When my cable provider switched over to digital last summer, I thought I’d never get used to a whole new channel lineup and an imposing remote with 59 buttons. Now I click up, down, left, right without even looking: 311 for MSNBC and 305 for CNN, or 221 for TV Land and 117 for Comedy Central (to escape the depressing effects of the first two).
However, even with the fancy gadgetry, I can still tape only one show at a time, which requires my actually remembering to leave the TV on the channel I want to record before I go to work. No DVR. No Tivo. Maybe Santa will surprise me this year. Ho ho ho.
My ritual is recording the final few minutes of Deal or No Deal, followed by Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! That’s Channel 11 here. Shouldn’t be too hard to forget. Same time, same channel, Monday through Friday, at least when I’m out, which is most weeknights. As I unwind, stretch, and get ready for bed, I love zipping through my shows.
On Wednesday, I got home around ten, changed into my fleece pajamas, fed Sophia and Sascha, and hit the rewind button, eagerly awaiting my nightly game-show fix. PLAY. The screen displayed a green-and-white announcement: Due to power outages in your area, there is no service on this channel at this time. We regret any inconvenience. New Hampshire Public TV, Channel 9.
Channel 9? No! I meant to leave it on Channel 11! FAST FORWARD. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was just a glitch. I continued to fast forward through what must’ve been a half-hour’s worth of the same green-and-white message. Was I expecting the channel to have changed itself while I was out? Kind of like when I thought my dust-spewing vacuum cleaner would’ve repaired itself after three untouched months in the closet?
Nope. No Deal or Wheel or Jeopardy! tonight. I felt bereft. The empty, sad, pit-of-the-stomach-type feeling that comes when you know that what you wished for simply will not happen. No matter how hard I pressed the button, no matter how hard I wanted it, it wasn’t meant to be.
I lingered in the feeling, trying to understand it. It felt familiar and utterly unwanted. In the space of three or four minutes, I’d gone from a sense of fun anticipation to frantic denial to mournful acceptance. Over TV. But it wasn’t the content of the loss, it was the feeling of being helpless to change the reality. There was nothing I could do. What’s done is done.
Three years ago, on a regular Sunday morning, I woke up and headed outside to retrieve my Boston Globe. I saw my kitty, Jolie, lying on the living room rug, all stretched out. “Allo, Jolia! Good morning!” I said. I stepped closer. She didn’t move. She’s sleeping, I thought. Funny. Usually she greets me, nuzzling, head-butting. I walked past her and bam, it hit me, a fierce punch in the stomach, a rush of adrenaline and nausea and truth.
No. No. It can’t be. I approached. Her eyes were fixed in a stare and her tongue slightly extended from her mouth. Next to her was some food she'd vomited. Maybe she was choking! Maybe I could revive her. I knelt beside her and touched her. Her body was cold. I tried to pry her mouth open to give her an airway. Her body was stiff. Untrained in CPR, I tried to apply kitty-size compressions to her calico chest, at regular intervals. I tried to blow in her mouth, very softly.
No, Jolie, no. I didn’t want to know, but I knew. And yet I didn’t. I called my vet and left a message for the on-call doc. After a few silent minutes, I called Angell Animal Hospital and said, “I think my cat might be dead!” I asked about kitty CPR. I asked about opening her airway. The woman listened and said quietly, “She’s gone.”
“But . . . how? How? She’s only five. She wasn’t sick!”
She said, very kindly, as did my own vet who called later, that sometimes cats die suddenly, same as people. Aneurysm, cardiac arrest, stroke, random act of God. She was gone.
Numbness followed and flooding tears and, slowly, acceptance. I still think of Jolie, every day. And I thought of her on Wednesday, when, unbidden and unwanted, missing my game shows, of all things, I felt that feeling in my gut that tells me I am helpless to change reality. No matter how mundane or profound.
Every day brings a new sadness, it seems—illnesses, diagnoses, in my family, among my friends, among my friends’ families. And every day brings another reminder of the only lesson that seems to make any sense, at least to me, at least today: Life happens. Death happens. Let go. And breathe.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Short 'n' Bittersweet
I’m headed to Connecticut in the morning for Uncle Addy’s 85th birthday party. It will be good to see family and friends, but I’m sad because Addy’s struggling with health problems. We will sing skit songs and eat good food and dance and laugh and hug and cry and cherish the time we have together.
And we need to laugh. So for this week I’m posting a short diary entry from the extraterrestrial world of fifth grade, Milton School, Rye, New York. All names have been changed to protect the formerly pubescent. I’ll be presenting a longer piece that includes this entry at MORTIFIED BOSTON on January 8, 2009. Check out www.getmortified.com. Details to come!
And we need to laugh. So for this week I’m posting a short diary entry from the extraterrestrial world of fifth grade, Milton School, Rye, New York. All names have been changed to protect the formerly pubescent. I’ll be presenting a longer piece that includes this entry at MORTIFIED BOSTON on January 8, 2009. Check out www.getmortified.com. Details to come!
January 6, 1965
Linda admitted that she loved Ricky. Vice versa. They said they’d kiss each other. Darn Ricky chickened out. What a double crosser. I called up Ricky and he said, Hello. I said, How could you? Now Linda hates your guts. He said, Good. I said, You love her, why don’t you kiss her? He said, Why don’t you hang up? I said, Make me. He said, Okay, I’ll hang up. I said, Go ahead, I don’t care. He did. I love him.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Flickering Innocence: JFK Remembered
It’s been 45 years since John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Today I reflect on that day with an essay that appeared in the (Westchester, NY) Journal News on November 22, 2003.
Memories and images of JFK and Camelot are everywhere as we anticipate a White House again filled with youth and “vig-ah,” hope and optimism, intellect and passion, and the brilliant smile of a brilliant man and his shining family.
I sat alone on the floor at the foot of my parents’ bed, staring up at the flickering black-and-white images. The TV was a 12-inch RCA with a green plastic exterior. I loved watching TV, but that Friday my stomach felt upside-down and inside-out. Everything felt different, as if things would never be the same.
November 22, 1963, was a special day for the fourth-grade class at Milton School in Rye, New York. Our teacher, Miss Drury, was getting married the next day and we were throwing a surprise party! Sally Lamb and I had collected nearly 14 dollars to buy a yellow-flowered casserole dish, which the white-haired saleslady wrapped in spangly gold paper.
Miss Drury never suspected a thing. We’d asked Mr. Rogers, the principal, to call her to his office. While she was gone, we brought out a cake and Hawaiian Punch and put the gift box on top of her big wooden desk so she’d see it right away. We were about to burst with excitement.
Clickety-click—here she comes! She entered, gasped, and broke into a smile shiny enough to light up the whole school. I thought she was beautiful—tall and thin, with short brown hair and dark eyes. She was 24. A real lady.
After the party, the girls jumped into our one-piece royal-blue gym uniforms. We were having square dancing and couldn’t wait! Something was funny, though, because Mr. Drago was just sitting on a stool, two fingers twisting the whistle around his neck, a real serious look on his face. He looked up and said softly, “The president was shot.”
“President Kennedy?”
“Yes. He was shot in Dallas, Texas. I just heard it on the radio.”
Nobody moved. More girls ran in squealing but quickly stopped when they heard the news. We went back to class, but the boys didn’t know yet. “Aw, neat!” said Eric Tillman, punching his right fist into his left palm. “Where’d he get shot?!”
Miss Drury told us to be quiet and pray. Sally Lamb sniffled and the boys thought that was pretty funny. Miss Drury dabbed her tears with a lacy handkerchief. No one knew what to do. The whole room felt eerie.
“Attention, attention, teachers and children,” Mr. Rogers announced over the P.A. “I have very sad news to tell you. President Kennedy just died. He was shot about an hour ago while driving in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. They are trying to find the person who killed him. You will be dismissed at 2:30. Right now, please come to the playground while we lower the flag to half-mast.”
At home, all I could do was watch TV. The flag-draped coffin rolling through Washington on an open carriage. The rhythmic beat of the snare drum tapping TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM ta TUM.
I was numb. Staring at the TV, hour after hour. Watching Jackie and Caroline kneel in the rotunda, hearing about the capture of that evil man Lee Harvey Oswald. The Texas School Book Depository. The policeman who got shot too. Suddenly nothing made sense. Suddenly scary things happened and you had to try to figure them out the best you could.
Then some man Jack Ruby walked up to Oswald in the jail—he just stepped through a crowd of people and shot him in the stomach! I watched that replay at least a million times—Oswald’s twisted face, the tall sheriff with the cowboy hat lunging after Ruby, the confusion, the shouting.
In 1960, I had shaken President Kennedy’s hand at a campaign rally! He was so tan and handsome, with gleaming eyes. On TV press conferences, he always smiled and told jokes and everyone laughed. His singsong accent sounded strange to my New York ears, but it had a comforting quality. Caroline had a pony named Macaroni. Jackie spoke in a whispery voice I tried to imitate. When my family had visited the White House in 1962, I remember wishing I could move in with the Kennedys. Bright colorful rooms full of dreams and hope.
Four days of watching the flickering black-and-white images of death. It’s as if they extended beyond the screen, into the space at the foot of my parents’ bed. Black-and-white clouds merging into muted gray, a grayness that would return on many days of tragedy to follow. A gray that, right then and there, surrounded my innocence and dimmed it forever.
Memories and images of JFK and Camelot are everywhere as we anticipate a White House again filled with youth and “vig-ah,” hope and optimism, intellect and passion, and the brilliant smile of a brilliant man and his shining family.
I sat alone on the floor at the foot of my parents’ bed, staring up at the flickering black-and-white images. The TV was a 12-inch RCA with a green plastic exterior. I loved watching TV, but that Friday my stomach felt upside-down and inside-out. Everything felt different, as if things would never be the same.
November 22, 1963, was a special day for the fourth-grade class at Milton School in Rye, New York. Our teacher, Miss Drury, was getting married the next day and we were throwing a surprise party! Sally Lamb and I had collected nearly 14 dollars to buy a yellow-flowered casserole dish, which the white-haired saleslady wrapped in spangly gold paper.
Miss Drury never suspected a thing. We’d asked Mr. Rogers, the principal, to call her to his office. While she was gone, we brought out a cake and Hawaiian Punch and put the gift box on top of her big wooden desk so she’d see it right away. We were about to burst with excitement.
Clickety-click—here she comes! She entered, gasped, and broke into a smile shiny enough to light up the whole school. I thought she was beautiful—tall and thin, with short brown hair and dark eyes. She was 24. A real lady.
After the party, the girls jumped into our one-piece royal-blue gym uniforms. We were having square dancing and couldn’t wait! Something was funny, though, because Mr. Drago was just sitting on a stool, two fingers twisting the whistle around his neck, a real serious look on his face. He looked up and said softly, “The president was shot.”
“President Kennedy?”
“Yes. He was shot in Dallas, Texas. I just heard it on the radio.”
Nobody moved. More girls ran in squealing but quickly stopped when they heard the news. We went back to class, but the boys didn’t know yet. “Aw, neat!” said Eric Tillman, punching his right fist into his left palm. “Where’d he get shot?!”
Miss Drury told us to be quiet and pray. Sally Lamb sniffled and the boys thought that was pretty funny. Miss Drury dabbed her tears with a lacy handkerchief. No one knew what to do. The whole room felt eerie.
“Attention, attention, teachers and children,” Mr. Rogers announced over the P.A. “I have very sad news to tell you. President Kennedy just died. He was shot about an hour ago while driving in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. They are trying to find the person who killed him. You will be dismissed at 2:30. Right now, please come to the playground while we lower the flag to half-mast.”
At home, all I could do was watch TV. The flag-draped coffin rolling through Washington on an open carriage. The rhythmic beat of the snare drum tapping TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM ta TUM.
I was numb. Staring at the TV, hour after hour. Watching Jackie and Caroline kneel in the rotunda, hearing about the capture of that evil man Lee Harvey Oswald. The Texas School Book Depository. The policeman who got shot too. Suddenly nothing made sense. Suddenly scary things happened and you had to try to figure them out the best you could.
Then some man Jack Ruby walked up to Oswald in the jail—he just stepped through a crowd of people and shot him in the stomach! I watched that replay at least a million times—Oswald’s twisted face, the tall sheriff with the cowboy hat lunging after Ruby, the confusion, the shouting.
In 1960, I had shaken President Kennedy’s hand at a campaign rally! He was so tan and handsome, with gleaming eyes. On TV press conferences, he always smiled and told jokes and everyone laughed. His singsong accent sounded strange to my New York ears, but it had a comforting quality. Caroline had a pony named Macaroni. Jackie spoke in a whispery voice I tried to imitate. When my family had visited the White House in 1962, I remember wishing I could move in with the Kennedys. Bright colorful rooms full of dreams and hope.
Four days of watching the flickering black-and-white images of death. It’s as if they extended beyond the screen, into the space at the foot of my parents’ bed. Black-and-white clouds merging into muted gray, a grayness that would return on many days of tragedy to follow. A gray that, right then and there, surrounded my innocence and dimmed it forever.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Bubble Wrap
I’ve only tried it once myself, but for years I’ve touted the stress-relieving benefits of bubble wrap. That’s the stuff that comes in sheets of transparent plastic, with rows and rows of air pockets designed to protect fragile items for shipping, like Swiss snow globes or crystal stemware or ceramic dogs. Handy little invention.
How satisfying it is to grab a square of the wrap and poke each bubble, one by one. Pop, pop. With minimal pressure, pressing both thumbs into the center of the circle, the trapped air releases. Ahh. It’s almost meditative. Press, pop, ahh. Press, pop, ahh.
For extreme mood states such as high anxiety or rage, bubble wrap can be placed on the floor for a healing round of toddler-esque stomping. Stomp, POP POP POP, AHH. It’s partly the physical effort and partly the accompanying sound effects that makes it so fulfilling.
In yoga class this morning, we explored the neck. Sitting with legs crossed, spine lengthened, arms gently on thighs, I lowered chin to chest. Very slowly, with awareness, extending only to my level of comfort, as instructed. Pop, pop, ahh. Raising and lowering, I felt tiny bubbles of tension release, audible only to me.
Next I turned my neck to the right, very slowly, with awareness. Pop, pop, ahh. Release. And to the left. The same. Now an infinity roll—tracing the shape of the infinity symbol, very slowly, with awareness, and then in reverse. Pockets of stress letting go, pop, pop, pop.
I don’t think about my neck too much. I should, because it’s ground zero for worry, fear, anxiety, even sadness and anger. With deeply embedded strata of muscle knots formed as a result of emotional holding and lousy computer posture, it will take more than a couple of neck rolls to achieve the fluid, loose movements my yoga teacher so easily demonstrates. But very slowly, with awareness, I’ll get there. Pop, pop, ahh.
On the ride home, Laura Carlo, the velvety-voiced morning host on Boston's WCRB classical radio, announced Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man. Oh, Laura. Can’t you please feed us more than your Top-40 menu? If it isn’t Fanfare, it’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice or Greensleeves or the ubiquitous Brandenburgs. Come on. We’re starving here.
But today, mellow and accepting post-yoga, I stopped myself from pounding the off button and relaxed. Timpani stomps. Boom, boom. Pure trumpet unison quartet inviting me in, I cranked the volume. Surrounded by brass harmony and counterpoint, the open fourths and fifths reverberating, I inhaled deeply and let go, steering with my left arm, conducting smooth, swirling waves with my right. Something released. Nothing physical, rather something nameless, almost spiritual. It was like my soul softened. I felt full and alive and happy.
Pop, pop, pop. Ahhhh.
How satisfying it is to grab a square of the wrap and poke each bubble, one by one. Pop, pop. With minimal pressure, pressing both thumbs into the center of the circle, the trapped air releases. Ahh. It’s almost meditative. Press, pop, ahh. Press, pop, ahh.
For extreme mood states such as high anxiety or rage, bubble wrap can be placed on the floor for a healing round of toddler-esque stomping. Stomp, POP POP POP, AHH. It’s partly the physical effort and partly the accompanying sound effects that makes it so fulfilling.
In yoga class this morning, we explored the neck. Sitting with legs crossed, spine lengthened, arms gently on thighs, I lowered chin to chest. Very slowly, with awareness, extending only to my level of comfort, as instructed. Pop, pop, ahh. Raising and lowering, I felt tiny bubbles of tension release, audible only to me.
Next I turned my neck to the right, very slowly, with awareness. Pop, pop, ahh. Release. And to the left. The same. Now an infinity roll—tracing the shape of the infinity symbol, very slowly, with awareness, and then in reverse. Pockets of stress letting go, pop, pop, pop.
I don’t think about my neck too much. I should, because it’s ground zero for worry, fear, anxiety, even sadness and anger. With deeply embedded strata of muscle knots formed as a result of emotional holding and lousy computer posture, it will take more than a couple of neck rolls to achieve the fluid, loose movements my yoga teacher so easily demonstrates. But very slowly, with awareness, I’ll get there. Pop, pop, ahh.
On the ride home, Laura Carlo, the velvety-voiced morning host on Boston's WCRB classical radio, announced Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man. Oh, Laura. Can’t you please feed us more than your Top-40 menu? If it isn’t Fanfare, it’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice or Greensleeves or the ubiquitous Brandenburgs. Come on. We’re starving here.
But today, mellow and accepting post-yoga, I stopped myself from pounding the off button and relaxed. Timpani stomps. Boom, boom. Pure trumpet unison quartet inviting me in, I cranked the volume. Surrounded by brass harmony and counterpoint, the open fourths and fifths reverberating, I inhaled deeply and let go, steering with my left arm, conducting smooth, swirling waves with my right. Something released. Nothing physical, rather something nameless, almost spiritual. It was like my soul softened. I felt full and alive and happy.
Pop, pop, pop. Ahhhh.
Friday, November 7, 2008
"Hope It Does Good"
March 15, 1965Shocking, isn't it? Despite my flagrant crush on Ricky Heidiger and my intermittent girl-feud with Cindy McCormick, I somehow put politics first on that ordinary fifth-grade day. LBJ, I hope you're listening up there, because it done did good, didn’t it?!
Dear Diary,
President Johnson is making a speech about voter registration. Hope it does good. Asked Ricky for his class picture and he said maybe! Got a cello and I might keep it. I don’t like Cindy. No reason but I just don’t like her.
Like everyone else, I’m overwhelmed with thoughts, feelings, images, and memories this week—trying to grasp the reality and implications of Obama’s historic victory. So many eloquent essays and reflections have flooded the papers and TV and Internet. Here are some moments and musings of my own, and some links to savor.
Share your favorites in Comments!
Wrapping Up
- On Tuesday, after voting, partly to stave off a massive anxiety attack, I went to another calling party and reached African-American voters in Richmond, Virginia, including one Clarence Wimbish, 82, a retired Marine, who had waited in line for two hours in the rain at 6 a.m., and Ruby Taylor, 88, who giddily told me, “Baby, we all voted today, the whole household! It’s history, baby, history! We will win!”
- As if my tears weren’t drown-worthy during the midnight speech from Grant Park, I was swept out into the sea of change when the Obamas and Bidens shared the stage—realizing that the black man was the top man, the leader, the one with more power; the black family was the first family, not the second. And tears of relief because McCain and Palin and Bush and Cheney, they're over, done, toast, irrelevant. Free at last!
- Wednesday morning, driving around Watertown for a half hour in search of a New York Times. All out! Finally found one at a convenience store on a side street run by two Nepalese men who shared their joy and hope for America and the world. Everyone on the street was smiling—a sense of community far richer and a lot more fun than a Red Sox World Series win! Or two.
- How's Hillary?
- Who will fill Obama’s and Biden’s Senate seats? And if a governor makes the appointments, will Caribou Barbie appoint herself once Stevens is tossed? Can you see Hillary and Sarah on a committee together?
- How is it that people can take two years off from their jobs to apply for another job and not get fired?
- Will he say “Barack Hussein Obama” at the swearing-in?
- How will Sasha and Malia fare? I’m happy and sad for them. But I think they’re in good hands. Stay safe, kids. Stay real, if you can.
- That Rahm Israel Emanuel is one hunky dude.
- Did you see Obama's first press conference? JFK reincarnated. Energy, intellect, gravitas, humor, strength, actual full grammatical sentences! And that smile! Swoon.
- Is there a little girl writing in her diary this week, hoping the election of our first African-American president does good? I want to hug her and hold her tight and tell her it will. It can. It already has.
- Barack Obama on The Daily Show, 10/29: So how does the Bradley Effect work if you're biracial?
- The View on Wednesday morning—especially Whoopi Goldberg’s opening remarks.
- Oprah’s Post-Election Special, with a stirring panel discussion, including David Gergen, Henry Louis Gates, Jr., John Lewis, Gloria Steinem, and Peggy Noonan.
- Harry Smith interviews Maya Angelou, who recites “I Rise” on The Early Show.
- “Song of Purple Summer,” a hopeful anthem from the soon-to-be-departing-from-Broadway-oh-no-my-life-is-over Spring Awakening.
- Judith Warner’s powerful essay, “Tears to Remember,” on the 11/7 NYT blog.
- The Pointer Sisters perform “Yes We Can” on Soul Train, 1973!
Friday, October 31, 2008
Moving On
By Thursday, I was 90 percent vocally normal post-tonsillectomy, so I was excited to attend another MoveOn.org Call for Obama party.
I love calling parties—schmoozing with smart, likeminded people, and feeling useful. I enjoy talking to voters in states that count, unlike Marxist Massachusetts. And the free munchies are a bonus. Yay, Democrats for Fruit Plates and Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies. Plus you never know what single, straight, available liberal man might show up.
MoveOn parties are open to anyone. You just click some buttons and pick a destination from a list of local hosts—some have politically correct warnings like “we have two dogs, one cat, and serve peanuts” or “three steps up, no other access.” Sometimes I’ll choose the closest one, sometimes I’ll venture farther to the one with the best title, such as “Obamarama.”
Once you click the “Yes, I’ll be there” button, you get the host’s name (usually first only), street address, and time. I confess to paranoia on behalf of these people who post their address on the Internet for all to see—come on over, we don’t prescreen. If I opened my home to total strangers, the first thing I’d do is hide any medications. I’ve been working with drug addicts for years, and they’re awfully creative.
Last night, Carol and Paul opened their beautiful hillside Victorian to a group of about 15 strangers, mostly middle-aged, some experienced callers, some not. We reviewed the call script and got down to it. I got three lists of 14 first names, all living in Ohio. Folks on the list are MoveOn members—the goal is to sign them up to volunteer this weekend at their local campaign office.
Carol and Paul had ample space for the group to spread out, so I staked out my turf at a small round table at the end of a full-length granite-topped kitchen island. Cellphone charged and ready to go, I began pressing buttons.
A man picked up and I asked for Marjorie. He said it was Trick or Treat night and she was at the door, passing out candy. One night early? Turns out they have town football on Friday nights. Must not be an Orthodox Jewish enclave, I'd gather. “We’ve got a ghost and a Barbie and a soldier in camouflage here,” he said, “but I’ll get my wife. She’s a witch. I mean, she’s not a witch, she’s dressed as a witch.” Marjorie the Witch said she’s canvassing for Obama this weekend. You go, Marjorie.
Mostly I got machines, or people who were already volunteering. One confided he was calling for MoveOn but had to keep it a secret from his neighbors. Not only is the area non-Jewish but it’s heavily Republican.
I caught some snippets from the kitchen alcove—the caller was a nice-looking guy in his forties (wedding ring, oh well). “Oh, you’re getting married this weekend? Well, good luck to you! But don’t forget to vote on Tuesday.” Or, “Oh, you’re loading your moving van right now? Well, have you voted yet? No? And you’re moving two hours away? Make sure you go back and vote on Tuesday.” Not everything stops for the election. Life goes on.
After a break for some crudités and candy corn, I dialed another number. Someone with a deep voice answered and I asked for Brittany. “This is Brittany,” the person replied. “Umm, it is?” “Yes.” Uh huh. Something’s off. Maybe he doesn’t want Brittany to come to the phone, but maybe Brittany has a bad cold. I pressed on.
“This is Debbie, I’m a volunteer with MoveOn.org and we’re reaching out to members in your area to work at the local office this weekend talking to voters. Are you available to help Obama get elected?” At which point, Brittany said, slowly and very deliberately, “We don’t work for niggers.”
I felt an instant wave of heat and anger, but I quickly said, “I see. Thank you for your time,” and hung up. Whoa. Deep breath. No, do not engage with a racist. He just wanted to shock me. Let it be. I debriefed with the others, who were supportive.
On my last call, I reached Sirhan. Sirhan was young and cheerful and not only agreed to volunteer on Saturday but knew exactly where the Democratic headquarters were. “Thanks for your help,” I said. "Have fun!" “Thank you for all you do,” he answered.
Come Tuesday, and it can’t come soon enough, I’ll be thinking of you, Sirhan, my evening’s success. You’re one of the 8,724 swing-state volunteers we recruited for this weekend, according to MoveOn.
And I’ll be thinking of you, too, Brittany, because if the polls and the mood of this country are true, you, my dear, will wake up on Wednesday to a new reality, and you will have to deal, like it or not, with President Barack Obama.
It’s time to move on, Brittany. The world is changing. At last.
I love calling parties—schmoozing with smart, likeminded people, and feeling useful. I enjoy talking to voters in states that count, unlike Marxist Massachusetts. And the free munchies are a bonus. Yay, Democrats for Fruit Plates and Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies. Plus you never know what single, straight, available liberal man might show up.
MoveOn parties are open to anyone. You just click some buttons and pick a destination from a list of local hosts—some have politically correct warnings like “we have two dogs, one cat, and serve peanuts” or “three steps up, no other access.” Sometimes I’ll choose the closest one, sometimes I’ll venture farther to the one with the best title, such as “Obamarama.”
Once you click the “Yes, I’ll be there” button, you get the host’s name (usually first only), street address, and time. I confess to paranoia on behalf of these people who post their address on the Internet for all to see—come on over, we don’t prescreen. If I opened my home to total strangers, the first thing I’d do is hide any medications. I’ve been working with drug addicts for years, and they’re awfully creative.
Last night, Carol and Paul opened their beautiful hillside Victorian to a group of about 15 strangers, mostly middle-aged, some experienced callers, some not. We reviewed the call script and got down to it. I got three lists of 14 first names, all living in Ohio. Folks on the list are MoveOn members—the goal is to sign them up to volunteer this weekend at their local campaign office.
Carol and Paul had ample space for the group to spread out, so I staked out my turf at a small round table at the end of a full-length granite-topped kitchen island. Cellphone charged and ready to go, I began pressing buttons.
A man picked up and I asked for Marjorie. He said it was Trick or Treat night and she was at the door, passing out candy. One night early? Turns out they have town football on Friday nights. Must not be an Orthodox Jewish enclave, I'd gather. “We’ve got a ghost and a Barbie and a soldier in camouflage here,” he said, “but I’ll get my wife. She’s a witch. I mean, she’s not a witch, she’s dressed as a witch.” Marjorie the Witch said she’s canvassing for Obama this weekend. You go, Marjorie.
Mostly I got machines, or people who were already volunteering. One confided he was calling for MoveOn but had to keep it a secret from his neighbors. Not only is the area non-Jewish but it’s heavily Republican.
I caught some snippets from the kitchen alcove—the caller was a nice-looking guy in his forties (wedding ring, oh well). “Oh, you’re getting married this weekend? Well, good luck to you! But don’t forget to vote on Tuesday.” Or, “Oh, you’re loading your moving van right now? Well, have you voted yet? No? And you’re moving two hours away? Make sure you go back and vote on Tuesday.” Not everything stops for the election. Life goes on.
After a break for some crudités and candy corn, I dialed another number. Someone with a deep voice answered and I asked for Brittany. “This is Brittany,” the person replied. “Umm, it is?” “Yes.” Uh huh. Something’s off. Maybe he doesn’t want Brittany to come to the phone, but maybe Brittany has a bad cold. I pressed on.
“This is Debbie, I’m a volunteer with MoveOn.org and we’re reaching out to members in your area to work at the local office this weekend talking to voters. Are you available to help Obama get elected?” At which point, Brittany said, slowly and very deliberately, “We don’t work for niggers.”
I felt an instant wave of heat and anger, but I quickly said, “I see. Thank you for your time,” and hung up. Whoa. Deep breath. No, do not engage with a racist. He just wanted to shock me. Let it be. I debriefed with the others, who were supportive.
On my last call, I reached Sirhan. Sirhan was young and cheerful and not only agreed to volunteer on Saturday but knew exactly where the Democratic headquarters were. “Thanks for your help,” I said. "Have fun!" “Thank you for all you do,” he answered.
Come Tuesday, and it can’t come soon enough, I’ll be thinking of you, Sirhan, my evening’s success. You’re one of the 8,724 swing-state volunteers we recruited for this weekend, according to MoveOn.
And I’ll be thinking of you, too, Brittany, because if the polls and the mood of this country are true, you, my dear, will wake up on Wednesday to a new reality, and you will have to deal, like it or not, with President Barack Obama.
It’s time to move on, Brittany. The world is changing. At last.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Small Bites
I munched a banana yesterday. It wasn’t easy, but with a little angling and careful nibbling, it went down, so I count it as solid food—the first since October 7.
In celebration of that milestone, I offer some tidbits to munch on this week, from a bedroom mystery solved to tales of the bar-tailed godwit, and some random musings in-between.
Fall Foliage
For a couple of weeks now, I’ve noticed tiny, crisp, dark flakes, almost like miniature leaves, scattered at the head of my bed. I’ve been sweeping them off the sheets with curiosity, half-heartedly pondering their source and purpose, but not committing myself to a full-scale investigation. Must be the cats. Must be something I trailed in when I grabbed my Boston Globe from the front stoop wearing only my socks. But they reappeared every day.
I looked up at the ceiling. Nothing. I shook my bed pillows for leakage. Nothing. I wondered if dandruff could somehow transform from white to black as a result of chronic insomnia or the aftereffects of general anesthesia.
I took a deep breath and examined the cats—dreading the discovery of some exotic scourge lurking in their fur. Nothing.
After a triumphant night’s sleep, my head cleared yesterday enough to identify the culprit. Since the surgery, I’ve been sleeping propped up with a crescent-shaped, neck-conforming pillow behind my head. I lifted the flap on its underside and spotted a minuscule opening at the zipper. Shake-shake. Buckwheat! I zipped it tight.
I’m so glad it’s not the plague.
Amazon's Kindle
Nothing says "you’re not completely well" like watching daytime TV. But I gave myself permission to watch Oprah yesterday and got sucked in to her frenetic and passionate pitch for Amazon’s new gadget, Kindle, which I’d heard about but hadn’t fully grasped.
It’s a handheld device onto which you can download newspapers and books, entire books, hundreds or (with extra memory) thousands of books, for an average of $9.99 each. I was enthralled and horrified. What will happen to libraries? How will this affect book deals? I want to hold my book when I sell it, grab its cover, turn its pages.
Then again, how amazing would it be to create your own portable library? Pretty cool. It costs $359, way out of my league. But if you’re in a different league, you can get one for $50 off through November 1 by going to amazon.com and entering the special coupon code OPRAHWINFREY.
I guess there’s some redemption in daytime TV after all.
Fish Wrapping
After reading James Carroll’s column in Monday’s Globe, "Courage, wisdom in an age of fear," about the threat of violence against Barack Obama, I wrote a letter to the editor. The editor called two hours after I hit "send" to verify my name and confirm that my letter was exclusive to them. Yup. No guarantees, but cool.
Around 3:30 a.m. Wednesday, tossing and turning as usual, I went online to see if the morning edition was up. There it was! As a writer, it’s always nice to see one’s words in print. Except they had changed one phrase, politicizing my point in a way I wouldn’t have intended and purposely avoided. My thoughts swirled. Oh no! Oh well. I’ll write them. What’s the point? Did they distort the meaning? Not that much. I like my phrase better, I chose my words carefully. In the last paragraph, I had written "For Obama himself to say it aloud, Yes, there is risk in a risky world, is an empowering act...." Shh. Relax. Let go. It’s only a letter to the editor.
But they changed it to "For Obama himself to say it aloud in referring to the shouts of the crowd at McCain-Palin rallies is an empowering act...." Ugh! Ptooey! Political and klunky. I’ve had my stuff edited before, cut, condensed, altered without attribution. But this just stuck in my newly opened throat.
Ah well, you know what they say, today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish wrapping, right? No more. Now it’s online for eternity, including on my Google search. Shh. Relax. Save your moral indignation for the important things, like Sarah Palin’s Saks spree or those idiot racist rants about Obama and his grandmother.
Click here to read the letter.
It’s Saturday now. I’m over it.
Winged Migration
Sticking with the Globe theme, I cringed my way through the usual murders, rapes, deaths, and economic horror stories over soft dinner last night. Out of the misery and doom leapt an article with the lead, "The bar-tailed godwit, a plump shorebird with a recurved bill, has blown the record for nonstop, muscle-powered flight right out of the sky."
I was hooked.
Here’s the scoop. Scientists implanted transmitters in 23 birds and tracked their annual migration from Alaska to New Zealand. The godwits flew 7,242-miles in five to nine days nonstop. They could rest and refuel by taking a longer route with land stops but that option is risky and inefficient. What power of nature guides these creatures to make the choices they do?
Check it out here.
I’ve been searching for new role models lately—models of fortitude, goal-directed action, stamina, perseverance, self-abnegation, transcendence.
Thank you, bar-tailed godwits. I love you guys.
In celebration of that milestone, I offer some tidbits to munch on this week, from a bedroom mystery solved to tales of the bar-tailed godwit, and some random musings in-between.
Fall Foliage
For a couple of weeks now, I’ve noticed tiny, crisp, dark flakes, almost like miniature leaves, scattered at the head of my bed. I’ve been sweeping them off the sheets with curiosity, half-heartedly pondering their source and purpose, but not committing myself to a full-scale investigation. Must be the cats. Must be something I trailed in when I grabbed my Boston Globe from the front stoop wearing only my socks. But they reappeared every day.
I looked up at the ceiling. Nothing. I shook my bed pillows for leakage. Nothing. I wondered if dandruff could somehow transform from white to black as a result of chronic insomnia or the aftereffects of general anesthesia.
I took a deep breath and examined the cats—dreading the discovery of some exotic scourge lurking in their fur. Nothing.
After a triumphant night’s sleep, my head cleared yesterday enough to identify the culprit. Since the surgery, I’ve been sleeping propped up with a crescent-shaped, neck-conforming pillow behind my head. I lifted the flap on its underside and spotted a minuscule opening at the zipper. Shake-shake. Buckwheat! I zipped it tight.
I’m so glad it’s not the plague.
Amazon's Kindle
Nothing says "you’re not completely well" like watching daytime TV. But I gave myself permission to watch Oprah yesterday and got sucked in to her frenetic and passionate pitch for Amazon’s new gadget, Kindle, which I’d heard about but hadn’t fully grasped.
It’s a handheld device onto which you can download newspapers and books, entire books, hundreds or (with extra memory) thousands of books, for an average of $9.99 each. I was enthralled and horrified. What will happen to libraries? How will this affect book deals? I want to hold my book when I sell it, grab its cover, turn its pages.
Then again, how amazing would it be to create your own portable library? Pretty cool. It costs $359, way out of my league. But if you’re in a different league, you can get one for $50 off through November 1 by going to amazon.com and entering the special coupon code OPRAHWINFREY.
I guess there’s some redemption in daytime TV after all.
Fish Wrapping
After reading James Carroll’s column in Monday’s Globe, "Courage, wisdom in an age of fear," about the threat of violence against Barack Obama, I wrote a letter to the editor. The editor called two hours after I hit "send" to verify my name and confirm that my letter was exclusive to them. Yup. No guarantees, but cool.
Around 3:30 a.m. Wednesday, tossing and turning as usual, I went online to see if the morning edition was up. There it was! As a writer, it’s always nice to see one’s words in print. Except they had changed one phrase, politicizing my point in a way I wouldn’t have intended and purposely avoided. My thoughts swirled. Oh no! Oh well. I’ll write them. What’s the point? Did they distort the meaning? Not that much. I like my phrase better, I chose my words carefully. In the last paragraph, I had written "For Obama himself to say it aloud, Yes, there is risk in a risky world, is an empowering act...." Shh. Relax. Let go. It’s only a letter to the editor.
But they changed it to "For Obama himself to say it aloud in referring to the shouts of the crowd at McCain-Palin rallies is an empowering act...." Ugh! Ptooey! Political and klunky. I’ve had my stuff edited before, cut, condensed, altered without attribution. But this just stuck in my newly opened throat.
Ah well, you know what they say, today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish wrapping, right? No more. Now it’s online for eternity, including on my Google search. Shh. Relax. Save your moral indignation for the important things, like Sarah Palin’s Saks spree or those idiot racist rants about Obama and his grandmother.
Click here to read the letter.
It’s Saturday now. I’m over it.
Winged Migration
Sticking with the Globe theme, I cringed my way through the usual murders, rapes, deaths, and economic horror stories over soft dinner last night. Out of the misery and doom leapt an article with the lead, "The bar-tailed godwit, a plump shorebird with a recurved bill, has blown the record for nonstop, muscle-powered flight right out of the sky."
I was hooked.
Here’s the scoop. Scientists implanted transmitters in 23 birds and tracked their annual migration from Alaska to New Zealand. The godwits flew 7,242-miles in five to nine days nonstop. They could rest and refuel by taking a longer route with land stops but that option is risky and inefficient. What power of nature guides these creatures to make the choices they do?
Check it out here.
I’ve been searching for new role models lately—models of fortitude, goal-directed action, stamina, perseverance, self-abnegation, transcendence.
Thank you, bar-tailed godwits. I love you guys.
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