tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31678574319761424492024-03-20T08:07:43.557-07:00WhitenoiseLisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00371823824438033448noreply@blogger.comBlogger118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-76265206873778943142024-03-05T13:06:00.000-08:002024-03-19T11:52:17.977-07:00Lisa the Great<p> <span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">When I was three years old, I remember standing at the side of my house thinking, “I am only three years old, yet look how smart I am.” This is a real remembrance. While my older brother was suffering from chronic asthma, with my parents paying way more attention to him than me, I, for a moment, understood how smart, how awesome I was. Most of the time, my parents spent their time and attention on my older brother. I was the healthy afterthought. Now, As a mother of five very different children, I have a modicum of sympathy for my parents in this time, especially for my mother. All mothers spend the majority of their time worrying about their weakest child. Often, what attention remains for the healthy second is lacking.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-15de2ab4-7fff-2820-5d1a-e61685e4d447"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">When I grew up, I left home, searching for the familiar, yet new. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I could not find my own trueness, so I settled for a facsimile of what I understood. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I felt my way in this new world, looking for what I recognized as true. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Eventually, after a number of years, I found it in my children. In the five I gave birth to, I rose. I rose to meet and greet them from before they were born. If there were ever moments I knew myself, it was these. I was a mother. I am a mother. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Yet, after they grew up, I was left with a gaping chasm. Who am I now? Who was I ever?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">How can there be more than one true room inside a single person? There has to be. There is. I am still struggling with this room, with how I live within it, with how I reconcile this room with the past, with children, with the future. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I am closer to the end than to the beginning, yet, when fitful sleep comes, I still dream as if I was a confused child, seeing my lost baby brother, or an obedient mother, mortaring all the gaps between my children’s loose bricks. A frightened aging adult, wandering a maze of rooms that promise salvation, but lead nowhere. The children, the parents, the lost brother return over and over, screaming of my inadequacy. In these dark nights, I believe this voice. When I wake, I summon enough courage to get dressed, walk the dogs, move on.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Is this a way to live one’s last chapter? Sometimes I pretend to be confident in my opinions, but it often comes off more like belligerence. Where is the balance? How do I find myself, the one who, at age three, I understood to be awesome, but who gradually slipped away? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The awesome three-year-old is still awesome. She has inserted herself into the world for the good, and she has offered up five wonderful humans in the process. She has faltered and failed. She has persevered and proven herself. She is smart, strong, mighty. There is music and magic in her walk, her work, her will. I know this in my soul. Yet I find it hard to believe it in my daytime self. The midnight voice admonishes, and sits, like a lurking shadow during the day, waiting for night’s sleepless paranoia to clock in. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I search for the confident three-year-old. She is still there, I hear her voice, and see her standing at the side of the house. Now I need her at the side of my bed.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div></span>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-15314889955889013362023-10-24T07:08:00.002-07:002023-10-24T07:28:22.710-07:00Remember the Titans<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaYKwhplKIN2BP5vrCY8-ODkjxrVljw80_jOWReG_kfEJ4AoMSp9FI7D_75gLfdOQHy_cbmhNQlmcMoeD_K6PIC5Teo2ay5aIIGtIXyAuCUcEcT-RsnKBusWBbOPXChBqkpSbQGCsZadjdpyTFNthiWm2SdH8RZszjphIDMj26Darz2MSmSPXJd3vPzYk/s5248/IMG_20171121_103513107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5248" data-original-width="2952" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaYKwhplKIN2BP5vrCY8-ODkjxrVljw80_jOWReG_kfEJ4AoMSp9FI7D_75gLfdOQHy_cbmhNQlmcMoeD_K6PIC5Teo2ay5aIIGtIXyAuCUcEcT-RsnKBusWBbOPXChBqkpSbQGCsZadjdpyTFNthiWm2SdH8RZszjphIDMj26Darz2MSmSPXJd3vPzYk/s320/IMG_20171121_103513107.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br />It was raining that first day in September. Nervous, damp-haired kids filtered through the halls, looking for familiar, or at least friendly faces among the throng, losing their bearings on the way to classes, and figuring out that rumors of a fourth floor pool were sadly untrue.<p></p><p>As days turned into years, these same kids found their friends, their mentors, their music. Teachers became confidantes and companions along their journey. The seasons changed, bringing fall football, winter basketball, spring track, summer beach expeditions. Proms, musicals, masses in the early mornings. Ski trips, class shows, religious retreats. Rings and yearbooks.</p><p>But it was not just the classes or the teams or the clubs or even the shows that made the magic happen. It was the music, always the music, drifting through the halls, echoing in their ears, pulling them so far into each other's souls that, finally, they could not pinpoint where one ended and the other began. </p><p>It was the music.</p><p>It was raining that last day in June. Excited, damp-haired young women and men filtered out onto the field, looking for familiar faces amid the throng of proud parents and family members filling the bleachers. They were off, like feathers in the wind, off to make their marks on the world, finding new companions along the way, creating a new generation of nervous, excited young women and men who would then go off to find their own music, often returning home with their own babes in tow. An unbroken circle that would turn these weathered friends white and weary.</p><p>It was raining that weekend in October, fifty years later. Gray-haired women and men filtered into the school chapel, recognizing old friends -- often by name tags rather than faces. But no matter. Time fell away as friends reconnected. Then the music started. It echoed in their ears and spoke to their tired souls. They sang the old songs by heart, not needing to read the words on the pages. Some smiled, some cried, some did a little of both. The music held them . . . then released them, and, for a moment, they became young again.</p><p>The rain finally stopped. The friends slowly filtered out into the night, back to home and family, children, and grandchildren. One last hug, one last memory shared. Such an important piece of each of them had been tied up in the other that they knew they would never ever entirely separate. The day was done, and indeed, all was well.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-56065882846141964262022-09-29T12:43:00.002-07:002024-03-19T11:54:51.127-07:00Oliver<p> There is a feral cat who lives beyond my fence. I have seen him flitting around for years. Now, I am reaching out to him, with food, shelter, and petting.</p><p>His name is Oliver. My daughter suggested the name after Olivia Newton John died. He does not answer to his name. I usually just "meow" and he shows up, meowing in response. </p><p>This is my third cat. I rescued an older male who was on death's door in New York's winter a number of years ago. My son named him <i>Strider</i>, after the hero from <i>Lord of the Rings</i>. Strider was in his final days, and, despite my attempts at keeping him on my lap, he chose to go it alone, in the depths of my closet.</p><p>Then, we adopted a sweet tuxedo named Gemini. Gemini was a meowing baby, found by our dog Sammy. Sammy's unusual howling made us go outside at night to see what was wrong. A small kitten, without mother or siblings, she became our indoor/outdoor cat who responded to evening calls to come home. Sometimes, I would look out of my second-floor bedroom window to see her neon eyes. She was very good at staying in the neighborhood, not venturing into traffic. Gemini sat, purring on my daughters' chests, feeling as at home in our house, as around our neighborhood. We took her to our next home, where she became an indoor cat in her later years. She was affectionate, and still sat on my kids' chests when they were willing to be still.</p><p>Gemini developed mouth cancer and could no longer eat, nor clean herself. She lost weight and retreated to the closet. My daughter, the one who loved her the most, came with me to the vet's office. We held her as she passed into cat heaven, hoping she might wait for us at the end of the bridge.</p><p>I pride myself to be a dog person. But these feline companions have meant so much -- to me and to my kids. My Oliver greets me every day with an echoed meow, leading me to the makeshift house I have made, waiting for his breakfast and dinner, and excellent ear scratching. Oliver is mine, as much as I am his.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibu2t9nNw6ZunOQkCLniVmBxaLkl3v_-kzFdxmb81pxZn3192x9kkr7C1BkY-k17R5BDDyu9kTXqz9KIc8mC9olUpAuM0bhqgU_3rcfqqvvqHHAzaVsduwBkmm-WWuJstoOSDNPkfqlPPr8QUGFICXiBgTCZzEKdCJvrNSGl6hXjjFkh5B6gNIjVts3g/s4032/Olive.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibu2t9nNw6ZunOQkCLniVmBxaLkl3v_-kzFdxmb81pxZn3192x9kkr7C1BkY-k17R5BDDyu9kTXqz9KIc8mC9olUpAuM0bhqgU_3rcfqqvvqHHAzaVsduwBkmm-WWuJstoOSDNPkfqlPPr8QUGFICXiBgTCZzEKdCJvrNSGl6hXjjFkh5B6gNIjVts3g/s320/Olive.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-11455119309303370062022-07-19T14:22:00.004-07:002022-07-20T11:49:21.718-07:00Whose Garden Is This?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQybL4DWg-zPt5UMwqaIS_DNoAgtZ833uITLT0OpekP-iifFlTXQd8r_JCnGSgsEvuD7_Jsz3MZS-WoxTpINcQGIvPEpp5lYpuYDIY_CqBUVBGutA8SLYc6P2uZW96LkZwNU96wt3W8MhS-DNGCdr9Y6oGmWkkzesafkP6NsBk-LlZB0CqJ0obsNtdg/s2015/52389956_10216947315650350_3067845240602755072_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2015" data-original-width="1511" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQybL4DWg-zPt5UMwqaIS_DNoAgtZ833uITLT0OpekP-iifFlTXQd8r_JCnGSgsEvuD7_Jsz3MZS-WoxTpINcQGIvPEpp5lYpuYDIY_CqBUVBGutA8SLYc6P2uZW96LkZwNU96wt3W8MhS-DNGCdr9Y6oGmWkkzesafkP6NsBk-LlZB0CqJ0obsNtdg/s320/52389956_10216947315650350_3067845240602755072_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p><br /></p>Up north, I used to know all the names of the trees, plants and creatures. <p></p><p>No longer.</p><p>Tiny delicate lizards flit throughout my garden and house, stopping to nod a throaty hello before moving on. <i>Black Racer</i> snakes sit still until seeing me, and then flit away to who knows where. Freshwater turtles greet me at the canal running in back of my house every evening, knowing I am coming with delicious food pellets. The fish and ducks like them too.</p><p>And, speaking of ducks, my extended family of <i>Muscovy</i> ducks wait for me to come out of the gate with cracked corn in the mornings, and waddle toward my car whenever I pull into the driveway. It is nesting season, and a few mamas congregate with their peeping broods, along with the other ducks -- even the fat, red-faced, hissing males.</p><p>I plant small things I cannot name, and they grow quickly into giants. <i>Bird of Paradise, Banana</i>, <i>Oleander</i>, <i>Bougainvillia</i>, and <i>Cordyline</i>. I plant others that become pineapples, avocados and mangoes. My <i>Hibiscus</i> has taken over the western fence. It is wonderfully out of control.</p><p>I thought this was my new Wild West (Wild South?). Yet the large orange and green Iguanas planting themselves squarely in sunny spots, blinking and nodding at me, say, "This is, and has always been <i>my</i> garden, not yours."</p>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-76031741445779238502022-05-04T11:53:00.001-07:002022-05-04T11:56:00.434-07:00Atlantic, North and South<p> The water is often still here.</p><p>The same ocean, yet she has changed her clothes several times</p><p>Since I last saw her.</p><p><br /></p><p>She was sassier then, chilly and wild with waves worn</p><p>Around her shoulders like cotton batting.</p><p><br /></p><p>Here, she seems deceptively softer, smoother, warmer to the touch.</p><p><br /></p><p>But do not anger the ocean goddess of the south. </p><p>She will roil and spill onto your safety -- </p><p>A howling spurned mistress</p><p>Churning until all her rage is spent.</p><p><br /></p><p>Her northern self is steely and controlled -- </p><p>Her voice still so familiar in my ear that she almost tricks me into believing,</p><p>"Oh, it's you! You followed me here to keep me company, </p><p>still singing the sea song from my earliest remembering."</p><p><br /></p><p>In the north, she pulls no punches, tells no lies</p><p>Offers solace to the island dwellers.</p><p><br /></p><p>Here, in the south, she is Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde</p><p>Lulling me into a haze, until the moon is full and the offshore winds whip her</p><p>Into a frenzy.</p><p><br /></p><p>Once, I thought I knew her allure.</p><p>Now, I am not so sure.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-81667720253961632872021-04-16T09:07:00.004-07:002021-04-17T09:38:21.700-07:00Lisa the Tower of Pisa<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4IBNQrJkioMYKlYT_kil4NMBBrpHK1W58i-gOpY9AWcThQro8Ql95pvixwmR75RIDRnD4LpxkL4caKG35nQ5Wb5Zzm308NGOQQWpIr5m_OkRsmu1jVjVa0Y7oH5g-Wiq0maxrUFJheI1/s1405/assets.newatlas.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1405" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4IBNQrJkioMYKlYT_kil4NMBBrpHK1W58i-gOpY9AWcThQro8Ql95pvixwmR75RIDRnD4LpxkL4caKG35nQ5Wb5Zzm308NGOQQWpIr5m_OkRsmu1jVjVa0Y7oH5g-Wiq0maxrUFJheI1/s320/assets.newatlas.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times;"> <span style="color: #040404;">I recently learned my childhood crush, the youngest of three rambunctious boys, </span></span><span style="color: #040404; font-family: times;">passed away. Since his rascally ten-year- old face is the only one I can conjur, it is<br /></span><span style="color: #040404; font-family: times;">extra hard to believe he is gone.</span><p></p></blockquote><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">He lived across the street. His father, a very loud man who knew nothing of</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">pig-tailed little girls, had composed a song in my very young honor:</span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #ff2600; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #ff2600; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Oh, Lisa, the Tower of Pisa!</span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #ff2600; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">She bends and she bends, but she never falls down!</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">It was shouted at me over the years, until this father retired and moved away.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">The song always made me feel a little uncomfortable. Maybe it was the shouting.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Maybe I sensed subtle innuendo. But it also made me proud to know I was the</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">subject of someone’s original ballad.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">The song has different meaning now, some 60 years later. It is a song of resiliency,</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">of survival, of flexibility in the face of gravity and a lifetime of leaning, bending,</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">straightening, bending again.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #040404; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">I’ve not fallen once. Nor do I plan to anytime soon.</span></p>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-85720566164002532042021-03-31T14:18:00.001-07:002022-10-13T11:32:18.544-07:00Once Black, Never Back<p> I can no longer do what I once did. My energy and strength have waned. Yet, at 65, I can still dig into the earth, still kneel to plant, still carry 40 pound bags of dog food and mulch. I can push the behemoth vacuum cleaner through at least three rooms at a time, before stopping to catch my breath. I can wrangle two energetic dogs on leash, without letting go. I can walk a few miles without fainting.</p><p>Once, maybe 15 years ago, when I was going to the gym on a regular basis, my friend (who was a personal trainer there) confided in me. He said, "I asked a client what her optimal goal was coming to the gym. She immediately pointed to you, and said, "I want to look like her."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXyujmKTbbBjQKIjoldG10B0iNMnWp-UdtB4OowmNBtTEMm5uz2gZC_UnLZU-Er1dTFz-aBV04suBlrOSg2hGvPi6mBP-WU4z8W_Sx00IP5s7_lbxLDBm5HELHmED2cuUv6j2z9dWmRsm/s309/cf46d909a8bbe6ac1160844f5f5d7fff.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXyujmKTbbBjQKIjoldG10B0iNMnWp-UdtB4OowmNBtTEMm5uz2gZC_UnLZU-Er1dTFz-aBV04suBlrOSg2hGvPi6mBP-WU4z8W_Sx00IP5s7_lbxLDBm5HELHmED2cuUv6j2z9dWmRsm/s0/cf46d909a8bbe6ac1160844f5f5d7fff.jpg" /></a></div>I no longer look anything like this person's goal, yet still, I am happy with the body I have. I can walk unruly dogs. I can run if I have to. I can lift 40 pounds of dog food. And while my biceps have become the saggy bottoms of my upper arms, I still consider myself the Black belt, badass mama I once was. <p></p><p>We are, not only what we see today, but a compilation of all we have been and <br />done. Like the black-belt martial arts community says, "once Black, never back." </p><p><br /></p>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-29680392785676745132021-01-21T16:21:00.007-08:002021-02-06T05:31:25.080-08:00The Walk<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNm3Xt3Q5GnoB4TT_Y64ycawO4ADYp00SHKkU8X2FuXXQI2hl96MfR5DsyZMYWJpFM1UdtuSW-8dzHldTQMBWGgkXFyMBriJZSo-xAQqM0-INSRinNBhBK6reRW-AahVuCtbkae13UC7Z/s600/D485_3_369_0004_600.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNm3Xt3Q5GnoB4TT_Y64ycawO4ADYp00SHKkU8X2FuXXQI2hl96MfR5DsyZMYWJpFM1UdtuSW-8dzHldTQMBWGgkXFyMBriJZSo-xAQqM0-INSRinNBhBK6reRW-AahVuCtbkae13UC7Z/s320/D485_3_369_0004_600.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> I took a walk tonight. It was just after sunset in south Florida, where the sunsets are particularly beautiful. It is January 21, the day after Joe Biden was sworn in as the 46th President, and Kamala Harris, the first women of color to be our Vice-President. Yesterday, I watched the swearing-in, with all its wonderful songs and poems.<p></p><p>Tonight, I take stock. I have been lucky to have received my first COVID vaccine, and am scheduled for my second. My kids are healthy and weathering the pandemic storm bravely. I am surrounded by those who care. I am safe, for the moment.</p><p>Tonight, in this south Florida walk, I remember my brother, who did not quite last until the pandemic hit, I celebrate my kids who are stoically weathering these hard times, and empathizing with my neighbors, whose houses still light up with Christmas decorations, or whose houses are dark and still, because their residents are old or sick. Some of these houses had proudly displayed Trump signs, and a few, Biden signs. </p><p>A month ago, we were awakened to sirens and flashing lights. Our neighbor's brother had passed away in the night. All of us came into the street to talk to, and comfort the family. No one spoke about politics, or beliefs. We all gathered (masks on) to offer comfort to our grieving neighbor.</p><p>Let us go back to this time. This raw reality is real America. We come out in the middle of the night to comfort our neighbor. We do not ask about religion, race or political alliance. As often as needed, no questions asked. Always. This is my America.</p><p><br /></p>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-76013991702856922452020-08-08T13:33:00.007-07:002023-10-26T07:05:08.287-07:00Other<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My wonderful , thoughtful, brilliant partner is Jewish. Her father was a survivor of the Holocaust, as are many of her family members. Her uncle was Eli Wiesel. Photos of her family in concentration camps are displayed at Yad Vashem Museum in Jerusalem.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-9c0bbfbd-7fff-cd53-a4a8-9120279b373f"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am an Irish-Italian American who still (even in Trump times) believes in an America where we are all safe from mass extermination. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In my job, I tutor all kinds of people, from all over the world. I think of myself as being the kind of person who is there for everyone, regardless of background. I received my degree from a New York City university (CUNY Queens College). I worked at another New York university, where my students were from every imaginable country on the planet. I now work In Miami, where, again, my students are from everywhere.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is what I have learned. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All people, women, men, local or not, are remarkable in their knowledge, drive, understanding, and hope. I am always humbled by my students. They represent a future for the planet that I cannot imagine, a future that, (first of all) exists, and a future every human can be a part of, and proud of.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My life has had its twists and turns. But I never had to risk my life, or that of my children for the freedoms I expected. My wonderful, thoughtful, brilliant Jewish partner knows better. Her family has been on the run for centuries. Now, in this time, in America, all thoughtful people should be concerned for their neighbors -- Black, Jewish, Other. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">No human is “other.” We are so much more the same than different. Is it white male supremacy that is the problem? It very well could be. Or is it the basic fear of whatever is different? I dress differently. I speak differently. I am different. </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">But not really. I am the same as you, I want the same things as you. I hear you, beyond language, beyond culture. We breathe the same air. We walk in step. We marvel at the same stars. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-70695947144432943882020-07-04T09:58:00.002-07:002020-07-04T09:59:08.712-07:00Escaping the Plague<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of my younger brother's death. Despite his weakened state, his passing shook me through and through. His downward slide was rapid in his final months, and our moving him from New York to a nursing home just down the road from us did nothing to help.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Never in a million years could I have then foreseen the encroaching threat of a virus that reserved its most insidious tentacles for those older or infirm. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I do not imagine, if Chris had survived the year, that he would have been able to stave off Corona's attack. Did he know something we did not?</span>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-45132480083037143572020-06-10T09:47:00.001-07:002023-10-29T06:24:01.609-07:00Take It or Leave It<h3 class="storytitle" id="post-44" style="background-color: white; color: #8c0000; font-family: "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 2px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 10px;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12px;">CUNY Queens College's Powdermaker Hall</span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12px;"> is tattooed with quotes from famous writers and thinkers.</span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12px;"> By far, my favorite quote is one I pass each morning on my way to class. It is posted somewhat obscurely on the outer northwestern wall, and it is the one I have memorized and constantly call up within my own mind. It is a James Baldwin quote: </span><em style="color: #333333; font-size: 12px;">“The world is before you and you need not take it or leave it as it was when you came in.”</em></h3>
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Baldwin, who was poor, black <em>and</em> gay, often joked that, rather than being thrice cursed, had “hit the trifecta.” “How much more disadvantaged could one person be?” he asked. Baldwin’s search for self, like Ralph Ellison’s was more of a lifelong journey than a destination at which to arrive. I believe Ellison, whose path diverged significantly from Baldwin’s would nonetheless appreciate his contemporary’s quote.</div>
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After following in the angry, and somewhat separatist footsteps of his mentor Richard Wright (<em>Native Son</em>), Ellison evolved into more of an integrationist, insisting that blacks would succeed by excelling and mixing it up with the larger world, a view also held by the founder of his alma mater, Booker T. Washington. His contemporary, and fellow Wright offspring, James Baldwin, (<em>Notes of a Native Son</em>) also came under Ellison’s harsh criticism. Baldwin was much more a separatist, finding no real home for himself in America and eventually emigrating to Paris.</div>
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One thing all three have in common is their search for a sense of self. Ah, that all-important word, which to Antonio Damasio can be deconstructed into three levels. Ellison (et. al) understood that unconscious Protoself level — that’s an easy one. But dive deeper into Core Consciousness and Extended Consciousness and these writers each take a different road leading to Rome. Ellison seems to narrow down his search by first finding what and who he is <em>NOT</em>. To white people, he is as invisible as a shadow which passes along as near nothingness. In the prologue to <em>Invisible Man</em>, Ellison states, “That invisibility to which I refer occurs because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of those with whom I come in contact. A matter of the construction of their <i>inner</i> eyes, those eyes with which they look through their physical eyes upon reality” (Prologue II).</div>
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Ellison’s self is there. He just has to find it among the sea of black faces and its accepted group identity, as well as within a larger, (optic) white-washed world. His allusions to Jazz as metaphor for individuality or self-ism (my term) are intrinsic to the story.</div>
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In the end, Ellison’s nameless (self-less?) narrator comes back from his trip around his own inner world to say, “I had no desire to destroy myself even if it destroyed the machine; I wanted freedom, not destruction. It was exhausting, for no matter what the scheme I conceived, there was one fatal flaw — myself. There was no getting around it. I could no more escape than I could think of my identity. Perhaps, I thought, the two things are involved with one another. When I discover who I am, I’ll be free” (11.103).</div>
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This book and topic is so very timely. <em>Black Lives Matter</em>, racial profiling, the fires that burn in Charlotte, Chicago, Kansas City and elsewhere, all indicate Ellison’s point, while shining a hopeful light onto Baldwin's message. Once we discover who we are, perhaps, only then will we all be free.</div>
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Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-57851077477784960962020-06-02T12:34:00.000-07:002020-06-04T06:44:14.107-07:00Hold the Door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At the school where I work, the campus buildings have heavy double doors. Most come equipped with large square buttons to push for extended automated entry. This is South Florida, so winter winds blowing through the halls is never a concern.<br />
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Despite the automation, I still check behind me to see if another person is also intending to enter. I hold the door and smile. That person, whether student or staff, smiles back and says "Thank you." A small event in an otherwise uneventful day.<br />
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Yet I do not think this is such a small event. My campus is host to a rainbow of students and faculty. This rainbow embraces ethnicity, nationality, sexuality, religion, age, and economic class. When I hold the door, I am saying, "I honor you, I respect you, I am your friend. Your entry into my office, the restroom, the dining hall, my life, is a joy, and a blessing."<br />
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Small actions can offer bigger meanings.<br />
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If I could choose the title of my own eulogy, it might read: "She held the door."<br />
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<br />Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-59807426884088950722020-05-28T11:22:00.004-07:002020-05-28T16:23:38.510-07:00The Mark of Cain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Unmarked Category </b>(def): the default, the majority, the go-to, the assumed, the norm, the unless otherwise specified.<br />
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I learned this term in my Anthropology 101 class at Queens College in New York City. While the professor charged us with learning a heaping slew of terms, my forgetful brain perked up and retained this one nugget nonetheless.<br />
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Among the areas of New York City, <i><b>Kings</b></i> County (Brooklyn) is never called such, while <i><b>Queens</b></i> is a constantly referred-to thing. The <b>King</b> is an unmarked given.<br />
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Without bending to check the undercarriage, pet enthusiasts default to the "he" pronoun.<br />
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Repair people are assumed to be male.<br />
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Clergy too.<br />
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Politicians, especially these days, are assumed to be lily white, and male. The trickle of women who pass through the old-boy gauntlet are interrupted, shushed, and belittled.<br />
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The <b>Unmarked</b> straight white adult male speaks a bit too loudly -- at the dinner table, in restaurants and on the street corner. The default volume on this default category is turned way up.<br />
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The <b>Unmarked</b> tend to mark their territory nonetheless. They man spread, man splain, man spit, man scratch and man segregate. These forms of metaphoric pissing on all things they believe they own is widely accepted, sometimes applauded, and seldom challenged.<br />
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The norm dictates neighbors be straight (family members certainly so!) and, in fact, there are only two types of neighborhoods: Neighborhoods, (read: straight white, male dominated ones) and blackgayhispanicinnercityghetto neighborhoods.<br />
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I have a number of personal stories illustrating the <b>Unmarked</b>. While I check a couple of "marked" boxes, I still cannot comprehend the daily existence of people of color, especially in this day of white-supremacism-is-real-america. The image of a white man in power kneeling on the neck of a black man, causing his death, exemplifies the perceived privilege of the <b>Unmarked</b>. It is high time the <b>Unmarked</b> be given the <b>Mark of Cain</b> placed upon their foreheads.<br />
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<br />Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-34862010576250949512020-04-28T11:51:00.000-07:002020-05-28T10:54:40.953-07:00Camouflage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hidden beneath his sneer and shock of dirty brown hair tumbling constantly into his eyes, was a look. A certain look. I did not notice it then, and it has been many years since I had last seen him, or suffered his wrath.</span><br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Although Dwayne Horowitz lived just down the block and was the same age as Henry, Joel, Bobby, and my brother David, they were not his friends. His reputation as a bully and be-littler kept everyone at arm’s length. His taunts, punches, hair-pulling and bike stealing were legend among the neighborhood kids. We "played" with Dwayne only when Sally, his diminutive mother pleaded with our mothers to include her only child in our street games. We wondered how such a nice mother could raise such a bully.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Aw, mom! Do we Have To? He’s such a pain!” We would yell after him when he would knock one of us off our bike, or pull our hair, or pinch our arm. “Dwayne, Dwayne, the BIG FAT PAIN!!!” I began to refer to him as Dwayne Horrible-witz. His face would twist, his tongue between his teeth, avenging a reality of which we had no idea.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But when I think back to those days on Sherman Drive, days of stick ball and SPUD, and Monkey-in-the-Middle, I see something else in my mind’s eye. The hurt and anger in his eyes. The fingernails always bloody and bitten to the quick. The shaggy hair in need of washing and cutting. Dwayne’s bully was his disguise, his way of spitting into the winds of a childhood filled with the swearing and violence of his father, and the pitiful ministrations of his long-suffering mother. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was too young to understand those realities then. It was only years later, when my own mother returned from Sally Horowitz’s funeral, that she told me Dwayne’s real story of abuse and neglect. Sally had tried to shield her son, but was no match for the hurricanes of her husband’s rages. She was terrified that Dwayne would become like his father, and in those days, he seemed up to the task.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not long ago, I followed up on Dwayne. He grew up to be a successful businessman, and caring husband and father. I am not sure if Sally ever got to know the kinder man her son became. I also</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> wonder at the boy-turned-man who found the strength to step out from behind the camouflage shadow . . . and into the bright sun. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-15772930986304771352020-03-07T14:22:00.000-08:002020-03-07T14:40:38.854-08:00you, dog<b>you, dog</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
you do not worry about Corona Virus.<br />
you do not fret about the Stock Market.<br />
you do not care who is elected.<br />
you do not mind about my problems, my insecurities, my weaknesses.<br />
<br />
you, dog.<br />
the best fun for you is when we play fetch. When we scratch you behind your ears. When you escape out the front door and chase ducks. When we are both home, and you can sit beside us. When you swim in the pool to cool off. When visitors come and you think that is so great.<br />
<br />
When you let us know you are home.<br />
<br />
you, dog.<br />
If only I could see your world. If only I could be as happy. If only I could love beyond hurt. If only.<br />
<br />
you dog.<br />
can I be you?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLIiddBL6SchUZrDwDUl0OiIxeJpaET613L4pfPnhnk8aIkg1AjhMWpN_GkGtGoh623AuQvI21pr8njq8013NOs6kIX6nDmcQ99ap-ztcFsQaoJy4-TpoErlCOxmAozRNpltSWSJ9rTvz/s1600/72346707_10218837901673819_4826964304882302976_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLIiddBL6SchUZrDwDUl0OiIxeJpaET613L4pfPnhnk8aIkg1AjhMWpN_GkGtGoh623AuQvI21pr8njq8013NOs6kIX6nDmcQ99ap-ztcFsQaoJy4-TpoErlCOxmAozRNpltSWSJ9rTvz/s320/72346707_10218837901673819_4826964304882302976_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-49260049390904651232019-11-06T11:52:00.001-08:002019-11-07T10:31:51.667-08:00The Summer of Living and Dying<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjnlEgexYS-pI8KzrsLHedy6w_UsvdRev5sFXAu84ikO9cm-CNwcC9w-2bq5213W2TeP3dFTidyse4RGU5XRB8J4VWMAOXZ_z8ev1pTbtmD9-9pxxCvOMWXV-YUy5qiE_Y4yqZQ3DG6sDA/s1600/65876734_10218053376741186_2639323438514176000_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjnlEgexYS-pI8KzrsLHedy6w_UsvdRev5sFXAu84ikO9cm-CNwcC9w-2bq5213W2TeP3dFTidyse4RGU5XRB8J4VWMAOXZ_z8ev1pTbtmD9-9pxxCvOMWXV-YUy5qiE_Y4yqZQ3DG6sDA/s400/65876734_10218053376741186_2639323438514176000_n.jpg" width="400" height="280" data-original-width="515" data-original-height="361" /></a></div>The summer of 2019 was mostly terrible. Although visits from overseas family brightened the days, My older brother, David, and I steeled ourselves to fly to New York to rescue our younger brother, Christopher, from a wickedly awful nursing home situation, intending to bring him down to Florida, where we had prepared a <i>way</i> better nursing home situation. Chris had advanced Parkinson's Disease, including its insidious-related dementia, and, after a series of bad falls, he was forced into hospitalization, with the medical mandate that he not return home.<br />
<br />
For the past few years, I wrestled with my conscience, debating whether I should leave Chris in his Long Island house, (which, for this lifelong bachelor, was wife, children and more) dreading the call that he had bled to death at the bottom of the stairs, or, wrest him from every semblance of security, and place him in a 24-7 facility, where only his physical body would be safe. I had hired home health aides, and done all I thought I could to keep him safe and confident in his house. My other option was to consign him to an assisted living situation that would wrench him away from all things familiar.<br />
<br />
I opted for the latter.<br />
<br />
<br />
After several months of nursing home hell, I flew up to New York to see him. I found him, unkempt, and unwashed, tethered to a wheelchair, in someone else's clothes, in a urine-smelling hallway by the nurses' station. "Oh, Lisa!" He immediately started crying, and held onto me as if I were his savior. He thought I was there to finally take him home. <br />
<br />
But the plan was to transport him south, never allowing him to see his beloved home again, believing a visit there would cause us unnecessary stress, and him an unrealistic view of his future. Dave and I transported him safely, even making sure he had a good home-cooked dinner upon his arrival.<br />
<br />
He never saw his beloved home again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Chris's diagnosis became official 18 years ago. I had seen his shaking hands, and rather than asking him about it (I should have!) I asked my then-ailing parents about it. They said it was stress. Finally, one Christmas, as my parents and Chris were leaving, I again, noted his tremors. "Chris, I think you should see a specialist." He agreed without hesitation. The only reason he had not done so before, was most likely because my parents, in their own time of need, tried to will away the more pressing needs of their youngest devoted son.<br />
<br />
Chris went to the neurology appointment, and was quickly, and accurately diagnosed with Parkinson's. My mother, already suffering from Alzheimers' Disease herself, was not able to comprehend her baby boy's situation, making the appointment all about herself. "What do you think about my hand tremor?" she asked. The doctor -- A brusque man, who initially came across as rude -- later becoming a staunch ally, kept her at bay. "We are treating your son right now. I will speak to you after."<br />
<br />
In the ensuing years, I accompanied Chris to countless doctor appointments. I drove him into upper Manhattan to see a specialist to see if he might be a candidate for brain stimulation surgery (he was not). I took him shopping for groceries (He wanted mostly pasta). I took him out for lunches (his treat). I welcomed him to my home for every one of his Christmas Eve birthdays, making sure he was in the mix of his nieces and nephews, and enjoying his remembered childhood birthday foods -- Veal Parmigiana, Crespella, and a chocolate Christmas Tree-shaped birthday cake . . .<br />
<br />
<br />
Fast forward . . . Company had already arrived. 26 family members milled around, playing with the kids, and chatting with each other. My cell phone rang. A Caribbean voice spoke: "This is ... from West Broward Nursing Home. Mr. Christopher was found unresponsive in his room, and has been taken to Westside Hospital Emergency Room." Numbly, I thanked the voice, hung up, and told everyone I needed to leave for the ER. <br />
<br />
When we arrived, we were quickly escorted through the ER to a conference room. A young doctor began speaking. "Your brother came in presenting no vital signs. We worked on him for a half hour. I am so sorry to tell you, but your brother has passed away."<br />
<br />
<br />
WHAT??? NOOOOOO! This is not true! Let me see him! <br />
<br />
The young nurse led me to ER cubicle number <b>29</b>. As I approached, I could see Chris lying in the bed. He still had a tube inserted into his mouth. For the first time in many years, his limbs were still. I held his still-warm hand, and stroked his head. "I'm sorry," was all I could say, over, and over. His hand was soft, and I felt him still there, holding my hand. <br />
<br />
<br />
I dialed Dave's number. "My baby brother!" he wailed. Neither of us could comprehend what was happening. Where had Chris gone? Did he go on purpose? Did he give up? Was this his only escape from a life he hated? <br />
<br />
<br />
I do not have answers. Really, the only question that both haunts my dreams, and keeps me awake, is, did <i>I</i> do this to him?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-6801442969133073732019-09-11T14:06:00.000-07:002019-10-01T08:51:53.714-07:00The Guitar In the DistanceI have owned my guitar since 1969, when I was 13 year old. It was an eighth grade graduation gift from my parents. He is a <i>Guild D-35<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqr1WGWlD-zWgBL1Xf5VgJCwSbfHlq_j3t5O3tWQrNkxfLJBujhFA7yMM88p9CuHocqiMOKd_VnCd45EqwTYoNJxse4z-TPIXBwQDDbOFEs-xHK7Ujd-E7O14Z9f1VxO4J5iZ8t181ZgHk/s1600/Vladimir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqr1WGWlD-zWgBL1Xf5VgJCwSbfHlq_j3t5O3tWQrNkxfLJBujhFA7yMM88p9CuHocqiMOKd_VnCd45EqwTYoNJxse4z-TPIXBwQDDbOFEs-xHK7Ujd-E7O14Z9f1VxO4J5iZ8t181ZgHk/s320/Vladimir.jpg" width="180" height="320" data-original-width="539" data-original-height="960" /></a></div></i> acoustic six string, and I have played him for fifty years. His name is Vladimir.
Vlad has traveled a long and winding road in his career. He went with me to college, where I almost immediately dropped out, finding "god" in a popular cult of the time. He sang with me as I wound my way through belief and question, worry and warrior, kids and camp. I roused innocent children from sleep with "good morning" songs," sent them off to bed with soothing ballads, inspired peers with popular folk songs of the 60s and 70s. His charge was to always be a comfort and inspiration to others.
Vlad followed me into marriage, children and every issue of the day. I taught my sons to play him (they have since far surpassed me in their musical abilities!) and, lately, I have swung him around 360 degrees, playing in coffee houses, hospice services, and church sanctuaries.
I played him at each of my parents' funerals. How hard to momentarily turn off all emotion, in order to get through a cherished song, only to break down the moment it was over!
Thankfully he appeared at weddings too, for both friends and family. He is always good that way.
Each day, as I drive home from work on I-95, I pass the <i>Hard Rock Hotel and Casino</i> off in the distance. The hotel building is in the shape of a classic <i>Les Paul</i> guitar, and right now, the builders are at the upper parts of the neck. This guitar lets me know my daily commute is almost over, and I will soon be home. I say hello to it every time, wondering if this grand instrument has any communication with my Vlad.
I am now almost 64 years old, yet I still greet Vlad each morning. He rests in the corner of my bedroom, patiently collecting dust and waiting for the very infrequent times I pull his hardshell case out to play him. He is my un-aging friend and companion, the one who remembers me as a young, red-headed girl, still waiting for life -- and guitars -- to guide her on her way.Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-25510936973503837642019-08-24T08:24:00.000-07:002019-08-25T12:35:07.774-07:00Checking in on Charlie I lost my dog, Charlie yesterday. He was 15, arthritic, often confused, and having daily small seizures that left him panicked and panting. He cried a lot.
It is always a terrible decision to make, and, while Charlie made it clear he already had his eye on the bridge, I did not want him to go. The night before, I slept on the rug alongside him, his chin on my leg. Every now and then he would open his eyes and look up, checking that I was still there. I spent the next morning and afternoon never leaving his side. He ate a whole bunch of hamburger and lapped water from a bowl I held for him. I took him outside for a while, to sit with the family of Muskovy ducks living in residence on the front lawn. At one point, three adolescent sibling ducks (I call the Three Caballeros) waddled over and sat next to Charlie, blinking their understanding and support.
I held his head and talked to him as he passed. "Go ahead, my boy. Go run. There's the creek bed trail right there. Go run, and run, and run. I will be along soon."
Two of my kids visited us a couple of weeks ago, and one night we decided to go see a movie. Of course, it was "The Art of Racing in the Rain!" I had read the book and knew what I was in for, yet despite the personal emotion I knew it would draw out, the film actually helped steel me for what I knew was soon to come. Enzo (the dog) decides to return as a human boy, offering Denny (his owner)the assurance that his beloved friend is well and happy, and, while I don't subscribe to that idea, I understand the deep-seated need to know. I need to know -- without a doubt -- that Charlie is well, happy, and living his best life.
I got to glimpse that life all the years <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEMJVMjLiOCDkkHHcOOXcgy08JPrrTyQiwLCRSgDwktEHzbgOmO7qCKXMUOvrq97b5HFGpk37r8L9-aXnC7ztUAT9t5zhZsSXLr-LnbBcZVa2rY_X84dz6PH8X1KjzraX8nHdyy7gYStq/s1600/0-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEMJVMjLiOCDkkHHcOOXcgy08JPrrTyQiwLCRSgDwktEHzbgOmO7qCKXMUOvrq97b5HFGpk37r8L9-aXnC7ztUAT9t5zhZsSXLr-LnbBcZVa2rY_X84dz6PH8X1KjzraX8nHdyy7gYStq/s400/0-1.jpg" width="300" height="400" data-original-width="733" data-original-height="977" /></a></div>he was with me. Is it too much to ask for another peek?Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-65814786740447700052019-07-29T07:51:00.002-07:002020-06-02T12:28:32.463-07:00The Myth of the GuruMy head is swimming. Listening to NPR on my way to work, I intentionally nod -- Yes!, railing against Trump, white supremacy, and Islamophobia.
But my life experience gives me pause. A Sicilian/Irish Catholic American through and through, 12 years of Catholic school, and a more personal search for self, landed me into Christian Pentacostalism, and, more importantly, 30 years of cult beliefs, where the leader claimed messianic status, and his theology absolute.
What leads humans to seek a guru? A single person upon whom to pin hopes, beliefs, and loyalty? Historically, this has, of course, gone beyond religion.
Adolf Hitler, Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, Gautama Buddha, Jim Jones, Jesus, Menachem Schneerson, Sun Myung Moon, every parish priest. And the list goes on. . .<br />
<br />
We do not trust ourselves.
What would a modern world be like if each human individual relied solely on her or his own conscience? Would we be lost to anarchy? Or would we be challenged to locate the angels of our better nature, finding a way to live together, with wild differences, yet communally seeking co-habitation?
Part of me wants to blame men for all historical problems. If women ran the world, it would be a far better place! But, as the mother of two amazing, moral men, I cannot go there.
Here, I pose a most basic of challenges: How do we make our global community better? How do we appeal to each and every person's better angels? How?Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-29840328803484843512019-06-03T15:58:00.000-07:002019-11-13T06:31:33.811-08:00Instructions for Opening the Heart “How’s Walter?” I asked her on the phone. “He’s goooood.” She drawled out the word, indicating a more measured response. “We opened his chest today to look at his heart and lungs. It was amazing.”
Cadaver lab was humming with murmured activity. Physician Assistant students began with small-opening incisions -- a forearm to look at muscles and tendons, a calf to see tibia and fibula connectors -- working their way up to more major organs. Today was Cardio-Vascular. Next week -- the brain and all its complicated grayness.
Jenny had her new lab coat on. It was a Christmas gift, a cool Grey’s Anatomy brand jacket with a streamlined fit and better pockets. She was the first of Walter’s cohort to grasp her scalpel, creating a neat French-door over Walter’s sternum. There, like a muscular prize, lay his oversized heart. “Here are the aorta and the ventricles,” the professor intoned flatly. “Note the size of the organ. Its overly large circumference indicates what?”
Jenny raised her latexed hand. “Considering his obesity, he most likely suffered from hypertension and hypertrophy,” she ventured, fairly sure of her diagnosis. “His heart had to accommodate his issues by growing larger.” The professor nodded. “That is most likely the case,” he agreed. “This patient may have been a good transplant candidate.” While Jenny was pleased with her correct answer, she also noted how her own heart raced during this class procedure.
She, and her two lab partners set to work dissecting Walter’s various cardial chambers. Jenny could not help but look into Walter’s face, imagining him as an actual
person with an actual life. Bad heart and romance jokes elicited giggles and groans around the lab.
Walter’s chest was finally sutured with large novice stitches. They covered Walter and picked up their backpacks. As they filed out of the lab, Jenny took note of her own beating heart. “I will never take this for granted again,” she thought.
Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-3317425097834124392018-10-18T07:33:00.003-07:002018-10-18T07:46:29.986-07:00The Souls of Shoes<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisJabZVBVReeLFvR7-Zb-d17mpzh6_q13nEIb-fxzXW623OQQjeIm0uNcQ8Y1B99qzSYsy8iKufLqhlnoxZkInWuMBpcGX_ocu8JGNNhURLTPnkYGqC197RgVWjJW4dgWfaCBLkr52CDPU/s1600/10421552_10207184135816956_4196364728811987485_n.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisJabZVBVReeLFvR7-Zb-d17mpzh6_q13nEIb-fxzXW623OQQjeIm0uNcQ8Y1B99qzSYsy8iKufLqhlnoxZkInWuMBpcGX_ocu8JGNNhURLTPnkYGqC197RgVWjJW4dgWfaCBLkr52CDPU/s640/10421552_10207184135816956_4196364728811987485_n.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />They are lined up on low Ikea shelves in the cluttered mudroom, spilling everywhere onto the floor. Every person living here kicks off their shoes upon entering. Each pair is a portrait of its owner, and it is effortless for me to identify them correctly. Outward or inward pronations are as much giveaways as is style. Only Jina walks that way, hah! Since Jinyo began working as a vet tech, he opts for medical Crocs, once a nerd style he would have shunned. Kalia’s tiny size five-and-a-half thrift store finds are a given.<br /><br /><br />In elementary school, I would doodle my classmates’ shoes in the margins of my marble notebooks. Since penny loafers were the uniform shoe, there was little variety in the Bic sketches, yet still, I could later identify each classmate by their shoe drawing. I did this for a couple of years. Was I working through something, or just bored? Not part of the popular crowd, this exercise allowed me clandestine entrée into the rarified atmosphere of the truly cool. Own their shoes, own them.<br /><br /><br />There are a number of shoe sayings. “Walk a mile in my shoes.” “Put yourself in my shoes.” “If the shoe fits . . .” And Cinderella’s, “One shoe can change your life.” There are more -- albeit fairly obscure sayings. When insisting fame had not muddled her sense of self, Oprah Winfrey famously stated, “I still have my feet on the ground. I just wear better shoes.” How is it that our shoes have taken the lion’s share of apparel metaphor? Shirts and pants? Dresses? Socks? Jackets? Not by a long shot. Are our shoes really a mirror to something deeper within us?<br /><br /><br />At the Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum on the western flank of Mount Herzl in Jerusalem, there is a huge and eerie pile of shoes on display, taken from the feet of Jews on their way to the extermination camps. For survivors, bare feet conjured seared memories of the Shoah. <br /><br /><br />My barefootedness is not anything like this. On the contrary, It is a declaration of freedom, and even, maybe, a form of rebellion. I walk barefoot around the house, no matter the temperature. I like the feel of wood and tile and rug. If I must wear something, I prefer sandals and flip flops. When I was a child, we called them “thongs,” a term I can no longer use because of its other connotation. I wear flip flops well into winter, along with my down coat and double-wrapped scarf. It is a call of the wild, a spit into the wind. Defiance of weather’s strictures and society’s norms.<br /><br /><br />Yes, shoes are identifiers. “Give a girl the right pair of shoes, and she can conquer the world,” Marilyn Monroe had famously said. 19th century Irish labor organizer and feminist Mary Harris Jones (we know her as “Mother Jones”) wrote, “My address is like my shoes. It travels with me.” I imagine Jones’ sturdy oxfords, soles worn to nothingness, marching, traveling, stomping her feet in frustration and determination.<br /><br /><br />Shoes take us wherever we are going. They dance with us, run with us, march with us. They skip along with our childhood games, ski and skate down mountains and across frozen lakes. They supply support as we age, and often follow us into the ground, as if we might need them as we step onto the shores of heaven.<br /><br /><br />We know, of course, that shoes have soles. Why the homonym? Are they windows allowing us to peer into our deeper selves, our proverbial souls? Monroe, Winfrey, Jones and Cinderella might think so. If I brought this idea to my children, whose jumble of shoes hold court along the mudroom floor and Ikea shelves, they would surely smirk and return to their eye-roll-default setting of “mom is hopelessly ridiculous.” <br /><br /><br />Except Jinyo. He wouldn’t think that at all and, later, over an excellent coffee, he would confide that he has often thought in similar metaphoric fashion, except with hands. “ Look at people’s hands and form judgements,” he says. “Their movement, the way they hold a pen, or type, or smoke. Thumbs, knuckles, nails, and all, a person’s hands speak their own language and cannot lie.” I agree with my son. It’s odd that it is not feet that we speak about, but shoes. Shoes and hands. Palms and soles. Speaking the language of our own souls.</span>Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-89458466155896108952018-08-27T11:57:00.002-07:002022-07-20T08:18:16.058-07:00HerbieHis head was down when he sang, as if that were helping him reach the really low notes of his bass part. Yet despite the solemnity of most of the choral music rehearsed every Wednesday night and performed every Sunday morning, Herbie's robust renditions always carried hints of pirate drinking songs. "Yo ho, yo ho, O Holy Night for me! Herbie played piano with the same gusto, turning every hymn Joplinesque, his meaty hands bouncing off the keys like fleas in a circus.<br />
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His day job was equally enthusiastic. As the dean of the law school at Hofstra University, he was often tapped to deliver public addresses to faculty, potential benefactors and students alike. Humor always won out, albeit enunciated in the most academic of speech. He was loved by his students and respected by his colleagues.<br />
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I sat in front of him in choir, the only other prematurely white head of the bunch. Although his generous profile was entirely different from my slight one, we were green-robed doppelgangers, separated at birth, my alto-with-an attitude to his boom-box bass, pun masters and pet lovers.<br />
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Herbie passed away a couple of weeks ago. I miss his voice, his grin, his bearded face and hair and hands. When I reached for my green choir robe on the rack, I pushed past his, a bit more rumpled than mine. His spot in the loft was left empty, as if we all were hoping to hear that unmistakable voice ringing through the veil.<br />
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<br />Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-30109035498573672232017-08-24T14:25:00.000-07:002017-08-24T18:50:29.802-07:00Cicadas and Stars<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGctcLk6Km26c34hQimyyyvQgYITfh0tj-ZtOJgT-78C2EfN5j-wBW-dlNrpxqM2Jf7sWSN_Skhe90g1H-Cl07MfFJ7fTfqNUgz59NKzO521kyYv34TYLsuMBzN8MyCviWXA1tUGR3rbKK/s1600/391c71c267bd0a65986f521c285aa55b--star-gaze-counting-stars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGctcLk6Km26c34hQimyyyvQgYITfh0tj-ZtOJgT-78C2EfN5j-wBW-dlNrpxqM2Jf7sWSN_Skhe90g1H-Cl07MfFJ7fTfqNUgz59NKzO521kyYv34TYLsuMBzN8MyCviWXA1tUGR3rbKK/s400/391c71c267bd0a65986f521c285aa55b--star-gaze-counting-stars.jpg" width="300" /></a>August nights are made of nostalgia. The crickets and cicadas sing the same songs I remember from my childhood and the lightening bugs (that's what we called them) dance and flicker to the music.<br />
I am lying on my back in the backyard. Dusk has made way for dark and the heat of the day bows to breezes coming from the Sound, a few miles away.<br />
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The grass is wet from the sprinkler, but I don't mind. My hair is wet anyway from the shower and my pajamas will dry before bedtime. Stars are beginning to appear, and I can name a whole bunch of them. Like the cicada song, the stars have also been my companions through all my years.<br />
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Who made the summer night? Why does it seem so full of magic? I stay still while the world slowly transforms from one thing to another. Is God part of this? "There was evening and there was morning . . ." -- that's what the Bible says over and over, seven times. Did Abel and Cain play outside after dinner?<br />
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I relive in my mind those nights of stars, of the ice cream man ringing up the street, the whistle for dogs to come home and children to be in bed.Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-91291827040173641642017-06-06T14:01:00.001-07:002017-12-04T15:13:52.696-08:00The Graduate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Most people graduate from college in their early twenties. This was my original trajectory too. But circumstances and life choices sent me in other directions, and that elusive degree faded into the background while family and children took center stage.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had always wanted to return to school. As my kids grew, I found many practical excuses to put it off. Finally, as my marriage ended and my life took new and unexpected turns, I found the fortitude to go back.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I started my new college career at </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nassau Community College</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> (NCC) in 2012. Hurricane Sandy disrupted my first semester, and despite its ensuing turmoil, I persevered that fall semester. Since my basic required classes needed fulfilling, I found myself in two math classes and two science labs. Ugh! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I continued, I realized English was my real love, and I took as many writing and literature classes as I could. In the spring of 2015, I graduated </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Summa cum Laude</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> from NCC. My Associate’s Degree, coupled with good grades and my being awarded the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">State University of New York's Chancellor’s Award for Student Excellence</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> offered me several continuing ed options. I was accepted into Queens College’s prestigious </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Transfer Honors Program</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and gratefully accepted.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the fall of 2015 I started classes at QC, working toward my English major. While I took all requisite English classes, I also found room for other forays. Painting. Drama. Anthropology. Urban Studies. Creative Writing. Spanish. This colorful array of subjects added depth and breadth to my educational experience, and while I was mainly focused on my declared major, I discovered many, many pertinent tributaries within these other classes.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I did well at QC. My lowest grade was a B+ in Spanish -- a class in which I worked hard, whose professor was a motivated young woman named Ruth Rodriguez. Profesora Rodriguez was well into her first pregnancy when she taught my class, and, understanding my aging brain’s weakness for short-term memory, offered a number of extra credit options to bring up my grade. A week and a half before our final exam, Profesora Rodriguez went into labor and gave birth to a fine baby boy named Octavio. Several days later, we were shocked and saddened to hear that Profesora Rodriguez passed away, after suffering a post-partum stroke. A number of us went to her funeral services and did our best to comfort her husband, another QC professor. Sitting for </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>her</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> final, reading </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>her</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> questions, hearing </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>her</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> voice over and over -- surreal and heartbreaking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The seasons turned and the campus took on the hues of autumn, winter, spring. The campus hawks flew around the quad, perching within close proximity, reminding me that flight and freedom were within my grasp. </span><span id="docs-internal-guid-682b4c3a-7f33-db3b-8906-f90cc3cad6a9"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My final semester was stressful. I was in the second half of my </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Honors English</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> seminar. Theses were due and the final exam loomed as a daunting shadow over everything. I concluded with an A+ on my thesis and </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">High Honors</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> on my final -- better than I had expected. Our Honors Conference was great -- each of us presented excerpts from our theses and sat in panels to answer all manner of intellectual questions. Two weeks before graduation, I was informed by the Advising Department that, because I had 56 credits at QC instead of 60, I was not eligible for any honors designations. Together with my advisors and the college’s Vice president, we fought the ruling and, on the very morning of the honors Baccalaureate ceremony, I received my formal invitation to participate. Such drama, I could do without!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I graduated </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Summa cum Laude</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, a designation that</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> stands as testimony to years of hard work, and many late night papers. </span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-682b4c3a-7f37-c28f-246e-1c48eced003a"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In years past, whenever I would visit my kids at their respective college campuses, I always envied the atmosphere there. I longed to walk the quad, study in the library, get coffee from the dining hall </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Starbucks</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Now I have done these things. And while that magic dust may have eluded me when papers were due and exams loomed, I must say that I loved every minute of my college career.</span></span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-682b4c3a-7f37-c28f-246e-1c48eced003a"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My white head was singular at graduation. Still, I felt an integral part of my cohort. My school friends -- brilliant all -- worked and walked with me throughout this journey, never thinking less or more of me than any other classmate. How wonderful. That black cap and gown, those honors stoles and ropes were worn with a grateful pride I had not yet felt in my lifetime. I am a college graduate. And I have to pinch myself each time I think of it.</span></span></div>
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Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3167857431976142449.post-88945123789710762452017-04-18T10:45:00.002-07:002017-04-18T11:33:40.197-07:00Graduation Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVZOGjdhpb8DBUiw4ns6eWRzlbbON-CzYwPI2eRqxuyr4MGb6RV_foIka4c11jjsEVoeChOKj2c1aBB1KtuP3Faf7fGGbLRuO6oPaarace3frWx1Xb1XUc6Mhy39lkP0IQIMtBq_QFXYt/s1600/fl-fau-old-graduate-20151210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBVZOGjdhpb8DBUiw4ns6eWRzlbbON-CzYwPI2eRqxuyr4MGb6RV_foIka4c11jjsEVoeChOKj2c1aBB1KtuP3Faf7fGGbLRuO6oPaarace3frWx1Xb1XUc6Mhy39lkP0IQIMtBq_QFXYt/s320/fl-fau-old-graduate-20151210.jpg" width="320" /></a>I am graduating from <i>Queens College</i> next month. My bachelor's degree is 44 years in the making. I finished high school in June of 1973, and since then, my life has taken me on a roller coaster ride of twists, turns and unexpected bumps.<br />
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Yet, here I stand. Next month, I will don that black robe and mortarboard, a red stole and various honors ropes and tassels as I march with hundreds of my (way younger) peers onto <i>Queens College</i>'s grassy quad. This journey, from 1973 until now has taken me on a safari. I started and stopped college. I joined a religious cult and spent the better part of 30 years adhering to its strictures, including a marriage to a fine man who became father to our five amazing children. My sexual identity, always in the back of my mind, came to the fore, and I finally came out. While this was surely a rough part of the safari, I emerged with no regrets and a renewed sense of self, of motherhood and of professional potential.<br />
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So, here now, I stand. This particular achievement (my graduation) will be attended and celebrated by those who matter, and I am totally stoked! On that day I will don black robe, mortarboard, red stole and various honor ropes and tassels. I will not only reflect on my own journey, but the varied path of my young cohorts who have striven to stand with me on this day. We have striven, we have searched and we have emerged unto this day victorious.<br />
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I may possibly be the oldest graduate to stand on the quad on that day. But we all stand together. Amen.<br />
<br />Whitenoisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186549559336332988noreply@blogger.com2