It ain't all pizzas and cream

A day gone grey

The sun is setting on a day gone grey before sunrise. A day of rags and gutters. Buckets and towels. The rain taps at the panes with the sound of a student typist. In another life, this day would be footfalls down a marble-tiled hall. Or a one-legged dove. My mind strolls its own worst neighborhoods. I think of the boys. Of that day years ago. Of our current troubles, the pending loss of our house. Because it is what I wold advise a friend to do, I take a few constructive steps. Make a phone call. Walk the dog. Shower. Babye steps. The sun, cued for the final act, makes its appearance. Everywhere choruses of leaves leap into flame.

 

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

So today I was in a salty mood. I knew someone was going to set me off. And they did. Surprisingly, it was someone from the Left side of the political sectrum. I hadn't seen that coming.

Granted, had I not been in such a bad mood, I'd probably have let the whole thing go. It was nothing really. A video by a nurse decrying the practice of male circumcision. And I did what I usually do: I made a joke. I said maybe we should ban haircuts too, until kids are able to give informed verbal consent.

And we were off to the races. I was called uninformed, was told I was making light of a serious issue, was told I was granting tacit consent to unauthorized "amputation" (yes, they went there), and was dared to watch a circumcision video without becoming squeamish. (FYI, I watched the video AND a slide show. All wihile snacking.) 

I made the mistake of engaging in an argument, my main points of which were:

1. Male circumcision, unlike female circumcision, does not endeavor to deny anyone the pleasure of sensation, to control sexual behavior in adulthood, or to bond anyone into a servile relationship. 

2. No, my parents were not butchers for having had me circumcised.

3. Perhaps we're all taking this stuff WAY TOO FUCKING SERIOUSLY.

Finally, exasperated and annoyed, I posted to my FB status that "intactivists" should just unfriend me now and save me the trouble of unfriending them individually later.

Another minor shitstorm followed, the salient point of which was this...

Male circumcision, like childhood immunization, is a personal choice that parents make for their kids. If you don't believe in it, don't do it. I don't care. But please do not clutter my page with videos telling me what a horrible person I am for tolerating the practice.

If you are an "intactivist" and are still reading, I promise I will not try to persuafe you to become an atheist, to smoke, to listen to blues music, or to do any of the other things I enjoy.  Nor will I insist that you immunize your kids, breast- or bottle-feed them, or allow/deny violent films. Those are YOUR PERSONAL parenting choices.

* * *

But all this has made me nearly as dissatisfied with the Left as I am with the Right. From the Right, I get:

• You're a horrible person because you don't believe in Jesus

• You're a horrible person because you support gay marriage

• You're a horrible person because you support a woman's right to choose

etc. etc. etc.

And from the Left I get:

• You're a horrible parent if you favor male circumcision

• You're a horrible preson if you smoke

* You're a horrible person if you're not Green

etc. etc. etc.

My position is simple:

• I will not interfere with your belief in Jesus. Just don't try to make ME believe in Jesus (or Allah or Buddha or Vishnu, or anyone else).

• I don't keep score  of who's  gay or straight or bi or trans. The basic rights and respect enjoyed by one should be enjoyed by ALL. I promise not to try to "convert" anyone who is gay to being straight or vice versa. Ever.

• It's none of my business if you choose to terminate your pregnancy, see your pregnancy thru to term, opt for adoption, or raise your child. That's NOT my call to make. It is a personal choice.

• I don't give a chimp's pajamas if you circumcise your male children or not. Just don't try to convince me I'm a butcher if I opt for circumcision.

• I don't care if you smoke or don't. I won't light up in your elevators if you stop telling me not to light up outdoors.

• I won't mock you for having an organic garden or for having 20 solar panels on your house. Just leave my 72 Ford the hell alone.

Sometimes it seems as if the Right wants to make the world into a place where everyone is white, Christian, and straight... and as if the Left wants to make the world into a Disneyland where everyone is totally safe but nobody has a very good time. Both options suck.

I know we can do better.

It Gets Better

For the last few weeks, I've watched the It Gets Better Project grow in scope.  The contributor videos are forthright, honest, compelling, emotional, and (though I rarely use the word) inspirational.  Watch them. You'll see. If you were ever bullied, watch them. If you were a bully, watch them. If you weren't a bully, watch them. If you're gay, straight, trans, bi, or questioning, watch them.

If you think you don't need to watch them, WATCH THEM.  

 Although I'm straight, I was bullied as a kid. I was the outsider. The chubby kid. The nerd. The kid with a doctor's note for every gym class because I had a crippled right arm (yes, I said "crippled" because that's what it was called then. You try saying "right brachial plexus injury" or "shoulder dystocia" ten times quickly).  And when kids are trying so hard to establish their identity, to show off their strengths and hide their weaknesses, to escape the attention of the ever watchful eyes of bullies or to become bullies themselves, that is when they are at their cruelest. And when the boys in my class (no matter what school I attended, and there were a few) discovered that social status is measured by athletic achievement, that was the day I became a walking target. From 6th to 9th grade, I was ostracized, mocked, shoved, overlooked, and made the victim of practical jokes. In at least one case, a teacher was one of the abusers.

 And even with all this, I experienced not one tenth of what gay and lesbian teens experience today. Not. One. Tenth. In the 1970s, there was no such thing as "cyber bullying." Nobody was going to post mocking pictures of me on the Internet. Nobody was going to video my private life and distribute it for public view.

 But even without the technical advantages of today's bullies, mine were able to get to me. There were times I struggled to fit in: to dress like them, talk like them, like the things they liked. There were times I gave up and sat alone in my room. I spoke with my parents, who tried in their way to be understanding, but they were of little help. My dad said, "I was never popular either, don't worry about it." He even went into school and spoke with a teacher or two. Which only made things worse. My mom said, "ignore them." But it's hard to ignore people who put rotten fruit in your coat pockets or aim for your face in any team sport involving a ball. 

 One day it all just seemed to collapse on me at once. My stomach was in my chest. I felt as if I were choking. I stood on my apartment balcony and tried to summon the courage to throw one leg over the rail. If I could do that, I figured, the rest was easy. We lived in a high rise. Twenty-six stories up. There was no chance of surviving the fall. I stood there a long time before going back inside. I was 13 years old. Thirteen.

So why am I telling you all this? Because IT GETS BETTER. I have spectacular people in my life today. I have a fierce and beautiful wife. I have a daughter, and when I look into her face, it is like seeing the ocean for the first time. I have friends upon whom I can rely. To anyone who's struggling, let me say this: Don't let someone else's ugliness make you destroy your own beauty. We live in an age when it is easier than ever to connect with others. And though it may be hard to imagine, there are kind and  generous people in this world. WE'RE NOT GIVING UP ON YOU. Don't give up on yourself.

Happy Anniversary, Cecily!

 

I heard footsteps in the hall

And now they walk inside my clock.

 

I heard a song in the street

And now it sleeps in my window shade.

 

A wren visited my sill

And now nests in my cupped hands.

 

So it is with you:

A candle to light my shadowed heart.

On Compassion, Family, Politics, and the Dalai Lama

I've never been a Conservative. My dad was. In the old school mold: hawkish military and prudent spending. But what irked me even then, as a high school student, was this underlying sentiment that "if you needed help, it was because you are flawed, and therefore do not deserve help." Whether you were a poor minority kid in the city, a single mom in a small town, or a wilderness area: if you were in need of help you deserved to fail. I never understood that.

I once picked a fight with my dad. In fairness it was more of a sucker punch. I asked whether he believed in competition. He said he did. Then I asked if those who lost were in some way "bad" people. He said they weren't bad, just weak. And I replied, "but I've never won a single race or contest, ever. Am I bad or weak?" Well, he caved. Because my dad, beneath the GOP stance, was a kind man. A man who'd taken his share of defeats because he was unwilling to be ruthless.

When my dad went back to the faith of his youth it was on his own terms. I saw a change in him. Not so much because of his faith. But because he was able to reach out and be as kind to strangers as he was to his family and friends. The last Christmas before he died, he and my mom assembled 25 boxed Christmas dinners for families who would otherwise have gone without. Honrestly, I was stunned. And as high schoolers tend to be, a little mocking (mostly about the livingroom full of hams and turkeys). But he ardently defended his decision. And ultimately, I was glad he did.

I'm convinced that if he'd had more time, he'd have moved to the Left. Because most of the men with whom he worked were the source of his misery. And compassion was one source of his joy. Even as a Conservative, he would be appalled by the Tea Party. Appalled by the venom, the hate, the chest-thumping, and most of all the willful ignorance.

I've been told that the Tea Party is a valid grass-roots movement. And it may be. But the ideas it espouses have little to do with liberty. A commenter to a thread on Facebook said that Progressives were unwilling to have any of their advances reversed. Thank goodness that's true. I wonder which advances the commenter would choose to reverse: a woman's right to choose, a woman's right to vote, perhaps he believes we should return to the days before homeless shelters or drug rehabs, or even back to slavery. No matter which, I'm sure his preference would generate suffering on an epic scale...and somehow also net hm a new TV, paneling for his rec room, or bowling shirts for his team.  

The Dalai Lama has said that "compassion is the radicalism of our time." How far have we fallen that simple kindness is seen as a subversive or fringe idea. 

Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

It seems my recent post, "Gypsy Rich," has stirred some spirited discussion. Not all of it good. My recent post was NOT intended to be disparaging to working people. I have met extremely smart, brave, funny, insightful people on the job, in a variety of fields. I met my first wife at an office job. I've met ad men who once worked at refineries. I've met sailors who are now salesmen. I've met moms and dads, veterans and ex-cons. Some I have reconnected with via social media. Each had his/her reason for being on the job. Some had advanced college degrees or specialized training, some had none, but all hoped for something better, for themselves and their families. I've worked for honest, reputable companies, and I've worked for men who were later found to be criminals. I've had good bosses who stood up for their employees, and those who let their employees take the fall.  What I've learned about myself over those years is that I'm a temperamental person and that I do not thrive in a corporate environment. That's me. Just me.

But there's something else I'm bringing to the table. My dad was a company man. He was an investment strategist and economist for years. It was a field he adored. And for years I watched my dad come home from work like a soldier home from war. I watched him sit at the dining room table in his t-shirt and shorts, head in his hands, discouraged, frustrated, and beaten by the perpetual flow petty of office politics, engineered by men who stole my dad's thunder, who took credit for his work, who passed him over for promotion time and again: My dad worked a 60-hour week for as long as I can remember, both in the office and on the road. At 39, he had his first heart attack. Thirty-nine. But soon he was back at work. And the job continued to chip away at him. At the age of 46, while at work, he had another heart attack. Within 3 weeks he was dead. I made myself a promise back then. That no job would ever take my life away, would steal me from my family.

So that's my baggage.

Do what you love. And if you can't do what you love, get as close as you can. If you work in an office cubicle, behind a service counter, or outdoors: makes no difference to me. I've chosen freelance writing and editing. And believe me, it is work. Even more so when new clients are scarce.

I hope that better times are ahead for all of us.

Summer's end

Last Sunday we attended a blogger family event sopnsored by Morey's Piers in sunny Wildwood NJ. A great way to say farewell to Summer.

(Yes, we were comped all the rides and received food vouchers, thank you Morey's.)

 

Gypsy Rich

You're behind the wheel of a sparkling new sponsored vehicle and you've got a paid hotel waiting for you 800 miles from here. In your pocket are day passes to an amusement park or a resort. And vouchers for a classy restaurant meal.  To record your adventure, you have a state-of-the-art pocket video camera. But your own camera is held together by a rubber band and you're not sure you have enough cash in your bank account to pay for both gas and highway tolls. 

That's "gyspe rich." That's us.

To our dear friends who've been so unbelievably genetous to us through these times: THANK YOU! Your kindness and support have been a life raft. Nothing short of that.

Cecily and I live our lives on the Web. So everyone who reads our blogs knows we're broke and struggling to save our house. They also know that we get to do some fabulous things on somebody else's dime. And I understand that can be hard to reconcile. But that's who we are. That's life for those with a desire to live in the world of social media and not sitting at a desk booking other people's travel reservations or selling ad space in trade journals on commission. Because those places were "jobs" and we held them, and they were miserable. More importantly, WE were miserable.

And I understand that the advice we receive is well meant. But please please also understand that "just get any job" is no more a solution to our problems than is a shotgun against a fleet of alien spaceships. 

So yes, it may seem strange that we are gypsy rich and cash poor. But please understand that it is neither because of carelessness nor laziness. It is because we are trying to reach a place where we can feel good about the work that we do. And that no journey worth taking is without some hardship.

 

 

_______________________________________________

If you see me driving a Rolls, it doesn't mean I'm rich.

It means I'm a chauffeur.

 

52nd Street Blues

 

Faces eye you from stoops

and curbsides, the way wild dogs

look up from a fresh kill

as if to say, “Mine, step off.“

 

This place, where abundance

is as foreign as fields of corn,

was once strong as a fireman’s

back, or a tailor’s patience.

 

Nate served in Korea, earned

himself a Purple Heart

and a wooden leg. But you

won’t hear about that.

 

That story’s for the old men

at the barbershop. The old men

who linger like cigar smoke--

with time, and a mind to listen.

Great Moments in Parenting History. Part 2.

Driving the kiddo home from pre-K, and a car heading in the opposite direction stops in the middle of the street, ignoring an available parking spot 4 feet away. We wait. A young girl (maybe 18) gets out. We wait. She gets out a bag. Walks to curb. Returns. Gets another bag. Chats with the driver.

Me: "C'mon hon, gimme a break!"

Girl: "I'm getting my fuckin' kid outa the car!" [pulls infant carrier from car]

Me: "Fine. Then pull it the fuck over!"

Girl: "Don't curse in front of my child!"

Me: "But you just said 'fuck'."

Girl: [takes infant to curb, hands off to mom, then returns to car for more bags and a stroller]

Me: "Jackass!"

Tori: [from back seat] "JACKASS!"

_________________________

No, I don't make a habit of yelling at simgle teen moms. Let's say none of us was at our best that day.