Escaping the Plague

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.

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. 

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?

Take It or Leave It

CUNY Queens College's Powdermaker Hall is tattooed with quotes from famous writers and thinkers. 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: “The world is before you and you need not take it or leave it as it was when you came in.”

Baldwin, who was poor, black and 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.

After following in the angry, and somewhat separatist footsteps of his mentor Richard Wright (Native Son), 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, (Notes of a Native Son) 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.

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 NOT. To white people, he is as invisible as a shadow which passes along as near nothingness. In the prologue to Invisible Man, 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 inner eyes, those eyes with which they look through their physical eyes upon reality” (Prologue II).

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.

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).

This book and topic is so very timely. Black Lives Matter, 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.

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?