Hold the Door

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.

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.

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."

Small actions can offer bigger meanings.

If I could choose the title of my own eulogy, it might read: "She held the door."

The Mark of Cain

Unmarked Category (def):  the default, the majority, the go-to, the assumed, the norm, the unless otherwise specified.

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.

Among the areas of New York City, Kings County (Brooklyn) is never called such, while Queens is a constantly referred-to thing. The King is an unmarked given.

Without bending to check the undercarriage, pet enthusiasts default to the "he" pronoun.

Repair people are assumed to be male.

Clergy too.

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.

The Unmarked 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.

The Unmarked 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.

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.

I have a number of personal stories illustrating the Unmarked. 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 Unmarked. It is high time the Unmarked be given the Mark of Cain placed upon their foreheads.

Camouflage

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.

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.

“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.

But when I think back to those days on Sherman Drive, days of stick ball, SPUD, and Monkey-in-the-Middle, I see something else I missed before. 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. 

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.

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 wonder at the boy-turned-man who found the strength to step out from behind the camouflage shadow, . . . and into the bright sun.

you, dog

you, dog

you do not worry about Corona Virus.
you do not fret about the Stock Market.
you do not care who is elected.
you do not mind about my problems, my insecurities, my weaknesses.

you, dog.
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.

When you let us know you are home.

you, dog.
If only I could see your world. If only I could be as happy. If only I could love beyond hurt. If only.

you dog.
can I be you?

The Summer of Living and Dying

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 way 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.

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.

I opted for the latter.

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.

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.

He never saw his beloved home again.

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.

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."

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 . . .

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.

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."


WHAT??? NOOOOOO! This is not true! Let me see him!

The young nurse led me to ER cubicle number 29. 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.

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?


I do not have answers. Really, the only question that both haunts my dreams, and keeps me awake, is, did I do this to him?

The Guitar In the Distance

I 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 Guild D-35

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, at hospice services, and in 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 the Florida Turnpike, I pass the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino off in the distance. The hotel building is in the shape of a classic Les Paul 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.

Checking 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

he was with me. Is it too much to ask for another peek?