The changing landscape of equality

Today’s New York Times carried the story: Just after midnight yesterday, marriage equality arrived in Maine. It became legal earlier this month in Washington State, and marriage equality will begin in Maryland on Tuesday. On the same day that these three states legalized same-sex marriage at the ballot box, Minnesota voters defeated a constitutional amendment that would have added a ban on marriage equality to that state’s constitution.

Prior to this November, same-sex marriage had been on the ballot 31 times, and it lost 31 times. This year, marriage equality was on the ballot in four states, and we won in all four.

Actually, to be precise, Arizona pro-equality voters defeated a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage in 2006, largely by “de-gaying” the campaign. They did this by arguing that their opposition to the amendment wasn’t about same-sex marriage, which was already illegal in Arizona. Instead, they opposed the amendment because it would result in the loss of benefits for many of the state’s seniors. Underscoring this position, ads against the amendment featured older heterosexual couples instead of same-sex couples. Just two years later, voters undid the “win,” handily passing an amendment banning marriage equality.

This year’s wins are testimony to how far we’ve come—in changing voters’ attitudes and in crafting successful campaigns that actually foreground marriage. And it speaks volumes that in this election, LGBTQ issues were not successfully used as a wedge issue on the national stage.

Those of you who are interested in these things might enjoy this excellent Atlantic Monthly review of the campaign for marriage equality since Proposition 8, the 2008 initiative that overturned Californians’ right to marriage equality. In it, Molly Ball outlines the ins and outs of the story behind this amazing shift from persistent losses to dramatic wins. Among other things, she discusses the “breathtaking epiphany” that began to shift the argument for marriage equality from a discussion of rights to a discussion of love and commitment. I first learned about this shift-in-process at the NGLTF Creating Change conference last year. And here it is, in the news, as the strikingly new narrative of the suddenly successful marriage equality movement.

In some ways, marriage equality now seems inevitable and even imminent, like it may become the law of the land even in my lifetime. But there are still major obstacles ahead, not the least of which is a fundamentally conservative Supreme Court, whose rulings on the cases it has chosen to hear may set the movement back rather than forward. Even a favorable ruling in the case of Prop 8 could leave Californians no farther ahead than if the Court had refused to hear the case, and no other states may be effected. The other case has to do with whether the federal government can withhold federal benefits from married couples in states that already approve same-sex marriage. In this form, the case will have no effect on states that already ban same-sex marriage, as most states do. In fact, some 31 states (including my home state of Colorado) have constitutional amendments banning same-sex marriage—which are far harder to overturn than simple legislative acts.

But even if marriage equality were achieved, this is only one issue that the LGBTQ community needs to address. In fact, many folks argue that we have spent far too much time, far too much money, and far too much political capital and citizen good will on marriage. Marriage, after all, will benefit only that slice of the community who want to marry; who have the social, professional, and physical safety to take such a step; who have a partner to whom they choose to make this very complicated social and financial commitment; and who believe in marriage in the first place. (This may not seem obvious, but that last item actually cuts out a fair number of folks.)  

Besides, while we have been focusing on marriage, other burning issues have been largely ignored—or at best, inadequately addressed: the invisibility of transgender people and their issues in the mainstream LGB(T) rights movement; the relatively high proportion of LGBTQ people (especially lesbians and their children and trans people) living in poverty—particularly LGBTQ people of color; legal and practical problems around parenting and adoption; continuing discrimination in employment and housing as well as in mainstream organizations like the Boy Scouts; persistent racism, classism, sexism, and other forms of prejudice and discrimination within the LGBTQ community. And more.

I may have told this story before, but it fits so well: Some years ago, when I was grousing about these things, my partner said to me, “But imagine it were any other group—people of color or poor people or a particular religious group—who were trying to achieve marriage equality. Wouldn’t you support them in that cause?” Of course, I had to say yes. And on that level, as a group seeking equality in one of society’s major institutions, I support the marriage equality movement. I have donated both time and money to the groups who are pursuing this end. But I’ve never stopped feeling uncomfortable about it on another level. At the level of all the issues left aside by this movement. The level where I resist the notion that the government should have any say in my relationships, in what sort of relationships should and should not be privileged (e.g., by eligibility for social  recognition and financial support—insurance, Social Security, parenting rights, health care, all of it).

Still, this is the movement we have at this moment, and I do celebrate the wins. Yet, I try to keep in mind that other issues are just as (or more) burning for many in our community. Some of these are linked to marriage—e.g., many parenting issues would be eased if same-sex couples could legally marry. Others wouldn’t be helped at all.

Looking for a way to reconcile these perspectives—the joy and the discomfort—I realize that we have learned some very important lessons in this process that may serve us well as we (hopefully!) turn to other issues. Here’s one lesson:

As the Atlantic article explains, a large part of the shift we saw this November from all losses to important wins was a shift in the message LGBTQ campaigns used in arguing for marriage equality. At some point, some activists realized that the LGBTQ movement had been appealing to people’s minds (“Let me give you some statistics about inequality”), while the anti-equality movement was appealing to their emotions (“Let me tell you a story that will move you”). It turns out that stories and feelings trump numbers and minds and when it comes to voting on complicated and confusing wrinkles in the cultural fabric. So these recent, successful campaigns focused not on data but on LGBTQ people and their allies telling their stories. Door-to-door canvassing didn’t involve peppering voters with facts. Instead, it involved having conversations about shared values and personal lives.

I was reminded of this lesson about the importance of stories this morning when I read this article about a lesbian couple’s attempt to adopt a child. I was moved by this article, and I imagined that others, even those who have not thought about such things before, might be as well: the simple fact of wanting a child made far too complex and fraught. This couple could have been heterosexual, and many of the same events might have transpired. But the limitations on their options for adoption and their inability to fully support each other stemmed from nothing but persistent prejudice and discrimination. Since I have lesbian friends with a new baby, I couldn’t help but think of them and of all the thought, hope, fear, excitement, anxiety, uncertainty, and joy they experienced waiting for their child.

In all of the many ways that children may come into one’s life, sexual orientation ought to be such a non-issue. As we turn to other issues of equality, stories like this one may be what changes hearts.

Leonardo's genius

For my weekly Wednesday reminder that I’m retired, I went this week to the Leonardo da Vinci Machines Exhibition at the Denver Pavilions. For anyone who loves to tinker and who takes great pleasure in trying to figure out how things work, this exhibit is a total treat. It’s also a treat for anyone who is fascinated by genius—artistic, mechanical, scientific, architectural, across-the-board genius. For those with a historical/cultural bent, there’s a 45-minute movie about da Vinci's life and times. I was too fascinated with the inventions and ran out of time before seeing most of the movie. Good reason for a repeat trip.

Leonardo da Vinci is probably best known as an artist, but it was his inventive genius that caught my attention when my partner sent me the link to the exhibit website. There, I found pictures of all these models of his inventions. How could I not want to check these out? The models have been created from da Vinci’s drawings by artisans using the sorts of tools and materials that were available in his time. Apparently he left behind about 45,000 loose sheets of paper with notes (mostly in mirror writing), drawings, thoughts, experiments, and ideas for inventions. Some have been gathered into books, most of which are owned by museums around the world (except for the one that Bill Gates owns).

Waterwheel-driven saw - a gear-driven mechanism
moves the saw up and down and also slides the lumber forward

Ball bearings and spindles - freely moving parts reduced
friction, allowing one surface to move easily on another
("Lazy Susan" anyone?)

This description of da Vinci's study of chains
also shows the detail of his drawings

You can see about 60 models of his inventions at this exhibit, along with prints of several of his paintings (Mona Lisa, The Last Supper, and others). The inventions range from war machines through flying machines to a flood lamp and a 360° mirrored closet. Some have “Do not touch” signs, but others are interactive (those, of course, were my favorites. Tinker, tinker.) A large group of inventions and “studies” (where he played with ideas, tried out things without any particular end in mind) reflect da Vinci’s interest in mechanics. Turns out he either invented or pioneered in the development of such fundamental mechanisms as ball bearings, gears and gear-shifters, chains (which weren’t re-invented for another 300 years), differential gears for carts, pulleys, worm screws, fly wheels, hydraulic drills, systems to translate circular motion into linear motion, and a gadget that proved the impossibility of perpetual motion. Many of these were incorporated into his inventions: countless hoisting systems, modes of transportation (a horseless carriage, skis to walk on water, the bicycle, flying machines), gun turrets, robots, and on and on.

Differential gears allow a 2-wheeled cart to turn corners.
The design is basically like that used in cars today

This cart requires no horse. It moves using energy released
by the leaf springs, which is translated into forward motion
by the gears.

The things da Vinci invented depended partly on who his employer was. For instance, he lived in an era rife with wars—warring lords, warring fiefdoms, warring countries. So a lot of his inventions were designed as offensive or defensive weapons. These included an armored vehicle (forerunner of the tank), numerous devices to scale walls and to repel others trying to do the same, ship-borne mechanisms that tore apart enemy ships with a scythe, a multiple-cannon rotating turret for a ship, catapults, and more. The worst beast of all was a horse-drawn cart with four long blades that stretched out horizontally from the cart’s midline, rotating as the cart moved to cut a swath through any group gathered in the vicinity. Horrendous, though brilliant.  

The war monster - blades set rotating by the cart's motion
slash at anything in its path as horses pull it forward

Ship loaded with a scythe to tear apart enemy ships.

  

The original life preserver,
designed by da Vinci

Others inventions reflected his fascination with flight, including his famous “helicopter” and several designs for wings that a person might wear. Still others displayed his interest in water, including the first-ever design for the now-standard life preserver, another apparatus to allow a person to breathe while under water, and over-sized inflatable shoes to walk on water (with poles for balance). 

Some of his inventions have proven amazingly enduring, like the double-hulled ship, which kept the ship afloat even if a cannon ball ripped through its outer hull. It's now standard on commercial and military ships. Or the hinged ladder, which is now used on fire trucks. da Vinci designed it to scale enemy walls while being able to retract it at will if hot oil flew over the wall … but it’s still ingenious.

Double-hulled ship

Hinged, retractable ladder

And then there were his studies of anatomy, which he employed to magnificent ends in his painting and sculpture. (Reverting to his mechanistic frame of mind, he also designed a robot, clothed in a knight’s armor, based on his understanding of the mechanisms of the body.) Although one of his patrons was a Pope and the Catholic Church frowned on dissection, as an artist, da Vinci was given permission to participate in dissections, and his anatomical drawings are evidence of the care he took in this endeavor. Some of them are creepy (to me), but nonetheless fascinating. Unfortunately, I didn’t take any pictures of these … you’ll have to go see for yourself.

"The Last Supper" as a backdrop to gears and gizmos

The exhibit lasts through January 2013. Go see it – you’ll be glad you did!

Oh, and plan enough time to see the film …

Proof that perpetual motion is impossible.
You have to see it to understand (then please explain it to me)

Solstice, cycles, and the Mayan calendar

Friday was Solstice, the shortest, darkest day of the year. And it was simultaneously the moment when the days started getting longer, when the light began to return. It’s easy to understand how rituals grew up around this time of year. For weeks, even months, it seemed like the sun was leaving, dropping out of the sky to the south. How could we, being creatures who cherish and depend on light, not celebrate when it seemed to have changed its mind and started climbing back up the sky?

Not surprisingly, virtually every civilization has marked this moment in some way. Around the world, ancient calendars and other forms of time keeping showed some awareness of this change in the cycle of the days. Southwestern US Indians built structures that were perfectly aligned to this date, and, as we learned from endless coverage this year, the Mayans recognized 12-21-2012, Friday’s Solstice, as a key moment in their calendar.

I’m sure you all heard about the (supposed) Mayan prophecy that the world would end on 12-21-2012. This “prediction” became an excuse for end-of-the-world parties (including among high school kids, as I learned from the local filling station attendant, who had waited on several groups of such drunken revelers). And, as a website dedicated to this prophecy informed us, it also inspired thousands of people to flock to a mountain in France that was supposed to open up, revealing a space ship piloted by aliens that would take people away at the end of the world. Some folks traveled to an alternative safe place in Turkey.

Experts in Mayan culture, on the other hand, tell us that the Mayan calendar does not predict the end of the world. It predicts a new beginning.

The Mayan calendar is actually very complex. It’s based on several nested cycles, one within another, going back to the mythical beginning of the world, about 4111 B.C.E. on our calendar. One of these cycles is about 360 days long, similar to our year; another is about 52 years long, roughly a generation. And then there’s the “long count” calendar, which chronicles a cycle about 3000 years long. This is the calendar said to promise the end of the world. The long count does indeed mark 12-21-2012 as a special day—the transition from the first long-count cycle to the second. (Interestingly, after the fact, the website devoted to the end of the world now describes the day as a transition instead.) The next such transition will occur in about 4772 C.E., so it’s pretty safe to say we won’t be here for it.

Part of the discussion about the end of the world was the suggestion that the prophecy actually predicted the end of the world as we know it. This interpretation was favored in part, I imagine, because there’s a song to fit. In part because when it comes to the end of the world, the phrase “as we know it” is easier to swallow than the word “forever.” Perhaps in part because in some sense, every year, every day, every minute is the end of the world as we know it. No moment is ever precisely like any moment before it—if only because this moment is already a part of my past by the time the next one arrives. And in part because some people had somehow learned a more accurate interpretation of the Mayan calendar that recognizes this concept of ongoing cycles and renewal.

The Mayan calendar and our misunderstanding of it tells us something about ourselves. About how easily we accept misinterpretations of other cultures’ beliefs and artifacts, interpretations that obscure the wisdom those beliefs carry in favor of drama. About how easily we accept misunderstandings “sold” by folks who know how to market crises. But also, if we can step back from the hype, there’s something about the common threads that connect cultures and belief systems within cultures. And the threads that connect those beliefs with the world we all inhabit.

Like this notion of cycles. Solstice, the return of the light celebrated in some form across the centuries and across cultures, is at once the end and the beginning of a solar “year.” The Mayan calendar marks the end of a long count cycles and simultaneously the beginning of another. Cycles are like that. Life is like that. I often think of life as a sort of treadmill, with each generation fading into the one before and the one after. One generation slips off the front end, but the treadmill is never empty. There isn’t even a gap in the flow of generations because the generations flow into one another, each is both one generation and the next. Just as Solstice is simultaneously an ending, a transition, and a beginning.

We had a Solstice gathering on Friday night with a group of friends. We lit a lot of candles and dimmed the electric lights. We shared poems, writings, music, and personal experiences that spoke of darkness, light, and renewal. We talked (and talked and talked) about all kinds of things—about community and religion, about finding “light” in oneself, inspiration in music, hope in love, and comfort in the promise of home. About the “resurrection” that comes from the meaning and hope we leave behind us as we pass. And we talked about life and death. About the painful loss of beloved pets and dear friends, and about the new  baby recently born to other friends. We even talked about the Mayan calendar and its message of renewal. Without, I think, ever mentioning “cycles” per se, we talked about the cycles of our lives and of “life” beyond our lives.

Western cultures are so enamored of the notion of the self-contained individual. I wonder what we miss by thinking of ourselves in this isolated way. It’s true that if I focus on my self, I can identify a beginning and an end. But if I focus on cycles and on communities, then that demarcation disappears. Sure, beyond a certain point, my self-contained individual self won’t be here to witness the continuation of these nested cycles or the ongoing life of these communities. I’ll have stepped off the end of the treadmill.

But the Mayans had it right, I think: seen from the perspective of 3000 years, the moments that seem like endings are simultaneously beginnings, transitions. And there is no end to that.

Otherwise

Tuesday, I learned that a friend of mine had died. So on Wednesday, she was very much on my mind when the following poem by Jane Kenyan appeared in my email box, beneath a signature block. 

 "Otherwise"
 
 I got out of bed
 on two strong legs.
 It might have been
 otherwise. I ate
 cereal, sweet
 milk, ripe, flawless
 peach. It might
 have been otherwise.
 I took the dog uphill
 to the birch wood.
 All morning I did
 the work I love.

 At noon I lay down
 with my mate. It might
 have been otherwise.
 We ate dinner together
 at a table with silver
 candlesticks. It might
 have been otherwise.
 I slept in a bed
 in a room with paintings
 on the walls, and
 planned another day
 just like this day.
 But one day, I know,
 it will be otherwise.
 

It’s a beautiful, deeply conscious poem, noticing each minute the privilege of that moment. And I suppose the last line, “But one day, I know, it will be otherwise,” could mean all sorts of things. It could refer to, say, a change of job, a change of partner, a change in health, retirement. In fact, I guess it could refer to life. We all live always knowing that “one day … it will be otherwise.”

But coming on the day it did, the poem spoke to me of the inevitably of death. Each day, I go to sleep planning another day … but one day, it will be otherwise. This time, it was a friend’s “otherwise,” and my response to her death reminds me that one day it will be mine, too.

I met my friend through my work as a volunteer, a sort of “buddy,” with Boulder County Aging Services. From the first day I met her, I loved her spirit, her wit, her determination to be as engaged in her world as she could be—this despite a progressive illness that was stealing her physical abilities and would eventually diminish her mind as well. That first day, we spent a couple of hours talking, getting acquainted. In that conversation, I got my first glimpse of her sense of humor as she told me stories about her life and her kids. Like, about their embarrassment (which disguised delighted pride, I quickly realized) at her playful, unfettered approach to life. Once, traveling on a mountain road with her kids, she took a pit break next to the car. One son said (I imagine him rolling his eyes in jest), “I wish I had a proper mother.” “What would that be like?” she asked. “A mother who wears white gloves and plays Canasta.” She laughed and drove on. I learned so much about her from stories like that—and she had many.

That initial conversation also gave me an idea of what an active, engaged life she had led before she got sick—“back when I was alive,” she said. As I left that first day, she gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Definitely not something my family has ever done, even with one another, but it seemed right and welcoming. I soon learned that this is the standard Dominican greeting and farewell for family and friends. Once, she asked me why I didn’t say hello to her when I arrived. “But I did,” I insisted. “You didn’t kiss me.” I got it: No hello (and no goodbye) counts without a kiss on the cheek. I left hoping we would become friends.

On our first outing together, we went to the senior center to see what programs there might catch her fancy. We signed her up for a simple fitness class (“Sit ‘n’ Fit”) that seemed suited to her ability and interest, and then for lunch at the center on the two days the class met. Leaving the building, she seemed quiet, and I asked, “Are you exhausted?’” She answered, very quietly, “I’m excited!” And I thought, “I love this woman!” It fit so well with my own wish to stay engaged and alive as I age. How could I not love someone who shared that wish?

I took her to the fitness class the next day, planning to drop her off at the class and return later for lunch. I sat beside her in the exercise circle before the class began and asked if she was OK. “I’m scared,” she said. My instant reply, “I’ll stay.” Now, I have to admit that some of my reaction comes from my own wish to be needed—after all, how better to stay visible? But I also loved her willingness to share this range of emotions—“I’m excited” and “I’m scared.” It was a great match. She was energetic (insofar as her disease allowed), witty, loving, enthusiastic, smart—just what my soul craves. And she seemed to like and trust me. Perfect.

And so began nearly two years of bi-weekly exercise classes followed by lunch at the senior center. Over the past year, I have seen her health declining. She complained more often about not feeling well, but she still wanted to go to exercise class. “If I don’t go, I’ll do nothing,” she said. “That’s worse for me.” Conversations had always been hard for her because her disease meant that her ability to speak lagged way behind the thoughts she wanted to express. Over time, this had become more noticeable. Plus, it was harder and harder for her to show any sort of facial expression, and that bothered her. Try though she might, she could barely force a slight smile for a picture. In fact, I didn’t realize how much her physical appearance had changed until I compared two pictures I have of her—one taken at last year’s holiday party at the senior center and the other at this year’s party. Last year, the smile came easily. This year, it was faint. She reminded me (and others) that this was “the mask” that characterizes her particular illness.

I saw her last Thursday for the annual party. We ate junk food together. (She loved chocolate. She said she ate chocolates because opening them was good exercise for her fingers.) And I took her picture with the fire chief, who stopped by to visit. (She loved firemen. She always said that she liked to fall because then the handsome firemen would come help her up.) Then I dropped her off at her home, saying two goodbyes as we always did—once inside, with a kiss on the cheek, and then again as I stood outside the door, our palms touching through the screen. I said I’d see her Tuesday. Instead, Tuesday was the day I learned she had died.

So now it’s Thursday, a week since we last met. I went to the visitation today and saw her lying in her coffin. Some folks say that this experience provides “closure.” Perhaps the reaction is cultural or regional or dependent on one’s religion. But I didn’t grow up with “viewings,” and the few I’ve attended did not bring closure for me. Her lifeless figure didn't feel like the woman I knew—whereas the picture to the side, the one with just a hint of a mischievous smile, did. Tomorrow is the final service, and my time with her will be over.

Just last Thursday, I saw her. We joked, talked about her plans for Christmas, and ate chocolate. Tuesday, “I got out of bed on two strong legs,” planning to see her … but it was otherwise. Inevitable perhaps. But it makes me really sad.

Swallowed

These past few days, I've felt like I've been been swallowed. Consumed. The very first thought in the morning. Struggling not to make it the last at night so I can sleep. At once horrified, moved, touched, obsessed, and so very very sad. Where is the line? Wanting, needing to know more, futilely trying to make meaning from absurdity. To find order and control in chaos. Yet knowing that no amount of burying myself in information will answer the deepest questions. Knowing that living and reliving every detail from afar keeps me preoccupied, swallowed. When I first read about it, the first vague but nonetheless paralyzing, heart-stopping reports, tears sprang to my eyes. Before I could even “think” about it. Before I had framed any words, any anger, any stark terror or outrage came tears of disbelief and sadness. For the kids, the teachers, the principal, the school psychologist who died. For their families. Their friends. The children and adults who survived in the school's offices, hallways, classrooms. The town. This Newtown, now another chapter in a horribly, painfully familiar story.

So much has been written and said about this incident. “Sandy Hook”: It's already morphed into a label that will forever represent that gruesome day. My thoughts about this feel so fragmented. I have mental piles of clippings, tidbits of news read and heard, pictures. Much of this, my mind has undoubtedly already re-written trying to create a sensible pattern where there is none. But these fragments have no glue. They’re like a pile of feathers that can be scattered into chaos by the next breeze of rumor or detail, by a photograph or a quotation from a child.

In the past few days, I’ve read three very different pieces that have seemed helpful as I, like millions of other people, try to find some thin thread of understanding and direction to tie all this together in a package that I can carry. If you’re still looking, you might find them helpful. Or not. We all do this in our own ways. Please feel free to pass on other ideas.

The first is an informative, analytic piece that draws a parallel between suicide bombers and mass murder/suicides. I found it interesting and persuasive—maybe because it makes some sense, as little does in this frantic search for the “why?” But it leaves me wondering what we can do about it. As individuals and as a nation.

Then, the second offers some helpful thoughts about how we (try to) cope with such incomprehensible tragedy and what we can do in its wake.

And finally, the third is really grounding in its reminder that trauma does not spell unmanageable distress or unending problems for most people, of any age.

Friday is Solstice, the return of the light. And there are murmurings of hope that gun control will finally enter the public and political conversation again. Too late, and probably too little. But although the light returns slowly, return it does. I hope that’s a metaphor. 

Frabjous Shchedryck

I’m finally coming out from under the piles created by two weeks away, and I just remembered that I’d failed to create a “picture blog” from the trip. Then, last night, we went to hear Sound Circle, which planted a couple of new ideas. So the following is a sort of mash-up of my vacation on the east coast and Sound Circle’s magnificent Solstice concert.

I’ve written before (several times) about Sound Circle, so you already know how much I love their music—both for its artistic excellence and for its varied message. Last night’s concert had some really playful parts that I found delightful. Among those was a piece based on Lewis Carroll’s poem “Jaberwocky.” You remember …

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

Well, one of the “nonsense” words in that poem caught my ear. It was in this phrase: “O frabjous day!” What a great word: frabjous! The brief lexicon given in the program explained that “frabjous” is a combination of “fabulous” and “joyous.” (If you’re curious about possible meanings of other nonsense words in Jaberwocky, read this.)

What a perfect word to describe an especially fine day: frabjous! I tucked it away, wondering how I might use it one day. My experience with new words tells me that if I want to make them my own, I have to use them. So I vowed to find an opportunity to find something totally frabjous.

And here’s that opportunity, just a day later: a link between Sound Circle’s Solstice concert and pictures from my recent vacation – which had many frabjous moments.

Like the the discovery of lavishly decorated cows scattered about the University of North Carolina campus. (Night pictures, but you get the idea) 

               

How could you not think these multi-hued bovines frabjous? These bulls seem to be some sort symbol of UNC since they're everywhere. But why bulls? The team (and UNC students) are called “Tarheels,” a reference to the huge tar and turpentine industry in the state, along with Civil War stories of North Carolina soldiers’ having tar on their heels that made them tenacious and immovable. No bull there. And the school mascot is a ram, apparently because a favorite football player was nicknamed “battering ram” about the same time the school decided it needed a mascot. No bull. So I asked around about the relationship between bulls and UNC, and the best guess seems to be some obscure link to Bull Durham tobacco, probably the best-known local product. Anyhow, the painted bulls are definitely cool, so discovering them along my evening walk was a most frabjous moment.

And, obviously, frabjous is the perfect word to describe our sunrise walk on the beach near Wilmington, NC, between a gig at the U of North Carolina, site of the bulls, and the drive north to MD. Fabulous and joyous.

Then, we spent some time in southern MD, from whence we took a day trip to DC to visit the Smithsonian. I had a totally frabjous day there, swallowed up by the new exhibit on evolution, which I already raved about in an earlier blog. But what I didn’t do before was show off these pictures from that frabjous day.

     

And for another frabjous moment, consider this view of the late evening sky out the gabled window of our hotel in Port Jefferson, NY.

… and of the ferry (which I didn’t get to ride) emerging from the fog.

And finally, imagine my frabjous delight when my dear old gull friend Mildred (whom you met before and before that) stopped by the Port Jefferson pier to say hello.

So, back to Sound Circle … In addition to gathering the word frabjous into my vocabulary, I also learned something new at the concert that served as a reminder of easily we appropriate others’ lives in order to adorn our own. In this case, I learned about the appropriation of a song.

The guest musician for the evening, Beth Quist (BTW, if you have a chance, go see this woman!), performed a piece that she introduced something like this (not a direct quote, but close): “This is not a Christmas song,” she began. “It’s pagan,” she continued, smiling. So far, no surprise. This was, after all, a Solstice concert, not a Christmas concert. “It’s a new year’s song,” she went on, “but in this case, ‘new year’ refers to spring—the emergence of new life and the beginning of the planting season.”

The song, called “Shchedryk” (from the Ukrainian Щедрий вечiр, meaning bountiful evening), is based on an old Ukrainian folk chant from pre-Christian Ukraine, when the new year was celebrated in April. The song is about a swallow who flies in through the window of a farmhouse, announcing the arrival of spring and promising a bountiful new year.

Now, to make this really cool, you need to listen to the original song before you read on. In this recording, it is sung by a Romanian chorus in its original form. Just click on the title to hear Shchedryk. Be sure to listen before you read on.

Recognize the tune? Here’s the story: When Ukraine became a Christian country in 988 AD, the celebration of the new year was moved from April to January to match the Christian calendar. You recognize it because the melody of Shchedryk was adopted as the tune for an English Christmas carol. After the Ukrainian National Chorus performed the original version at Carnegie Hall,  Peter J. Wilhousky, an American composer of Ukrainian/Russian ancestry, wrote English lyrics that transformed the song into “Carol of the Bells.” The rest is history.

For any hard-core music buffs out there, here’s the musical score (with audio).

So what does this have to do with my vacation? Well, for reasons that I'm still sorting out, when I learned about this connection … this appropriation … I thought immediately of the Dickens Festival in Port Jefferson, NY, the last stop on our trip.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, Port Jeff holds an annual Charles Dickens Festival, which includes a performance of Dickens' “A Christmas Carol.” For several days, townspeople stroll around town dressed in very fancy Victorian garb. They wander through restaurants and coffee shops, speaking in quasi-British accents and posing for photos for (and with) tourists.

     

 

The link between Shchedryk and the Dickens Festival is complicated. I actually wrote paragraphs about it, only to decide it was too obscure (and even cranky) to post. So let me leave it at this:

Charles Dickens was a social critic, and “A Christmas Carol” challenged rich folks to recognize their common humanity with poor people and people with disabilities folks. Yet, the “dress-up” part, at least, of the Dickens Festival seemed to be steeped in wealth. Who could afford a full-length velvet dress, new for each year’s festival? How different it would be to devote the same funds to feeding the Bob Cratchits and Tiny Tims of New York ... especially given that this was right after Sandy blew through.

I wonder if it’s too much of a stretch to draw a parallel between this event and Shchedryk. In both cases, the meaning of a work of art has been altered to fit comfortably into the lives of the folks who claim it for themselves. Shchedryk, a pagan song about spring, has been claimed as a Christmas carol. Dickens’ work, a critique of class and ability privilege, is celebrated by an exercise in excess. Obscure? Cranky? Maybe so.

The less contentious point (but one that wouldn’t allow me to post pictures from my trip) is that I so often learn stuff from Sound Circle’s music. Sometimes it’s overt, sometimes more subtle. Often, it stays with me and makes me think. Shchedryk (a.k.a. "Carol of the Bells") definitely did that.

The warmth of cold-water ports

I’m writing from the last stop in our journey, a sweet hotel on the main drag in Port Jefferson, NY, a small village nestled against a harbor that opens to Long Island Sound.  

The local literature refers to Port Jefferson as a “charming village,” and the description fits on one level. Port Jeff, as the locals call it, has the requisite narrow roads, “quaint” (if huge!) Victorian houses, and lots of mom-and-pop shops (mostly catering, it appears, to tourists). It also hosts an annual Charles Dickens weekend in early December featuring a charity ball (in the local community center) and shows by assorted local artists (community theater, singing groups, arts and crafts shows, etc.). The location is far enough away from the frantic, congested world of New York City to serve as a destination for weekends away, and compared with The City, it is definitely, at 7800 residents, a “village.” But it feels a bit artificial, this studied quaintness, and the prices definitely reflect an expectation that big bucks will be spent in its charming shops. Sure enough, the chamber of commerce tells us that after the demise of the main industry, “Port Jefferson reinvented itself as a vacation spot. The ferries brought visitors, and bathhouses opened around the harbor.”

Still, it really is a lovely setting, the hotel is flat-out cool (we’re in a third-floor room with gables), breakfast at the local coffeehouse/café was excellent, I enjoyed my walk through town and along the shore, and I am absolutely content to spend a few days in the village of Port Jeff.

But enough of the travel guide. It’s my morning walk I want to write about. I took a long stroll along the harbor shore, and en route, I encountered a number of interpretive signs that sketched the history of the industry for which the town was known in the 1800s and early 1900s: they built ships here. I always love this sort of information, love imagining what life was like in that era, in this place, for folks with differing stations in the village social system. Today, one bit of information in particular jumped out at me: The shipbuilding operation really surged when the local company was recruited by the US government to build ships during WWI.

The reason this was so salient to me has to do with a book I’ve been reading: The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration. Through the individual stories of a few people, this book tells the larger story of the “Great Migration” of millions of African Americans from the South to the North.

Starting in the late 19^th and continuing through the mid-20^th century, they left to escape Jim Crow and to find decent work in northern cities—especially along the east coast (Washington DC, NYC, Philadelphia), in the Midwest (Chicago, Detroit), and on the west coast (Los Angeles, Oakland). “The Great Migration,” author Isabel Wilkerson writes, “would become a turning point in history. It would transform urban America and recast the social and political order of every city it touched.”

“Its imprint is everywhere in urban life. The configuration of the cities as we know them, the social geography of black and white neighborhoods, the spread of the housing projects as well as the rise of a well-scrubbed black middle class, along with the alternating waves of white flight and suburbanization—all of these grew, directly or indirectly, from the response of everyone touched by the Great Migration.”

A section I read just last night explains that the greatest mass movement occurred when folks had something to move to as well as something to escape from. That something was jobs, and the precipitating event was WWI. The nation badly needed workers to operate the industries that were necessary for the war effort. But the traditional source of cheap labor in the North—namely immigrants—slowed by over 90% during the war because immigration was largely halted. So companies seeking cheap labor looked to the other group who had always worked for paltry wages: African Americans. They sent recruiters south, where they (often secretly) planted the idea that jobs were plentiful in the North, workers were needed for the war effort, and “Negroes” would be welcome there. It worked.

So now you get the connection between my book and my walk. Port Jeff must have been even smaller in the early 1900s, and many local folks were likely off to war or to war-related jobs in larger cities. Who was left to build ships? Did the local shipbuilding company recruit Blacks from the South? Might Blacks have sought “a warmer sun” in this cold-water port? Would they even be drawn to a “charming village” on the north shore of Long Island? Maybe not. Most folks who moved north for jobs sought out locations where they already knew people—family or friends who had come before—and where they had connections. Chances are slim that there would be such communities in Port Jefferson. But, I thought to myself, maybe … I searched for any indication in the interpretive signs and photos, but saw no recognizable African American presence.

All of this led me to reflect, as I walked, on the distribution of people by “race,” what Wilkerson called “the social geography of black and white.” When we live apart, located in and identified with particular neighborhoods, the notion that we are different is constantly reinforced. Black people are the ones who live over there, down there, white folks think. Whites live over here, up here. Clearly, we conclude, they are different from us in ways that matter. “Race” serves to explain that difference.

While we were in Maryland last week, we went to the Smithsonian to see a new exhibit on human evolution. It was a great exhibition, really informative, with lots of hands-on elements and very accessible explanations of all sorts of stuff. The science of human evolution made such great sense as presented here. As I walked through this exhibit, I was struck by how carefully it presented and reinforced the fact that all humans are the same species, that there is no such thing as “race,” that about 99.9% of genetic material is identical in all humans. And yet, we have all learned to believe, at some level, that race is real. I belong to one race, whereas some other people belong to different races. Even if we can say that the “races” are equal, at some gut level, we still believe (because we’ve been so well taught) that race exists as a defining characteristic. And to some degree, we all enact that belief in our lives.

Not surprisingly, Blacks in the Jim Crow South wanted to escape from the daily oppression that shaped their lives. They wanted to experience, in the words of poet Richard Wright, “the warmth of other suns.” Yet, their migration didn’t end their oppression. Racism persisted, if in different forms, in the North. It was a different sun, but not necessarily a warm one. Race was still assumed to exist, and differences between races were not questioned by most folks—certainly not by the US government, which still sorted military enlistees according to “race.” If Black people came to Port Jefferson to build ships during WWI, they almost certainly wouldn’t have been welcomed into the social scene that now holds a Charles Dickens ball each December. It is likely that the established residents would have lived apart from the new ones arriving to work in the shipyards. As if they were different beings, different races. 

The village publicity is silent on the question of African Americans’ presence at any point. Yet census data cited in Wikipedia’s discussion of Port Jefferson indicate that 18.7% of the population was African American in 2000. When did they come and why? And where are they in this apparently white village? What is the geography of black and white here, and when was it established? On the other hand, data from the “city data” site on Port Jeff show a much lower proportion: 1.5% African Americans. No wonder they seem scarce. But why this discrepancy? Inquiring minds want to know!

It’s an odd confluence of experiences: the book, the story of local shipbuilding during WWI, and the Smithsonian exhibit. Combine these with my recent posting about the meaning of Thanksgiving, and you have a raft of convoluted reflections floating through my mind on this cloudy day in this sweet hotel in the charming village of Port Jefferson.

Ah, life is so complex.

Thanksgiving: Turkeys, treaties, and truth

I’m writing from a coffee shop in Hollywood, Maryland. (Really. Or maybe this is across the town line into California, MD. Really.) My partner and I are midway in a “road trip,” bookended by two professional gigs. It’s a couple of days after Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is a deeply meaningful holiday in this country. Depending on your perspective, it may be the most wonderful of holidays or the most fraught. It may be “loaded” with warm memories of family gatherings and lovely fall days (or with fantasies of those things). Or it may be loaded with uncomfortable memories and uncomfortable interactions. For me, it’s loaded with complicated feelings and troubling historical and political meanings.

I recall hearing someone say that Thanksgiving is the most wonderful holiday because it’s not tied to any particular religious beliefs. It’s inclusive, they said, it’s celebrated by all of us, collectively. Here’s where the complications start. “All of us” presumes that we see ourselves as Americans (because no other nation is celebrating our Thanksgiving) … er, rather, as a United States-ians (because other countries in the Americas don’t celebrate Thanksgiving with us). So it’s not totally inclusive, but it’s at least inclusive of those of us who identify as US-ian. Well, unless we’re the original inhabitants of the land we now claim as US-ians. If you are among those people whose ancestors were actually here prior to the European invasion, this “holiday” may be a day of mourning.

Last time, I wrote about the then-upcoming “Sweet Land - Choices of Dignity” concert/event, which was performed by Sound Circle, Resonance, and others last week to celebrate the end of the election and the promise of four more years of (generally) progressive leadership. That, and to challenge us to make choices of dignity, to claim our own responsibility for the direction of our communities, large and small. During that performance (which I hope many of you heard), Sound Circle did a rendition of the old patriotic favorite, “America.” Kirsten Wilson, the “vision holder” for OneAction, One Boulder, had reframed the familiar song in minor but profound ways. (Recall that the project One Action, One Boulder undertook was to encourage conversations about and reflection on racism in our own communities). With Thanksgiving approaching, this change in particular caught my attention: The usual lyrics:

“Oh beautiful, for Pilgrims’ dreams

That see beyond the years

Thine alabaster cities gleam

Undimmed by human tears.

… became …

Oh beautiful, for Pilgrims’ … [pause]

for Indians … [pause]

for genocide …

Some years ago, when we were living in Massachusetts, my partner and I spent two Thanksgiving days in Plymouth, MA, land of the “Pilgrims’ pride.” We spent those days participating in the counter-Thanksgiving conducted by local descendents of the Indian tribes who lived in this area in the 1600s. The tribes who were there when the Pilgrims moved in, claimed the land, killed rebellious Indians, displayed the head of one recalcitrant chief on a post in the center of town, and left it there for years as a reminder. We both had qualms about the meaning of Thanksgiving before, but after this experience, the holiday could mean only one thing: a celebration of genocide. In Caesar’s words, we (and “we” has to include us, as beneficiaries of this genocide) came, we saw, we conquered. And then we moved across the continent, seeing, conquering, claiming land that was not ours, eliminating the uncooperative native peoples along the way and assimilating the rest to our “superior” way of life.

Among the “One Action, One Boulder” events I attended during the year was a performance of “Rocks,Karma, Arrows,” a performance piece that sketched the history of the relationship between Boulder-area tribes and the settlers arriving in Colorado. I carried a number of messages away from that event, but the one that keeps coming to mind is this: “We are walking on stolen land.” A treaty with the United States gave the land where Boulder sits—in fact, the land all along the front range and well into the mountains—to the Northern Arapahoe in perpetuity. That means forever. That treaty was never renegotiated. But it was violated over and over by the “settlers” and their armies … by our government. That means that every day, I walk on, hold (illegal) claim to property on, enjoy the beauty of, and damage at will land that is not mine.

I mention this partly because of the obvious link to the Thanksgiving story. On this day dedicated to giving thanks, we celebrate a legendary event that amounted to the launching party for a campaign of continent-wide genocide. And I benefit from that every day. No, I wasn’t personally there. I didn’t kill any Indians or personally push them from their land. But I am responsible for recognizing that I benefit from that campaign. And when I allow myself to realize that, celebrating it feels so painfully inappropriate.

The other reason I mention this is that I just had an up-close-and-personal reminder of how easily I judge other people’s failure to acknowledge the privilege they gain from the oppression of others—even as I so easily forget my own. This past week, we were on a college campus in the South. The hotel where we stayed is built and decorated to evoke the old South—southern hospitality, southern elegance. But as we walked around, I couldn’t help but be reminded of southern plantations—the “big house” with its columns, porches, and elegant furnishings. It’s a lovely scene—until you consider the whiffs of slavery and unquestioned racism, the people who lived in the slave quarters just down the hill from the big house. Later, we walked around campus, learning bits of history from our friend and guide. Many of the buildings were very old, pre-civil war structures—which means that they were most likely the handiwork of slaves. I couldn’t help but ask, silently, to myself, “Have you never thought about who built these buildings?”

I was aware that this (rather judgmental) response came partly from an earlier visit to a campus in the south where we were told that the buildings were indeed constructed by slaves. In that case, the stewards of that campus had embarked on a project to make amends for that egregious mistreatment of other human beings. But I saw none of that in the people we met on this college campus. In fact, my attempts to raise this issue—noting how uncomfortable the “southern charm” made me feel—evoked no response from people I met, except, perhaps, a slightly uncomfortable change of topic. I was feeling pretty righteous about this (“Don’t they see their responsibility to address this?”), when my partner reminded me that Kirsten Wilson and One Action, One Boulder spent an entire year trying to get folks to see the same dynamic of avoidance and denial in our own back yard. … “I am walking on land that belongs to someone else.”

We are all responsible for recognizing and acknowledging our own privilege, recognizing ways in which we have—literally and figuratively—stolen our well-being from others. The point is not that we should feel guilty about this, but that we are responsible for what we do about it. Simply celebrating “Thanksgiving” without reflecting on, talking about, questioning the meaning of the holiday now seems irresponsible to me.

And yet, two days ago, I sat down to “Thanksgiving” dinner among people with whom I did not have this conversation. Nothing in the day or in the conversation even hinted at the holiday’s origin. Indeed, these folks, like many other people I know, would likely argue that the point of Thanksgiving is really to bring family together. They might also say that the point of the day is to remind us to be grateful for our many blessings. Still, “Thanksgiving” as we know it is built on a legend. In retrospect, it’s clear that the legend made super-human heroes of people most US-ians have historically identified with—European “settlers.” And it made sub-human demons of the people who have historically been unlike most of us—indigenous people of color, American Indians.

If we want a thanksgiving holiday that celebrates community and gratitude, then let’s do that, instead of deluding ourselves into thinking that these things capture the real meaning of our current “Thanksgiving” holiday. For me personally, the “Sweet Land” concert was as fine a celebration of community as I can imagine. I left it feeling uplifted, connected to community, and challenged to make choices of dignity.

And in that spirit, my partner and I have agreed that we won’t spend future Thanksgiving days in celebration (or avoidance) of the holiday’s legendary origins. Instead, we’ll find ways to explore the historical meaning of the day and honor the people at whose expense we enjoy such great privilege. Here are some of the ideas we’ve discussed: We can make a donation to the Native American Rights Fund, which does great work on behalf of American Indians (including work on those violated treaties). We can spend time with friends watching and discussing the video version of “Rocks, Karma, Arrows.” We can join with friends in a common reading and then share a meal discussing what we’ve read. And we can make a commitment to speak up, whenever possible, when we hear the legend with its distortion of what actually happened in New England in the early 1620s … and beyond.