Archeology

I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed the duck tile before.

I had been in Vince’s house several times in the past few months, had stood at the kitchen sink every time I’d visited, but I’d never taken it in. Bill had spent weeks in the house since the spring, but he didn’t notice it until I pointed it out to him. His older brother Vince had exactly three pieces of art hanging on the walls in this house: a painting of a schooner at sea, a frieze-like metal sculpture of a bridge, and this duck tile. We’d noticed the painting and sculpture immediately, but had missed the tile completely. That was odd enough, but it was odd for another reason; this cute little thing was completely out of character with the rest of the house.

After the Storm

My apartment is a hell-hole in the summer. The building shares walls on both sides with other buildings, and faces buildings of same or greater size.One block-long cliff wall of buildings faces another such cliff-wall across a narrow canyon. My apartment lies at the top of the five floors, directly under a tar roof (though to be fair, it was painted silver sometime in the last couple of years). It is impossible to get anything resembling cross-ventilation in the place; the layout is L-shaped, with two windows facing each other only at the narrowest point.  Half the windows face a small courtyard, the other half face the street. Any air that comes in open windows has been warmed nicely by the concrete and tarmac. The worst heat tends to come around 5pm, after the entire city has spent the day soaking up sunshine. Fans do their best to move the sluggish, smelly, super-heated air around, but the idea that this makes things cooler is laughable. I'm conflicted about using air conditioners, but I do, figuring that they will allow me to get at least some sleep during the hottest months. I don't handle heat well, it's true. Anything over 80 degrees with any moisture in the air makes me miserable, verging on suicidal. Or homicidal, if there's any noise in the street, as there always is, because none of these buildings are inhabitable in the heat. A hell-hole, I say.

But then, well, a big storm comes along and I realize how well this whole block withstands them.  It seems it was designed for just that purpose. In the past my ceiling would leak whenever there was the slightest bit of rainfall, but that seems finally to have been remedied. In bad weather the lack of open walls means limited exposure to the elements. Severe winds are effectively blocked or channeled along the east-west street. I don't know why exactly we've been lucky with the power and water for both Sandy and Irene, since obviously the substations are not in this building, or even on this block, but whatever the reason, we didn't lose anything, not even internet, last night or last year. We're very lucky.

So while I'm not about to stop complaining about summers, I'm taking stock of my present situation, and appreciating this place for what it does best. I'm off to investigate the neighborhood now, and see if my neighbors need any help.

Favorite Books: Julie of the Wolves.

A few weeks ago I came across an article about some study that had been done on the influence of book-reading.  As I understood the article, the main finding was that after we have enjoyed a novel, we often aspire to become more like the main character. 

If there were ever an article better suited for an issue of DUH! Magazine, I don't know what it is.  Maybe one of those essays about how sleep is really good for you. 

That said, it did resonate with thoughts I'd been having about various books I've read -and reread- over the years, and how I'm growing more aware of the ways they helped shape me.  There's a daunting essay forming in my head around Mary Renault's The Charioteer, which I hope to tackle at some point.  But a recent death has me thinking about another book today. 

Julie of the Wolves, by Jean Craighead George was a book I reread obsessively as a kid.  I have only the vaguest of memories of the first time I read it, which suggests it came into my life pretty far back, maybe age eight or nine.  Thanks to Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Books I already loved wolves, and aspired one day to join a pack somewhere, preferably as a full fledged member.  Julie achieves this dream too, at least briefly; like Mowgli, she eventually realizes she has to return to the world of humanity.  I always found that part of both stories distressful, if not downright tragic, and was determined that if I ever got the chance, I wouldn't blow it. 

In 2004 I had the privilege to work on a stage adaptation of the book.  Ms. Craighead George had collaborated on the script and attended many of the rehearsals, her presence was warm, generous and supportive, never daunting in any way.  This was production number five where I played non-human characters, in this case a wolf pup and caribou (well, half of one, but not exactly in the way you're picturing).  On the day of the performance, I asked her if she would sign my copy of the book. 

"Oh, it would be my honor," she said.  Here's what she wrote:

To Patrick,
The most incredible caribou and wolf pup I have ever met. 
Thank you, Thank you,
Jean Craighead George

I can say that her book contributed greatly to my appreciation of nature, my environmental concerns, and my love of wolves.  All those things are central to who I am as an adult.  But if I'm completely honest, I'll admit I also haven't entirely given up on the dream of living with wolves, even becoming one.  Living in one of the biggest urban centers on the planet may be a weird way to go about it, but I don't think it's a coincidence that so many of the roles I've played over the years have been animals, special emphasis on canines.  And with that in mind, her book dedication stands as one of the nicest reviews I've ever received. 

Thank you, Ms. Craighead George, for sharing your beautiful world with us. 

Why I Support Occupy Wall Street

I took these photos at Occupy Wall Street a few weeks ago.  As I've tried to articulate why I support OWS, my slow brain hasn't been able to keep pace with the changes in events.  Like a lot of people (see Paul Krugman, for example) I wonder if Bloomberg's heavy-handed raid may have been a blessing in disguise, keeping the occupation from fading away as winter approached, and galvanizing many of us to greater enthusiasm for the movement.  Counter to my usual thinking, I believe the lack of specific demands was a strength of the occupation, but wonder if now we've reached the next stage in the process, and will begin working on particular goals.  

It probably doesn't surprise anyone who knows me that I support OWS, and the vast majority of my friends and family probably agree with me.  But I know some of my friends don't agree, and are rather disgusted with me for my support.  It's you I hope to reach with this post.  Let me explain my view of things. 

Have You Ever Seen Something Amazing?

That line above comes from a TV commercial running presently.  I couldn't tell you what the product is, I want to say a car, but I can't remember.  That will no doubt disappoint the writer of said commercial.  (Actually, I may not even be remembering the wording correctly; it's really not an effective ad.)

Normally a question like that would make me roll my eyes.  How much more banal can you get?  It's right up there with 'have you ever eaten something tasty?  Heard something beautiful?  Felt excited?  Do you like fun?'  The first time I heard it though, instead of snorting derisively, I found myself vividly recalling one such amazing sight. 

I was ten years old, sitting in the back seat of a car my family had rented in Ireland.  We were driving along the west coast, in view of the ocean.  It might come as a surprise to know it was raining.  As a kid I loved being in the car during big downpours.  I loved watching the raindrops stream up along the windows, the sound of water on the roof, tires on the wet road. Watching storms from a house window was fun too, but it was so much better doing it inside a car, a moving 360 degree view, especially if the landscape was stunning and spacious by itself.  I have many fond memories of rainy car trips in Ireland and the UK.  Only recently did it occur to me how nerve-wracking those experiences must have been for my parents.  Driving an unfamiliar car, on unfamiliar, narrow, poorly maintained country roads, frequently around blind mountain passes, on the left, during a torrential downpour?  And let's not forget having to keep alert for flocks of sheep.  I doubt my parents were having much fun.  It says a lot that they didn't prevent me from enjoying it. 

This particular day we came around a hill to the sight of great sheets of rain marching in from the Atlantic, coming up onto shore and across some cliffs.  And 'march' is the only way to describe it.  The rain looked like it had been carefully arranged in rows, evenly spaced, all moving at a brisk yet controlled pace.  At that distance, the storm seemed planned, at least organized.  Whether I thought it consciously or not, I suspect I was also awed by the scale.  This storm was probably several miles long, at least a few miles tall, but from where we were it was a single entity, one enormous, awe-inspiring battalion. I may not have had the good sense to be frightened, but I was definitely awed by the size and power of it.  .   

I'm not sure why the commercial copy triggered this particular memory, but I'm grateful that it did.  It has me wanting to compile a list of personal experiences that I would consider amazing.  Rough categories are already forming in my head; there are all the ones involving weather and landscapes, ones involving animals, and the ones involving works of art or performance, just for starters.  Not really sure what will be gained by recording these memories, but I plan on finding out. 

How about you?  Does this question trigger a specific memory for you, or does it just make you roll your eyes?  What is the most awe-inspiring thing you've seen or experienced?  Care to share?  Feel free to do it in the comments section, or share a link if you do it on your own blog. 

Happy Bloomsday!

(For various reasons this didn't get published on the actual day, so here it is two months later.)

Tain Mural, Dublin

 No, I haven't read Ulysses. But when I spent a semester studying in Dublin in the Fall of 1986, I lived with a lovely family a block from James Joyce's Tower, in Sandycove, County Dublin. So I figured today was as good an excuse as any for me to revisit my photos from last year's trip, specifically the Dublin portion.  That's as much of a connection I'll be making to Joyce, however.  So if you're here hoping for an illustrated tour of Bloomsday, my apologies, and good luck with your google search. 

Saint Stephen's Green

It probably won't surprise anyone that when you have a country as small and as saturated with writers as Ireland, you're going to come across literary landmarks quite often.  I was tickled a few years ago, when I was reading At Swim Two Boys, to discover that much of the action is set at the Gentlemen's Bathing Area, which is situated not far from Joyce's Tower.  I never went swimming there; as much as I love cold water, the Irish Sea in Autumn is too frigid even for me.  Word was the area was still 'men only, bathing suits optional' at certain hours of the day, though. 

Saint Stephen's Green

The country is small; I think the population is hovering around five million now, and in 1986 it was closer to four million.  I was to discover that this meant Dublin was both a cosmopolitan city (complete with international celebrities) and a small village (everyone knew each other, including the famous people).  The founder/registrar of the school I attended was an old chum of Paddy Maloney, the founder and leader of the Chieftains.  Because of their friendship, the group gave a concert in the lounge of our school, for about thirty of us.  This was something they did each year, apparently, and even relished, since it was one of the few opportunities they still had to play without amplification. 

Memorial to Constance, Countess Markevicz, Saint Stephen's Green

Seamus Heaney gave a reading for us in that same room.  David Norris, who I came to learn was credited with starting the LGBT movement in Ireland, was on the faculty (teaching Joyce, by the way, oh look there's another connection).  My host mother was an old school chum of U2's manager.  Had I been staying in town one day longer, I might have been able to see their hometown concert.  For FREE.  Sigh. 

Saint Stephen's Green

Given all this, it didn't surprise Mary and me to discover that we'd be spending the flight to Shannon sitting next to Malachi McCourt.  He was every bit as charming in person as he had always seemed on TV.  Like us, he was travelling in part to honor a brother who had died recently, in his case his brother Frank.  A school in Limerick was endowing a chair in Frank's honor the following day. 

Ha'Penny Bridge, Dublin

Thanks to the volcano in Iceland, we were looping to the north, which added at least two hours to the flight, but with a gifted storyteller as company, the time flew by. 

River Liffey, Dublin

 He asked us what we planned on seeing, and we mentioned one of our first stops would be at Kenny's Bookshop, in Galway. 
"Oh, I'm afraid it's closed," he said.  We were crushed.  Kenny's has been around for decades, and has supported many great writers.  Dad came across it sometime in the sixties, I believe, and it's been a regular pilgrimage stop for all of us ever since. 


The Foggy Dew, Dublin

 Of course bookstores are dying out all over the world, thanks in large part to the internet, and with Ireland's economic troubles, it didn't surprise us at all that Kenny's might have succumbed.  Once we arrived in Galway though we were delighted to discover that shop hadn't closed, it had simply moved.  In fact the move had been due to a needed expansion of the bookstore, art framing department, and art gallery.  It was a bit of a walk to the new location (we had elected not to rent a car), but we found the shop spacious and well-stocked.  Browsing was still encouraged, even to the point of the store providing free tea and coffee and comfy couches.  Mary and I spent two happy hours there. 

Dublin near the Center of Town. 

When we went up to make our purchases, we told Rosemary, the lovely woman working the cash register, how glad we were to find the place, especially after we'd had our scare courtesy of Mr. McCourt. 

"Malachi said that?" she exclaimed.  She shook her head, tsked a bit.  "We have to call him!"  It was like she was talking about a rascally-yet-beloved uncle.  Off she went to inform the owner of the store of the situation.  I have no doubt that he immediately called Mr. McCourt, and teasingly scolded him for spreading false information. The Irish are big ones for teasing.  Sorry if we got you in trouble, Mr. McCourt!  I'm sure you're as delighted as we were to find the place thriving. 

Near the River

Lo Siento, No Hablo.

On the day of the royal wedding, I went to my local laundromat.  There are two TVs in the place; the one closest to the desk is sometimes tuned to an Asian language channel (for the owners), but the other is always tuned to a Spanish language station.  I was a bit surprised to hear the words "el palacio de Buckingham" as I walked in, but apparently this obsession was more international than I realized.  That's cool, I guess.  Kate and Wills, they seem like nice kids.  I like a big show as much as the next guy, but  this one hadn't really captured me for some reason.  I didn't get too worked up about it, one way or the other. 

Others in the room, however, had much stronger opinions.  The older woman seated next to me was watching the coverage intently.  Suddenly she piped up, "why is this important?" 

I replied without thinking, "Yeah, it does seem a bit silly, doesn't it?"

This would all be fine, if it weren't for the fact that we had this interchange--short simple words, short simple concepts, present tense only--in Spanish. 

Yes, I took Spanish in school.  Hell, I got straight As in Spanish, in my midwestern schools, studying for six years under fellow midwesterners with names like Hollingsworth, McKnight, Schneider and Terkoski.  My last class was in the Winter of 1985, but I've retained some vocabulary.  Many folks in my neighborhood here, including the cashiers at my grocery store, don't speak a lot of English, so I've gotten in the habit of exchanging short, almost reflexive phrases of a very practical nature with them.  None of this should  be construed as indicating that I speak Spanish, however.  Unfortunately I had, of course, just given this nice lady that impression.  And having provided the opening she was looking for, she was off on a long, passionate, very fast diatribe of disapproval of this whole event.  At least I think she disapproved; her tone and expression did not indicate sentimentality or celebration, but that was all I was going on.  Because she spoke so quickly, and with such energy, I felt like the moment when I could have admitted my inadequacies had come and gone before I knew what was happening.  So, I tried to ride it out.  Because, you know, that seemed like the best solution. 

I stared intently at her, trying desperately to catch something, anything of what she was saying, but in addition to my poor language skills we now added an internal monologue that went something like this:

"Okay, I think she just said hambre, she's probably talking about starving people.  Are you smiling at her?  You are, aren't you.  Stop it, that's weird, she'll think you're not taking her seriously.  Hey, that phrase, was that 'lots of money'?   I think so but damn, it's gone now, let it go, bye-bye, stay with her.  Are you smiling again?  Quit it.  Nodding your head is probably a bad idea too.  It gives the impression you understand her.  Wow she is especially worked up now, go with a frowny face, furrow your brow, that's probably safe.  Trabajos, jobs, pretty sure she's working an economic argument here, I respect that, QUIT NODDING, YOU MORON, was that regina?  I think so, for god's sake stop smiling!"

I can only assume expressions came and went on my face like a wheat field on a windy day.  By sheer force of will I did NOT tilt my head like a confused dog.  I started to relax when I heard her conclusion coming.  She came to a rousing finish, and looked at me. 

Oh.  Right.  Damn.  Not out of the woods yet.   

" Did she just ask a question?  It didn't sound like a question.  I didn't hear an uplift on any of her sentences, certainly not that last one.  Is she expecting a response?  Hell."  

Of course I could have, should have admitted my ignorance at this point.  But my embarrassment was so complete by now, I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound.  So I nodded one last time, grimaced sympathetically and shrugged my shoulders in a general gesture of summing up.  This seemed to satisfy her.  The gods of laundry smiled on me at that point, ringing the bell that told  me to move my clothes to the dryer. She never tried to engage me in conversation again.  Maybe she figured out the problem.  Maybe she just had nothing more to say.  I haven't a clue.  

Her English is probably excellent. 

I may have to change laundromats.   

Kiss Me, I'm Irish

On top Knocknarea, Ben Bulben in the background.

In honor of the day, here's a story from my travels in Ireland with Mary last May.  

Strangers tend to take a shine to my sister quickly.  You'd think I would have remembered this fact, having seen it in action several times in the course of a weekend the previous November in Philly, but somehow it had slipped my mind.  Add in the fact that many Irish, especially in the west, are very quick to chat up a stranger, and you have a recipe for some interesting encounters.  People of all shapes and sizes are drawn to her, but probably the greatest percentage are men who give the impression they would propose if given the slightest encouragement.  There were at least three such encounters during this trip.  My presence occasionally inspired a certain wariness, but rarely any actual deterrence, and finding out that I was her brother rather than her husband usually brought the twinkle back to their eyes.  As it so happens, in two cases the men mentioned early in the conversation that they were themselves (happily) married; the flirting, if that is what it was, was just play, though I wouldn't say that meant it was insincere.  They were by turns cheerful, teasing (the Irish are big teasers) and charming but never offensive. 

On the Burren

Sunset in Midtown, March 12th

These images may benefit from enlarging (and viewing separately) more than most.  Just click on each image, as usual. 

Reading the Signs

Another gull story: 

During my first year living in Seattle I was walking one day through the main quad of the University of Washington.  A huge flock of gulls and pigeons were on the ground and circling in the air, squabbling, squawking, making a lot of racket.  Believe it or not, I didn't see gulls that often, especially not that far inland.  Seattle is on Puget Sound, which is salt water that flows directly into the Pacific, but people were very firm with me that didn't mean it was the same thing as the ocean, and consequently Seattle was not on the coast. 

Don't ask me, I still don't get it. 

Harlem Sun & Moon

Rats

Gulls in Riverside Park

 I love gulls. 


It's not that surprising that I would have found them exotic at one point.  My first memory of them is from a trip we took to Ireland and the UK when I was seven; the sight and sound of them is tied up with some  exciting places.  Not just the ocean, which would have been good enough, but castles and weird foods and funny accents and all sorts of fairy tale wonderment. 

Riverside Park, same day.

Christmas Visit

Christmas was a wonderful retreat for me this year, as it usually is.  Bill came along for the whole time, allowing himself to be dropped in the deep end of the Laceyland pool for almost two weeks.  He seemed to handle it okay, claims he even enjoyed himself.  He says I only drove him crazy in 'good ways'.  That works.  I think crazy is a unavoidable part of life with me; one might as well enjoy it. 


This holiday also gave me a sense that the Year of Firsts, IE the first year after James' death, was truly over.  It's not that we didn't miss him, a lot, but speaking just for myself, I felt like there weren't as many emotional ambushes this time.  His appearances were rarely surprising; the heartache still hit, but didn't hit unexpectedly.  And yes, there is some comfort in that.  I think I'm starting to know what the new normal looks and feels like. 


 For the first time in maybe thirty years I made an Advent calendar, using photos instead of drawings for the windows, and consciously included several pictures of James, looking cheerful and festive.  They helped me, I hope they didn't pain anyone else.  We also made Christmas cookies this year.  That had been a ritual for the siblings in the past, but last year Mary and I just didn't have it in us.  This year we felt up to it though, and had a good time.  Bill's involvement was also a nice addition.   


This is not to say that James didn't put in any surprise appearances.  If you've been following his story, you know about his habit of  adding to Mary's (hotly denied) cork collection.  It started out simply with him handing her the cork of every bottle of wine they shared ("this is for thy collection"), progressed to hiding corks throughout her home (I found one in the bottle of ibuprofen the day of his memorial) and reached full expression in elaborate cork sculptures (including entire villages of people welcoming her back from a semester abroad) left prominently displayed in her home any time he cat-sat.  Tony got into the act soon after he and Mary started dating; when they still lived separately they hid corks in each other's homes. 


It was reasonable to assume that all corks had, by this point, been found.  But not so fast.  For Christmas dinner, which this year was at held at Hazelthorne, I was sitting in my usual seat at the dining table, when I noticed something above window lintel.  See below. 

See it?  No, probably not.  From this angle I can't really see it either.  That is part of the genius.    From most angles, sitting or standing, it's usually hidden by a shadow, the curtain rod, or both.  This is even more true if you're 5'10" or taller, as both Mary and Tony are.  Here, let me get a bit closer. 

 There we go.  See that?  Below the curtain rod, on top the lintel, left of the support bar?  This is the angle from my seat at the table.  When I pointed it out, Mary and Tony looked at each other. 
"Did you do that?" 
"No, did you?" 
"Nope."


We're pretty sure it was James.  And it's just been sitting there, maybe for years, waiting for someone to notice it.  It really is a clever place to put one.  The closer one is to the window, the less likely it is one will see it.  Mary had put up that ornament and string of stars just a few days before, but standing at the window, the cork is virtually invisible.  Anyone sitting on that side of the table is facing the wrong way.  From Mary's seat the curtain rod blocks it completely.  It's pretty much hidden if one is sitting at either end of the table too.  My seat is really the easiest place to see it, and that chair only gets used if there are five or more people at the meal.  During daylight hours, if one isn't just blinded by the light from the window, one is probably watching the birds and squirrels in the back yard, or watching the cat watch them.  At night that part of the wall is usually in shadow.  I'd sat at this seat at least twice before during this visit alone, and never saw the damn cork.   


No, I think it was James. Putting in an appearance at Christmas dinner. 

Okay, yes, maybe a friend of Mary's or Tony's started playing the game, and put it there recently.  The story of James and corks is well-known by this point among our circle.  But even if that proves to be true*, I don't really care.  Whether it was him or not, it still brought James into the holiday meal in a funny, loving, which is to say characteristic, way.  In response, Mary told me a story I'd never heard before, about picking up pennies.  According to one superstition, pennies found at random are gifts sent to us by deceased loved ones.  This is where the phrase 'pennies from heaven' comes from.  I don't know how I'd missed this story previously, since I've been picking up lucky pennies for my own reasons for about sixteen years.  This may not sell me on the idea of heaven, but it may have deepened my relationship with corks.  They periodically made me think of him in the past sixteen months obviously, but from now on I suspect they will always feel like something more, a hug and kiss out of the blue perhaps, from my goof of brother.   


*If you did it, or know who did, don't be afraid to 'fess up.  We can handle it. 

Two Rivers

This is another video shot with my little Palm Pre phone, hence the vaguely impressionist look.  I'm standing in Riverbank State Park, overlooking the Hudson, New Jersey, Riverside Park, the George Washington Bridge, Harlem and Washington Heights, and finally, the Westside Highway.

Riverbank sits atop a sewage treatment plant, and the smell was quite strong that day.  I think that's why I had both Riverbank and Riverside largely to myself, despite the fact that it was a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

Remembering Stachio

I met Stachio in the fall of '85, when I was his hall convenor.  Wow, right there in that first sentence there's so much to explain.  I'll start with the simple stuff; at my college, the dorms had a system of peer counselors.  Each hall would have a hall convenor or a resident counselor who had received training in active-listening techniques and was charged with being the first point of contact between students (in particular first years) and the Student Development Office.  Our purpose was to be safe people for students to talk to about any problems they might be having: annoying roommates, homesickness, the pressures of school, anything.  We'd listen, help if we could, or direct them to more qualified people if that was warranted.  We also kept an eye out for red flags of any kind.  Student Development stressed we were not RAs like other schools had; we were not expected to be police officers, writing people up for rule infractions. We were encouraged to do all we could to create a sense of community, but mostly we were just supposed to be available to listen if anyone needed to talk. 

So, that was my job, along with my roommate Peter.  Before the first years arrived, we were asked to write them letters, introducing ourselves and explaining our role.  When I got the list of names, I noticed something odd.  One room had only one name, Sharon Kimery.  Singles were a coveted commodity at my school, as they no doubt are at most schools.  Generally only seniors got them.  Juniors might get one if they had a really great number in the housing lottery.  Sophomores never got one.  And a first year student?  An incoming first year?  Absolutely unprecedented. 

It Gets Better: Why Saying this Matters

The recent spate of suicides by LGBT youth struck a deep chord with me, as it did with so many.  It stirred up memories of my own adolescence when suicide seemed like a reasonable 'solution' to being gay.  The sense of isolation, even for someone with as many privileges and good luck as I had, was easy to tap back into.  Maybe in my case it was mostly in my head (the actual incidents of violence were rare), but that didn't make it any less toxic.  Looking back I'm flabbergasted at how fully I had internalized the message I, like every other kid, was immersed in.  The thoughts in my head were evil; the attractions I felt were disgusting.  The urges had to be killed and if that weren't possible, maybe I needed to be.  Had I been brave enough to talk to my parents, I probably would have gotten help and support sooner (I repeat, I was luckier than most), but the idea of discussing this with them at the time seemed about as reasonable as growing a pair of wings.   

So I was heartened when Dan Savage and his husband Terry started the YouTube channel called It Gets Better.  I thought it had some very clever things going for it.  One of the saddest things affecting LGBT youth is the fact that very often the adults in their lives believe that they are protecting their kids if they deny them access to information, resources, and positive adult role models.  They believe being LGBT is a choice, a bad one, and the best way to protect their kids from choosing it is to talk about our lives and us only in terms of disgust, fear and yes, hate.  That's if they talk about it at all.  Any attempt to present our lives to children in a positive manner will almost certainly garner the accusation of 'indoctrination' sooner or later.  Way too many people still believe that 'homosexual' is synonymous with 'pedophile', so naturally we can't be allowed direct contact with children.  Even if parents don't take the misinformation to this degree, many of them feel that challenging their opinions on this matter doesn't just challenge their politics or religion, it commits the worst crime of all: questioning their parenting.  


But this brings up one of the reasons I found Dan and Terry's plan so clever.  They're not contacting any kids.  They didn't get anywhere near any of them.  They simply left a message in a bottle to be found by any kid who might be interested, and encouraged the rest of us to leave our own messages.  They didn't say "your parents are wrong," though they did both mention that their families came around after initial disapproval. And while acknowledging how terrifying or overwhelming life can feel for LGBT kids, they made a point of stressing just how wonderful their adults lives have been. 

Okay, I knew there were would be some objections even from supportive folks and they came right on schedule.  Many of the earliest videos I saw suggested that all one had to do was get through high school, for example.  The implication seemed to be that high school was the only problem, college was in every kid's future, and that would inevitably involve an escape into a place of greater tolerance.  I do think things tend to improve for people once they reach majority; if you're an adult, you simply have more say in your life.  But not every kid is going to college.  Not every kid can escape her parents' grip the minute she turns 18.  Not every kid can afford to run away to the big city, especially when the job market is as bad as it is these days. 

But that revealed another hidden strength of this approach.  Anyone who felt the videos were misleading, or coming from a place of privilege could respond by making his or her own video.  For now anyway the Internet is not a zero-sum game.  If you feel like your story isn't being told, you can tell it yourself.  Sure Dan and Terry reserve the right to recommend certain videos, and that may shape which ones get more attention, but chances are good any reasonably computer-literate kid will be able to find videos that speak closely to her experience. 

Okay, there are still some privileges involved.  We're assuming (or hoping) that the intended audience will have unsupervised access to the Internet, or supportive adults who will allow or encourage access.  This is likely to exclude the group of LGBT kids most at risk.  Many studies find that self-identified LGBT kids account for 40% of all homeless kids.  Most studies of the general population figure LGBT folks make up somewhere between 5 and 10%.  Even if this seems low, or impossible to measure (the closet is an obvious challenge to accurate reporting), it still indicates a significant disproportion.  If you want to see some statistics regarding the experiences of LGBT kids, homeless or no, you can go here.  Yes, it's been compiled by PFLAG (of Phoenix), which most certainly has a viewpoint and an agenda (as do I), but their statistics are scrupulously footnoted, and include documents from such radical Queer organizations as the US Department of Health and Human Services.  This page also does a good job of explaining how many kids face things far worse than just 'teasing and name-calling,' as so many opponents want to claim. 

Recent brutal attacks on gay men in New York have reminded us locally that no community is truly safe, that bigotry and hatred don't disappear when one becomes an adult.  I know some people have been tempted to say this gives the lie to the It Gets Better project.  But the channel has a very specific agenda: ending the suicides of kids.  We need to address bigotry, hate and violence in all its forms.  We need to protect all potential victims.  But there's something so obscene about kids beating the bigots to the punch and doing the job themselves.  When we talk to kids, we always try to instill hope about their futures.  Women are still raped and killed, people of color and other minorities are still murdered as well.  They are still marginalized, brutalized, and in sundry ways relegated to second-class citizenship.  We don't want to sugarcoat or deny those facts, but when we talk to girls and children of color, we don't just warn them about the dangers of the world, we also encourage them.  Doing so isn't lying to them, it's part of the process of making their lives better, creating the world we want them to have.  Telling LGBT kids that it will get better is the same process.  It's valid. 

I still may make a video.  To be honest, I felt for a while like the middle-class, college-educated gay white guy contingent was pretty well represented, but then I remember that part of the point of things like this is numbers.  The more people challenging the hatred and isolation, the better.  Again, posting a video of my experience doesn't prevent anyone else with a different experience from doing it too.  And in a weird way, the privileges I had that made coming out easier for me may come with an obligation to speak up when others feel they can't.  It was out folks who paved the way for me, after all.   

In the meantime I'm making a donation to the Trevor Project, the suicide hotline most often mentioned in the videos.  Friend Kate mentions too that studies have revealed that arts programs in schools have a variety of beneficial effects including a lessening of bullying and violence.  I don't know the specifics of that, am still going to research it, but as an arts-loving homo I am thrilled to hear it.  It certainly fits with my experience.  Art class, orchestra class, creative writing and drama club all were huge havens for me in high school, places where I felt accepted, even celebrated. Kate encourages us all to write our congress members asking them to bring back or protect arts programs in schools.*  So that's another great step. 

*Kate posted this info on Facebook, so you won't necessarily find mention of it on the blog.  But you should follow the link anyway; she's a good read. 

A Top Bound Notebook and a Good Pen

My inner Luddite has been making an appearance lately.  Oh, he's usually pretty close to the surface, I would say.  I love email, certainly, and large portions of the interwebz, and while I wouldn't say I love my cell phone particularly, I find it useful more often than not.  But the Luddite (what shall we call him?  Don't you think he needs a name?  Something Quakerly and/or Biblical, I think.  Maybe Jeremiah?  That's a bit grand though, and more foaming-at-the-mouth than I typically am when in Luddite mode, so how about Jerry?  Yeah, let's go with that), excuse me, but Jerry has been piping up more often of late.  Some of this is tied up with another message/voice I've been hearing (I don't think it's Jerry, exactly), which has been telling me to SLOW DOWN.  At first I found that message perplexing.  I've been gallivanting around the country and globe in the past year, it's true, but I wouldn't say I've been excessively busy, really.  Yes there was work to be done in Twisp, and we did it, but there was also plenty of time for hiking, inter-tubing on the river, and having good long talks with friends over meals and wine.  And Ireland?  Maine?  Morro Bay?  The three visits I made to Indiana throughout the year?  Those were vacations, clear and simple, no ifs ands or buts.  So, um, I haven't been feeling overworked, exactly.  So naturally I asked for clarification on the 'slow down' message, at which point the voice sighed, rolled its eyes (shut up and just go with it) and said very slowly, like I was some kind of moron or something, 'if it has an off switch, turn it off.'   

It's the Audience, Stupid

Yes, the audience.  That was one of the most satisfying aspects of Tuesdays with Morrie, we kept clearly in mind who we were doing this play for. That probably sounds silly, doesn't it.  Who else does one do a play for?  Let me explain. 

Sunset during a forest fire, as seen from the patio.

Priming the Pump: My Director's Notes

Friend Marta was here for a few days of writing, and it was the first chance we'd had in several months to catch up face-to-face.  Both of us had fairly eventful summers, so we had a lot to talk about.  I got closer to articulating some of the satisfactions of the job in Twisp, but much of it is still clogged in my brain.  My talking is only slightly better than my writing these days.  There are a number of reasons for this, I know, but at this point simple atrophy from disuse is probably the biggest culprit. 

(The Merc Playhouse on Glover St, Twisp, WA.)

Burren: The Close View

Here, as promised, are some of the closer details I caught during our walks on the Burren.  I learned the names of the unfamiliar flowers while I was there, but in the intervening two months I've forgotten most of them.  Help, as always, is much appreciated.