths?

Having foregone any "whale watching excursions" on either coast, precisely because of the stupidity of people and the greed of the captains of these boats (they violate "whale space", chase mothers and their calves--many of whom are newly born and trying to reach homewaters, getting between the coastline --whales navigate by following the coastlines in their yearly treks) and generally pack as many screaming tourists as possible onto the excursion craft, I find that humans and marine mammals are usually a terrible mix--at least for the animals. Some crew members and captains are into "educating the public"--I'm sure. However, their honesty has done little to regulate their peers on the waters of the bays where the whales travel, each year. The consequences for the whales are obvious: fewer numbers; having learned of the boats and harassment, they take routes that are less sure and less secure, farther out to sea; dwindling births each year. Pollution, also caused by humans; changing climate--most probably adversely affected by humans, and dwindling food supplies (need I write the cause?) contribute to lowered numbers, too. Yet it is the carnival attraction and thrill ride of these whale watches that most disturbs me because I get to witness our species, once again, in the open, taking pleasure in the pain of the animal kingdom--however "well meaning" they think it is.

In California, Sea World takes the biggest cake. I have refused to ever set foot in that park again, after my one time visit, decades ago. I had heard rumors from my animal-loving friends--some of them oceanographers. I felt I needed to justify my outrage by a first-person educated visit. It was worse than I'd been told.

 Dolphins, not only tanked, and forced to perform for dead fish, but some in what appeared to be a large wading pool, only a few feet deep, at the entrance of the park. Smaller dolphins and beluga whales, forced to swim in tight circles, while tourists could "pat them and feed them" as they scooted by. At one point, a beluga stopped, in front of us. I looked into the small whale's eyes and didn't see "animal". It clearly wasn't a human, but the intelligence and pain that registered there was shocking. Yes, I did reach out to pat its head--because there was nothing I could think to do otherwise in that instant. I mouthed the words: "I'm sorry."  Corny as hell, I know. Bleeding heart liberal, I know. But the visceral exchange came from a deep place inside me. I KNEW this was a travesty, the way you know a hit and run scene is fundamentally a crime. I didn't need PETA or sad music to lead me to my own conclusion.

The plight of the larger mammals, especially the orcas, was worse. To be a huge animal in captivity has always seemed to me a kind of slavery. No matter how rough and wild and unforgiving the free world may be, nor how close to extinction the animal could become if left out there, we humans should especially feel kinship when it comes to false imprisonment. (Don't we always fight to break out?) To put such huge animals in chlorine tanks, separated from their natural families, for the rest of their lives, forced to eat frozen, dead flesh, when their entire programming is about being hunters, is, well, an atrocity. Now, add to it all of the research we have acquired from the wild: these animals are with their families for life; they have dialects in their orcan language; they have personalities and "sing", as well as "talk"; they do not hunt humans--in fact--unlike sharks--they are not known to attack divers, nor even small craft, like kayakers, who often share water-space with them, and who could easily be a snack. They seem to share a curiosity about us, even as we do, about them. And yet, they do not hurt us in the wild. (I can't say we are as generous.)

Two recent documentaries have outraged (and educated) us about the current situation of marine mammals around the world. Both have been Sundance features. Both have been boycotted and honored--for many of the same reasons. "Blackfish" is newly released. (Check out all details about the making of the film and its controversial themes, on Google.) I haven't seen it yet, but a close friend has. She hasn't slept since the viewing.

Before "Blackfish", this humanistic, highly educated person truly believed that the killer whales at Sea World were "pampered";living the equivalent of the high life. (She has lived in southern California since she was eighteen years old, but never thought about what Sea World, and all of us who allow Sea World to exist, is doing to these animals. Her world is filled with damaged humans; homeless youth; battered children. There is little time spent in amusement parks--which is sort of where she put the idea of "Sea World".) Viewing "Blackfish" has changed her life. At least she is clean-hearted enough to admit her lack of education and to begin to make up for it... though, now, she must deal with the guilt.

"Blackfish" follows the trials of the orca with the limp dorsal fin. An orca separated from its mother and family pod, as a "child", and dumped into a chlorinated existence among strangers of all species. Bullied by other whales in their own pods, this orca begins to break down, psychologically. As many children who are bullied become, it becomes a danger--to itself and to its trainers. Ultimately, the whale kills three humans--partially devouring one of them. In an irony right out of Herman Melville's imagination, the "killer whale" becomes what humans have dubbed it: a killer.

"Blackfish" also goes on to follow the case against Sea World and its controversial tactics. Trapping and training and housing animals until they die at a young age (Though Sea World educates the public with false statistics and insists that captive animals live far longer lives...), all in the guise of conservation and public knowledge about endangered species, Sea World prospers on the backs of the American thirst for entertainment; a safe "adventure" in the wild.

Of course the franchise is livid about the documentary. There are abundant arguments on both sides. One can explore these, in depth, with a bit of research on-line. I don't have the space to go into them, here. (Honestly, I think each of us MUST do our own research--think these issues through--rise and act upon our own decisions. I'm just tossing out my own thoughts, as a blogger who has had some personal interactions in these arenas.)See the film for yourself. Instead of visiting Sea World, if you are anywhere near its parks, go to the beach. Rent a kayak or a surfboard. Spend a morning on the waves. Chances are, you will encounter a dolphin or a seal or a sea lion, yourself. Up close. In the open water. Or be able to sit on some rocky outcropping and watch them from the shore, Alive and free.

In the second documentary that exposes the underside of dolphin catching, the equally controversial "The Cove" will also keep you up at night. Again, it is not so much about eating dolphin meat and cultural dietary choices (we are all participants in that scenario) as it is about how dolphins are harvested--and tortured before their deaths. One doesn't just blame the Japanese for this, either. We only have to look at our own American slaughterhouses and the cruelty going on in our fast-food franchise driven society's name. It is a human sin. Once necessary for survival. Now driven by acquired "tastes"--human karma is a frightening consideration.

Both "The Cove" and "Blackfish" are documentaries that raise fundamental questions about the place of all sentient beings in the universe. You don't have to be a Buddhist to understand. Personally, I have had several close encounters with wild dolphins--in the surf and from ten feet away, while I walked along the beach. Dolphins have also come right up, alongside my kayak, choosing to swim as I paddled, and then, taking off for their own adventures, into the deep. Each time this has occurred, there is a feeling of euphoria and deep silence inside me. It has nothing to do with PETA or politics or lunch. It has everything to do with connection. (I have been close up to wild eagles on Catalina Island; to coyotes and cougars in my own back yard, at the UCI Farm School property; to black bears on backpack excursions...even to rattlesnakes which allowed me to pass by, warned but unmolested...yet none of these encounters left me with the same awe as I was filled with among the sea mammals. They are different. They are interacting with us...perhaps, they know us and feel pity?)

This column may seem ludicrous to some readers. Outrageous and accusatory--even disappointing to others. Or, perhaps worse, maudlin. It is meant to give you just enough information for you to do your own research. Understand issues you might never have considered, before. Ask questions. Pass on what you find.

God forgive us all.     

TRAYVON, GEORGE, and ME

I wear  hoodies. I have, for years. Since childhood, actually. Even when "hoodies" were just called "sweatshirts".

Black has always been my favorite color. Most of my wardrobe is black. Even my sneakers--which I wear more often than "dress shoes".

I occasionally have been known to eat "Skittles" and drink an "Arizona", though rarely at the same time...

I often walk in the rain--enjoying the elements--avoiding the masses of runners or children or people with untrained dogs out after dinner.

When visiting relatives, in neighborhoods I don't live in, I have been known to run down to the store on the block to buy ice, or beer, or bread. When visiting friends, in neighborhoods I don't live in, I have been known to go down to the store on the block and pick up flowers or chips and dip or even gum.

When staying for an extended visit with relatives or friends, I have been known to take a night stroll around the neighborhood, for a little exercise, after a day of being inside, visiting and talking. I have walked to my car, which was parked on the street, before coming back, inside. Sometimes, I've just walked around the block, checking out the scenery.

When I lived at the beach, I often just meandered down the street, right off the sand, or sauntered with my hands in my pockets, on quiet boardwalks, at night. In Newport and in Venice Beach, houses are right up against the water's edge. Picture windows take up half the front of the house. There are few shutters or blinds. One can't help but "look in" at folks watching t.v. , or sitting down to dinner and drinks, or playing cards. T.V.'s flicker blue and white, sending ghostly auras right into the yards, but I know they can't really see out. (Nor even really hear the waves, just outside their doors.)

These houses often house strangers--weekly vacation rentals--transient professionals working on creative projects--moving families. Many are not locked up safely. Many don't know their own next-door neighbors. Many are vacation homes broken into on a regular basis, even in daylight. (You can live in a "community" and not know who to trust nor who's a suspect.)

I have walked alone, at night, enjoying the moonlight or the mild rain. I have worn a hoodie and shorts and sneakers. I have looked from the edges of the sand, into those houses, as they were occupied or deserted, because I am a curious human presented with a panoply of "scenes" that were momentarily interesting.  I have not been armed.

I am short and somewhat "round". In the dark, with my hoodie on, at night, I have been mistaken for a young boy, until I turned around and faced who was calling out to me. (My heart thundered; my head ached with the sudden rush of adrenaline; my fists raised up, ready for a fight...)


Once, at  Dana Point Harbor, standing at the door of the Ladies Room, my hair cut very short, a hoodie over my wetsuit, a white man, (about seventy-five), crossed the grass, and told me to "Stop!"
I wasn't going anywhere.
(I was waiting for a friend to come out of the bathroom.)
He put his arm out, about to grab my shoulder, even as I faced him.
He was taller than me. He was white. I am white. He was heavier than me. He was not smiling.
I stepped backwards and pulled the hoodie off my head. Then I spoke, asking him what he wanted.
He withdrew, blazing red-faced and muttering to himself, clear I was a female, (and had every right to be standing outside the Ladies Room).
Who was HE protecting?

He never gave me an apology.

I have been kicked off private land when hiking. I have been confronted, while simply "strolling through an abandoned field", with men with rifles. They did not care if I was "only walking by".

I have been kicked off public waters, at night, by single "officials", in bigger craft, who didn't want me "hurt".

I have been followed by groups of men, both  white and mixed, as I walked alone, in a city park, in the daylight, in Los Angeles.
I have been encircled by a group of young men, in MacArthur Park, at noon, while they whistled and made obscene sounds, calling me foul names, even as families strolled by, averting their eyes. I was armed only with my half-eaten lunch; seated on the grass, by the duck pond, minding my own thoughts.
When I stood, angrily, shouting back, ready to fight, they backed off, laughing.
(I wasn't laughing.)
 
I have been "profiled".
I've been threatened.
I have been terrified.

On two occasions, I have had weapons pulled on me.

Once, a six foot three drag-queen saved my life, as a street-person tried to slice my throat. (I intervened in an argument she was having with another drag-queen: a black teen-ager she accused of  bad-mouthing her reputation on Santa Monica Blvd.) She had already stabbed the teen-ager. As I attempted to stop his bleeding, kneeling with him on the street, she reached down furiously, and took a swipe as I looked up. I was rescued by a third street-person, who grabbed her arm. No police showed up, even when called. Even after the paramedics arrived on the scene. No police investigated.
It was a simple "street brawl". No one was killed. The knife, and the six foot drag queen, disappeared.

Only the victims remained.

Everyone in my family has permits to carry guns for self-defense.  One of my brothers is a life-long officer. All of them know how to shoot. We all now live in small-town New England.

I have friends who are African-American. I have friends who are Middle Eastern. I have friends who are Asian-Pacific. I have friends who are Native American. I have friends who are Caucasian.
We all have friends who are members of gangs.

We know Crips and Bloods and Neo-Nazis.

All of us know people who have died violent deaths.

Some of us are mothers. Sisters. Aunties. Grandmothers.
We love our children.
We cry rivers at their passing.
We feel the need for vengeance. We scream for justice. We pray in a thousand tongues to a God who often feels absent. We are left with unanswered questions and gnawing personal guilt.

I work with teens who smoke drugs, eat too much sugar, sip illegal alcohol, spray paint buildings, argue with adults, make racist comments about other groups of people they barely know and other cultures they do not understand. They come in all colors, all sizes, all religions, all kinds of family constellations. Some are smart. Others are dull. Many are depressed. A few are violent. All wear hoodies and curse and walk in the rain by themselves at one point.

I personally know adults who have failed. I have failed. Or lost an "original dream". Been unable to follow the calling they have heard since childhood. Have delusions of "being a hero". Of saving their friends. Of earning the ultimate respect of their peers. Of earning "a name for themselves".
Some carry guns.
Some are legal.
All have had moments of terror or panic.

At any given moment, all of us have cried for help and been alone.

(Meanwhile, the press, the manufacturers, the politicians continue to make money on the memories of our dead.)



 


 

  

WHERE ARE THEY, TODAY?

It is the 66th Anniversary of the crash of "something" in Roswell, New Mexico.

"Something" that has generated more speculative fiction, radio broadcasts, films, video, books, web-sites, magazines, investigations, newspaper articles, photographs, files (both inside and outside the U.S. government), nervous breakdowns, sleepless nights, divorces, marriages--and probably resulted in not a few babies--than most other events (save war or terrorist activities) in our collective experiences.

While Roswell has become a tourist trap--the town, itself, famous (even though the crash was on a farm outside of town)--enough true believers have trekked there to allow a modicum of prosperity. There is even the "official" alien highway taking you to the "official" museums and guided tours of the area. Souvenir shops abound. The diner patrons will regale anyone asking, about all the local details--as well as the "insider details"-- of the supposed cover-up. Yet, even as one can see only scraggly landscape at the "site"--the government having sent out military troops to scour and cleanse the area of any debris--one can't help but feel that, indeed,"something happened here".

If you do even a cursory investigation on-line, you will find enough information to make you an instant Roswell junkie. Why a junkie? Because, my friends, while the U.S. government denies that anything resembling space debris landed on the ground at Roswell, the U.S. government has also denied and changed its story, several times. After the first badly staged (ill-timed) denial, just the day after announcing that they "had something", the "unofficial investigation began". Rarely have so many engaged in finding the truth after their government has blatantly lied. In a time when the Web wasn't dreamed of by the average citizen, outrage at military cover-ups, was. Besides, there were eye-witnesses--and NOT just the soldiers sweeping the desert floor.

The cowboy who first discovered the debris went public--has the photographs (and supposedly, some of the debris, still) to prove it. Local denizens abounded, willingly telling of "small bodies" --some dead, others, not so dead--whisked away on military trucks. There were others--officials who had held their silence for fifty-years--finally coming forward, decades later. Under strict oaths of loyalty--or threats not so veiled--they poured forth details only they had seen. (None of the details supported the various "weather balloon" or "altitude testing" the military still insists caused the uproar.) Families of these witnesses have also validated the unchanging stories of their fathers, aunts and uncles. (How many times have we read about the coming-out of military personnel, on their death-beds, swearing, before they met their Creator, they wanted to attest to the fact: "Something DID drop from the sky at Roswell...and it wasn't from this planet...")

When the government leaks become government cracks, new questions arise. (Especially since government policy, as well as funded investigations, have also changed, over the years.) There are simply too many people with video-cameras, unflagging interest and ways to share what they have witnessed, to deny: "Something is out there...flying over us...inter-acting with us..." (And there isn't a helluva lot any government can do to stop it.)

As many theories about alien visitors are posted, as there are people on the planet. The more common ones include: the "visitors/invaders" have always been here; that they are part of the eco-system of the Earth; that they ARE us--from the future, now returning to view their own history; that they have come from other dimensions; that they have come from other Universes; that they have time-warped and worm-holed their way to this tiny, stunning, messed up planet, in search of answers to save themselves; that they are angels; that they are demons; that they are here to save us; that they are here to invade us; that they are here to wipe us clean and try a new species out; that We have been made BY them--a vast science-fair project, still under surveillance; that we are the Universe's "zoo"; that even as we trek to places like Roswell, New Mexico, seeking TRUTH, aliens trek here...

All the holy books of organized religions from the corners of our planet mention visions coming from the sky--beings and lights and fire and wondrous powers--descending to Earth and interacting with its inhabitants. Records in rock, in caves, on pottery, on pyramids (hey...that's another thing...world-wide pyramids on a grid, all over the Earth...hmmm) or in oral traditions from tribes whose culture doesn't build enormous monuments...everywhere we dig or look, there are remnants the various governments couldn't sweep away. Is this a simple coincidence or mass hallucination? What about the records in the Earth's own strata? In the forests and the deserts and lake bottoms or ocean beds? Everywhere--including--some scientists attest--in our own dna. (What is all that unidentified "junk DNA", anyway?)

Today, the artifacts are on video and digital files. In our books and in our heads. Still, governments won't come forward--at least not completely. And yet, secrets abound. (If there is nothing to tell, why are there secrets about that "nothing"?) Even our presidents are not privy--not totally.

In some places in the world, officials HAVE simply admitted that "something is out there"--something unexplainable. Something that may have always been watching us...may have always been beyond our reach. The United States, in its "need to know" class system of authority, only admits these facts when it "slips".

Are these "slips" really ways to get the information to the public without too much panic? Or humiliation? Or admission about this, and other lies, held from the populace, over the years? Hmmm...

In any case, do your own research. What do you think? I'm still baffled--and intrigued. (Where are those tiny bodies, recovered from the Roswell crash? Did they have Souls? Will our Heaven be populated with other species from other realms--or just us, if we are lucky enough to make it? Do I have to wait till then to find out the truth?)

Happy 66th anniversary, Roswell. Keep the faith!       

JOHNNY DEPP AND THE INDIANS

As with all contemporary films involving "minority groups" (I include myself in that category), arguments about how the "minority group" was portrayed rage most often BEFORE the film has been viewed. Everyone has an opinion, of course. This is America. You aren't American if you don't have an opinion--especially about issues you don't really understand completely. Given this, maybe I don't really understand every side in this debate. I've tried to educate myself about the issues, but in fairness, I don't know Mr. Depp.

However, it has been my lifelong observation (beginning in Brownie Scouts) that when a popular individual steps forward and tries to "speak for the group", things usually do not get much better for the group. The individual may prosper; his or her insights, desires, opinions may be stamped as valid--but it is rare that the group's insights, opinions or desires are met,as a result. Maybe it has something to do with us all being individuals, deep down, in our northern hemispheric bones--even as we fight to retain group status? Hmmmmm...(I  feel it is most easily demonstrated by thinking of "elected" officials. )In any case, I believe this may have happened to Mr. Depp.

This history of the character "Tonto", in the series "The Lone Ranger",can be found in hundreds of sites, on-line, as well as articles and books available in any library. It is a checkered past, most often reflecting the status of American Indians at the precise time a new installment arose. Now, Mr. Depp has chosen to instill his own vision into the character. Chaos is about to descend.

Perhaps it is because he claims to have researched the role--speaking to Comanche elders about various costume points--including the chosen raven on his head...Perhaps it is because he chose to use the usual "movie Indian speak"...which isn't Native American in any way and most often offensive to Indians. (How much research did you really do, Johnny?) Perhaps it is because, as with other versions of the franchise, "Tonto" is a side-kick, once again. He is the funny man; the fall guy with the good heart--but not the "real hero"?  (When will a "Tonto Solo" arrive?) Often, we are told that a minority has achieved mainstream status when the lead roles in "regular" movies are filled with members of that group--or a movie, featuring that group in most roles, is presented. (Even in the much lauded "Dances With Wolves", the "hero lead" was a white man; his "hero lady" was also white...)Perhaps it is because Johnny Depp claimed a good percentage of Indian blood, when he landed the role? Or perhaps it is because it is just Hollywood business as usual ?

From what I have learned about Indian people ( I am NOT speaking for this group; I am only sharing my own limited experience here...) there is as much contention in their ranks as anywhere else. This has always been true. Traditionalists don't want to sell their cultural beliefs and traditions to anybody; non-traditionalists want to know how it will help them--their families--right now; mixed people, unable to prove exactly how much Indian is in their genes, are also interested in what they can reap from this situation. Political Indians appreciate the exposure and look for a chance to speak, themselves, for their people. Hollywood looks to the controversy of making a buck.

There is a tradition in theatre that includes discrimination. Shakespeare's theatre wouldn't let women play--even themselves--onstage. Blackface entertainers, Irish Indians, Europeans with bad eye make-up playing "Orientals"--straight actors always getting the leading roles when the few casting calls dared someone to play gay--this is as it has always been. The majority mainstream entertaining itself with its own people--until it assimilates people "outside the group", to play themselves. A struggle to understand and to portray the many sides of ourselves has never been easy. Yet, we continue to do so...why?

Perhaps it is because we don't really understand ourselves? We don't really know ourselves? We seek to uncover ourselves, but with tiny steps. Then, we forget what we've learned, and fall back, once again. Because, when it comes down to it, WE are only portraying ourselves. No one will forget that it isn't a full-blood Comanche under that stuffed raven, speaking as if he is developmentally challenged. It is Johnny Depp, actor, making acting choices he is allowed to make because he is famous. While we can hope, discuss, dissect and hold him accountable for truly caring about the people he portrays--it still remains only Johnny Depp.

Who "made" Johnny Depp famous?

We did.

So, do your homework yourself. Check out more than You Tube or Wikipedia. And ask yourself why we have these issues, to begin with. Why does Johnny Depp feel, now, he  needs to prove he  has Indian Blood. What happened to Kevin Costner's big connection with native people, after his movie? What is the whole history of Indians in American cinema and radio, anyway? What are all factions, from the Indian Nations, saying about this latest flick? What has this country done to create the real Indian issues, of today? Why is this even important to discuss the day after the Fourth of July?

Most importantly: Don't take my word for it.