Month: September 2016

It’s a Secret–Pass It On!

Everyone loves a secret, no need for truth or facts. The secret to weight loss, the secret to finding love, the secret to making money, the secret to success, the secret to being happy. If it’s big and juicy enough, it reaches conspiracy status–and there’s nothing Americans love more than a good conspiracy.

When Art Child was a toddler, she had a doll she loved above all 9,563 others. It sang, “¡Yo tengo un secreto y tu no sabes!” in a teasing voice, no mistaking the inflections whether you speak Spanish or not. I’ve got a secret and you don’t know it. Oh yeah, she loved that doll, almost as much as the other patrons in the local Dominican cafe loved seeing her with it, until the 138th time she pressed the button. The worst part? I bought the damned thing. What was I thinking? Not just the annoyance factor, but the message. ~~Thankfully~~ Sadly, the doll was lost at some point, just another casualty on the pyre of toys designed to torture parents.

Donald Trump is that doll minus the pigtails, and there are way too many Americans gleefully pushing his belly to hear him taunt. As I and many others have said, that’s the problem–not that he is who he is, and spouts the disgraceful, empty nonsense he does, but that he has god only knows how many supporters who are getting a thrill from watching the rest of us cringe. Actually I suspect a good number of his supporters are certain he’ll be having lunch with Elvis before taking the debate stage this evening. Because secrets! Conspiracy! And Donald’s going to tell us the truth, because nothing says honesty and integrity like someone who blatantly, repeatedly lies to paint the picture he wants to see.

I want to be fair, so let me share that it isn’t only on the far right that we’ve got gleeful conspiracy theorists singing about the moon landing being faked, the Holocaust was a lie, and of course, Obama is a secret Muslim who showed a fake birth certificate. Oh no, we’ve got our share on the left side of the political spectrum also, those who are certain Tupac and Jim Morrison will be sitting a few tables down from Trump and Elvis, cling to the belief vaccines cause autism, and share theories with those on the right about 9/11 coverups and the aliens in Area 51. Aaah, such a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach–pride in my fellow citizens, oh wait, no, it’s nausea.

Secrets and conspiracies–bet you can’t eat just one! And let’s go ahead and dip them in some delusion sauce while we’re at it. Those residing on the far right believe the lying, blustering, unqualified candidate who is Trump will save them. Yes, save them; cure their ills, make them rich, give them jobs, put all those pesky brown people in their proper place and show those dumb libs what the Constitution really means. Those residing on the far left are saying wonderful! Let him win, it doesn’t matter, Clinton is an equally poor choice, and besides, if he wins there will be a revolution on the streets and in three days’ time we’ll have taken the nation and all its riches back, distributing them to all those poor, unfortunate, ignorant souls who need us to save them.

Why am I writing now, at 5am on the day of the first Presidential debate, when I know my fingers will be itching to rant again by 10PM tonight? Because this has been such a horrific, unprecedented election cycle I don’t think the debates matter. Clinton will be fabulous, this is exactly where she can and does shine. Ok, maybe not like Obama, but still. She’s informed, she’s experienced, she knows how to keep her cool and speak well. Trump will be Trump, he’ll have no real plans to offer, he’ll bellow and attack while continuing to lie and going on the offense if anyone dares to call him on his lies. And his supporters won’t care. Regardless of what he does or doesn’t say, they’ll be crowing and trumpeting his “truth”, declaring him the clear winner.

Trump has spent his entire adult life selling hollow secrets, he became the Republican candidate by selling conspiracies. He’s good in front of a camera, he appeals not to our ever-changing American Dream, but to our American Fantasy of winning lottery tickets. He’s the American Id. In another time in America’s past, he’d have been under a tent selling snake oil. Let’s stop buying, shall we? Think about it, this is a man who’s telling you he’s going to give jobs back to the American people, he’s a successful businessman who knows how to do this, after all. So successful he’s declared bankruptcy three times, and he has indeed provided thousands of jobs–in other countries. When called on it, he said this stuff isn’t manufactured in the US anymore. Not true, some of it is, and more of it could be, if businesses like Trump’s weren’t putting profit above people.

We are a nation confused by its own adolescence, screaming that we don’t need childish toys and distractions while we paradoxically hold tight to them, trying to prove how very grown up we are by doing so.

This singing doll isn’t just a nuisance that gets on your nerves, it’s already leaking battery acid, in the form of millions of supporters for the rhetoric of fear, hatred, and greed. Leaking now, it’s too late to just dump it in a pile of abandoned toys. That acid is staining our political process, corroding the very freedoms Trump claims he’s going to provide.

How will we do this? I’m not sure. We’re certainly beyond pretending Trump is an isolated wing-nut. And it isn’t just within the boundaries of our country that we need to worry about. Which, of course, his supporters are loving–because there’s some confusion about the difference between respect and fear, authority and authoritarianism. For most of those supporters at the Trump rallies, he has validated, legitimized, and fed their fears and hatred so they haven’t cleaned up this acid leak, but instead spread it. I don’t know how to get rid of it, but I know for sure the first step has to be Trump losing in November. How about we put fear on hold, and begin with self-respect? If not it won’t matter which secret you were hoping to hear or what conspiracies you find intriguing, we will all lose.

Dear Chicks on the Right: You Talkin To Me?

A few photos from 23rd Street, just a bit east of where the explosion took place Saturday night.

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I had never heard of the Chicks on the Right before, and I’m pretty much the left leaning filthy hippy they rail against, perhaps even the “landbeast” or “moon bat” so charmingly defined in their chicktionary. But hey, I don’t live in an echo chamber and don’t want to, and these are apparently two middle aged women putting themselves and their beliefs out there in the blogosphere. I want to support that, wanted to find out more about them, being another middle aged woman who puts herself and her beliefs out there. Imagine my surprise when I actually read the post I had seen linked in my Facebook feed this morning. Now I’m sure they don’t know or care who Mrs Fringe is, I’m barely a spit bubble compared to the success of their big pink bubblegum blowing blog, but I’m a New Yorker, after all, and if you’ve got questions/thoughts/incorrect assumptions about life in the Big Apple, I’m your gal.

So let this cliched middle aged broad clarify a couple of things for you. I have a passionate love/hate relationship with this city, but when you’re born and raised here, you’re a New Yorker for life, even if you’ve long since moved to Timbuktu. I have never been to Indianapolis (the area these “chicks” appear to be from), so I don’t know what it’s like there. The only tv show I can think of that was set there is One Day at a Time, pretty sure that isn’t an accurate reflection. I, and all eight million of my neighbors, are indeed tough and resilient. What we aren’t is a hive mind. That’s the beauty of New York. Diversity. Is that a dirty word for your blog? Sorry, it’s the one that fits.

Not just diversity in faith, skin color, gender/gender identity, sexuality, ethnicity, but diversity in thoughts and beliefs, including political. Yeah, we’re a blue city in a blue state, but there are enough right leaning people here–and even more independent thinkers– that we’ve had a Republican mayor or two.

This isn’t my main issue or yours, not what spurred me to respond. The emergency text blasted out to all NY cell phones, identifying the name of the suspect wanted for the explosion that had taken place in Chelsea a few days earlier. For the record, I’m not a big Twitter user (though I think I will send you gals a tweet so you see this post), I hadn’t seen any of the ones you posted, let alone tweeted about it myself. That said, yeah, receiving that text falls under what I like to call icky-squicky-this-can’t-be-right. Not because I didn’t want the person responsible captured and prosecuted, but because it feels more than a bit Big Brother-ish. I’m a little confused, aren’t conservatives the group that complains about government overreach? I know you disagree, and I’m sorry for being dense, perhaps you can explain it to me. Simply, seeing as I’m a slow-witted New Yorker who doesn’t understand what’s in my best interests.

I was also taken aback by your expanding and clarifying statement, “Not only that, but these delicate snowflakes cried that something like this could lead to the Supreme Evil of racial profiling.” Sorry for causing more eye rolls, but my experience as someone who lives in this great diverse city means that yup, I’m also against racial profiling. Why? Because my neighbors, friends, children’s friends/classmates, family members, are a diverse (oops, there’s that naughty word again) bunch. Getting up and living their lives each day, I imagine much the way you do, and being profiled, stopped, too often falsely accused and arrested just doesn’t seem to represent the land of the free to me. Profiling isn’t “suddenly” bad. Perhaps you weren’t aware of it as an issue until recently. That’s ok, you don’t know what you don’t know. You know the nice part of being older? I’ve learned to stop and think; listen to the other side of issues, take the time and put in the effort to learn the subtleties. America is a big place, encompassing many different people, beliefs, and lifestyles. What works in a small town in Montana wouldn’t make sense in New York–and that’s okay. Damn I hope I don’t melt, being a snowflake and all, it’s hot in the city today.

But what really got my fingers itching to respond? “New Yorkers have traded in their traditional toughness for a safe space of politically correct social justice.” Here’s a bit of New York reality for you, our world has changed. We’ve made trade-offs, some I agree with, some I don’t, but yeah, I’ve changed. I assume you weren’t here in New York on 9/11/01. I was. I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten the fear of trying to figure out what was going on. I haven’t forgotten running to get my son from school, finding a stream of parents flowing in and out of the school trying to get their children, the hushed panic of whispers about parents who worked in which towers. I haven’t forgotten my gratitude for the incredible calm and order the school staff had going. I haven’t forgotten the horrible, unnatural quiet in the streets. I haven’t forgotten trying to reach people I loved with no answer for hours that felt like decades. I haven’t forgotten watching the towers burn and the smell of smoke and the ash settling over EVERYTHING. I haven’t forgotten the first aid stations that were set up so efficiently that looked like not quite perfect movie sets–where are the extras?– because they were so empty. I haven’t forgotten the thousands of people staggering up Broadway like zombies, covered in layers of white gray ash made up of things we didn’t want to think about. Wondering if we were breathing in people. I haven’t forgotten the many, many people who didn’t get to go home. I haven’t forgotten being trapped on this island of Manhattan, no one other than emergency/official vehicles in or out. I haven’t forgotten the nausea and heart stopping this-will-never-be-the-same first time I saw clusters of armed guards in the subway, on the streets and by the bridges and tunnels. Not something to watch on a tv screen, not theoretical, but my city, my friends, my neighbors. Perhaps you think I should be embarrassed to admit this day changed my life and my city forever? That there is fear that didn’t used to live in my gut? Nope, not embarrassed at all.

Chicks on the Right, you have every right to disagree with my political opinions. You have every right to voice those opinions, vote for the candidates who agree with you, protest the decisions that go against your belief systems and values. You can join the millions of non-New Yorkers who are quick to lay claim to our city but have no clue what it is to live here, live side by side with all kinds of people, no idea how to make peace and have respect for those who live differently. But unless you were sitting next to me on the train yesterday, on my way to pick my daughter up from school, underground when the train stopped, vague announcements about a problem ahead, then listening to the announcement that all service had been suspended and thereby wondering if someone had fallen onto the tracks, or jumped, or if there had been another attack, trying to send a text to the school and your child not to leave the school because you were going to be late and you didn’t know how late, feeling the gratitude and relief when the car doors opened so you could run off the train, up and out of the subway and wait behind 342 other people trying to grab cabs on the same corner, knowing you were still on the wrong side of the UN and the President was here to speak there, enough of a New Yorker to then argue with the cab driver about the best route to take so you could get to your child, establish they and your city are safe, knowing you’ve got to get back on those trains to get home, do it again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, you don’t get to tell me how tough and resilient I and my fellow New Yorkers are not.

Deep Breath In…now hold it until you find sensible workout clothes!

Early yesterday morning I was extolling the virtues of yoga for back care to a friend, and the conversation goosed me to do what I’ve been putting off for a year, buying new workout clothes. Should be easy, no? Everywhere you look are women wearing yoga pants and capris, with oh so cute little bondage straps–err, sports bras.

I’m picky. Yoga gear should be form fitting enough that you can easily check your alignment, and not have everything rolling up, rolling down, and twisting under you. You should be able to move freely in whatever you’re wearing. I had looked online last week. Good grief, $100 for a pair of yoga pants? By the time $60 began to look reasonable, I knew it was time to step away from the laptop. And so I went to the local discount sporting goods store, where I was sucked into the vortex of fluorescent pink sports bras with perfectly coordinated checkered capris. A mere $75 for an outfit. No. Went home, went back online, found some things that were more reasonably priced, and purchased nothing. Better prices aren’t really better if I can’t tell exactly how something is going to fit, if it will actually be comfortable to move in but discreet enough to throw a long t-shirt on top and run the girl to school.

Yeah, I’ve seen some of those inexpensive pieces in person, and they’re barely opaque enough to qualify as tights. And the rest–including some of the very priciest ones–seem to be manufactured and promoted by the same sadists who came up with Spanx. How the fuck am I supposed to execute a smooth downward facing dog if I’m busy trying to force air into my lungs? Now I’m sure the idea is to hold in and hide all the rumply bits you’re trying to smooth away with exercise, but they seem to have forgotten one thing. That excess of skin/cellulite/*gasp*/flab? It doesn’t actually disappear with the bondage gear, just gets pushed up over the waistband and down under the rib band. Thanks, I feel so attractive.

And ah, the sports bras. I get it, if your workout is high impact, you might want something with more hold. But for yoga? With the way most of these things are structured, I expect mammogram results to pop out when I take them off. And why is the choice that either they come with pads thick and durable enough to walk by themselves or no room in the design for nipples, let alone breasts?

When, exactly, did workout clothes become yet another haute couture arena? This may be sacrilegious to say in 2016, but as long as it’s reasonable enough to get on and off the subway in, I don’t care what this stuff looks like. I don’t care if the sports bra matches the t-shirt matches the shorts. Maybe I’d feel differently if I worked out in a gym, or a class, and was being seen by others. Actually, this likely contributes to why I prefer to stick to the privacy of my living room. If you’re headed to an appointment, or date, or work, after you work out, go ahead and live a little by getting dressed in real clothes. They don’t have to be fancy, just yanno, clean–something you haven’t spent an hour sweating in.

So yes, I went shopping in one of the basic discount stores yesterday, determined to be successful. If I don’t care about the fashion statement, how hard could it be? First off, I thought it was the perfect time of year to replace my workout shorts (I like to wear shorts for yoga in the hot weather, sue me). There were indeed two racks of shorts in the clearance racks of the “athleisure” department. Are you freaking kidding me? Lycra microshorts. Just right for the woman who wants her already sagging butt cheeks to fall out during child’s pose. Fine, forget the shorts. I grabbed every sports bra, yoga pant, and capri that I could find that looked like it might fit, didn’t feel like it was made from that magical duck tape/spandex blend, was under $20 and headed to the dressing room.

I could have skipped the early morning yoga session, because just trying all this crap on certainly counted as a workout. Mrs Fringe is not a large woman. That said, as a woman-of-a-certain-age, I’m not as small as I used to be. These things are obviously all designed for the prepubescent among us. In real clothes, I wear a size 6 or 4, depending on the cut and the “designer,” usually need a petite (except in pants, my legs are oddly long for a short woman), and I needed– needed–mediums in this stuff. What the fuck? What about women who are truly curvy? Or, god forbid, a bit more than full figured? Are they banished to the dismal plus-sized rack at the back because they wear a size 12 (which doesn’t necessarily mean more than full figured)? When I came home I saw the brouhaha online about a well endowed teacher in a dress that covered her completely but was, ahem, form fitting. I wouldn’t wear it, but I like things that are roomy. Not sack cloth and ashes, but what I consider breathable. Appropriate for work? I don’t know, but I know for sure that is a woman who would be hard pressed to find something off the rack that fit her without being either tight or tent like.

Wikipedia tells me the goal of yoga is moksha–liberation. Looking at the western yogi-gear offerings, I suspect something has been lost in translation. If you’re wondering, I did wear my new gear this morning and got on the train wearing my new (see above photo) slightly baggy olive-green capris, crayola-box purple sports bra, and big ocean-blue long sleeved t-shirt. I left the falsies behind.

Halloween decor?

The Line Keeps Moving

We Need to Talk About Kevin is one of my top ten novels, always comes to mind when someone asks for a recommendation.

This morning, as every morning, after my yoga I sat in front of the laptop and started cruising the news. I don’t read any one paper/site cover to cover; I hop around, the HuffPo, The Guardian, New York Times, Politico, and any links popped up overnight on my Facebook feed that catch my eye. And so I saw the headline for this essay in The Guardian, and got excited. (As excited as I get at pre sunrise, only on my second cup of coffee.) I am a huge fan of Lionel Shriver, as evidenced by the photo above. Over the past few years I’ve gotten rid of the majority of my paper books–surprisingly liberating–but I keep a couple of shelves worth, a selection or two or three showcasing authors I worship or individual volumes that have had a huge impact on me, as a person and/or as someone who writes.

When I read the essay, my first thought was, “oh, fuck.” It’s about the author’s response to part of a speech given by Lionel Shriver, about identity, cultural appropriation, what is or isn’t ok for an author to explore through their fiction. When I love an author’s work, I want to be one hundred percent devoted to them in every way. I want them to be the giants I’ve built them up to become in my mind, I want to have faith as I learn more about them that this is someone I’d enjoy having conversations with over tea, coffee, or a glass of wine. Silly, isn’t it? Especially silly when I’m someone who still harbors occasional fantasies of being published (well published!), and yet here I am running this blog: Mrs Fringe of the colorful language, big mouth, strong opinions, and anything but neutral political leanings. I have no doubt there are many who would not enjoy having coffee with me, maybe even some of the same who enjoy my words when they’re fiction. I’m the first to admit not everyone finds my sense of humor charming. General publishing wisdom–common sense, really–dictates that anyone hoping to earn a dollar from strangers shouldn’t do anything to actively offend anyone.

The thing is, I’m a person, first and foremost. That’s what Mrs Fringe is about, being a person who wears many hats, plays many roles; complete with disappointments, laughter, mourning, screw-ups, nonsense, inappropriate thoughts, offensive-to-some language, a desire to be heard and understood, a desire to learn and understand more, a desire to connect with others. Kinda like, oh, say…fiction. And the authors of said fiction. Yes, it’s imaginary characters and made up scenarios, but good fiction, enduring fiction, the kind of fiction Lionel Shriver writes, is uncompromising, unapologetic. She creates characters who are SO real, doesn’t hesitate to use her characters and scenarios to explore who we are as human beings, as a society, to use the mirror of fiction to examine the beauty, pain, and the ugly bits of what it means to be a whole person. Sure it’s uncomfortable, but it’s also riveting. This is the fiction that endures, because people are people–now, fifty years from now, two hundred years ago.

So I’m a person. So, apparently, is Ms. Shriver. And I read the essay, thinking about the author of the essay, her offense at Lionel Shriver’s remarks referencing how easily, too easily, people are offended now, the idea of political correctness. Her offense at the idea that a novelist can accurately and appropriately portray someone whose experience of life is vastly different than their own, i.e.: a white novelist writing a person of color, straight novelist writing LGBTQ characters, etc. Her interpretation of the novelist’s speech as arrogance–maybe it was, because I only have the author’s paraphrasing before she walked out twenty minutes into it, I don’t have enough information to give an informed opinion.

I want to be offended by her offense. But I’m not. The truth is, she has a point. Could a white male have written Their Eyes were Watching God, given the character of Janie Crawford the same depth, the same enduring honesty created by Zora Neale Hurston? Nope. Could In the Time of Butterflies, by Julia Alvarez, have been written by someone who isn’t Dominican, written in a way that allows the reader to come as close to feeling what it would be like living in the shadow of Trujillo as you feel reading her story of the Mirabel sisters? Nope. If a white author writes a black protagonist, I’m going to be skeptical, I’m going to be wondering about the character being written in a way that is not only not realistic, but wondering about the icky squicky line of that protagonist being written in such a way that it’s lecturing (subtle or not) the reader on how a person of color should be feeling in this imaginary scenario. Will that novelist be able to allow the reader to feel the enduring humanity while preserving the reality of life experiences through they eyes and thoughts of a protagonist who isn’t straight and white?

Lionel Shriver, as far as I could tell from the essay, had a point, too. If we are afraid to examine any but our own narrow viewpoint, so afraid of using the wrong words we stay silent, we will never understand a damned thing, and our worlds will shrink with the novels in front of us, rather than expanding. Female authors have written beautiful, powerful strong male characters and vice versa. What would seventh graders read if Harper Lee hadn’t written To Kill a Mockingbird? What are we teaching these future generations (*cue thinkofthechildren wail*) if they stop reading it because it might be triggering, or offensive to examine our society’s racism–past and present? You know what was amazing to me, about Shriver’s We Need to Talk About Kevin? Reading about her afterwards, and learning she isn’t a parent. My mind was blown. But maybe it shouldn’t have been. Maybe it’s because she isn’t a parent that she was able to take such a hard look at parenthood without turning the mother into a saint or a caricature of a villain (though not necessarily likable).

Would it be the same thing, a white author writing a protagonist who is Black, or Latino, Asian or Indigenous? No, but it also shouldn’t mean limiting characters to only those who experience life the same way the writer does. If it did I’d have to give up even fantasizing about having anything published. I can see it now, the NY Times Best Seller– Mrs Fringe Buys a Slow Cooker.

Cultural appropriation is a real thing, and it’s something we need to be aware of, and sensitive to. Maybe it’s harder for whites to understand because so much of the tradition of white, Christian culture involves the attempt to force it down the throats of everyone else. What the line is, exactly, I’m not sure. At the beginning of this post I referenced yoga. Is it cultural appropriation for me to practice yoga? I’m pretty sure I don’t have that Jane Fonda exercise tape anymore. Or a beta machine to play it on. Nerd Child tells me the Weeping Buddha statuette I have on my desk is cultural appropriation. I don’t know, it makes me feel better to touch it in the early morning, pretend that I really am letting go of any sadness and starting the day with a clean slate.

Mother of God with Child–Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin

I saw the above painting recently, wished I could have it hanging in my apartment. I’m far from a religious anything, let alone Russian Orthodox. It’s art, and what makes great art (visual, written, or other) is the creator’s ability to preserve the specific subject while transcending it, offering the reader/observer/listener a world outside of her own while tapping into the common themes we all share.

People don’t change, the human condition has had us exploring the same questions for hundreds of years. Society, though. Society changes. The words and language we use changes. What is acceptable changes. The line of what is or isn’t ok to do and say moves. Sometimes it moves quickly. It behooves all of us to remember this, and if we write, or read, or engage with the world in any way, it behooves us to remember this, like everything else that’s important, involves many shades of gray.

*Follow up: This morning I saw the transcript of Shriver’s full speech in The Guardian. I thought some of my readers might be interested, and as always, invite all to come back and comment here if you read it.