A Viewpoint on White Female Fragility

 

I cannot tell you how many times I've tried to write this blog post. With a desire to stress my support for #BlackLivesMatter and the current protests, my attempts have failed over and over again. Nothing I wrote rang true. None of the thousands of words I wrote resonated as offering up any new ideas, new thoughts. They felt like an echo-chamber of repetition. 

It finally came to me that I should write what I know about: white women.

First, here's a story about me when I was about eight years old. Background: My dad was paraplegic and thus in a wheelchair. In those days, there was no ADA compliance. Even going to a movie theater was difficult -- in fact, we were sometimes asked to leave because he blocked the aisle.  He was unable to go into many stores, because there no ramps. In short, life was hard for him and by extension for me as well. 

Dad did have a car that was modified for all hand use, so he was able to drive which gave him some independence. One day when it was just dad and me leaving his house on Dwight Way, he was having trouble maneuvering himself into the car. I would have had to wrangle his very heavy wheelchair into the car myself, a Herculean task. As he was trying to get himself into the driver's seat while I could only watch, two young black men, dressed in jeans, black leather jackets, and black berets, stopped and offered to help. I was terrified.

I make zero excuses. I don't remember what scared me, exactly, but almost certainly it was their being Black. Bear in mind, I went to a school that was predominately Black. Dwight Way bordered the line between South Berkeley, a Black neighborhood, and Central Berkeley, which was predominately white. I had never had negative experiences with Black people at all. That I was afraid of them speaks volumes to societal learning, for somewhere I had learned that fear.

The outcome was that my Dad gladly accepted their assistance, they helped us get all packed up, they passed pleasantries, and they went on their way. Of course that's how it worked out. 

The outcome was also that my dad bought the only books he could find for a kid my age in 1969, including this one, with his inscription on the preface page in his careful handwriting; "To Heather, so she will know the truth". This was the book, and I still have it, 50 years later. 

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That's my anecdote. Now, I'm going to wrestle with a couple of white women who have recently caused some problems and who have been in the public eye. 

Central Park Sally (Karen is getting way overused and tired. Let's come up with some new ones): 

There are a few arguments supporting her, from what I've read: no one puts a leash on their dog in the Bramble. By feeding her dog treats without her compliance, he was threatening. It is an isolated area, no wonder she was frightened. Taping her on camera was also threatening. He had no right to be the leash police. If he had just left her alone, none of this would have happened. 

Yeah, I'm not going to bother rebutting those because all they say is this: If Black people stay in their place, there wouldn't be a problem. 

Central Park Polly did this:

1. Got mad that someone (a Black man) challenged her right to do what she wanted, in this case illegally walk her dog off-leash. This guy happened to be Black, all the more angering to someone whose inherent white right to do whatever she wants is challenged. 

2. She first walks up in his face, finger pointed at him as if denying a demon, demands he turn off his phone camera. He declines her command. There is no fear in her at this point; who walks up to someone they are afraid of? 

3. She backs up, strangling her dog, and then threatens not just to call the police but to call them and tell them an African American man is threatening her. She has figured out what to do, how to make this work for her.  

4. She calls 911, while her dog strangles on its collar, but when the dog goes out of her control because it is choking, she escalates her distress and becomes hysterical. Now, she behaves as if in fear. She has convinced herself she is in danger. 

San Francisco Sally did this:

1. Confidently challenges a man of color painting BLM on a retaining wall. Partner or husband, hanging back, is her back up. 

2. When challenged, she lies and does an intriguing body posture assuring him of her assuredness: Index finger pointed up at her face, one arm slung across her back. 

3. She feels she has an inherent entitlement to police 'her' neighborhood

4. When her victim doesn't comply with her demands, she lies -- she says she knows the person who lives at the property (she doesn't). She postures in a way of 100% certainty that she is safe to make this confrontation and believes this guy is an interloper who will run away from her. He doesn't. 

5. She and her male partner are loathe to give him their names, stating that they're not the ones committing a crime. No, it is he who should identify himself. 

6. When the person she challenges doesn't comply, she has no recourse but to back down and arrogantly promises her victim she will call the police.

So what are these white women doing exactly? 

Central Park Polly: This woman lives a life where she gets what she wants and has never successfully been challenged. She has little or no experience with Black people on any personal level and she has no reason to believe they either are or are not a threat -- except by the implicit bias and deep-rooted racism that our system dis-serves us. She is racist by default because she's never had to challenge her own belief system. She is racist by action for what she did to Mr. Cooper. 

I don't care if she's had a black boyfriend or has black friends, this woman knows what her privilege is and has zero issue blatantly calling it up when she needs it. She fully understands that the greatest tool in her toolbox is weaponizing his blackness. This is learned behavior, and not only that, it is our judicial system default. That our judicial system arrests and incarcerates Black people, particularly men, at a far greater rate than whites isn't surprising. It was built to do so. It was built to further enslave Black people after emancipation and it has never been revamped because it has worked. The stereotypes attributed to Black men for hundreds of years endure today; lack of intellectual acuity, early maturity, hyper-aggression, superior physical stamina, and sexual prowess are all that must be contained. These are the things perpetuated in our society and which every white person, to some extent or another, has been taught to believe. This is the design. 

Amy Cooper used her privilege-code to garner assistance. But assistance for what? In an equitable Universe, she may have been mildly annoyed that someone community policed her, and might have snarked off a few comments. She might have walked off with her dog, possibly put it on a leash, and been irritated by the interaction. She could have mitigated him feeding treats by putting the dog on leash (which is what he wanted to happen). What she did, though, was criminalize his blackness for daring to confront her white privilege.

In this case, Amy Cooper planned to use the police exactly as they were designed to be used: to keep Black people in their place and to protect her white female fragility.  

San Francisco Sally:

Boy, does this one get under my skin and it's in my back yard. Sally is the very epitome of white female privilege. She has had success as an independent female entrepreneur. She believe she of superior intelligence (or so she appears to think), she considers herself beautiful (if her photos are any testimony, and frankly, she just looks demonic to me) and she also does not consider herself racist. No, she is more an advocate, she would have us believe. 

She's walking along in 'her' neighborhood but because she doesn't recognize a guy along her route, she determines he is breaking the law and defacing property. She feels it is her duty, and her right, to set things straight. But, she's not a racist. No, she doesn't want to call the police on this guy, because she knows he will get in trouble. She is doing him the favor of community policing because she is on his side. Black Lives Matter, she agrees, is a good message. 

 

Arguments against her victim: Why didn't he just tell them he was the property owner? Why did he unnecessarily goad them? Why did he increase tensions by suggesting they call the police? He could have defused the entire encounter if he had only complied. Yet again, if this man had simply complied there wouldn't be such a fuss. I believe he wanted her to escalate, he wanted to be proved right, in front of the police. He owed her no explanation and he was like, "not today satan" and I get it. 

I cannot interpret his actions, other than to say if that were me, I would have done exactly the same thing he did. I would probably have told them to fuck off in no uncertain terms and as a white person, that is my privilege coming out. As a person of color, he essentially told them to fuck off -- but that was not his privilege, and she knew it. 

Here we have a white woman whose staggering sense of entitlement is embedded with so much privilege: she has a white male as back up. She clearly feels intellectually superior to her victim. She obviously feels that this is 'her' neighborhood -- she thinks knows who lives where and who has a right to do what. This is her space and she is safe in this space. She also is someone who feels she is benevolent; she is not calling the police. In fact, she is doing him a favor by not doing so. This is her white privilege. This is her design. 

This is a white moralist. She is morally and intellectually superior and as such, has a duty to do the right thing. In this case, she is community policing while white, which is the privilege of speaking on behalf of the entire neighborhood without any qualms whatsoever. She does not want Black Lives Matter memorialized in a publicly viewable area as it's a blight but would never admit it, nor that it is the race of the person painting it. She almost implicitly states that if someone else (read that: white homeowner) were doing it, it would be okay. She does not believe she is racist, she believes she is behaving in a non-racist way. 

But all of that is untrue. She made assumptions based upon the fact that he is brown and she has never noticed this neighbor before. He is so under her social radar, she has never even seen him before. She states she knows the homeowner -- and yet, the truth is, this guy is the homeowner, and is simply so beneath her she has never even noticed him before. Once he is on her radar, her white superiority comes to the surface. She treats him as intellectually inferior, tries to entrap him with her use of language. She attempts to trick him into admitting he is in the midst of wrong-doing because everything she has said is in euphemism and she does not directly accuse him. He falls for none of it, and ultimately she herself is tricked into admitting she does believe he is committing a crime. She is defeated because her male back up isn't coming to her rescue, and she doesn't appear to have a cell phone to call the police, which she likely would have done because here we go again -- She (by proxy, her neighborhood) is being abused by this man of color.  On top of all of this, it appears that she fully expects the homeowner to be white, yet another racist assumption. 

In the end, her white blindness, her eyes unable to see this man before he committed this 'crime' on her and 'her' neighborhood, serves as much justice as Central Park Polly. Fortunately, both are now facing public ostracization and loss of jobs.

In 1944, Emmett Till was tortured and murdered for daring to look at a white woman, and as it turns out, his accuser lied -- because, white female fragility and privilege.  He is not the only Black man or person of color to lose their lives for daring to defy a white woman's power. We, the fragile lilies, pristine by birth have been the excuse for racial murder for centuries. White men have instilled in us, too, this notion that we are endangered by Black men. It was perhaps the one frail piece of power white women ever had by history. Yet, as we have and continue to be granted power by privilege, we continue to use this white privilege to wield power over Black and brown people. 

If history has taught me anything, it's that white women are an insidiously dangerous group and as long as we have a judicial process that continues to cater to this white female privilege, no Black or brown man in this country is safe.

The truth is that there generally are no consequences for false accusations by white women (or men). We are believed no matter what the evidence proves. The system is insidious and we, white women, would do well to adjust our internal dialog about who we are and how we view our world. 

As an absolutely egregious example -  the woman who was brutalized in Central Park in the 1990's wasn't even able to ID her assailant(s), and it was the New York City's white female prosecutor who buried the evidence that would have exonerated the five men who did hard time for a crime they did not commit. In this case, a horrific crime against a white woman put the entire country up at arms. Even Donald Trump took out paid ads to thwart justice and vilify Black men. This again is not an isolated incident, it is only one of many hundreds. It is one for which fortunately, eventually, justice was done. Maybe a day late, maybe a dollar short, but the five Black men were exonerated.  

What would have happened for the two case studies I chose if they had not been taped? In at least one of those cases, that of Mr. Cooper, would almost certainly have ended up with him in jail. For one thing, he is a bird watcher and would likely be seen at the Bramble again and thus would have been 'caught', but also that it would be his word against hers -- a professional finance counselor (nor formerly) with Franklin Templeton versus an Audubon Society Chairman and community activist. There is no doubt he would have at the very least been detained. 

In the case of the San Francisco homeowner; he could quickly have proven his tenancy at the house where he painted the retaining wall. And yet, I would bet dollars to donuts, the SF Police would have at the very least asked him if he would be willing to erase his message on his own property so that "both sides" would be satisfied. His right to do as he wanted with his own property would have been challenged in contrast to her 'rights' as a white woman. The police would likely see this as community negotiation, not his rights versus her violation of his rights. 

We are afraid of the wrong people, white people and it is time to look deep inward and root out the devil that lives within. We are the problem.  

 

 

 

 

Mood Indigo: Childhood Memories Redux

The kid who inspired today's blog.... my first born grandchild.

I remember third grade for two significant events; The most auspicious was that Duke Ellington played the piano in our auditorium at Washington Elementary School and afterward we stood in line and he greeted each of us. I remember the little crowd of us short people, standing on the sloping cement loading dock next to a rusty tubular metal railing. I remember the Duke's kind, warm face, and friendly smile. His hair was shiny and immaculately finger waved. I remember his big warm paw of a hand, soft and smooth, scooping up my little grubby one and his words of encouragement to play my piano when I softly, star-struck, told him I took lessons. 

Second, is that our class hosted a kid from Sweden that year. His name was Jens. Maybe his father was a visiting professor, maybe he had family living here, perhaps his family just wanted to experience the roots of the free speech movement in its birthplace. I don't know, but Jens turned up in class every day with his limited, lilting English, a light blond with bright blue eyes. I imagine he grew into a handsome Nordic man, likely with a striking resemblance to the guy I loved and would marry twenty-five years later.  

On Valentine's Day that year, we all brought our ubiquitous store-bought cards, era-specific by way of theme -- Charlie Brown or cute big-eyed puppies and kittens, perky little cartoonish girls with short page boy haircuts and bowtie lips with quips like "Don't be siss, give me a kiss!" or "A B C D, please oh please will you pick me?" I imagine the cards have slightly less rapey, desperate messages these days. 

Because in my day everything had to be fraught with the potential of public shame and embarrassment, much like the frightening P.E. pick line (which always had me as the last of two kids to be chosen, a mortifyingly embarrassing and shitty ritual), if a boy had a crush on you he could bring you a gift on top of the card. These Valentines of special note could be eschewed by the recipient, thus causing ruinous shame, or taken as a very special treat and thus one's suitor eluded mortification. 

That year I was the apple of Jens' eye and my Valentine gift was a Kiddle doll. They were wildly popular that year and my parents were considerably stingy about buying me toys. Fact is, I really didn't have dolls or toys like other kids. I had books. This Kiddle doll was lavender scented and was all that and a bag of Granny Goose potato chips. I was thrilled, more so by the gift than by the enamoration of the boy which I didn't give a fig about. 

photo from TreasuresofPandora on Etsy

I have no idea whatever else happened in third grade, but over fifty years later, I remember those events. 

What is important about this long-winded tale is that I had a third grade to remember. Right now, in the midst of a pandemic which ends who knows when kids have lost most of this school year. They don't have their friends to socialize with, the rituals of their lives, the vibrant classrooms, their beloved teachers, the solid routines and special events that make kid-life memorable

It is unlikely that children today will ever go back to school in the way they remember it as it used to be. But school is only the very crux of the biscuit, as all aspects of life have been altered irrevocably. 

My grandson was over a couple of weeks ago. I have made a decision after two months of sheltering in place, to grow my germ pool. This decision did not come lightly. I charted their parent's exposures in the world and discussed my concerns. I made a choice based upon two factors; my mental health, and then, theirs. 

Squeazel (as I call him on social media) spent three days with me in my quiet solitude here in Berkeley. Since I am working remotely, it seemed practical to have him here doing some schoolwork while I dig into my own job. This did not transpire as expected. 

His parents both have told me how impossible it is to get him to do schoolwork. I respond that they must be patient and understanding of his limitations, that their frustrations are understandable, but consider how hard this is for him.  At one point my son (their father) said, "Schoolwork is not as important as my relationship with my son" and he softened his approach. The kid's mother likewise has decided to back off. The kid is in a special education program for some reason or another, and he's going to be so behind, but so be it. 

On our way to my house, we had a zoom meeting with his IEP teachers. We went over some portals to access for reading comprehension and I felt encouraged that we could do this. Yeah, no. 

We opened the portal on his laptop and his eyeballs rolled up in his head. He distracted himself at every opportunity, especially whenever the squirrel in my yard literally distracted him running by the window. "Squirrel!" the kid would say, and then get up to go outside and see if the resident crow was out as well. 

This happened repeatedly. 

Once demanded to focus, he quickly read through the first story and complained it was "too hard" and "too long". We were only five minutes into the exercises when the real arguing began. I lost my temper in short order and stomped myself to the back of the house, slammed a door and muttered curses in his general direction. This startled him and he tried valiantly to apply himself. I settled myself down quickly and we went through the multiple choice questions. His answer choices were rushed and compulsive. I tried to apply some critical thinking and he squirmed, finding something else to look at somewhere across the room. He answered many of the questions incorrectly although he clearly could parse out the correct answers if he had paid any attention. This kid is no slacker in the brain department when he chooses to use it.  

It wasn't that he wouldn't apply himself; no, it was that he could not. It wasn't defiance or even lack of interest, for even when reading a section on octopus which was of interest, he was incapable of putting his attention to the task. 

In the end, I told him I was so sorry to have lost my temper and that my relationship with him is far more important than doing schoolwork. We agreed he would do a little bit of reading and that we would watch something educational shows on TV. We ended up watching a documentary about animals on the Savannah at night and discussed what we watched. Then we went to the rose garden, at his insistence and walked around smelling roses. 

Later, he told me wanted to go home. "There aren't any people here, Nana" he told me apologetically, and I understood. Under normal circumstances, my grandkids love the downtime they get at my house. Between gardening and going to a local park, cooking fantastic meals on their own, playing with the dog or just hanging out watching TV, they have zero problem with the lack of people or the quiet of my existence. In normal times, my house is a respite from the chaos and clamor of their daily lives. But not now; now, my house is a reminder of isolation and solitude. I think it becomes too evident that we are not living in our normal world anymore. 

I have my own ideas about what kids are going through these days. They are, in spite of their complaints about school, missing their teachers and the other kids. They're missing the structure of it and having a life outside of home. They're missing their playdates and park days. They're hearing the news, and what adults are talking about and they are wondering what this means. I doubt they think far enough into the future to wonder what it means for them, but they think in the right now. And right now is a gut-punch of isolation and fear and frustration and longing, perhaps. 

Adults tend to think of kids as resilient and in some ways impervious. Children have to be; they have to seek comfort in very fundamental ways because they cannot care for themselves. They generally have the outward appearance of being more or less okay, even if on the inside, their stomachs are in knots and their heart pounds out of their chest. 

We, the theoretical grown-ups, forget that while we have outlets -- we can be outwardly angry and defiant, we have the resources to reach out to our friends whenever we want, and we can soothe ourselves in a myriad of ways -- children don't have the freedom we do to act out or find comfort for themselves. We quelch them when they're angry, soothe them to quiet when they cry. We shush them for their defiance and send them to their rooms when they lash out. 

Maybe we need to be sent to our rooms without our toys because God knows, if we were, we might have a little more empathy for our kids. 

I am worried for our kids' mental health, frankly. We can be the best, most supportive people for them and still what has happened will forever alter their lives and who they are. They will always remember the Spring of 2020 when the world fell apart and their lives fell apart and in some cases, their parents fell apart. Some will remember losing loved ones -  not so in our case, thank goodness. All of them, all the kids in the entire world, will remember the months -- and perhaps longer -- when their world stopped and there was no school. 

Some children, probably many more than we could bear to know, are being abused. Many are suffering emotional issues from which they may not ever recover. And who will these children become when they grow up?  

While we try to make sense of this and determine how we can rebuild our lives as adults in a different post-Covid19 world, we must think about how we can help our children to find hope and true resilience as we go through this, not just when it is over. We need to help them find the kind of resilience that comes from rebirth, not the kind of resilience that comes from surviving trauma.  This is the difference between thriving an thriving. Let's help them redefine their world, not just endure it. And if that means school's out for the year, so be it.  There are memories we need to help them build now, memories that will last the rest of our lives. Let them be good ones. 

As always, be kind. 

 

 

  

 

Mercurochrome: The Painful Treatment

Opening today's blog with a song that my dad gave me to follow me through life, and I hope it gives you hope. It's been a long, cold winter... but we'll get through this.

Here Comes The Sun.

When I was a kid, a road rash, scrape, or bloody cut was treated with mercurochrome which my dad kept in a medicine cabinet that dated to the 1880s, in his house on Dwight Way. This was so unpleasant that most kids would do most anything to avoid being anointed with the potent red tincture. So painfully repugnant was this vile medicine, we would cry at the mere threat of it. 

 (Mercurochrome bottle found in the midden at my home in Berkeley, and filled with colored water for effect)

What we're living with, people, is the painful treatment for a completely natural and normal situation that occurs as faithfully in a cycle as do hurricane, tornadoes and wildfires. Humans try to contain it, but inevitably, we have wounds that require tending, to lessen the impact and damage. Right now is one of those times.

None of us can sleep with the metaphoric scrapes and burns we have sustained in this pandemic.

Last night was one long, horrific nightmare. I went to bed early in a futile attempt to beat the sleeplessness so that I'd have extra hours to make up for the time I didn't sleep. It was as if my entire being has been stung by mercurochrome.

I put on the old Addams Family TV show, dropped a full dose of CBD, and fell asleep the second episode in, and sometime in my sleep, managed to both turn off the TV and up-end a bag of crackers, leaving me lying, in the dark, on a bed of crunchy crumbs. After spending some time sweeping crumbs off from under myself, I managed to fall asleep. At 1:18 a.m. I woke up again, probably because there were crumbs digging into my ass crack and responded to a text from my son from a few hours earlier. He was, surprisingly, still awake.  After that, I entreated sleep to come by an oft-used tactic; writing a potential short story in my head. Essentially, I consider different topics and then try to write a decent first outline in my mind based on a theme that is pleasant, calming and potentially a good short piece, essay or semi-autobiographical. In lighter times, these themes sometimes play out the following days into a creative writing piece that I find worthy, sometimes it seems as if I had played out some weird celestial acid trip. Most of the time, my mind drifts to certain concepts that I will replay over and over again in my normal state of insomnia. Oh, Satan be gone,  but not these days.

Last night, the topic of this seemingly endless lockdown kept replaying and I couldn't get past the obsessive thought-loop. I could think of nothing else.  I took another large dose of CBD at 2 a.m. and willed sleep to come and spent the remainder of the night in a half somnolent state that neither resembled sleep nor being awake. By 7:30 a.m. I tried to make excuses not to get out of bed, but guilt from the ever-present Protestant work ethic forced me up rather like a disjointed ragdoll and I threw on my robe, which has a large hole in the back where, Yaya, a beloved former rescue dog chewed it,  and flopped on the sofa to start working. I probably looked like a deranged homeless woman with a mental disorder.  A FB friend on a Berkeley page posted this marvelous cartoon he drew of a well-known street lady from the 70s and it's so me right now.

(cartoon courtesy fellow Berkeley Kid, Les Toil)

I worked wearing my pajamas for a few hours while wrestling with a new loaf of sourdough between trying to concentrate on work. I had no toast for breakfast, which was a bummer, and even though the amazing cup of Burundu medium roast coffee was on hit, the morning was just a complete wash in every possible way.

The sourdough came out nicely, eventually.

By noon, everything went south. For some reason, I couldn't organize and collate the work my vendors needed, and was unsure about whether the spreadsheets contained the correct data for each vendor. I stripped my gears trying to figure out how to do mundane tasks that are a regular part of my daily routine. My heart was pounding out of my chest in an irregular pattern and I couldn't focus. It took some time to determine that the feeling of being a hapless nitwit was actually an anxiety attack, not a heart attack.

Admission: I have PTSD, mild bi-polarism, and have endured anxiety/panic attacks since I was 18 years old. For forty Goddamned years my body has intermittently thrown me into a vortex of heart palpitations, mind-numbing confusion, fight or flight response, literal jaw-clenching anxiety and then into a weird euphoria that has no substance. I know what this feels like and this kind of anxiety we're going through right now, during this pandemic is not the normal kind of anxiety. 

I mentioned the other day being tossed by the Ocean (Yemaya) repeatedly and coming up laughing. Being in the vortex of the ocean is a far, far more amenable situation than sitting in my living room trying to cope with what feels like my own body trying to kill me for no rational reason.

Why is this anxiety and insomnia a thing right now? I'm a naturally rather reclusive person, I enjoy the privacy and sanctity of my home, and being here without being bothered or intruded upon is, in general, an absolute privilege for me. It's because I am worried for everyone, myself included, and I live in a bubble wherein my inner-self does not believe that I will be a casualty and yet there is dichotomy there and the cognitive dissonance makes me want to just hide. This is an anxiety I've never experienced before and I don't think any of us know how to really rationalize it and move on.

Georgia and Texas are opening up certain businesses earlier than I, personally, would feel comfortable with. This decision is publicly stated to alleviate the tension on the economy. Something I said several weeks ago is now coming out in articles far more eloquent than I can write:

If we put people back to work before it feels safe, employees are subjected to a decision: go back to work and risk being infected and infecting their families or; face being turned down for unemployment. As of today there are 30,000,000 unemployment applications. The Feds are not going to pay all of those people no matter what and opening up certain Red states who are aligned with the Orange Dickwangle In Chief guarantees that many of these people who refuse to return to unsafe working conditions, will not be eligible for unemployment. That is the full explanation for these early openings and it is not because people need to work; it is because the States and Federal government has zero intention of paying that many people to stay home and stay safe.

We do not need mass murdered pork, beef and chicken to survive. We do not need haircuts. We do not need waxing, pedicures or manicures, or to go bowling or golfing. We need people to survive. We don't need people to go back to work in potentially unsafe conditions to save the EDD the money they say they don't have.

Trump flew the Blue Angels and the Thunderbirds over several states at an enormous cost; what about Congress (with Trump's alliance) allocating those funds to feed/house/clothe those who are now unemployed rather than require them to go back to work before it is safe?

There is a 900% increase in calls to crisis hotlines. People are suffering. People are suffering the loss of connection to other people, to their daily lives, to the ebb and flow of what our normal used to be.

I have several Zoom meetings every single week and I look forward to most of them but honestly, I'm finding that they fatigue me. I want to connect with one or two people at a time. I want to see what people are really feeling. I don't want cocktail hours and laughter and chatter -- not all the time -- I want to get down to why we want to connect in the first place. The fact that I love you and want to be important in your life. I want to be important somewhere, to someone.

We all do.

Mercurochrome reminds me of my dad, who loved me enough to stain my cuts and scrapes with it's sharp, burning smear. My dad wanted me to heal and move on to the next injury and he wanted me to survive in spite of the pain of it.

I don't know why my dad became part of this post, but my dad -- the highest
honor on my altar -- and the ancestor I most beseech for connection is sending me this over and over...

Ibae been tonu Donald Edward Wood.

 I am listening, and hearing you...  

but I still hated your mercurochrome. 

Riptide

This weekend, after almost two months being alone, I went to my son's house and visited with him and my grandchildren. We found a local beach that was sparsely attended so the kids could go skim boarding. I know, this is breaking my own rules and I'm not going to make any excuses or apologies. For seven weeks, like most people I know, I've been on isolation and working from home and for me and my little bipolar shit, I needed to break from this to reset my head. It's that or the psych ward and I'm not exaggerating by much.

Seals popped up here and there, close to shore than I've ever seen them. They are curious creatures, but rather bitey when provoked, and we watched them in amusement as they glided around, when suddenly a herd of dolphins showed up not more than 30 feet from shore. They leaped and dove, maintaining the same general channel-line as the seals and we watched them with so much joy. What beautiful creatures there are in this vast waterworld and what a magic time to see them so close. My granddaughter found a tiny, complete sand dollar -- the first one I've seen on a local beach for many years. She and I sang a song for Yemaya, which she loved doing. And a funny thing is that the ocean was as still and calm as could be, until I decided to try to swim out at which point the waves came back and I got tossed like a ragdoll three times until I could regain my footing. I came up laughing cause I felt the message, but my poor grandson was so scared for me. I have lessons to learn. 

(disclaimer: this is not my photo, it is a Google image of a California Bottleneck Dolphin, 

but it looks exactly like one we saw leaping)

I will tell you this: This was a very conscious and calculated decision the foundation of which is that I was afraid I would get sick somewhere shopping for toilet paper and die alone without having seen my people for months and months and I start falling into a sinkhole of depression that brings up threads of thoughts in my head that are better left in the inner sanctum. No, no... can't go there. That's it; I decided this based upon what I would want as an end of life decision, but not an end of life right now. Now I'm home and while I love being home, I'd choose those kids over anything, any day. I will miss them again for a few weeks and then I'll swim up for air and there they will be, to save me from drowning.

This whole experience is a riptide pulling me away further and further from everyone and everything I know; the place on this planet where I am stabilized and whole. 

My mood was in the irascible range today, and I'm guessing based upon my very few interactions, that others are feeling the same way.

I ended up having an interaction with a young woman that neither shamed me nor made me feel good; she ended a long transaction at a small store where I also had to stand in line and when I finally got the door where I could do my business (quickly, as I had it planned it out down to the penny), the woman asked me if I could move my car, the car behind mine would move and then she could leave.

And I said No. Just "No. I'm at the front of the line and I know it's inconvenient, but the world is inconvenient right now" and I admit I was not polite. I was not kind. I was not patient, and I did not care about her convenience. To the point: I would not have asked someone at the front of the line to break the line for my convenience.  I would have waited. Her entitlement pissed me off.

She then began to lecture me that if I had just asked her nicely she would have been okay with it and that's when I just devolved on her. Just a moment after I got to the point of telling her to go fuck herself with a piece of redwood, I got my bag of crickets, which took seriously maybe two minutes, and walked to my car when some random millennial guy back in the line felt it necessary to say, "That wasn't nice of you" and at that point, I was like fuck these people and just said "I'm sorry you feel that way".  It occurred to me a short while later that he wouldn't have said that had I been young and pretty with my nipples poking out the front of my hippie dress and no panty line. Yeah, no, man-bun boi. You just enjoy your wait in the line. Hippie girl still ain't looking at you.

Two things: 1. I know I did not need to be that harsh perhaps, and 2. She should have just sat in her car after she discerned I was at the door and about to get my turn. Did she deserve my snark? I don't know. This Depression-era bread line shit is already stressful.

Life is too short to suffer fools or assholes, so there it is. I could have been different, but I spent half an hour in a line only to have someone young enough to be my daughter use her entitlement, across the board, to try to school me and waste my time, and I ain't having it. Naw, I'm okay, girl.. you can take that to someone who has more time to waste than I do.

Entitlement: Mike Pence goes to Mt Sinai Hospital and in spite of being informed that everyone must wear a mask;  in spite of everyone else both staff and patients are wearing masks, and in spite of the fact that he is supposed to model the behaviors we are supposed to exhibit, the Motherfucker Did Not Wear A Mask. I don't give a hot fuck if he tests negative seven days a week and twice on Sunday (when the rest of us don't have a chance yet of being tested even once). This entitled dried up ballsac motherfucker uses his authority, power and privilege to walk the entitled walk that he does.

"I need to look 'em in the eye and say thank you". Lord have mercy you dried up piece of chum, do you even know what if wrong with what you just said?

I wasn't right and I wasn't wrong. I was just tired and it's probably for the best I'm not trying to lead the country although I'm 99.99% sure I'd do better than Trump or Pence.

This whole experience is like living in an alternate Universe. Do you feel this? Every time I go out to run a necessary errand, it feels like every stoplight is ten minutes long and people are busting through stop signs, and everywhere are lines of people, looped around like they're waiting in a Disneyland line for a Dole Whip. There is literally a bread line at the local artisanal bread shop that snakes around the parking lot, and I get it because in spite of everybody and their mother and me trying on a sourdough starter it is damned hard work. I think twice about going out for that head of lettuce for a salad because it's not just a quick trip, it's a damned event, and it's weird to get used to wearing a mask, but on the other hand, I'm getting used to it like it's just *shrug* normal business, as is slathering my hands, steering wheel, credit card, and everything I've touched with hand sanitizer or saniziting wipe.

Meanwhile, meat plants are becoming hotbed infection zones where workers who are basically slave laborers -- many of them undocumented workers -- are getting sick, aside from their abysmal work conditions. The animals, who have already been raised and handled as if they are not living, sentient beings, are somewhere in their holding pens and God knows if they're being fed or watered or anything. Trump calls this an "essential business" and is forcing the slaughter houses to remain open with the same untenable conditions they've always endured, human and animal, but in the melee that is happening with the virus infecting the workforce, the animals are just being randomly slaughtered and thrown in the garbage.

Seems to me it's about time to end this system of meat production completely. For God's sake, let them just fail. We cast our judgment and our aspersions on Chinese wet markets, yet we raise animals in horrendous cruelty, handle them as if they are not feeling beings, we create work environments for humans that are dangerous, untenable, low paying, stressful and exploitative.... and this is not an "essential business".  Our meat production system is worse than Chinese wet markets, but we just cover it up and pretend it doesn't exist, but here it is and it needs to stop now.

Did you get this far, wow, I am grateful. For the sake of remembering, it's been quite a hot day here and my draughty house, which is cold in the winter and conversely hot in the summer, is my sanctuary.  I know everything in it and can find every little thing by braille.  If I get sick, my bedroom is where I will go to lay down, and if I die, it will be in the same room my mom called hers once upon a time.

I grow maudlin, I suppose, but it's worth a thought about last wishes. We should all think about that.

Nothing Compares 2 U

Today is Earth Day 2020, I listened quietly to the singing of birds in the quiet world this morning, and the chatter of my local squirrel running back and forth on the fence outside. Mother Earth is enjoying this respite from our nonstop battering.

My friend, Peter Kat King who a couple weeks ago was in the hospital being tested for COVID19 (he is negative) dropped by unexpectedly with a tray of Neldam's Bakery cookies. If you see Peter, tell him I'm only eating them out of gratitude (the truth is they are feckin' delicious and I don't care about calories these days even if I'm fat as f**k). Truth is, I cried when Peter came by because I thought I might never see him again after his latest medical fiasco. This is the space I'm in right now; I cry while I'm eating cookies, and I cry when I hear music, and when I see people, and I cry... because I cry. The cookies don't help but I pretend they're a version of mother's little helper. Which they kind of are.

Today is Charles Mingus's birthday and I give you Moanin', because even if you don't like jazz, moaning is exactly how I'm feeling a lot these days and the music is in words written in notes... like I  can read this and know exactly what the 'words' are....

Enjoy this brilliant piece of music, but the incomparable Mingus.

Prince's 2016 death anniversary was yesterday, as was the day my son, newly home from the hospital after brain-surgery in 2014, wrote a post thanking me for my support. I cried a little yesterday. Okay to be honest, I cried a lot.  About five years ago yesterday, I took a hike with my now deceased husband (Ibae baen tonu Carter). It was a little overwhelming, all these little memories and to think this year, I'm sitting alone in a house waiting for the day I can see the people I love again.

Nothing Compares 2 U 

Prince wrote this and gave it to many, many artists, each who did it justice in their own way. Sinead O'Connor released this single 40 years ago, March 1990, and I happen to think that she slayed it.

I had to take a Xanax today. Anxiety comes in waves, sometimes disguised as anger, frustration, lack of patience. Focusing becomes a trial of wills; mine against any distraction. I  literally saw the squirrel outside and almost dropped my work call to go give him some pecans, just because. Most of the time I can breath through it, sift through the billions of misfiring in my brain screaming at me to run, run, run. Today was the day I was gonna run. Instead, I took a Xanax, and I honored myself with a'ish*.

Baking bread, a talent I have nurtured for a long time, intermittently, has become almost an obsession. Sourdough starter, everyone's fave fad foodie fixation, is possible on a regular basis because we.   have.    time. And working with sourdough starter requires a two day commitment, on top of the feeding of the starter, which somehow becomes a living breathing friend who one becomes extremely attached to. It's a weird relationship. This is Burt, who has been fed and is waiting to become part of a dough.

After Burt has shown how excited he is to see me (is that a bubble in your pants or are you inviting me home?) and bubbles up as if he is about to throw up over the edge of his container (it's always the drunk ones who take me home), we end up with the dough, and eventually, 48 hours later or so, the bread.

So now it's evening of Wednesday April 22, 2020 (which I had to be reminded of) and my day was comprised of work-work, the paying kind, and making English muffins (not a complete failure, but def would tweak that recipe somewhat).

I also started a Challah recipe (from a friend whose mom's recipe is still used at the Cheese Board Collective) and that actually made me truly happy.

This is amazeballs bread. The first one I am honestly proud of. I could make this every day for a year and not get tired of it. Yeah, I have a bit of braiding issue, but other than that, it's DELISHUS.

Believe it or not, I also got a full day's work done and then even got on my new rowing machine and pushed out 20 minutes (my knees and hips don't like this, and I have to tell them to stop moanin', but whatever).

Now, I'm floating and tired and hoping for a full night's sleep, a rarity these days but even if I don't, know that Nothing Compares 2 U -- Yeah, I mean it.

* - A'ish is a colloquial Arabic word which means bread but it also connotes life; in that bread, the basic staple on the table is what sustains life. We give a'ish to those we love or have peace with, when we break bread.

Cake or Death

I was going to put this at the end, but we need this first.

Stevie had it right back in 1976 when he said Loves in Need of Love Today and I have to keep looping this entire album to bring me back to a place of love.

I swear, today I'mma pick up a bag of popcorn and just sit back and watch this mess unfold. Groups of protesters, many carrying their guns and backup ammo clips, rally to their various capitol buildings because this stay at home shit has gone too far. Their rights are being infringed upon. They are uncomfortable, Gotdamn it. They entirely lost me at their need to bring those ARs out of storage and hold them in front of their bodies like codpieces.  Tell me there's any real difference here.

And let's be honest and transparent; when we see a group of white people, with white men standing around gripping their guns in some kind of protest, what the subtext really is: I'mma protect my shit and no n****r is gonna take it from me. I mean, let's just be real here. That's what these assholes are really saying with their flags and guns and frippery.  My God, go home assholes -- I swear, no one is interested in coming near your infected ass shit. Keep your guns, your underground bunker, your potato salad, and your toilet paper.

But the invisible virus floating around out here pretty much has our physiology figured out and no AR is gonna save your stupid, vapid, protesting ass.  We're talking aliens level shit here, except the danger is invisible and flies around in a snot bubble smaller than a baby flea. God's gonna flick those sorry motherfuckers like an annoying booger if they keep up this kind of stupid. And shit, it already has.

The truth of this situation is weirder and more predictable as anyone might expect. Okay, even weirder. The guys behind these protests are four brothers, the Dorrs, who are right-wing scammers of the turfroots variety. Yes, that's right, these guys are conservative 'activists' who are scamming the shit out of other gullible right-wingers. Truth is weirder than fiction, folks.

The protesters should really scurry back to their houses, squeaking, "we wuz jus kiddin'!" but they won't. They'll say it's fake news while the Dorr brothers get rich(er) off their insane stupidity. 

Meanwhile, Kentucky saw the highest spike in virus cases yet, following an anti-stay at home protest.  People, I got lots of Costco-sized bags of kettle corn over here. Don't think I can't keep up with this shit show all the days long. I'm telling you these Uncle Daddy MFers and their inbred floozies are making this just way too easy

For shit's sake I heard some Florida politician explaining that the rate of infection is much higher down in the Southern part of the state, so it's cool the Jacksonville beach is now open again. Georgia is planning to open their state back up this Friday, April 24th, and  I'm sitting here like .... okay, did I actually get enough Costco popcorn?

I'm hearing that California is now on time out until May 15th, but of course one really cannot tell. How is it that one day we're all hunkering down and wearing masks just to go down the street and the next day we're going to be back working in a cube? Yeah... I'm seriously wondering how that's gonna work because serious as a heart attack, I am not going to go back even if they reconfigure how close the cubes are. You want to know why?

Because shit comes out those air vents we rely on for heat and A/C.  Seriously, no one can convince me they got that shit figured out unless there are N100 filters all installed prior to my return and I see the labels on the filters.  Oh, and did I mention I want a filtering bubble installed around my little 4 x 4 cube?

Naw, that's okay, Boo. I can keep sitting here right at home without having to worry about shit, more or less. Next.

We are not all in the same boat. 

I am extremely fortunate to have a job right now and I don't discount that one bit. Let's be quite clear here that while we're all living with the same crazy shit these days, we're all experiencing it quite differently. My situation of slowly dwindling into a state of mild insanity is not the same as your existential crisis.

Let me give you a rundown of what that's like for me:

By nature, I wake up way earlier than I would ever want to. On a normal day, I'd get up and do a normal routine that would result in me getting in my car and going to the office by 8 a.m. or so. These days, I wake up at some ungodly hour after a sleep routine that resembles something haunted and involving an alien invasion and during which there might be a bizarre midnight snack involving Velveeta cheese and whatever crackers are within reach.

5 a.m. is the worst. It's too early to want to get up and do anything, and just late enough that falling back to sleep (if even possible) might result in being seriously tardy.  The parochial Protestant work ethic lives on as a residual proletariat responsibility; Work or Die. Cake or Death.

Thus, I get up most days no later than 7 a.m., force my arthritic body into the shower where I stand as long as I can stand it and then do the ritual of getting ready for work which is to pull on a pair of (hopefully clean) sweat pants and a sweatshirt. Most days, my sweatpants have flour handprints on them from baking bread. My jeans fit last week (or was it the week before?), but God knows if they ever will again. I'm usually in front of my computer, reading my first emails, by 7:30 a.m.

I keep telling myself it is absolutely not required nor even particularly expected that I would be propped in front of this glowing screen that early, but the demands of a capitalist society that weighs the value of a human being by their work ethic and productivity...

And here I am. I get a paycheck every single week until my contract expires on April 31st, 2020 and until then the glowing of this laptop screen will light my windows in a cold blue glow by 7:30 a.m. five days a week because to do otherwise would be death.

Martin Luther would easily agree with my Protestant work ethic, but Jesus H. Christ it's killing me right now.

The alternate life right now is the many who are unemployed. Among them are the hairdressers, massage therapists, acupuncturists, physical therapists, personal trainers, gym employees, swim coaches, contractors, pet groomers, aestheticians, mani/pedicurists, ... Jesus, the list is really too long. All these people have absolutely zero reason to get up at any specific time in the morning, nor anything to do at those times of the morning, yet I guaran-fucking-tee you they are waking up at 5 or 6 a.m. and laying there with their eyes open wondering What The Actual Fuck they are going to do today? With no paycheck and a wonky promise of some Federal assistance that looks like it might be a day late, dollar short, I suspect far more small businesses will fail than will survive. The outcome, when we all crawl out of this dark, dank hole will be a world that has lost so many rich and wonderful amenities, with lovely things to eat, and invaluable contributions to our daily lives will be our eternal loss. The world will never be the same; no not at all. At some point, we will all being doing the Time Warp and wishing we could go back to the way it was, which it never can be again.

Cake or death is the choice I have to make here. I'm choosing cake, by God. Even if it kills me.

Everyone Has a Soapbox

I started this on Saturday night, scrolling around watching what people are sharing these days. About the only thing I'm not mad about right now is Sam Cooke.

I am paying these all some mind because I figure people have reasons for topics that they feel strongly about, even if they're wrong sometimes.  Here's my top three today:

1. The meat industry; how we treat animals; being carnivorous. I'm going to start this with how many people are outraged at the Wuhan wet market (and I'll get to that later) and (Chinese) people eating bats and pangolins. Well fuckerama people, we sure do have a lot of judgment about what other people do, as we sit here gnawing on a pig's rib bone.

I saw an intelligent video posted by a FB friend on this one. My eyeballs usually roll up in my head when people post their preachy shit on this topic, but this woman isn't preachy. She made a conscious decision to stop eating animal products and it was a journey. I respect her this way, and find she conducts reasonable discourse on the topic. In case you want to watch it, here is the Facebook video from Earthling Ed.  I warn you that it lulls you into feeling all your humanity for humans, then drops some sad and disturbing images of mass-farming animal abuse. If it doesn't make you stop and consider why you are eating that BBQ rib, then you have no heart.

Disclaimer is that I am a meat-eater, so I'm not trying to convince you of anything. It would just make me feel I've accomplished something if even one person took the time to think about this. I try to be socially conscious of where my meat comes from, and I am deeply conflicted. I am conflicted because I am selfish and entitled and would feel deprived if I stopped eating the flesh of another animal. I will likely never be vegan, but I can choose to source the animals products I do consume with some sense of responsibility. Mass farming, mass dairy, mass anything that comes from animals ensures the misery of other living beings. I don't want to get all preachy, but it's hard not to. Eggs can come from happy chickens. Milk and cheese can come from happy cows. Honey can come from bees who are humanely kept and whose honey is taken with responsibility and care for the bees who made it. Meat can, in fact, come from an animal that is relatively humanely killed. I won't go into details since most people I know can't even eat meat that doesn't come in plastic wrap, let alone acknowledge it came from an actual live animal. I am willing to have a conversation about a more humane way to be carnivorous. The truth is, though -- it still requires that an animal die for us to eat them.

We eat too much meat in this country. We mass-produce living, breathing creatures to produce far more than they were ever designed to so that we can have the luxury of their meat and products. Everyone would be healthier and happier if we at least reduce our consumption. That brings me to entitlement, #2 on the moral outrage list.

2. People in various states, including my home state of California, protesting that their rights have been taken from them because of the stay at home and social distancing orders.

These are the same people who haven't said shit about the increased mortality among black people, who probably don't even know that the Navajo nation is being ravaged by this disease, or that the people who pick their produce are risking their lives to gather our food. These protesters are the same people who carry signs saying "My body, my choice" and well, I don't think I need to explain that one. If I do, leave me a comment and I will explain it to you.

With so much entitlement they seem incapable of seeing that they are the root of so many problems, including this one, apparently. I am sincerely angered by the shiny white faces with their signs, marching around demanding they get their God-given rights back.

You know that during the last 40 days or so, there hasn't been one school shooting? In a country that has had so many of this particular atrocity it has become practically normalized, I'm here to say: If the way we stop our children from being terrorized at their schools is by keeping people on Stay at Home orders, then by all means -- let's keep it up. We all know school shootings have been entirely perpetrated by white people and those are the people protesting. Keep 'em on lockdown, I don't give a shit.

On a more local level, I see some people calling themselves having quarantine parties. They have a special occasion and blur the lines enough that they figure having a few people over to celebrate is okay. The plausible deniability clause is that everyone has been in solitary confinement for two weeks, so it must be okay. Isn't that just a reset, because after the little party isn't everyone a potential carrier again? It's not okay to have moral outrage for a group of protestors if you're stepping over the line yourself. That's being just as selfish as the protestors are.

That said, these protestors seem to think us libtards are enjoying this. Let me assure we are not, but I'd like to believe we are generally behaving ourselves for the betterment of the community. The idea that we must never go without, be uncomfortable or otherwise sacrifice something for everyone else is just so.... American.

3. Chinese wet markets. Look, everyone in this country eating whatever animals parts we believe are more okay than others seems to have something to say about this. I admit that the idea of eating bats or pangolins or other exotic animals is appalling to me because I have a cultural bias. Let me further assure you that there are very few Chinese people eating those animals. Yeah, I don't want to hear about certain ethnic groups eating rats, cats, dogs and horses. Unless you tell me you're not eating meat, you don't get to judge. I have my limits, and bats, pangolins and seriously, octopus, are on my list of no-gos, but I cannot judge an entire group of people for one market. It would behoove the Chinese government to ban sales of these animals, I think, but then, it would behoove the U.S. to retighten our own restrictions and perhaps we shouldn't revere those disgusting trophy hunters who wantonly kill endangered animals in Africa either. Who is this pot calling the kettle black? 

Wet markets are, quite simply, farmer's markets -- see this Youtube for a reality check (and don't be scared off by the FOX news opener). Wet markets not only have animals and meat, they have eggs, dairy, fresh produce and things like fresh noodles and pickles, as well as fresh flowers. There are also dry markets, which as you may intelligently surmise, sell non-fresh products like spices, canned foods, and dried goods.

The Wuhan wet market is a bit unique, apparently, in that it is known for offering wild animals as well as the domestic meats that are more frequently seen on the kitchen table. This is not the norm.

While it is widely accepted that COVID19 originated from the Wuhan wet market, it is erroneous, dangerous and racist to condemn Chinese wet markets because of this. Americans are way too quick to make dangerous, sweeping generalities about other cultures when we usually don't even look at our own practices (see #1). We are a racist, individualistic society who too easily judge others. Our bloated, selfish, unbridled capitalism is as much at fault for the spread of this disease as anything else.

As my friend Piero wrote the other day, "Unregulated capitalism is the reason we are in this pandemic" and none of us are exempt from culpability to some extent or another.