This full moon wasn’t last night, but it felt like it should have been.
What is stage fright, anyway?
So last night was that thing. The reading. I spent the day with my brain in the overdrive of heightened anxiety, changed my clothes three times, my shoes four, and slopped half a gallon of product in my hair, in a futile battle with the humidity. I was pretty sure I didn’t have to worry about how my words would be received, or how I’d sound, because surely I was going to have a stroke before it was my turn.
Husband offered to meet me down there. Down, because the bar couldn’t be further from my apartment and still be in Manhattan. No, thanks. I’m one of those people. When I’m nervous about something, I’m better off alone, because your moral support will likely be met by me biting your head off. Cranky. Bitchy, even. That and the fact that I figured the reason I was doing this was to maybe, hopefully, connect with other writers. I know myself. If Husband was with me, it would be the perfect excuse to not speak to anyone, revert to my teenaged self, sit in back and make jokes about myself. Man Child offered to go down with me. No thanks. Then he offered to just travel down with me. Umm, maybe. No, no, I’m a grown up, I don’t need an escort, I’m fine. Are you sure? Yes, thank you. Are you really sure, because I’m going to start laundry otherwise? Yes yes I’m sure.
Ten minutes before I left, I’m going to call Husband and have him meet me. Oops, look at the time, he’s already on his way home, that wouldn’t be nice. I’m good, I can do this.
Five minutes before I left, ummm, Man Child? I changed my mind. But you can’t stay. He traveled downtown with me, and then encouraged me when I spent ten minutes standing outside, bemoaning the fact that I had remembered my camera but not the battery that would allow it to work.
I really have great kids.
I’ll be honest, this sign in the window is probably what got me through the door. That and Man Child’s gentle shove.
At the entrance to the back room, where the event was being held, the producer was checking tickets. I was nervous about the whole e-ticket thing. My name was already on his list, great. I’m scoping the room behind him, happy to see empty seats in back when he says, “Oh. You’re reading.” Was I supposed to mention that? “Umm, yeah, I guess so.” Damn, I’m smooth.
It’s a funny thing. Once I was in, I felt acutely aware that I have never done this before, but not nervous. Basically I was certain I was going to fuck up, drop my pages, lose my voice, have that stroke, yanno. It wasn’t crowded, there were two featured writers and several open mic-ers. The open mic folks were mostly poets. Excellent, this way I was certain to not fit in. I liked the way it was organized, open mic readings scattered throughout the evening with the featured writers in between. (Featured meaning authors with books recently published/about to be published) I’m not sure what I expected, but it was a lively mix of “straight” poetry, spoken word, an excerpt from a graphic novel, excerpts from a flash essay collection, part of a short. The crowd was mixed in age, sex, and ethnicity, also nice.
There was a microphone! Eek. And others were introduced by the MC with a bit about them. Crap, was I supposed to tell them something other than my name and here’s-my-eight-dollars? Ah well. I considered plugging Mrs Fringe before or after I read, but therewasamicrophone. I just did it. I read the opening few pages to Astonishing (probably about half the first chapter, it’s the one up on the blog here). Everyone was quiet while I read, so either I held their attention, or they were taking the opportunity for a cat nap. Maybe they just couldn’t hear me, I didn’t get too close to that mic. I’m from south Brooklyn ferChristssake, I can be plenty loud.
I met a few people who seemed quite nice. Many of those in the audience and those who went up are apparently regulars, but everyone was welcoming. Not one pointed and snickered, or muttered, “poseur” as I went past. If they did I didn’t hear them. Success.
In any case, I felt like it went well. I was surprised I couldn’t see the audience once I was up there, all I saw was lights, and that made it much easier. More surprising, I didn’t feel intimidated while I was reading, I just…read. Scenarios like this always surprise me, no one talking about the angst and futility of trying to get published, trade or otherwise. It’s as if there’s an assumption that you and everyone else is doing it, you belong there.
I’m two days away from my four year blog-o-versary. I love blogging, more than I ever expected to, and for more reasons than I had imagined possible. One of those reasons involves the connections with others, and the occasional, amazing notes I receive from readers–some who I know from other forums, others I don’t know at all.
As discussed ad nauseam, I’m fortunate to have a wonderfully supportive group of online friends. One of those friends sent me a lovely message after reading my last post. Not a Fringeling, she read the post after another mutual friend shared it. In her note, she asked if I had ever considered writing a novel, and I debated an appropriate response. Laugh? Cry? Slit my wrists and bleed into the keyboard? I thanked her for her support, gave a way too long response of my history of writing woes, and obsessed over her thoughts for the rest of the day. Mentioned it to one of my writing friends, who promptly told me this was a gentle nudge from the universe. It’s nice to have friends with a glass-half-full outlook, my take was this was the universe reopening wounds I’ve been trying to keep closed.
What does this have to do with anything? The following morning, I received an “invite” (one of those Facebook invite thingies) to a reading, sent by another friend. I clicked on the invite, and in addition to the published authors reading, the evening includes open mic time slots. Not to be all metaphysical and shit, but the two incidents happening so close together did seem like some type of universal body check. I considered. I could do this. Could I do this? What would I read? Is there an actual mic involved? I’m fine with speaking in front of people, but not when I have to speak into a microphone. Surely there’s a long list of items I’d be better served spending $8 on. How long is six minutes, anyway? I asked Nerd Child the last question, he’s the one with public speaking experience. Hmmm, six minutes would eliminate any of the shorts I’ve got here on the blog, which was my original thought. I think. Unless I just read an excerpt. Why would I do this? I could just go, see a friend I haven’t connected with in a long time, support my friend’s friend, have a nice grownup evening, a couple of drinks, and bemoan my lack of legitimacy.
Husband woke early today, and was sitting at the table so I mentioned it to him. He, of course, said, do it. Holy fuck, I did it. Bought a ticket including a time slot to read. I think. Maybe I clicked the wrong box. Maybe they’ll sell too many of those tickets and I’ll be bounced, since I’m not a real writer, no pub credits. But what if I clicked the right box, and I’m not bounced? What the hell am I going to read?
I’ve got three weeks to decide what to read. Three weeks to chicken out.
I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to write any more posts about shootings for a while. Not mass shootings, not shootings of police, not shootings by police, not the ever-confusing shootings of and by toddlers. The horror of the shootings that make headlines is how easy it is, for most of us, to understand that it could be any of us. To understand something has gone wrong in our society, in our schools, in our definition of protect and serve. That’s been made abundantly clear. But somehow, as these incidents continue and grow, instead of addressing how to fix things, real discussion is at a standstill, and there’s a divide the width of the Grand Canyon where it seems no one is listening: “Black Lives Matter!” “No, Blue Lives Matter!” Sigh.
I want to post about my continued quest for the perfect moon photograph, the sad state of my tank, summertime in the city, how frustrating it is to be a peasant, finding laughter in the absurdity of the everyday, blather on about writingnotwriting.
But here I am, again.
The victim didn’t die, there’s nothing to debate, it’s a blatant fuck-up. I don’t have the words for this one, thinking about it wraps my intestines tight around my shins and makes agoraphobia sound like an attractive alternative to stepping outside. A man with autism, in Florida, was upset and ran away from his group home. He didn’t run far, and his behavioral therapist found him sitting on the street playing with his toy truck. Someone called the police, reportedly stating something about an armed suspect threatening suicide. Maybe that’s what the caller honestly thought, maybe they were just frightened and freaked out by the man. Either way, when the police arrived, Charles Kinsey, the behavioral therapist from the group home, was sitting/lying on the street with him. In some ways I’ve been Charles Kinsey, and I know what he was doing, working to calm his client, set him at ease, and get him back home safely. It’s a hard, frustrating job that can shatter your heart ten times a shift while it simultaneously fills you with hope and appreciation for the small moments and subtlest of victories. It’s exhausting. But of course, I’m not a black man.
After the responding officers were told by Kinsey what was happening, told the supposed threat was a man with autism holding a toy truck (not “even” a toy gun), and Kinsey was lying on the ground with his hands up, one of those officers shot Kinsey in the leg. To keep everyone extra safe, after shooting three times, they rolled him over and handcuffed him. It’s ok, though, an honest mistake, the officer had intended to shoot the (white) man with autism. *sarcasm* Kinsey was trying to convince his client to lie on the ground, but his client was sitting and rocking, very very common amongst autistic people.
I don’t want to hear how police officers all over the country are extra jumpy because of the recent shootings of fellow officers. I understand that, and every shooting, fatal or not, is tragic for those directly involved and our greater community. I don’t understand a police officer so poorly trained that he would shoot at an unarmed man lying on the ground who had already explained what was happening. I don’t understand why we have police officers so poorly prepared to respond to calls in the community one would think for a second shooting at a vulnerable, mentally challenged, unarmed citizen (with what is now a common disorder) is an appropriate response. Who was he protecting? Who did he think he was serving? Excuses aren’t reasons, and excuses don’t erase repercussions.
Yes, in the chorus of recent shootings striking chords, this one is an off-key aria that terrifies me. It’s terrified many of my friends; one of our biggest fears, spoken or unspoken, playing onstage now under a merciless spotlight. With or without a diagnosis of autism, many neurological disorders come with a processing disorder. CAPD–Central Auditory Processing Disorder. Processing disorders mean physical hearing may not be impaired, but sounds and speech are easily muddied, resulting in delays understanding what is being said, often requiring calm, quiet, PATIENCE, visual cues and clues, and repetition. Thousands (maybe millions?) of children and adults have this disorder, it goes hand in hand with many learning disorders, autism, epilepsy, add/adhd, developmental delays, and sometimes it’s the result of medications slowing cognitive function. There are also several seizure types that leave the person seemingly aware, standing, sitting, maybe even walking and talking, but in fact the brain has “checked out” for a moment, or three, or ten. FYI, autism and epilepsy often go hand in hand. I’m not sure I have any fellow special needs mom friends whose children (regardless of age) don’t have either CAPD or a seizure disorder. Without autism, that client, the intended recipient of three bullets, could have been my child. Could be my child tomorrow. Could be any number of friends’ children; yesterday, today, tomorrow.
Stop pretending police officers are superheroes, or are supposed to be superheroes. We don’t need superheroes, we need human beings with critical thinking skills and compassion, who are trained in crisis management and deescalation skills at least as well as Charles Kinsey. We need law enforcement officers who recognize and acknowledge the difference–before firing their weapons–between an imminent threat to their lives and a pain in the ass who’s making them run, the difference between someone pointing a gun at them and a child or mentally challenged individual holding a toy. Stop pretending every day on every street in uniform in America is equivalent to being dropped into a war zone.
Yes, being a law enforcement officer is an often dangerous, always stressful job. I appreciate those who choose to take the risk and join their local force. I would appreciate adequate vetting and training even more. If we can not and do not feel safe teaching our children to approach law enforcement if they are in need, we can no longer pretend to be a democracy, we are broken. Shooting those who are unarmed, shooting at our most vulnerable citizens, is unacceptable. Period. Stop pretending this is protecting and serving anyone.
I need a peaceful ocean pic this morning, the world outside my door feels too chaotic.
I’ve been writing this blog for close to 4 years. Over the past couple, my breaks have been more frequent, and often longer than they were initially. Part of me scolds myself, I should make more of an effort, but for the most part, I’m ok with it. Everything evolves, even a little drop in the cyberocean blog. And some of my slowdown has been specific, intentional. If you follow Mrs Fringe, you know I can be, umm, vehement. Excitable. Loud. Again, I’m ok with this. I yam who I yam and all that shit. But I don’t want to be reactionary. Obviously I don’t mean reactionary in the right-wing sense of the word, but in terms of just vomiting emotions through the keyboard about the issue or horror of the day without reason and perspective. A bit light on facts is okay, I’m not a journalist, I’ll provide links, do your research if you want to know more–but if I’m going to write about anything outside of my immediate four walls, there has to be some objectivity, even given the (more than safe) assumption that I’m always going to slant left.
I know some hear the phrase “with intent” and associate it with police procedurals and criminal charges. In my mind, “with intent” involves the choices we make about how to live our lives, what we’re working towards and who we want to be, as opposed to floating aimlessly or just scrambling to get by. I want my children to live their lives with intent.
So when Alton Sterling was shot in Baton Rouge three days ago, I didn’t immediately plant myself in front of the keyboard to yell about police brutality. I wanted to process what I was hearing first, get a few more facts. For some reason, despite the first, brief video all over the internet that showed him being shot, every link I clicked would freeze or not work at all, which helped with my intent to slow down and find out more information. I’ll be honest, after so many well publicized police shootings, my instinct was to assume he was shot because he was black. Even when I heard he had a gun. How many times have we seen this story play out? “He had a gun, I was in fear for my life…” Then video emerges–or eyewitnesses, videos being conveniently lost or malfunctioned–and it turns out the gun was a wallet, or a toy, or non-existent, or the suspect was shot in the back because he was running (or walking) while black. Then I read about a gang affiliation. Hmm, ok, if he was known to local police as gang affiliated and thought to be carrying a gun, maybe a step back is in order before screaming injustice. But our police are not supposed to act as judge, juries, and executioners–even if this was a bad guy, they aren’t supposed to decide his life is not worthwhile. Then the second, longer video emerged and I watched it. WTF? Does everyone in our country think we’re living inside a movie set? Maybe there was a gun in his pocket, but he was already pinned on the ground, already shot. Yes, his arm moved, but this isn’t an freaking blockbuster, and whatever Alton Sterling was, he wasn’t an action hero. He wasn’t in any condition to pull a gun out of his pocket, take aim, and shoot the police officers who were holding him down. Naturally, they shot him again.
I want to say, at least they had already called for an ambulance. I want to say how glad I am that Baton Rouge doesn’t seem to have hesitated or made an effort to block a federal investigation. But to hold those up as measures of progress is a smokescreen to divert focus from the fact that the police shot and killed a man they already had controlled and subdued.
Before I could process and begin drafting a post about this, Philandro Castile was shot during a routine traffic stop in Minnesota. Surprise! He was a black man. (If I’m going to be honest and disclose my own bias here, it’s that as a stereotypical New Yorker, I’m not sure I knew there were people of color living in Minnesota.) This horror of an incident couldn’t be worse. I don’t know how anyone can justify this shooting. Philandro Castile was in his car with his girlfriend and young daughter, no criminal history, worked at a Montessori school, for Pete’s sake. Montessori, the model of education based on respect, discovery, and inclusion. He was carrying a gun, for which he had a license, and disclosed this information to the police officer, the way he was supposed to. For doing the right thing, following the steps of the law and reaching for his license when asked for it, he was shot–four bullets–and killed. His girlfriend remained calm and live streamed the incident, and was arrested for it.
What could I possibly say about this incident that hasn’t been said and ignored ad infinitum in regards to the many, many police shootings in America? What could I possibly say that would be helpful to the black community, what would make sense to those who want to pretend we don’t have a huge problem in our police forces nationwide?
Protests occurred all over our country last night. Excellent. But with protests, there’s always fear. Will the protestors remain peaceful? Will the police? This next piece of news made me realize that my heart can, in fact, be more broken than it already was. I woke during the night to find Husband watching news reports of snipers in Dallas, Texas, who killed five police officers and injured several more. You know the way I said I want to have facts before speaking out? I don’t need the specifics here, these were snipers, no confusion, no other way to interpret what happened. This is wrong. It’s reactionary, it defies logic, it does nothing but inflame an already combustible situation. The same as I do not believe the answer to our problem with gun violence is more guns, I do not believe the answer to police violence is violence against the police. Anger and protests are justified, frustration is justified, murder is not. The same as I’m certain Philandro Castile was murdered, the same as it’s looking like Anton Sterling was murdered, the police officers last night were murdered.
I am afraid. I’m afraid for what comes next on a societal scale, I’m afraid on a personal scale. I’m afraid for my friends and family members, living their lives with intent, taking care of themselves, their families, their communities. Many of these friends and family members have brown skin and/or latino names. We, as a society, are living in fear. As a nation that loves to bluster about freedom, strength, and power, we should be better than this. The past week has been an American nightmare, it’s time for us to wake up, and live all of our lives, pass laws, make decisions, revamp and retrain our police forces, and move forward with intent and integrity.
Mystery flower. I’ve got a whole container of these, planted by an imaginary gardener.
We all have those friends, who you meet and connect with, where within a short time you can’t imagine your life if you hadn’t met–but you know life would have been different; poorer, tea from a twice-used tea bag. I have a garden of friends like those, a veritable field of wildflowers, though most of our shared tears, laughter, arguments, and wine have been cyber in nature.
I hate those memes that go around, the articles about clever art installations mocking our dependence on the internet and smartphones. Do we miss the point, the moment, are we hiding behind our keyboards? Maybe, sometimes. But often we’re connecting, building new friendships and learning about points of view we wouldn’t otherwise see. Those memes dismiss the relationships, the access to viewpoints and information that broaden our worlds. They negate the very real support.
My first full online experience was a forum where I met other parents dealing with the same issues as I was, asking the same questions, feeling the same fears and frustrations, laughing at the same gallows humor, sharing dreams, hopes, denial and acceptance. Equally important were the adults I met in that forum who themselves had the disorder. Also asking questions, sharing information, making jokes and living their lives. If memory serves, before then my internet experience was limited to brief jaunts with Ask Jeeves. Since then, I’ve been a member of several online communities with various special interests, and made some friends along the way in all of them. But that first forum was special. What a shock it was for me to discover not all forums were as wonderfully accepting and supportive, with statements carefully phrased so as not to be misconstrued and questions framed to help gather information, not attack.
Maybe the stars were aligned and the moon was in the seventh house, I don’t know. What I do know is that we formed a tight, tight group that remains intact to this day, though none of us actually use that forum anymore. We’ve supported each other through medical tests, diagnoses, hospitalizations, dance recitals, IEP meetings, divorces, jobs, life. We’ve discussed fears of seizures being misinterpreted by overenthusiastic and undereducated police. Many of us have been fortunate enough to meet a few face to face. Imaginary friends who send real gifts, offer real advice, real laughter, provide an army of support to each other though various challenges.
Our children are ours. Face to face or not, we’ve cheered successes and cried over setbacks, we’ve watched each other’s children grow. Our online village. Our community, not dissimilar to being a member of any minority group. But not all of our children grow up. Some have children that mature and leave home, some have children that will never be independent. A few have children who have died, or will die. Sometimes this is known well in advance, sometimes not. We lost one of ours this weekend. I’m not specifically close with this mom, she isn’t one of the women I formed a relationship with over and above our common bond, but her daughter was one of ours.
Imagine SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, what used to be called crib death) being a risk forever. Imagine a life where there is no age where the doctor says you don’t have to worry about that for your child anymore. In our world that’s called SUDEP (Sudden Unexplained Death in Epilepsy). Certainly not a common risk, but one that’s all too real. I’m tempted to say it’s the fear and knowledge of SUDEP that brought our group so close together, but I don’t think so. Many of us didn’t even know this existed until we were years into our common journey.
Imaginary friends? Maybe, but much like the mysterious life in my planter, the flowers that have bloomed, flowers of laughter, love, tears, and mourning–are very real.
I assume this is a bad hand, no aces or picture cards, no pairs.
I’m burnt out from the online political arguments. Tried distraction yesterday, went to the zoo (yes I did enjoy watching the gorillas, thankyouverymuch). That was nice, but not quite enough. Back to disgusted by 9pm last night. So this morning I was thinking, we need a game. A nice, game, old-fashioned yet modern. Naturally, LARPing came to mind. So much talk about the good old days, why not go back to them? Yes, everyone currently ranting, please join in. At first I thought everyone should play, but then, as I thought more about the premise, I decided that if I want to keep to the spirit being touted as proper American values–yanno, my rights and conveniences are of more value than those of my neighbors or society–I don’t have to give up my Housewives or torture myself into a corset.
What shall we call our game? Women in the Kitchen? Back of the Bus? We Don’t Need No Stinking Badges? Maybe we should just keep it simple, call it America. Though that might be exclusionary. How about, History–Revisionist Edition?
The 1930s. In thinking about what time period to choose, I wanted to be fair and really support those who are mourning lost values. I considered 50 years ago, but that leaves us at the beginning of the peace and love era, dirty hippies are certainly not pictured on the memes I see going around, and really, why distribute windowpanes to distance ourselves from this glorious trip down memory lane? 100 years ago? Hmm, that feels a bit too distant, electricity wasn’t common in American households until the ’30s, and it wasn’t until the 1920s that Congress passed the Emergency Quota Act and the Immigration Act of 1924. Yanno, immigration restrictions in the good old days, working hard to prevent Asian immigrants, as well as Italian, Jewish, and Slav immigrants from setting foot on our red white and blue shores. Besides, in the early 1930s, more people were emigrating from America than immigrating into it. (Is that the current desire and dream?) Great Depression and all that.
While I and my fellow filthy liberal hippies keep score, those who believe in traditional values like backsliding, giving away rights, hating your neighbors, yourselves, and equal opportunities will get to live the dream. If you are from a family of longtime, multi-generational wealth that didn’t go under with the stock market crash of 1929, I’m sorry, you are ineligible to play. Unfortunately for you, your place in our culture was, is, and always will be secure. Anyway, this is gonna be awesome. Tremendous, even.
Concerned that you won’t have enough people and ethnic groups to hate? Pfft, we won’t leave you without, plenty of ethnic groups and minorities to blame for…everything. Sure, the Land of the Free wasn’t quite as mixed then, but believe it or not, there were brown people. And for those who aren’t sure there were enough people of color to hate, we’ve got you covered, with the “wrong” white people until those numbers come up. Concerned about having to live without your AR 15s and AK 47s? I know, so sad, so SCARY. In exchange for giving up your inalienable right to be a one man army, we’ve got other, more traditional good old days guns and rifles. And beatings! Sure, not as splashy as a semi-automatic, but is there anything quite as satisfying as old-fashioned bones-of-the-powerless-and-disenfranchised cracking under your fists? Who says the right to vote for women need take away your swagger? Gratifying and manly, you don’t need any Latinos or Eye-talians to teach you about machismo.
In the very early 1930s, 25% of potentially wage-earning Americans were unemployed. Please draw a card to determine if you have a job or not. If your card is lower than a 5, you have no job. Luckily for you, there’re also no disgusting, Socialist (ooh, so scary) Welfare, Food Stamps, Social Security, Medicaid, or Unemployment benefits in place. I’m so glad you get to hold true to your values. Don’t worry, your family and neighbors will take care of you, if you draw an ace. They’ll throw you a rotting cabbage and a bit of chicken skin.
If you are employed, it is of course because you’re a harder worker than the guy in the next town over whose factory folded when the owner took a swan dive off the church tower after the Stock Market crashed. You deserve employment, you’re a real American. None of those commie unions to deal with, either. You’re secure in your right to work in unsafe conditions, your children working right alongside you without the unnecessary complications of health insurance, days off, overtime pay, or your right arm. No worries, the Black Lung will keep you feeling warm.
And it’s all ok. Better than ok. You’ve got all the time in the world, without the modern distractions of cable tv, video games, internet access, cell phones, or reliable refrigeration. You’ve got radio, that’s all you sinners who insist on entertainment need! If you’re in the Great Plains, you have an excess of time, what with the lack of farmable farmland in the Dust Bowl. If you’re a woman, that is excellent news, plenty of hours in the day for washing, drying, and ironing clothes, cleaning the house, gardening, cooking (all from scratch, no frozen dinners, take-out, or convenience foods, and taking care of the children–yup, plenty of children! (sorry, no birth control or D&Cs allowed during your month of gaming, that would be cheating. Unwanted pregnancy? Bad timing? No such thing, you’re a woman.) As a woman, you’re even allowed to vote, what more do you want?
Are you a recent immigrant? You might be a bit confused, wondering where we’ve hidden those streets of gold. And the jobs, where are those opportunities? Good thing you came here and learned English overnight, assimilating immediately and working without pause. I know this is true because your modern selves talk about this all. the. time. (“My Grandpa came to America and spoke English!” “I’m proud to say I can’t speak a word of any other language!”) Unless, of course, you were a minority, in which case, you were the first to lose your job, if you had landed one in the first place. You won’t be lonely, you’ve got plenty of company what with all the other non-immigrant minorities (including Native Americans, who invited them, anyway? They should never have made it through Ellis Island.) who lost their jobs. And recreation! I hear lynchings enjoyed great popularity in the early thirties. Good thing we all remember those good old days with such fondness and clarity that we can play this game.
A bit of clarity, if you’re thinking that you’re white, and therefore a welcome immigrant, you might need to look a bit harder. Jews? Suspect, and not welcome. Italian? Suspect, and not welcome–all kinds of propaganda being distributed due to the rise of Mussolini. Irish? Also suspect, no-Irish-need-apply. Enjoy your tenements! I mean really, so many of these Italian and Irish immigrants were Catholic. Papists! Frequent and familiar targets of the KKK in those days. It isn’t like we’d see a Catholic President in a mere 30 years.
No worries about Mexicans coming and stealing your job, either. A pox on those who say over a million Mexican immigrants came between 1900-1930 because of a demand for low-wage, unskilled workers when we didn’t have enough citizens to fill those jobs. No worries indeed, we rounded ’em up, beat ’em, and deported ’em back over the border. Damn it, now I’m confusing myself, am I talking about then or now?
More excellent news, you won’t be confronted by your child coming out to you. That closet is padlocked and sealed in concrete. You yourself are a part of the LGBTQ community? Don’t be silly, surely no one who belongs to a community that has been traditionally pilloried, still openly ridiculed, viciously attacked, and subject to hate crimes by many would be playing this game–allying themselves with political parties that want nothing more than to restrict their rights–that would mean they place their bank accounts and guns above their personal rights, to say nothing of the safety and security of their community. Just think, it’s the 1930s, no AIDS. Don’t despair, though, plenty of gonorrhea and syphilis to go around, regardless of your sex or sexual orientation.
Speaking of health and health care, remember, these are the good old days. If you or a loved one get sick or have an accident, you don’t have to think about where your insurance card is, how much the treatment will cost, or if you’re able to cover the copays. Chances are excellent that what you’ve got can’t be treated. And your friendly local doctor will make a house call. If you can pay him.
So, you live life as if it’s the good old days for one month. No cheating–those of us who believe in reason, justice, equality and science will be watching. If you make it through your month without dying from illness or a tragic accident, good on you, you win a bootstrap! If you make it through without starving yourself or family members, losing your home or throwing yourself off of a cliff before Roosevelt can push through one of his commie New Deal roads and bridges, you get a bonus bootstrap. I hear once you collect enough, you can use them to pull yourself up.
Of the million annoyances I encounter daily through life in the city, I’m old enough and defeated enough to realize 999, 997 have nothing to do with me personally, don’t effect me in any way, and are none of my business. Sure, the number changes if you consider what I bitch about in my head, or to Husband, or even here on the blog, but to cause me to speak up and interact with strangers? Not so much.
New York is always under construction. Buildings going up, coming down, being renovated or refaced, streets being dug up or patched. Interesting if you’re young or new to the city, hours of free entertainment if you’re 3, good news if you’re in contracting/construction. I’ve heard people complain about “how much” construction workers earn. I don’t complain. First of all, the salaries vary widely–union/non-union, public or private project, white/”minority” worker–wrong as it is, last I read white guys earned an average of 20% more (I put minority in quotes because whites are not the majority in nyc), etc. Second, these guys* work incredibly hard, back-breaking work in freezing cold, rain, heat and humidity that has most of us hiding inside, sometimes questionable working conditions, and often breathing in shit that I don’t want to think about. Third, the majority of these jobs/workers are highly skilled, and their work is important. Fourth, the risk of serious injury is high. A few of the assignments on the sites aren’t labor intensive, they’re incredibly boring. Like being assigned to open/close the gates and plastic bumpers for pedestrians to pass through in between cartloads of crap being hauled from the fenced in site to the dumpster in the gutter. Boring, but they can’t blow it off or let their minds wander, because that would be a disaster, a law suit, and an unemployment line waiting to happen. Often while working this mind-numbing task, they’re being berated and cursed by veryimportantpeople on their way to veryimportantmeetings who can’t contain their annoyance at being detained for 7 seconds so they don’t get a steel beam through their skull.
See? Look up or look down–construction.
I pass several construction sites daily, multiple times per day, as I take Art Child back and forth to school. The nice part of being a woman of a certain age who’s allowed herself to go gray? I don’t deal with much catcalling anymore. I’ve heard there are a few who find it complimentary. There are also women who like to call their husbands/boyfriends Daddy and greet them at the door with a martini and a smile–but of course that all falls under the annoyances-I-keep-to-myself category, because it’s none of my business. At best catcalling is a background annoyance, often it’s rude and dehumanizing, and at worst it can be frightening. I see a lot of the same guys every day, they smile and say good morning, I respond in kind, and that’s the extent of it.
But the other day I was walking with Art Child and her friend, and one of the workers (who I didn’t recognize, not one of the ones usually on the gate) made a comment to/about my daughter’s friend. Well, of course not so much about her as about her body. My daughter looks younger than her age, her friend does not. Young teenaged girls. Of course she’s attractive. I shook my head, said “no,” and we kept walking. This man–was he drunk?–kept on, calling after us and followed. For the record, he was not a young man. Definitely old enough to know better than to make these types of comments to a girl who could easily have been his daughter. I understand, putting to the side the misogyny of catcalling, when it comes to girls this age, it’s easy to think they’re older, especially if you aren’t looking at their faces. I turned back and said very clearly, “she’s underaged, back off.” Would you believe he kept going, commenting and following a bit more? Of course you believe it, if you’re a female between the ages of oh, say, 10 and 100. Was he delusional? I offered him a couple more words and we kept going. Why did I keep going? Because the girls were creeped out and frightened, and I wasn’t sure if this girl’s mother would be okay hearing about a confrontation afterwards. If I stopped, I was going to get loud. It’s a balance and a judgement call. Sometimes it’s good for young people to see adults doing the right thing, standing up for them and themselves. Other times (when the option is there) it’s better to cool off a bit and deal with situations without young people present.
So I don’t know if this guy was drunk, delusional, or bitter about sweating his balls off in 90° heat. What I do know is that he was confused if he thought this would pass without incident. This morning I had a nice chat with the site manager/foreman, who was responsive, respectful, and took me quite seriously.
a)The word “underaged” holds more than a bit of power. Those 9 letters contain many implications; ethical, moral, and legal.
b) Site workers and managers pay very close attention when you stop and speak. If you’re blocking the pass through, several workers have to stop what they’re doing. Time is money after all.
Women, we don’t have to tolerate predatory behavior, and we shouldn’t.
Moral of the day: Most annoyances can and should be ignored, some should be addressed head on. Oh yeah, and don’t fuck with Mrs Fringe.
*I reference “guys” because while I do/have occasionally seen women working on construction sites, it’s still a field dominated by men–and I’ve yet to hear a female construction worker catcalling.
Man Child has returned from Italy, bearing gifts, stories, love, and cookies. Lots of cooking going on since he arrived, but the first night it only seemed appropriate to celebrate in traditional New York style.
Wine from Italy, pizza from NY, a perfect pairing in Fringeland
The funny part is that this is our favorite local pizza, and while he was in Italy, the local paper of the small, northern town he was in actually had an article about this particular pizza place. Husband and I got a big kick out of that when we saw MC post the article.
I think Italy was the perfect choice for a first big traveling experience for him. Beauty, history, food, and the passion that comes from an ancient culture; yup, all him. It’s kind of funny, despite the fact that English and Spanish are the two languages spoken here at home, Man Child never looks quite as natural as he does when speaking in Italian.
Just a few days after he arrived, Nerd Child came home for his spring break. Do you hear that? It’s the little chorus of mama-angels singing, all 3 of my chickadees home at the same time for more than a day and a half.
Don’t trip!
It’s been way too long since we’ve all been together, especially without the stress of just a quick stay or holiday preparations. Art Child is thrilled. Both boys! Bonus, they’ve both been pitching in and doing some of the pick-up/drops-offs getting her to and from school. Every morning I’ve woken up thinking back to when she was a baby, still not yet able to walk, but as soon as she was able to get herself out of her bed, the boys’ room was her first stop of the day; tiny fists beating on their door while she bellowed, “BOYYYYYYZ!”
I’m mom. I see the similarities, the commonalities, the passion all three have for politics, humor, love of music, and certain gestures and facial expressions. Certain things from Husband, certain from me, others I guess just from being raised in the same home. That said, they’re each different in looks, perspective, and presentation. Not that life has been all serious all the time, but Man Child and Nerd Child are both quite funny, and they play off each other perfectly. Both use topical humor, self-deprecating humor (hmm, can’t imagine where they get that from), but Nerd Child is more deadpan, gallows type of funny, one quirked eyebrow to communicate the joke (if each one was born with a parenting manual, his would be titled “Brit-Humor Alert), while Man Child is more about parody, with just the right amount of timeless slapstick. Art Child is quite droll. So, the greatest common thread, in my opinion? Laughter. I have done more laughing in the past ten days than I have in a long time.
Because of school schedules, neither of my boys have been home on their birthdays in a long time. The first missed birthday (on their part, there were others missed because I was in the hospital with Art Child) was Man Child’s eighteenth, his school was on break, but he was away on a service trip. Nerd Child will be turning eighteen soon, but he’ll be back at school by then. Nerd Child’s friend will be coming to stay with us for a few days this week, and he’ll turn eighteen while he’s here. Poor guy doesn’t realize he’ll be subject to my frustrated mama sniffling. So the other day when Man Child suggested he make a cake the following day, I told him to wait, we’ll make a cake for the friend’s birthday in a few days. *insert awkward pause here* Why awkward? Because the following day was Man Child’s birthday. Sure I realized it just after I said it, but still. Bad, bad, mama.
Obviously, now I had to make a cake, and not just a cake, but a special cake. I’ve been making lots of bundt cakes in the past couple of years, but Man Child isn’t enamored of those. He’s young and energetic, passionate about all things food and baking, and therefore considers bundt cakes cheating. What would be special? What would everyone enjoy, that I haven’t done in a while, that wouldn’t break my back? I used to make a lot of cheesecakes. I actually own an entire cookbook dedicated solely to different types of cheesecakes. Ok, I’ll make a cheesecake, and not just any cheesecake, a ricotta cheesecake. Nice tie-in to him and his time in Italy, no?
That morning he took the girl to school for me. I made the crust for the cake, and then went with Nerd Child for his eye exam and new glasses. Afterwards I went and bought a new strainer (my old one is mysteriously missing) so I could get the cheese as dry as possible. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve always found ricotta cakes to be a bit tricky, the texture and moisture levels really have to be perfect.
Don’t be deceived.
Surprise! About forty minutes in, I went to take a peek at how it was going, and I noticed a small puddle forming on the floor, under the right bottom corner of the oven. I figured someone dropped ice cubes and missed one when cleaning up. Hmm, this water is mighty slippery. You could even say greasy. Turns out there’s a small leak in my springform pan. Not enough to be noticed when I pre-baked the crust for ten minutes, or when I poured the batter in, but just enough for a slow leak of butter from the crust. In the space of the 38 seconds it took for me to notice the puddle and determine that it wasn’t melted ice, the oven, kitchen, and hell, most of the whole apartment filled with smoke. Once the smoke cleared and the danger of fire passed, we stuck the cake in the fridge to chill, hopefully firm in the middle, and generally hope for the best.
Needless to say,
didn’t quite work. Not to mention the smoky overtones to the flavor. As I said, there’s been a lot of laughter.
And this.
lots of this.
Maybe Nerd Child’s friend would like some chocolate pudding to celebrate his eighteenth?
Critical thinking. In my opinion, it’s the single most important thing (after learning to read) for people to learn. It’s what allows us to make informed decisions, objectively analyze information, sift opinion from fact and learn to incorporate the nuances of life. Develop empathy, compassion because we understand (at least the facts of) all sides, whether we agree with them or not. Not just so we can make sensible charts and see patterns, but critical thinking also feeds imagination, promoting innovation, new discoveries, and progress. The higher the level of educational institution, the more critical the thinking should become. And it’s something we’re seeing less and less of. There isn’t a whole lot of room and time left for teaching critical thinking skills when public schools are forced to spend the majority of their days teaching to (high stakes, homogeneous) tests and teachers are evaluated based on how their students perform on said tests, and how well they design a bulletin board. That leaves college, right?
On one side, we’ve got Bernie Sanders, who wants to eliminate tuition, and offer free education at public universities. I like Bernie, and I agree with much of what he has to say. I would absolutely support free tuition at public universities. It isn’t unprecedented in the US, California public universities were free to California residents until the 1920s, with a nominal fee for another fifty years. In New York the CUNY (City University of New York) schools were free (I think some, but not all) until the 1970s. If I were king, I’d make it free for in-state residents, still charge for room and board for other than low-income students, and place GPA restrictions on the free tuition, both to get it in the first place, and then to keep it once a student is in. (And no more bullshit with these “weighted” high school GPAs, stop penalizing economically disadvantaged kids from poor communities who don’t have the opportunity to take 23 meaningless AP classes.) I think these types of restrictions and minimum requirements would have to be in place to avoid degrees from public universities becoming meaningless.
And on the other side, we’ve got this. Excuse me a minute while I puke, will ya? In a nutshell, concealed carry laws will now allow students to carry handguns on campus at public Texas universities. Because of this, professors are being told to avoid sensitive subjects, drop certain topics from their curriculum, and limit student access to them. Putting aside the underlying facts regarding guns, gun violence, and gun safety (because we don’t want to get involved in too many high fallutin’ facts here, it’s just a blog, after all), there is no way to look at this and not see how very wrong it is. College. What’s the point of it, anyway? A liberal arts education was intended to provide students with (drumroll) critical thinking. Different ways of viewing the world, figure out how to solve complex problems, communicate effectively, provide you with the ability to think for yourself. I suppose liberal arts is definitely out with this now, huh? Well how about an applied degree in science, mathematics, law? Nope, sorry, because any and all of those fields of study may include sensitive topics and be offensive to personal beliefs, they can’t be studied.
To be fair–and possibly even demonstrate critical thinking skills–despite my left leanings I also think the extreme on the other side is a bunch of bullshit. Excessive trigger warnings and attempts to “protect” students from subjects they might find uncomfortable or offensive effectively muffle debate, discussion, and analysis. This warm and fluffy blanket of avoidance isn’t doing us any favors.
I believe in education. Power, reasoning, and opportunities grow from academic discourse, exposure to new ideas, and studying history. That said, I don’t believe everyone should or needs to go to college. Some people aren’t academically gifted. Some people aren’t good at sitting in a classroom. *that’s me* It doesn’t make sense to me when I see help wanted ads for receptionists that want college degrees. Way to penalize people who don’t go to college. Skills learned outside the classroom are important too, and many jobs and careers that make our society keep chugging along have nothing to do with a BA, BS, MS, etc. I do believe everyone who’s capable of doing the work and wants to go to college should have the opportunity to do so without trading a degree for homelessness, life on the pole, or forfeiting any chance of ever using that degree to get ahead in their chosen field because they’re so in debt from it.
Regardless of the path chosen, and regardless of whether you lean left or right, aren’t we all saying we’re frustrated because we want better, we want more? Downward mobility isn’t just about economic status. One by one we’re burying the tools we need along with our heads in the interest of…what? Ignorance, narrow-mindedness, and divisiveness.
I don’t care whether your classroom of choice is a traditional one, online, or in the corner bar at happy hour. What matters is that we insist on continuing to learn, listen to all the sides and all the facts, and grow.
We need knowledge. Progress. Problem solving. Opportunity.
mrsfringe 