Even though I was raised as a good Episcopalian, I have always considered myself more spiritual than religious. While I appreciate the pomp and pageantry of a high Episcopalian service or the beauty of finding a new embellishment in the Washington Cathedral that I have never noticed before, I find myself more attuned to all of the beauty being the praise to God, rather than the words that are spoken. As such, over the years I have pursued spirituality in a variety of formats. I have found commonality amongst all of the religions and spiritual practices I have learned about. I figured out that the Bible is just one form of imparting life's important lessons. The message can come in a variety of packages.
One of the first spirituality lessons I learned was about being Present. I was living in New York and discovered a small group of disciples who came together for a weekly class. The first time I went, the lesson was on being present. The teacher talked to us about how we often carried on a conversation with ourselves, inside our heads. He differentiated this from just plain thinking. Instead, it is random thoughts, "what ifs", thoughts that take you away from the present. He told us that the lesson was to learn how to be in the here and now, experiencing what is before you.
Our homework for the week was to practice being more present, to pay attention to your surroundings, and to stop having that conversation in your head. It was interesting to hear how people had found various ways to stay present. My favorite was one person who said he started counting how many people he passed on the sidewalk with sneakers on. I wasn't that creative, but found that over the course of the week, I began to notice places I hadn't seen before. I observed people. I observed my surroundings. And I can say that the world looked different to me. It had a vibrancy and a pulse that I seemed to have been missing.
On a subsequent week, our lesson was about taking action. We had no idea what this meant, but the teacher promised us that it would tie together with the concepts of being present and stopping that conversation that goes on in your head. He didn't give us very much instruction, which was frustrating for most of us. We knew he had been intentional about that. He abruptly told us to pair off and then engage each other in a conversation about what it means to "take action". After about 10 minutes of discussion, he brought us back together to share our experience with each other.
The most fascinating thing that came out of our experience was that there was one woman who ended up without a partner when we paired off; we apparently were an odd number. She shared that she spent the first few minutes having a conversation in her head. She was wondering why she was the only one who didn't have a partner. Was there something wrong with her? Why hadn't anyone picked her? She was wondering why this had happened to her and not anyone else. After a few minutes, the teacher went over to her and offered to be her partner for the exercise. But the real lesson was that if she had taken some action, i.e. had gone straight to the teacher and said that she didn't have a partner, she would have saved herself from having that conversation in her head. She wouldn't have been starting to feel bad and raising imaginary doubts because she had not immediately found a partner. If she had stayed in the present, she would have resolved the problem immediately.
The last important lesson that was taught was about listening. If you are fully present, you are giving the person talking 100% of your attention. It is very easy to go off into your own thoughts (that conversation inside your head again), anticipating how you are going to respond to someone's comment or thinking about an experience you may have had that was similar, maybe even a question. If you are doing those things, you aren't listening; you are not present. The teacher also taught us that when you have a question or don't understand something during the course of a conversation, careful listening will often reveal the answer; have some patience and see if the answer comes.
Those powerful lessons never left me. It doesn't mean I don't have times when I am caught up in one of those silly conversations inside my head. But now I can quell that conversation and bring myself back to the present. The listening trick really works if you practice it. And I try not to let my brain go wild with doubts, fears, and other dark thoughts. I try to find a way to take some action to move forward. It has helped me finally start to learn how to quiet my mind and to experience the benefits of restorative yoga and meditation.
Being more present allows me to observe many of the beautiful things that life has to offer: the butterfly taking nectar from my zinnias on this beautiful fall day; the turning leaves; a beautiful sunset or a full moon. It shows when you are present, even changes how people react to you. People notice you, smile at you, speak to you.
I am struck by how many people are no longer really present. I wrote this for those who are walking down the street with their heads buried in their i-Phone, to those who have nearly been run over because they were texting while crossing the street, oblivious to traffic; for those who leave their phone on 24/7 and respond in the middle of the night; to those that hold multiple conversations while talking on their cellphone; to those that ride the subway with their music blasting so loud in their earbuds that they are unaware of their surroundings; to those whose fingers are on the "on" button on their cellphone before the plane hits the ground; to those that text while driving...they're not being present. They are missing out on the world around them, that human-to-human, face-to-face, touch-to-touch experience, the things that are really important in life. In some cases, they are even endangering themselves and others.
Our digital age and our grueling schedules don't leave us much time to experience and explore that inner peace and deep understanding of what life is all about. So, slow down, take a deep breath and try being a little more present. If someone you love or care about is too attached to their digital toys, see if you can slow them down a little, too. You'll be pleasantly surprised. Something good might even come of it...
Monday, October 17, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
A Day of Remembrance
It has been a while since I have posted a blog entry. I've been inspired, but not motivated enough to come to this place of catharsis (why else would you start a blog?). I decided to write a new post this morning, in remembrance of 9/11.
I was telecommuting, thank God, that day. I was up early and was already deep into my work when my sister called me and told me to turn on the television. We stayed on the phone as I turned on the tv and together, we watched in horror as the 2nd plane hit the second World Trade Tower. By then, we were riveted to the television and to each other on the phone. For over two hours, we watched in disbelief as the world around us changed, both nearby and not too far north of us.
It was unnerving to see people running out of the White House in panic. We always thought, mistakenly, that the White House was capable of defending itself pretty well. Being only 11 blocks away from the White House made me suddenly feel much more vulnerable; even more so when the news reported that fighter jets had just been launched from Andrews Air Force Base and then I heard them fly overhead. This was unprecedented. I wasn't sure if it made me feel any safer or if it made me feel closer to the action.
As horrible as the crash into the Pentagon was, for some reason, the World Trade Tower crashes were what lingered in my mind. The horror of watching people leap to their deaths rather than be consumed by fire was a vision that just wouldn't leave me...it sill hasn't. Then seeing the towers collapse was another vision that sent a sickening feeling through me. I couldn't stop thinking about all of the people who had been trapped in the towers. What would I have done if I had been there? What would those final moments have been like? Would I have been one of the lucky ones who had bucked the advice and left instead of staying put in my office? Seeing the dazed people walking around in the aftermath gave me a good idea of what it might have been like.
The reality of the Pentagon crash hit me the first time I ventured across the 14th Street bridge. You couldn't get a really good view of it from that perspective, but it finally hit me...what had really happened. The Pentagon, our symbolic bastion of strength and might had been violated, spat upon. It would have been bad enough it if had been a terrible plane accident...something not totally unexpected given the approach to National Airport. But to think that this had been planned and done on purpose was so hard to fathom. When I finally got to a place where I could see a better view of the gaping hole in the Pentagon, my thoughts again went to those that perished inside. They could have never imagined that such a thing would ever happen. I hoped that it went quickly for those that died...that it happened in such a flash that they didn't have time to realize what was happening. I also imagined what it must have been like to be on the highway that morning, and seeing the plane actually crash. I feel for all of those who witnessed that up close and personal view. I am sure their memories are much more intense than mine...a distant bystander.
I can't forget Flight 93. It was the one headed straight for D.C. and our biggest threat. That was what prompted the fighter jets. It brought me back to the thought of how close I lived to the White House; what it must feel like to be in a war torn country; wondering whether our air defense was a good as they said it was. As some of the information came out about this last crash, my thoughts went to the brave passengers and their heroism. Even patriotism, for clearly their thought was that if they were going to die anyway, they might as well prevent other innocent people from dying. I felt for all of the passengers on all of the flights that day. I knew that at some point they realized that their death was imminent and I hoped that their final moments of terror were short-lived.
This was contrasted by the shameful, though not intentional, fear shown by President Bush when he finally came on the airwaves. I couldn't believe that our Commander-in-Chief couldn't get himself together enough to not look so shaken. It didn't instill any confidence that we were safe or that we had someone in charge who was capable of keeping us safe. Thus started a new world order post-9/11.
My first trip to National Airport after it re-opened was a quick hop to New York on the shuttle. It was eerie to walk through the airport, nearly devoid of passengers and stores shuttered. Everyone was quiet, like there was a hush over the aiport. I felt comfortable flying because I knew that there was an air marshall on board. I didn't even try to check out the passengers to see if I could figure out which one was going to be our in-flight protection. I think I didn't really want to know. And I took the pre-boarding announcement to heart and made sure I took a trip to the ladies room before boarding, since we weren't going to be allowed out of our seats. Flying into New York and seeing the missing Trade Towers made my heart sink yet again. The changed skyline was my reminder of how many unsuspecting people lost their lives that day, in a most horrific manner.
Ten years later, I abhor what it has done to us. All of the barriers around our monuments are a constant reminder. Removing my shoes and remembering to not wear an underwire bra when I fly has become de rigeur. It is no longer an enjoyable experience to fly and I have been avoiding it as much as possible. And I am not sure that all of these measures make me feel any safer. I tend to lean toward those who see this as more "theater" than effective action. I resent the fact that I may have to choose between a virtual strip experience and a pat-down. I have decided to go for the pat-down, if I must. Somehow, the idea of being x-rayed and viewed just about au naturel by TSA agents seems like the ultimate violation. The pat-down is only a slight improvement.
I still don't think we have the real answers to the issue of terrorism. If there are people so hateful and hell-bent on destruction, I am not sure we can realistically find and capture all of them. I applaud President Obama for finishing off the job that Bush couldn't complete, and killing Bin Laden. But again, I assume all this has done is foment some future plot. I think the answer lies in our intelligence communiity. And for us to become better educated on who is really threatening us. I have not succumbed to looking at everyone who is middle eastern, muslim or dressed in arab garb as a threat. Nor do I ever want to stoop that low. Americans are supposed to be better than that. I live in hope that we can find a better way to screen people than making everyone feel like a criminal until proven otherwise. There's got to be a better way.
So, in spirit, I send my condolences to all that felt the impact of 9/11. Ten years later, we are still going through the grieving and the healing process. May each day get better for all of us.
9/11/11
I was telecommuting, thank God, that day. I was up early and was already deep into my work when my sister called me and told me to turn on the television. We stayed on the phone as I turned on the tv and together, we watched in horror as the 2nd plane hit the second World Trade Tower. By then, we were riveted to the television and to each other on the phone. For over two hours, we watched in disbelief as the world around us changed, both nearby and not too far north of us.
It was unnerving to see people running out of the White House in panic. We always thought, mistakenly, that the White House was capable of defending itself pretty well. Being only 11 blocks away from the White House made me suddenly feel much more vulnerable; even more so when the news reported that fighter jets had just been launched from Andrews Air Force Base and then I heard them fly overhead. This was unprecedented. I wasn't sure if it made me feel any safer or if it made me feel closer to the action.
As horrible as the crash into the Pentagon was, for some reason, the World Trade Tower crashes were what lingered in my mind. The horror of watching people leap to their deaths rather than be consumed by fire was a vision that just wouldn't leave me...it sill hasn't. Then seeing the towers collapse was another vision that sent a sickening feeling through me. I couldn't stop thinking about all of the people who had been trapped in the towers. What would I have done if I had been there? What would those final moments have been like? Would I have been one of the lucky ones who had bucked the advice and left instead of staying put in my office? Seeing the dazed people walking around in the aftermath gave me a good idea of what it might have been like.
The reality of the Pentagon crash hit me the first time I ventured across the 14th Street bridge. You couldn't get a really good view of it from that perspective, but it finally hit me...what had really happened. The Pentagon, our symbolic bastion of strength and might had been violated, spat upon. It would have been bad enough it if had been a terrible plane accident...something not totally unexpected given the approach to National Airport. But to think that this had been planned and done on purpose was so hard to fathom. When I finally got to a place where I could see a better view of the gaping hole in the Pentagon, my thoughts again went to those that perished inside. They could have never imagined that such a thing would ever happen. I hoped that it went quickly for those that died...that it happened in such a flash that they didn't have time to realize what was happening. I also imagined what it must have been like to be on the highway that morning, and seeing the plane actually crash. I feel for all of those who witnessed that up close and personal view. I am sure their memories are much more intense than mine...a distant bystander.
I can't forget Flight 93. It was the one headed straight for D.C. and our biggest threat. That was what prompted the fighter jets. It brought me back to the thought of how close I lived to the White House; what it must feel like to be in a war torn country; wondering whether our air defense was a good as they said it was. As some of the information came out about this last crash, my thoughts went to the brave passengers and their heroism. Even patriotism, for clearly their thought was that if they were going to die anyway, they might as well prevent other innocent people from dying. I felt for all of the passengers on all of the flights that day. I knew that at some point they realized that their death was imminent and I hoped that their final moments of terror were short-lived.
This was contrasted by the shameful, though not intentional, fear shown by President Bush when he finally came on the airwaves. I couldn't believe that our Commander-in-Chief couldn't get himself together enough to not look so shaken. It didn't instill any confidence that we were safe or that we had someone in charge who was capable of keeping us safe. Thus started a new world order post-9/11.
My first trip to National Airport after it re-opened was a quick hop to New York on the shuttle. It was eerie to walk through the airport, nearly devoid of passengers and stores shuttered. Everyone was quiet, like there was a hush over the aiport. I felt comfortable flying because I knew that there was an air marshall on board. I didn't even try to check out the passengers to see if I could figure out which one was going to be our in-flight protection. I think I didn't really want to know. And I took the pre-boarding announcement to heart and made sure I took a trip to the ladies room before boarding, since we weren't going to be allowed out of our seats. Flying into New York and seeing the missing Trade Towers made my heart sink yet again. The changed skyline was my reminder of how many unsuspecting people lost their lives that day, in a most horrific manner.
Ten years later, I abhor what it has done to us. All of the barriers around our monuments are a constant reminder. Removing my shoes and remembering to not wear an underwire bra when I fly has become de rigeur. It is no longer an enjoyable experience to fly and I have been avoiding it as much as possible. And I am not sure that all of these measures make me feel any safer. I tend to lean toward those who see this as more "theater" than effective action. I resent the fact that I may have to choose between a virtual strip experience and a pat-down. I have decided to go for the pat-down, if I must. Somehow, the idea of being x-rayed and viewed just about au naturel by TSA agents seems like the ultimate violation. The pat-down is only a slight improvement.
I still don't think we have the real answers to the issue of terrorism. If there are people so hateful and hell-bent on destruction, I am not sure we can realistically find and capture all of them. I applaud President Obama for finishing off the job that Bush couldn't complete, and killing Bin Laden. But again, I assume all this has done is foment some future plot. I think the answer lies in our intelligence communiity. And for us to become better educated on who is really threatening us. I have not succumbed to looking at everyone who is middle eastern, muslim or dressed in arab garb as a threat. Nor do I ever want to stoop that low. Americans are supposed to be better than that. I live in hope that we can find a better way to screen people than making everyone feel like a criminal until proven otherwise. There's got to be a better way.
So, in spirit, I send my condolences to all that felt the impact of 9/11. Ten years later, we are still going through the grieving and the healing process. May each day get better for all of us.
9/11/11
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Rudy
This is a story of how we, as humans, choose to interact with one another; how we can show compassion toward another being; and how we can be touched by the simplest things.
Many years ago, close to 15 years by now, I would regulary see a man in my work neighborhood who clearly had serious mental issues. He would walk down the street, sometimes with a shirt on and sometimes without, screaming and cursing. His eyes would look wild, his hair was unkempt, and his ranting would make you want to cross to the other, seemingly safer, side of the street. On some days, he was a lot calmer...still unkempt, but not so scary that he couldn't beg change off of the people he passed on the street.
I patiently observed this man for many months. I would often see the police harrass him, sometimes making his ranting worse, and giving his ranting a subject (as opposed to screaming at the air in front of him). None of the ranting made any sense, and I began to notice that he never really ranted at anyone (other than the police), just to the air. I wasn't brave enough to make eye contact, but I saw seemingly normal people giving him money. I even saw a woman sit down with the crazy man and have a conversation with him. I think that was my turning point.
The next time I saw the man, I gave him a quarter. To my surpise, he was very polite and thanked me. On days I didn't have any spare change, he didn't seem to mind. He never got mad. He just continued to work his way down the street. I learned that he had "regulars" that gave him money. And I started to see him every day. Spare change eventually worked its way up to a dollar. Finally, one day, I found myself sitting with him one day, actually having a real conversation. That's when this man became a little something more than just a crazy person you generally avoid or limit your exposure to.
This first conversation was pretty simple, consisting of normal pleasantries (how are you? isn't it a nice day? and other simple things). But eventually we formally introduced ourselves and he was no longer nameless. His name is Rudy. While you can't hold a conversation with him for too long...he has a limited attention span...I learned that Rudy is an intense baseball fan. In fact, he loves most sports. I learned that he lives in a group home in the near suburbs and commutes downtown every day. I learned that he used to own a trucking business, and was apparently successful before he lost his mind. He can't remember my name, but he can remember that I vacation on Martha's Vineyard. He recognizes my car. And he knew exactly where I worked and which garage I parked my car in everyday. I eventually understood that he was relatively OK if he was on his medication. The ranting and raving came when he didn't take his meds. He has a memory like a steel trap. So, when I promised to get him a Washington Nationals t-shirt, he worried me every day he saw me until I finally produced the shirt.
One evening after work, I was pulling my car out of the garage and into traffic. It was a beautiful summer day and I had the convertible top down. As soon as I pulled into the stream of traffic, I saw (or rather heard) Rudy coming down the sidewalk...one of his ranting days. He saw my car and made a beeline for it. I got my dollar out for him, but suddenly thought, "will all of these drivers seeing this crazy man walking toward my car be worried that I am about to be attacked?" At that point, I couldn't worry about it. To my surprise, as soon as Rudy got to the car, his screaming stopped long enough for him to pluck the dollar from my hands and say thank you. As soon as he turned his back and headed back toward the sidewalk, he resumed his angry ranting to whatever imaginary instigator he was seeing in his mind's eye.
Rudy began to grow on me and I actually missed him on days I didn't see him. Eventually, when I left my job, I said my goodbyes to Rudy, but promised to keep an eye out for him whenever I was in the area. I could also keep tabs on Rudy because the day porter at my former office knew him and I would get periodic reports from my former colleagues. A couple of years ago in the late fall, I bumped into Rudy and he told me he didn't have a winter coat. He was not one to let the weather stop him, unless it was torrential rain. I didn't really have the extra cash, but I made a trip to a discount coat store and bought him the warmest winter coat I could find. I left the coat with the day porter at my old office, as I knew he saw Rudy daily and would be sure that he got his new coat. It warmed my heart the next time I saw Rudy, with that winter coat on. And he was not shy about thanking me for it. I had to laugh the following spring, when Rudy sent a message to me, via the day porter, that the zipper broke on his winter coat and that he needed me to get him a new one.
Now, if too many months go by and Rudy doesn't see me, he will ask the day porter where I am. This happened not too long ago. Rudy's patterns have changed a little over the years. So, he is not always around at the times I am in the area. But a few weeks ago, I was running an early morning errand and saw Rudy that morning. I saw him before he saw me. But I wasn't prepared for his response. When he looked up and saw me, his eyes lit up and his usually serious countenance broke into a big grin. Rudy never smiles. We almost always have the same conversation. He reassured me that he still has his room at the group home. He told me that one of his housemates had promised to give him a shave...yes, Rudy knows when he is unkempt, though it may take several more months before he actually gets that shave. He told me about where he's been hanging out during the day. But then he turned the conversation to asking all about me: where I've been, where I'm working, what I'm doing. It was like bumping into any old friend that you haven't seen for a while.
Rudy can't hold a conversation for more than about five to ten minutes. What really touched me was when it was time to say goodbye. One of the things that I learned over the years with Rudy was that his mental illness prevents him from getting close to people. It's a two-way street because you still have a little voice inside of you telling you that you're dealing with an unpredictable crazy person and that you should keep your distance, even though I am no longer afraid of Rudy...haven't been for many years now. For most people, an encounter with an old friend might end with an embrace. But for someone with a severe mental illness, this level of closeness..to actually embrace another human being... is usually not a possibility.
So, when Rudy very tentatively held out his hand, I instinctively reached out my hand to meet his. It was our "hug". It was our acknowledgement of a long-standing friendship, though perhaps not a traditional one. I was amazed that such a simple human act...that moment of touching, which most would take for granted, took on such a deep meaning that I am sure both of us felt. That one small moment of touching, a big deal for Rudy, was immediately felt by my heart and put a smile on my face for the rest of that day. It is my lesson in how the simple act of compassion, the sharing of love on a human level can touch our lives and better our lives in the most profound way.
Many years ago, close to 15 years by now, I would regulary see a man in my work neighborhood who clearly had serious mental issues. He would walk down the street, sometimes with a shirt on and sometimes without, screaming and cursing. His eyes would look wild, his hair was unkempt, and his ranting would make you want to cross to the other, seemingly safer, side of the street. On some days, he was a lot calmer...still unkempt, but not so scary that he couldn't beg change off of the people he passed on the street.
I patiently observed this man for many months. I would often see the police harrass him, sometimes making his ranting worse, and giving his ranting a subject (as opposed to screaming at the air in front of him). None of the ranting made any sense, and I began to notice that he never really ranted at anyone (other than the police), just to the air. I wasn't brave enough to make eye contact, but I saw seemingly normal people giving him money. I even saw a woman sit down with the crazy man and have a conversation with him. I think that was my turning point.
The next time I saw the man, I gave him a quarter. To my surpise, he was very polite and thanked me. On days I didn't have any spare change, he didn't seem to mind. He never got mad. He just continued to work his way down the street. I learned that he had "regulars" that gave him money. And I started to see him every day. Spare change eventually worked its way up to a dollar. Finally, one day, I found myself sitting with him one day, actually having a real conversation. That's when this man became a little something more than just a crazy person you generally avoid or limit your exposure to.
This first conversation was pretty simple, consisting of normal pleasantries (how are you? isn't it a nice day? and other simple things). But eventually we formally introduced ourselves and he was no longer nameless. His name is Rudy. While you can't hold a conversation with him for too long...he has a limited attention span...I learned that Rudy is an intense baseball fan. In fact, he loves most sports. I learned that he lives in a group home in the near suburbs and commutes downtown every day. I learned that he used to own a trucking business, and was apparently successful before he lost his mind. He can't remember my name, but he can remember that I vacation on Martha's Vineyard. He recognizes my car. And he knew exactly where I worked and which garage I parked my car in everyday. I eventually understood that he was relatively OK if he was on his medication. The ranting and raving came when he didn't take his meds. He has a memory like a steel trap. So, when I promised to get him a Washington Nationals t-shirt, he worried me every day he saw me until I finally produced the shirt.
One evening after work, I was pulling my car out of the garage and into traffic. It was a beautiful summer day and I had the convertible top down. As soon as I pulled into the stream of traffic, I saw (or rather heard) Rudy coming down the sidewalk...one of his ranting days. He saw my car and made a beeline for it. I got my dollar out for him, but suddenly thought, "will all of these drivers seeing this crazy man walking toward my car be worried that I am about to be attacked?" At that point, I couldn't worry about it. To my surprise, as soon as Rudy got to the car, his screaming stopped long enough for him to pluck the dollar from my hands and say thank you. As soon as he turned his back and headed back toward the sidewalk, he resumed his angry ranting to whatever imaginary instigator he was seeing in his mind's eye.
Rudy began to grow on me and I actually missed him on days I didn't see him. Eventually, when I left my job, I said my goodbyes to Rudy, but promised to keep an eye out for him whenever I was in the area. I could also keep tabs on Rudy because the day porter at my former office knew him and I would get periodic reports from my former colleagues. A couple of years ago in the late fall, I bumped into Rudy and he told me he didn't have a winter coat. He was not one to let the weather stop him, unless it was torrential rain. I didn't really have the extra cash, but I made a trip to a discount coat store and bought him the warmest winter coat I could find. I left the coat with the day porter at my old office, as I knew he saw Rudy daily and would be sure that he got his new coat. It warmed my heart the next time I saw Rudy, with that winter coat on. And he was not shy about thanking me for it. I had to laugh the following spring, when Rudy sent a message to me, via the day porter, that the zipper broke on his winter coat and that he needed me to get him a new one.
Now, if too many months go by and Rudy doesn't see me, he will ask the day porter where I am. This happened not too long ago. Rudy's patterns have changed a little over the years. So, he is not always around at the times I am in the area. But a few weeks ago, I was running an early morning errand and saw Rudy that morning. I saw him before he saw me. But I wasn't prepared for his response. When he looked up and saw me, his eyes lit up and his usually serious countenance broke into a big grin. Rudy never smiles. We almost always have the same conversation. He reassured me that he still has his room at the group home. He told me that one of his housemates had promised to give him a shave...yes, Rudy knows when he is unkempt, though it may take several more months before he actually gets that shave. He told me about where he's been hanging out during the day. But then he turned the conversation to asking all about me: where I've been, where I'm working, what I'm doing. It was like bumping into any old friend that you haven't seen for a while.
Rudy can't hold a conversation for more than about five to ten minutes. What really touched me was when it was time to say goodbye. One of the things that I learned over the years with Rudy was that his mental illness prevents him from getting close to people. It's a two-way street because you still have a little voice inside of you telling you that you're dealing with an unpredictable crazy person and that you should keep your distance, even though I am no longer afraid of Rudy...haven't been for many years now. For most people, an encounter with an old friend might end with an embrace. But for someone with a severe mental illness, this level of closeness..to actually embrace another human being... is usually not a possibility.
So, when Rudy very tentatively held out his hand, I instinctively reached out my hand to meet his. It was our "hug". It was our acknowledgement of a long-standing friendship, though perhaps not a traditional one. I was amazed that such a simple human act...that moment of touching, which most would take for granted, took on such a deep meaning that I am sure both of us felt. That one small moment of touching, a big deal for Rudy, was immediately felt by my heart and put a smile on my face for the rest of that day. It is my lesson in how the simple act of compassion, the sharing of love on a human level can touch our lives and better our lives in the most profound way.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
A Francophile for Life
I have often reflected on how I became a Francophile. I wonder if it happened in my mother's womb; some kind of imprint that was already there at birth. I was told a story that my father named me. I was supposed to be a boy, and surprised everyone. I may have gone for a few days before a name actually was figured out. All I know is that I have two French names. And, my father's name was French as well (or at least spelled in the French way). So, I think it was in the blood.
As I child, my family nicknamed me DeeDee. I never liked it. And no one outside of my immediately family ever called me by the nickname. Somehow, it didn't fit. I don't even know why they came up with it. I have always thought that nicknames should be reserved for people with difficult or really long names. So, I am glad the nickname never stuck. I prefer my real name...it goes with my francophile tendencies.
French classes in my private school started in the 4th grade. I don't really remember being impressed or necessarily enamoured with speaking French. But I didn't mind it either. Latin became a second language in 7th grade, but it wasn't anything that I wanted to continue. It was an easy choice to make in 9th grade to continue on with French as my foreign language.
At the age of twelve, I taught myself how to cook. I started out with my mother's World War II cookbook...pretty basic recipes. It was something to do during the summer and I kind of enjoyed it. But what really hooked me was watching an episode of Julia Child's cooking program. She was so much fun to watch, and the food looked so good, I was inspired to go out and get myself my first french cookbook. It is a collection of recipe cards, simple dishes, that I still have today. And I became a faithful viewer of Julia's program.
Of course, the next step was developing the palate for french food. If you're going to cook it, you have to know what it tastes like. So, starting with my 13th birthday, I began to make the tour of some of the best french restaurants that DC had at the time. I have a souvenir menu from one of the memorable meals. It was classic french food at its best. It became a birthday tradition to go out for fine French food.
Then came the year in school that I had the best and most formidable French teacher. She was demanding, but was fascinating at the same time. She was a real feminist, fiercely independent in thought, and very modern. Around the same time, I met a boy who was half Senegalese and half French. I had a serious crush on him, but alas, it was not to come to fruition. However, he did turn me on to a French tutor. What an adventure that became.
My tutor was the daughter of the President of the International Monetary Fund. A chauffeur-driven limo would pick me up from school once a week on our lesson day, and deposit me at the very luxe-deluxe home for my lesson. In cold weather, we would descend to the basement and have our lessons there...all the while smoking Gitanes. In warmer weather, we would sit out in the garden by the pool, reading French poetry and just talking. My biggest surprise came when one day, I arrived to find that my tutor was not available, but "maman" would take her place. Of course, with her mother, it was much more formal. But I enjoyed a glass of homemade French limonade and the lesson went fine. It was a great way to perfect my French language skills.
By my senior year in high school, I was ready for the big-time, AP French class, with the same formidable French teacher. I had read classics in French, French novels, French history. This final year was much more intense, with philosophy (Camus and Satre) thrown in and the necessity to talk about it intelligently en francais. It was a really hard class. However, I can say that the education was so good that I literally "think" in French. It is hard to translate because I never learned the language that way.
I was feeling my oats by then. So, instead of the normal kind of high school date, I had a couple of select friends (my boyfriend and another couple) who I deemed were sophisticated enough to appreciate it. I would invite them over for dinner and whip out my best French cuisine, a la Julia. My mother was really cool and would allow us to have a bottle of wine. (I still believe that teaching me to drink at an early age made me a responsible drinker as an adult. I never had the desire to binge drink or the silly things that kids do today.). And my mother would stay upstairs for the evening and give us run of the main floor. A cozy fire in the fireplace and some good jazz would set the mood.
Then when I set off for college, I chose Montreal. The French was different there, and I made the adjustment. But I also lived in the English-speaking district. French was only a necessity in certain parts of the city or out in the countryside. Never-the-less, it still kept me connected to the language and a French (though not the original) culture. After college, I had few opportunities to use my French. I thought it was lost.
Fast forward to 1999. I am invited on a dream vacation to St. Tropez. All I have to do is get myself there. What was waiting on the other end was a fabulous villa overlooking the Mediterranean. Every indulgence was available and supplied. I was in heaven. But...I was petrified when I first stepped off the plane and had to wait for someone for a couple of hours in the airport. I didn't talk to anyone. The first challenge was figuring out the toll booths. Forget exact change...I hadn't figured out the money yet. So, luckily I could figure out which lane was the one to get into so we could just hand over a bill and hope that we got the right amount of change back. I was the only one in our group who spoke French. So, the housekeeper who came every morning depended on me to tell her what everyone needed. Even though I was struggling for the words, she kept me talking, eventually moving on to get-to-know-you questions. She knew what she was doing, and after a few days, miraculously the language started coming out of my mouth. Every once in a while, I'd miss a word, but I could usually say enough to have someone figure it out.
I subsequently visited Paris, St. Martin, and a whirlwind tour that ranged from Marseille, Arles, Avignon, Lyon, Macon, to Aix-en-Provence, as well as many other spots in-between. Each time I have been in France, I feel more connected. I was brave enough to plan an excursion for my 50th birthday. I picked up a convertible at the airport in Nice, and travelled to a little town west of St. Tropez, to enjoy my maisonette overlooking the Mediterranean. The season had just ended. So, it was a quiet time to explore the markets, eat some fabulous meals, and just kick back and soak it in. Of course, every morning would require a trip to the bakery for fresh croissants and a baguette for the day.
Everyone asks me why I don't want to go to Italy or to Spain, or England. It's not that those places are not on my list, but I haven't finished France yet. I still need to see the Chateaux of the Loire Valley. I need to see Normandy and Mont St. Michel. I need to check out Alsace and the Atlantic Coast. And finally, venture into the Alps. The south always calls me back, particularly the red rocks of the L'Esterel region. I can't seem to go to France now without dipping my feet in the sea, like a pilgrimage.
Maybe I am trying to find myself. Find the place that resonates for me. Someplace maybe I was, in a previous life. I have met such wonderful French friends. And now I know my way around a little bit, which increases the comfort level. My fantasy is to own a small villa on the coast, just east of St. Tropez. There is something about the color of the water that seems unique. And to wake up to croissants and cafe au lait every morning is my idea of heaven. The fish, the olive oil, the lavender fields, the history, the character are calling to me.
I know many people believe that the French are not friendly. I have found them to be warm and welcoming, except for a couple of exceptions (metro and post office). Last year, I found a French family staying in my neighborhood on an 3-month sabbatical. We became fast friends and it was a perfect way to practice my French. I am most proud of making Cassoulet for my new friends and their family (from the region that Cassoulet originates from!). It was an evening where more French than English was spoken. We drank a lot of good wine. And, best of all, I received the highest compliments on my meal...very special coming from someone French.
I am proud of my Francophile tendencies...no matter where they came from. It's enriched my life in so many ways. And, if I can find a way to run away to France, to my little villa...the door will always be open to my friends and family. Happy to share a little slice of paradise.
As I child, my family nicknamed me DeeDee. I never liked it. And no one outside of my immediately family ever called me by the nickname. Somehow, it didn't fit. I don't even know why they came up with it. I have always thought that nicknames should be reserved for people with difficult or really long names. So, I am glad the nickname never stuck. I prefer my real name...it goes with my francophile tendencies.
French classes in my private school started in the 4th grade. I don't really remember being impressed or necessarily enamoured with speaking French. But I didn't mind it either. Latin became a second language in 7th grade, but it wasn't anything that I wanted to continue. It was an easy choice to make in 9th grade to continue on with French as my foreign language.
At the age of twelve, I taught myself how to cook. I started out with my mother's World War II cookbook...pretty basic recipes. It was something to do during the summer and I kind of enjoyed it. But what really hooked me was watching an episode of Julia Child's cooking program. She was so much fun to watch, and the food looked so good, I was inspired to go out and get myself my first french cookbook. It is a collection of recipe cards, simple dishes, that I still have today. And I became a faithful viewer of Julia's program.
Of course, the next step was developing the palate for french food. If you're going to cook it, you have to know what it tastes like. So, starting with my 13th birthday, I began to make the tour of some of the best french restaurants that DC had at the time. I have a souvenir menu from one of the memorable meals. It was classic french food at its best. It became a birthday tradition to go out for fine French food.
Then came the year in school that I had the best and most formidable French teacher. She was demanding, but was fascinating at the same time. She was a real feminist, fiercely independent in thought, and very modern. Around the same time, I met a boy who was half Senegalese and half French. I had a serious crush on him, but alas, it was not to come to fruition. However, he did turn me on to a French tutor. What an adventure that became.
My tutor was the daughter of the President of the International Monetary Fund. A chauffeur-driven limo would pick me up from school once a week on our lesson day, and deposit me at the very luxe-deluxe home for my lesson. In cold weather, we would descend to the basement and have our lessons there...all the while smoking Gitanes. In warmer weather, we would sit out in the garden by the pool, reading French poetry and just talking. My biggest surprise came when one day, I arrived to find that my tutor was not available, but "maman" would take her place. Of course, with her mother, it was much more formal. But I enjoyed a glass of homemade French limonade and the lesson went fine. It was a great way to perfect my French language skills.
By my senior year in high school, I was ready for the big-time, AP French class, with the same formidable French teacher. I had read classics in French, French novels, French history. This final year was much more intense, with philosophy (Camus and Satre) thrown in and the necessity to talk about it intelligently en francais. It was a really hard class. However, I can say that the education was so good that I literally "think" in French. It is hard to translate because I never learned the language that way.
I was feeling my oats by then. So, instead of the normal kind of high school date, I had a couple of select friends (my boyfriend and another couple) who I deemed were sophisticated enough to appreciate it. I would invite them over for dinner and whip out my best French cuisine, a la Julia. My mother was really cool and would allow us to have a bottle of wine. (I still believe that teaching me to drink at an early age made me a responsible drinker as an adult. I never had the desire to binge drink or the silly things that kids do today.). And my mother would stay upstairs for the evening and give us run of the main floor. A cozy fire in the fireplace and some good jazz would set the mood.
Then when I set off for college, I chose Montreal. The French was different there, and I made the adjustment. But I also lived in the English-speaking district. French was only a necessity in certain parts of the city or out in the countryside. Never-the-less, it still kept me connected to the language and a French (though not the original) culture. After college, I had few opportunities to use my French. I thought it was lost.
Fast forward to 1999. I am invited on a dream vacation to St. Tropez. All I have to do is get myself there. What was waiting on the other end was a fabulous villa overlooking the Mediterranean. Every indulgence was available and supplied. I was in heaven. But...I was petrified when I first stepped off the plane and had to wait for someone for a couple of hours in the airport. I didn't talk to anyone. The first challenge was figuring out the toll booths. Forget exact change...I hadn't figured out the money yet. So, luckily I could figure out which lane was the one to get into so we could just hand over a bill and hope that we got the right amount of change back. I was the only one in our group who spoke French. So, the housekeeper who came every morning depended on me to tell her what everyone needed. Even though I was struggling for the words, she kept me talking, eventually moving on to get-to-know-you questions. She knew what she was doing, and after a few days, miraculously the language started coming out of my mouth. Every once in a while, I'd miss a word, but I could usually say enough to have someone figure it out.
I subsequently visited Paris, St. Martin, and a whirlwind tour that ranged from Marseille, Arles, Avignon, Lyon, Macon, to Aix-en-Provence, as well as many other spots in-between. Each time I have been in France, I feel more connected. I was brave enough to plan an excursion for my 50th birthday. I picked up a convertible at the airport in Nice, and travelled to a little town west of St. Tropez, to enjoy my maisonette overlooking the Mediterranean. The season had just ended. So, it was a quiet time to explore the markets, eat some fabulous meals, and just kick back and soak it in. Of course, every morning would require a trip to the bakery for fresh croissants and a baguette for the day.
Everyone asks me why I don't want to go to Italy or to Spain, or England. It's not that those places are not on my list, but I haven't finished France yet. I still need to see the Chateaux of the Loire Valley. I need to see Normandy and Mont St. Michel. I need to check out Alsace and the Atlantic Coast. And finally, venture into the Alps. The south always calls me back, particularly the red rocks of the L'Esterel region. I can't seem to go to France now without dipping my feet in the sea, like a pilgrimage.
Maybe I am trying to find myself. Find the place that resonates for me. Someplace maybe I was, in a previous life. I have met such wonderful French friends. And now I know my way around a little bit, which increases the comfort level. My fantasy is to own a small villa on the coast, just east of St. Tropez. There is something about the color of the water that seems unique. And to wake up to croissants and cafe au lait every morning is my idea of heaven. The fish, the olive oil, the lavender fields, the history, the character are calling to me.
I know many people believe that the French are not friendly. I have found them to be warm and welcoming, except for a couple of exceptions (metro and post office). Last year, I found a French family staying in my neighborhood on an 3-month sabbatical. We became fast friends and it was a perfect way to practice my French. I am most proud of making Cassoulet for my new friends and their family (from the region that Cassoulet originates from!). It was an evening where more French than English was spoken. We drank a lot of good wine. And, best of all, I received the highest compliments on my meal...very special coming from someone French.
I am proud of my Francophile tendencies...no matter where they came from. It's enriched my life in so many ways. And, if I can find a way to run away to France, to my little villa...the door will always be open to my friends and family. Happy to share a little slice of paradise.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Losing our Literacy
As we increase our use of the internet, opening up a new world of information for all, I am deeply disturbed by a growing trend. The title of this blog entry uses the word "literacy" to describe the state of our education (or lack therof) in two particular areas: geography and grammar. I am beginning to wonder if, in these days of meeting the mark through standardized testing in our schools, we are losing some basic skills along the way. In this fast moving world of i-phones and apps, i-pads and laptops, I wonder why we are not becoming more literate instead of going in the other direction.
My first pet peeve regards geography. As a D.C. native, I grew up learning how the city was laid out using a logical grid system. The Capitol is the center of everything, with the city divided into four quadrants. The streets radiate out from the Capitol either alphabetically or numerically. The only thing that throws a monkey-wrench into all of this order is the layout of the avenues, which run diagonally. I think this is pretty logical. And what I tell visitors to this capital city is that if they get lost, find an intersection of a number street and an alphabetical street, and they should be able to guage where they are in the city.
I wonder how many people know the difference between the words "Capitol" and "capital". Since this is about literacy, I actually went online and looked up both to make sure that I had it right. For those who don't remember the difference, the Capitol is reserved for the actual building. Its synonym encompasses all of the other definitions of the word.
My real pet peeve comes when I have to provide my address to a live telephone operator, like when you are ordering something by mail order or even something as important as ordering checks. I happen to live on an alphabetical street, "S" street. For those of you who know Washington, you know that our alphabetical system starts with the letters of the alphabet and then moves on to two-syllable names, three-syllable, names, and then flower streets. Of course, there are a few exceptions thrown in. For example, there is no "Z" street and there are some anomolies such as Park Road or, of course, the avenues, which are named after states.
When I give my address, I specifically state that the street name is the letter "S". Invariably, the phone operator will read it back to me as "South" street. Sometimes I am gentle, and other times I am annoyed when I indicate that I did not say South, that I said the letter "S". It became even more vexing when it came to ordering checks. Apparently, the check company's computers will automatically convert my street name to the abbreviation for South, an "S" with a period after it. So, I am forced to talk with a live operator every time I order checks, instead of being able to use an automated system. What a pain!
You may ask why this really matters in the big scheme of things. For one, there actually is a South Street in Washington. I have never been on it, but it exists somewhere in Georgetown. What is even more puzzling is that the people who program the computers won't acknowledge this. Instead of changing the program to NOT put a period after the letter, thus turning my street name into an abbreviation, I am forced to function as an exception to the rule. I assume that those who live on N, W, or E Street also have this problem. We are a pretty good-size city. I don't understand, as the nation's capital, why we can't get the respect that we deserve and why we have this seemingly universal problem in the 21st century.
When I was in school, geography was one of our required courses. Not only did we learn about our own city, we learned about cities, states, the nation, and other countries. In my household, we subscribed to National Geographic magazine. It brought the world's geography alive in fascinating articles and spectacular photography. I still have the National Geographic globe that my father gave me when I was 9 years old. I know it is now out of date, and that the world has changed significantly. I wonder how many children now have globes. Even more troubling is that most of us as adults, myself included, don't seem to have a good way of keeping up with the ever-changing shift in world politics and new countries that have emerged. I know I could not name all of the current countries in Africa. And I would probably be hard-pressed to point out exactly where Uzbekistan is on the map. If you asked the average American some basic questions about geography, my bet is that most would draw a blank.
Grammar is another pet peeve. I recently gave up my daily subscription to the Washinton Post. Most of this was due to delivery issues, but I also was disturbed to see more and more grammatical errors. For example, I remember reading a headline that used the word "clambering" when they really meant "clamoring". How can an editor miss such a blatant error in a headline? I have also read run-on sentences, and sentences without verbs. As an avid reader, there is something wrong if I have to go back and re-read a paragraph or a sentence to understand what the author is saying. I am not a journalist, but I assume that most journalists have an extensive education in English. You can't write a good story unless you are literate. This should be a basic requirement.
Another example is how people will use the preposition "on" with the words "today", "yesterday", or "tomorrow". I find this particularly annoying. The word "mine" has suddenly sprouted an "s" on the end of it, in some people's vocabulary. I recently was listening to someone giving city council testimony. This was a person with a master's degree. His major grammatical faux pas was to say "drug through the mud" as opposed to "dragged". He also confused objective and subjective personal pronouns. I know this is a common mistake. I sometimes have to stop myself and break down the sentence to remember whether I need to use "I" or "me". Apparently, many people have never learned this simple trick. It says a lot about the state of our education if someone with an advanced degree does not know these things.
Maybe I am a snob, having been a product of a superior education. I don't mean to be. I think that every American should learn these things in school. In the world that now relies so heavily on the computer, maybe someone should think up some computer games that kids would play that teach them geography and grammar. If they were fun to play, maybe kids would actually use them. I also wonder how we compare to other countries in the world. Are other citizens just as lacking?
Several years ago, I read a book on Ebonics. It not only described this emerging language among African American youth, it also described a phenomenom that showed that students actually wanted to appear less intelligent so as to be more popular. This stretched across economic lines and included more affluent and educated African American students. Our educators and our education policymakers need to take a step back and look at what we really are, or are not, teaching our children. Literacy goes far beyond what is taught to secure good test results. We need to make sure we are giving our young people the tools to enjoy learning and to understand that there is no shame in being literate. Learning is a lifelong process that doesn't always occur in the classroom.
My first pet peeve regards geography. As a D.C. native, I grew up learning how the city was laid out using a logical grid system. The Capitol is the center of everything, with the city divided into four quadrants. The streets radiate out from the Capitol either alphabetically or numerically. The only thing that throws a monkey-wrench into all of this order is the layout of the avenues, which run diagonally. I think this is pretty logical. And what I tell visitors to this capital city is that if they get lost, find an intersection of a number street and an alphabetical street, and they should be able to guage where they are in the city.
I wonder how many people know the difference between the words "Capitol" and "capital". Since this is about literacy, I actually went online and looked up both to make sure that I had it right. For those who don't remember the difference, the Capitol is reserved for the actual building. Its synonym encompasses all of the other definitions of the word.
My real pet peeve comes when I have to provide my address to a live telephone operator, like when you are ordering something by mail order or even something as important as ordering checks. I happen to live on an alphabetical street, "S" street. For those of you who know Washington, you know that our alphabetical system starts with the letters of the alphabet and then moves on to two-syllable names, three-syllable, names, and then flower streets. Of course, there are a few exceptions thrown in. For example, there is no "Z" street and there are some anomolies such as Park Road or, of course, the avenues, which are named after states.
When I give my address, I specifically state that the street name is the letter "S". Invariably, the phone operator will read it back to me as "South" street. Sometimes I am gentle, and other times I am annoyed when I indicate that I did not say South, that I said the letter "S". It became even more vexing when it came to ordering checks. Apparently, the check company's computers will automatically convert my street name to the abbreviation for South, an "S" with a period after it. So, I am forced to talk with a live operator every time I order checks, instead of being able to use an automated system. What a pain!
You may ask why this really matters in the big scheme of things. For one, there actually is a South Street in Washington. I have never been on it, but it exists somewhere in Georgetown. What is even more puzzling is that the people who program the computers won't acknowledge this. Instead of changing the program to NOT put a period after the letter, thus turning my street name into an abbreviation, I am forced to function as an exception to the rule. I assume that those who live on N, W, or E Street also have this problem. We are a pretty good-size city. I don't understand, as the nation's capital, why we can't get the respect that we deserve and why we have this seemingly universal problem in the 21st century.
When I was in school, geography was one of our required courses. Not only did we learn about our own city, we learned about cities, states, the nation, and other countries. In my household, we subscribed to National Geographic magazine. It brought the world's geography alive in fascinating articles and spectacular photography. I still have the National Geographic globe that my father gave me when I was 9 years old. I know it is now out of date, and that the world has changed significantly. I wonder how many children now have globes. Even more troubling is that most of us as adults, myself included, don't seem to have a good way of keeping up with the ever-changing shift in world politics and new countries that have emerged. I know I could not name all of the current countries in Africa. And I would probably be hard-pressed to point out exactly where Uzbekistan is on the map. If you asked the average American some basic questions about geography, my bet is that most would draw a blank.
Grammar is another pet peeve. I recently gave up my daily subscription to the Washinton Post. Most of this was due to delivery issues, but I also was disturbed to see more and more grammatical errors. For example, I remember reading a headline that used the word "clambering" when they really meant "clamoring". How can an editor miss such a blatant error in a headline? I have also read run-on sentences, and sentences without verbs. As an avid reader, there is something wrong if I have to go back and re-read a paragraph or a sentence to understand what the author is saying. I am not a journalist, but I assume that most journalists have an extensive education in English. You can't write a good story unless you are literate. This should be a basic requirement.
Another example is how people will use the preposition "on" with the words "today", "yesterday", or "tomorrow". I find this particularly annoying. The word "mine" has suddenly sprouted an "s" on the end of it, in some people's vocabulary. I recently was listening to someone giving city council testimony. This was a person with a master's degree. His major grammatical faux pas was to say "drug through the mud" as opposed to "dragged". He also confused objective and subjective personal pronouns. I know this is a common mistake. I sometimes have to stop myself and break down the sentence to remember whether I need to use "I" or "me". Apparently, many people have never learned this simple trick. It says a lot about the state of our education if someone with an advanced degree does not know these things.
Maybe I am a snob, having been a product of a superior education. I don't mean to be. I think that every American should learn these things in school. In the world that now relies so heavily on the computer, maybe someone should think up some computer games that kids would play that teach them geography and grammar. If they were fun to play, maybe kids would actually use them. I also wonder how we compare to other countries in the world. Are other citizens just as lacking?
Several years ago, I read a book on Ebonics. It not only described this emerging language among African American youth, it also described a phenomenom that showed that students actually wanted to appear less intelligent so as to be more popular. This stretched across economic lines and included more affluent and educated African American students. Our educators and our education policymakers need to take a step back and look at what we really are, or are not, teaching our children. Literacy goes far beyond what is taught to secure good test results. We need to make sure we are giving our young people the tools to enjoy learning and to understand that there is no shame in being literate. Learning is a lifelong process that doesn't always occur in the classroom.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Free Love in the 1970s
It is my second blog entry and I am already going to break my rule of not being too personal. I have gone back and forth about this all weekend long. But, in the end, I know what I will say will resonate with some of my readers. And writing about this will help quell my need to tell a story about the invincibility of our youth and to remember someone who was very near and dear to me. I will still try to show a little restraint, but in typical fashion, I will be my straightforward direct self.
Step back in time to the mid-1970s in Montreal. We were at the tail end of the civil rights movement and past Vietnam protests. Woodstock had already happened. And, in some ways, as a culture, we still held on to the best of the hippie movement. We were past hot pants and serious afros. But Frye boots were in. Tye-died was out, but mini skirts were still standard. Stevie Wonder, Bob Dylan, and disco music were hot. It was a time to experiment...with all kinds of things. Almost every woman I knew took birth control pills, which gave everyone the freedom to do what they wanted to with whoever they wanted to do it with.
In my first year of college, I lived in a coed dorm. It was interesting. My floor was truly coed, all the way down to sharing the bathroom. This didn't take too long to get used to. We started out with a sign on the shower room door, indicating whether male(s) or female(s) were occupying one of the three shower stalls. It didn't take us long to discover that if you were late for class and you wanted to shower before you went, then it really didn't matter too much who was in the other shower. All of the stalls had curtains. And it wasn't like you were going to go in there and whip the curtain open on someone. So, the sign came down and the shower room became coed, too.
We also had a brand new sauna in the basement of our dorm. It was all male 2 nights a week, all female 2 nights, and coed the other 3. Everyone used the sauna pretty much au naturel, except for a handful of very prudish women who would go on the all female nights and still wrap up in one---sometimes two!---towels. We did, however, have an unwritten rule that if you were attracted to someone that you met in the sauna, you had to find another environment to act on it. The sauna was sacred so that all could enjoy it without that extra edge. It was a great experience in being free, but respectful at the same time. And I can honestly say that I remember it more for the lively discussions we would have, or for rolling in the snow, than I do for the fact that we were skin-to-skin. But I am digressing a little...
The men in my life fit into different categories: boyfriends (monogamous relationship), lovers (not necessarily monogamous), best friends (definitely platonic), and friends. Any guy who didn't fit into one of those categories was pretty much unmemorable, in my book. These were some of my favorite years in my life, when I made lifelong friends. This freedom to experiment...to play... was part of the maturation process. It helped me to learn who I really was as a person, what was important in relationships, and sometimes, how to laugh and just have fun.
One weekend, I managed to finagle an invitation from my boyfriend's best friend to visit Toronto for the first time. I had a blast and discovered, in the process, that my host was gay. His circle of friends was mixed and we spent the weekend hanging out in straight clubs and gay clubs all over Toronto. One of the friends in the circle ignited a little spark inside of me. I wasn't ready to pursue it because I was already in a relationship. But several months later, when I was then a free woman, I went back to see if I could turn the spark into a flame.
The flame turned into a bonfire. He was the best lover, to this day, that I have ever had. He was handsome, he was intoxicating, he was intense. But it was complicated by one very important factor...he was bi-sexual. It forced me to confront, for myself, feelings about homosexuality and bi-sexuality, for that matter. I never could understand how he could flip a switch so readily. He was an outgoing person and was loved (literally and figuratively) by many. He could take you on the wildest adventures. But at the same time, visits to his parents and his childhood home in the Eastern Townships were some of the most special family times I have had. His parents didn't quite know what to do with the crazy set of friends their son had. But they loved us all, each and everyone one of us. Meals with them were particularly memorable. His father, who raised pheasants, would take care of the main course. His mother would cook a meal fit for a holiday, including her infamous raspberry pie.
He moved on to Hollywood to become an actor and I left Montreal for Philadelphia. However, we stayed in contact over the years, until the early 80s. I remember my last conversation with him. He had joined a religious cult of some sort. He was made to believe that he had sinned terribly and would pay for those sins. It was a disturbing call. I followed up with a conversation with his parents, who confirmed what I was feeling. But I could sense that they felt helpless and on some level, even felt that it was OK. I had a realization then that I never followed up on, until this past weekend.
Now that we can surf the web for almost anything, I typed in his name. I really wasn't expecting to find anything. But to my surprise, a couple of the movie sites list the movies he has been in. I finally found a short bio, and my realization was confirmed. He died in the mid-1980s of an AIDS-related illness. Now I understand the remorse, the absolution of sins, the religious fervor. He knew his days were numbered and, like many of us, he was seeking redemption and a way to make the passage. It is sad to me that in order to do so, he was made to believe that he was a bad person. That was definitely far from the truth.
My generation that engaged in "free love" was probably the last one that had that experience. AIDS changed everything. I have lost many friends to this insidious disease. In the late 70s, people were getting sick and some were dying, but we didn't know yet that it was AIDS, nor did we know that it was communicable. In this particular case, I can count myself blessed that I was not one of the victims. It hurts to know that this free spirit, who believed in sharing all that he was, succumbed before he reached 30. Dangerously addictive as he was to the body and to the soul, I am so happy that he is someone who touched my life.
I can honestly say, at this venerable age (well maybe not venerable yet), I have no serious regrets. I am so happy that I had a chance to experince free love. I can honestly say that I don't think there's anything that I wanted to try that I didn't. Since history tends to repeat itself after a while, maybe there is a future generation that will be able to experience this same freedom, AIDS-free, one day, should they wish to. I hope so.
Step back in time to the mid-1970s in Montreal. We were at the tail end of the civil rights movement and past Vietnam protests. Woodstock had already happened. And, in some ways, as a culture, we still held on to the best of the hippie movement. We were past hot pants and serious afros. But Frye boots were in. Tye-died was out, but mini skirts were still standard. Stevie Wonder, Bob Dylan, and disco music were hot. It was a time to experiment...with all kinds of things. Almost every woman I knew took birth control pills, which gave everyone the freedom to do what they wanted to with whoever they wanted to do it with.
In my first year of college, I lived in a coed dorm. It was interesting. My floor was truly coed, all the way down to sharing the bathroom. This didn't take too long to get used to. We started out with a sign on the shower room door, indicating whether male(s) or female(s) were occupying one of the three shower stalls. It didn't take us long to discover that if you were late for class and you wanted to shower before you went, then it really didn't matter too much who was in the other shower. All of the stalls had curtains. And it wasn't like you were going to go in there and whip the curtain open on someone. So, the sign came down and the shower room became coed, too.
We also had a brand new sauna in the basement of our dorm. It was all male 2 nights a week, all female 2 nights, and coed the other 3. Everyone used the sauna pretty much au naturel, except for a handful of very prudish women who would go on the all female nights and still wrap up in one---sometimes two!---towels. We did, however, have an unwritten rule that if you were attracted to someone that you met in the sauna, you had to find another environment to act on it. The sauna was sacred so that all could enjoy it without that extra edge. It was a great experience in being free, but respectful at the same time. And I can honestly say that I remember it more for the lively discussions we would have, or for rolling in the snow, than I do for the fact that we were skin-to-skin. But I am digressing a little...
The men in my life fit into different categories: boyfriends (monogamous relationship), lovers (not necessarily monogamous), best friends (definitely platonic), and friends. Any guy who didn't fit into one of those categories was pretty much unmemorable, in my book. These were some of my favorite years in my life, when I made lifelong friends. This freedom to experiment...to play... was part of the maturation process. It helped me to learn who I really was as a person, what was important in relationships, and sometimes, how to laugh and just have fun.
One weekend, I managed to finagle an invitation from my boyfriend's best friend to visit Toronto for the first time. I had a blast and discovered, in the process, that my host was gay. His circle of friends was mixed and we spent the weekend hanging out in straight clubs and gay clubs all over Toronto. One of the friends in the circle ignited a little spark inside of me. I wasn't ready to pursue it because I was already in a relationship. But several months later, when I was then a free woman, I went back to see if I could turn the spark into a flame.
The flame turned into a bonfire. He was the best lover, to this day, that I have ever had. He was handsome, he was intoxicating, he was intense. But it was complicated by one very important factor...he was bi-sexual. It forced me to confront, for myself, feelings about homosexuality and bi-sexuality, for that matter. I never could understand how he could flip a switch so readily. He was an outgoing person and was loved (literally and figuratively) by many. He could take you on the wildest adventures. But at the same time, visits to his parents and his childhood home in the Eastern Townships were some of the most special family times I have had. His parents didn't quite know what to do with the crazy set of friends their son had. But they loved us all, each and everyone one of us. Meals with them were particularly memorable. His father, who raised pheasants, would take care of the main course. His mother would cook a meal fit for a holiday, including her infamous raspberry pie.
He moved on to Hollywood to become an actor and I left Montreal for Philadelphia. However, we stayed in contact over the years, until the early 80s. I remember my last conversation with him. He had joined a religious cult of some sort. He was made to believe that he had sinned terribly and would pay for those sins. It was a disturbing call. I followed up with a conversation with his parents, who confirmed what I was feeling. But I could sense that they felt helpless and on some level, even felt that it was OK. I had a realization then that I never followed up on, until this past weekend.
Now that we can surf the web for almost anything, I typed in his name. I really wasn't expecting to find anything. But to my surprise, a couple of the movie sites list the movies he has been in. I finally found a short bio, and my realization was confirmed. He died in the mid-1980s of an AIDS-related illness. Now I understand the remorse, the absolution of sins, the religious fervor. He knew his days were numbered and, like many of us, he was seeking redemption and a way to make the passage. It is sad to me that in order to do so, he was made to believe that he was a bad person. That was definitely far from the truth.
My generation that engaged in "free love" was probably the last one that had that experience. AIDS changed everything. I have lost many friends to this insidious disease. In the late 70s, people were getting sick and some were dying, but we didn't know yet that it was AIDS, nor did we know that it was communicable. In this particular case, I can count myself blessed that I was not one of the victims. It hurts to know that this free spirit, who believed in sharing all that he was, succumbed before he reached 30. Dangerously addictive as he was to the body and to the soul, I am so happy that he is someone who touched my life.
I can honestly say, at this venerable age (well maybe not venerable yet), I have no serious regrets. I am so happy that I had a chance to experince free love. I can honestly say that I don't think there's anything that I wanted to try that I didn't. Since history tends to repeat itself after a while, maybe there is a future generation that will be able to experience this same freedom, AIDS-free, one day, should they wish to. I hope so.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Losing My Blog Virginity
I have finally taken the first steps to start blogging. I am not quite sure why I am doing this, other than to satisfy my enjoyment of writing. And to see where this takes me. The world has changed so dramatically over the last 20 years. Now with the explosion of the internet, the world is no longer how we knew it. Information is at our fingertips and our lives are strewn all over cyberspace.
I remember life before PCs. At my first job, we were still drafting letters and documents by hand, or with a small dictaphone. You sent the documents off to the WANG operators who promptly returned them to you all typed up and ready to go. For more complex computer analysis, you filled out a sheet with all of your parameters, and off it went to the mainframe guys. It might take a day or two before you got that back.
Then came the first generation of PC's. They were not too distant from what we still have today for desktops. But I also had one of the first "portable" computers...a clunky and heavy Compaq with a tiny little screen with green letters. That portable computer served me for quite a while and it was my first connection to the dial-up internet, when there were few things to do besides play games. E-mail wasn't an option yet.
So, here we are today with multiple e-mail addresses, smart phones, Facebook, and blogs. But I sometimes I question whether this is a better world. Like many others, I find that there is no time to just relax anymore. And I blame much of this on the computer. It may have improved our productivity, but it has robbed us of some other things. In this hurry-up, stay-connected 24/7 world, when do you find the time to just be "present"...can you take a walk anymore and soak up what's going on around you? Or are you tethered to your phone, texting or talking as the world goes on around you? Have you ever almost been run over as you crossed the street because someone in their car is too busy talking on their phone to notice you? Or are you one of those people who just steps off the curb (while talking on your phone) and is not paying attention to the car about to run you over?
Today's children have the world at their fingertips. The computer great for learning and playing games. But when we wonder why there is such an obesity epidemic, it makes you wonder if those kids should be outside running around, playing baseball or tennis or biking. If so, maybe they wouldn't be so fat. And what does it do to their social skills? Their spelling? Their ability to interact with people in person instead of via e-mal or text? I cringe when my friends with children talk about letting their kids play computer games at the table when they are out having dinner. It's a way to keep the peace. So, I wonder who those kids will ever learn how to have a dinner out, participating in and enjoying the conversation and the food. Does anyone teach them proper table manners any more? They might get invited to the White House for dinner one day. I wonder if they would know which fork to use, how to daintily place their napkin in their lap, and make small talk with the person next to or across from them. I guess you could learn some of this from using a computer, but not all.
I worry that the art of letter-writing will go away. What will happen to the stamp collectors that treasure those cancelled stamps and envelopes with exotic foreign stamps? I fear that all of this will go away in my lifetime. Gone will be the beautiful script that you learned in 3rd grade. I have stopped sending Valentine's Day Cards or Easter Cards. It's easier to send an e-card, if I send one at all. I still keep formal writing stationery for the occasional letter. But my list of friends who enjoy getting my letters and reading them is growing smaller and smaller. Is my blog going to take the place of this?
So this is a major step for me to become more modern, to embrace technology, to experiment with putting my thoughts out there and seeing if anyone really cares what I think. I guess that's what blogging is all about. I have vowed not to become too personal. I still need to keep a piece of me for myself, not for everyone in the universe to see. But I hope anyone who happens to read me enjoys my future musings.
I remember life before PCs. At my first job, we were still drafting letters and documents by hand, or with a small dictaphone. You sent the documents off to the WANG operators who promptly returned them to you all typed up and ready to go. For more complex computer analysis, you filled out a sheet with all of your parameters, and off it went to the mainframe guys. It might take a day or two before you got that back.
Then came the first generation of PC's. They were not too distant from what we still have today for desktops. But I also had one of the first "portable" computers...a clunky and heavy Compaq with a tiny little screen with green letters. That portable computer served me for quite a while and it was my first connection to the dial-up internet, when there were few things to do besides play games. E-mail wasn't an option yet.
So, here we are today with multiple e-mail addresses, smart phones, Facebook, and blogs. But I sometimes I question whether this is a better world. Like many others, I find that there is no time to just relax anymore. And I blame much of this on the computer. It may have improved our productivity, but it has robbed us of some other things. In this hurry-up, stay-connected 24/7 world, when do you find the time to just be "present"...can you take a walk anymore and soak up what's going on around you? Or are you tethered to your phone, texting or talking as the world goes on around you? Have you ever almost been run over as you crossed the street because someone in their car is too busy talking on their phone to notice you? Or are you one of those people who just steps off the curb (while talking on your phone) and is not paying attention to the car about to run you over?
Today's children have the world at their fingertips. The computer great for learning and playing games. But when we wonder why there is such an obesity epidemic, it makes you wonder if those kids should be outside running around, playing baseball or tennis or biking. If so, maybe they wouldn't be so fat. And what does it do to their social skills? Their spelling? Their ability to interact with people in person instead of via e-mal or text? I cringe when my friends with children talk about letting their kids play computer games at the table when they are out having dinner. It's a way to keep the peace. So, I wonder who those kids will ever learn how to have a dinner out, participating in and enjoying the conversation and the food. Does anyone teach them proper table manners any more? They might get invited to the White House for dinner one day. I wonder if they would know which fork to use, how to daintily place their napkin in their lap, and make small talk with the person next to or across from them. I guess you could learn some of this from using a computer, but not all.
I worry that the art of letter-writing will go away. What will happen to the stamp collectors that treasure those cancelled stamps and envelopes with exotic foreign stamps? I fear that all of this will go away in my lifetime. Gone will be the beautiful script that you learned in 3rd grade. I have stopped sending Valentine's Day Cards or Easter Cards. It's easier to send an e-card, if I send one at all. I still keep formal writing stationery for the occasional letter. But my list of friends who enjoy getting my letters and reading them is growing smaller and smaller. Is my blog going to take the place of this?
So this is a major step for me to become more modern, to embrace technology, to experiment with putting my thoughts out there and seeing if anyone really cares what I think. I guess that's what blogging is all about. I have vowed not to become too personal. I still need to keep a piece of me for myself, not for everyone in the universe to see. But I hope anyone who happens to read me enjoys my future musings.
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