Lonesome George and the street performer: Homophobia lite

The other day, my partner gave me an article, a sort of obituary for Lonesome George. “Famous Galapagos tortoise dies,” the headline read. Anyone who has been to the Galapagos Islands—that marvelous place where Darwin saw the creatures that inspired his inspired theory of evolution—knows about Lonesome George.

Lonesome George

In case you haven’t heard of George, here’s his story: Each of the islands in the Galapagos archipelago has its own distinctive subspecies of giant tortoise. In fact, this was one of the things that caught Darwin’s attention. He realized that these separate groups were actually subspecies that had evolved differently, over eons, to adapt to different environments. Then at some point, folks realized that these tortoises were going extinct. In a belated rush of awareness, conservationists desperately tried to protect—and to breed—the few remaining members of each subgroup so that their genes wouldn’t be lost forever.

Unfortunately, there was only one surviving member of the subspecies native to Pinta Island (Chelonoidis nigra abingdonii, for the biologists among you). That was Lonesome George. So they built him a large enclosure and treated him like the special guy he was. In fact, Lonesome George (the origin of his name is obvious) became the symbol of the foundation that operates the Charles Darwin Research Station, which studies and tries to protect the islands’ many unique species.

The folks at the research center, where George lived, encouraged him to reproduce by introducing assorted potential mates. But no luck. George never fathered any baby tortoises. So when he died at the unexpectedly young age of about 100, his subspecies died with him. I was sad to read of his death, partly because I felt like I knew him personally. But more than that, his very existence was so mind-boggling: the very last magnificent member of a group of animals that we drove to extinction—more precisely, the whalers and pirates started them on the road to extinction, and folks who cared arrived too late.

So where’s the “homophobia lite” part of this story? Well, as she handed me the article, my partner reminded me of something else about our time with George. Her recollection (and her encouragement to write this blog) brought to mind another recent experience—and suddenly George and street performers were merged. Here’s the story, in two parts.

Part I: A couple of years ago, we went to the Galapagos (I wrote about it a bit in an earlier blog). We met George when we visited the Darwin Research Station, and we brought home many t-shirts with his likeness. We also heard jokes about him, comments from a guide, made in that tone that mingles derisiveness with (supposed) wit: “We’ve started to wonder about George. He doesn’t like girls. You know what I mean?” People laughed, the way we’ve all learned to laugh at jokes about men (or even male tortoises, apparently) who “don’t like girls.” It was one of those moments LGBT people encounter fairly frequently—the subtle derision of gay folks, the comments that are supposed to be jokes but that aren’t funny if you’re the target. If we call attention to them, we’re told that we’re “too sensitive,” “have no sense of humor,” “make everything political.” Make people uncomfortable.

Homophobia lite. Nothing overt, no name-calling, just reminders that we are seen as legitimately the brunt of jokes, our lives as laughable. Ouch.

Part II: You’re probably wondering what this has to do with street performers. Well, the other day, we were on the Pearl Street Mall with my partner’s grandson. Among other things (ice cream, hot dogs, having a song invented especially for him), he was enjoying the street performers. So were we, until we got hit with another dose of homophobia lite. This particular performer was pretty good, doing balancing tricks, juggling, and cracking jokes standing on a ladder that was poised without support. Then, for one trick, he asked for a couple of guys from the audience to help him. As he took one man’s hand for balance, he said “Now, don’t get funny with me, Sam.” He continued with the trick, slipping in, “You know, Sam, you have really soft hands for a guy.”

Homophobia lite. He didn’t say, “No faggots allowed” when he asked for volunteers. He didn’t say, “Don’t get gay on me, Sam.” He didn’t say “You have sissy hands” or “You have hands like a woman”—either of which would be easily recognized as code for “You must be gay.” Nope. It was more subtle than that. Both comments drew laughs, as suggestions that someone is gay often do. But to perceive comments like this as homophobia lite, you’d have to be “too sensitive,” “have no sense of humor,” “make everything political.” Or be the brunt of the joke. Men who aren’t “real men” are laughable. Gay folks are a joke. Ouch.

One of the really complicated things about being a target of discrimination or bias is that you always wonder, “Was that really homophobia?” “Did he mean what it felt like he meant?” … or am I just being too sensitive? Homophobia lite (like racism lite, sexism lite, classism lite, ageism lite, etc.) slips under the high-altitude radar. Folks whose work is all about diversity call these “modern –isms.” Unlike with the old-fashioned version of these “-isms,” you can’t point to exactly what was wrong—no explicitly hateful speech, no physical attacks, no overt refusal of service. It’s more insidious than that, and easier to dismiss.

Homophobia lite. It’s hard to be certain what really happened—and harder to explain it to other folks. What is certain, though, is that it hurts.

Happy surprises

The other day, my anticipated trajectory got disrupted by a series of happy events. It turned out totally different than I had expected, but who can complain about a day like this:

To start the day, I spent some time with my partner’s grandson, hanging out with him while he ate breakfast and then driving him to his skateboard camp. I’ve barely seen him while he’s been here—so many things to do, so little time. I like talking with him, so I really enjoyed having this piece of time. This was not actually a surprise, but the happy part is right.

Then, I headed for CU to start my gig as a subject in a research study on sleep and speech. I get intrigued by things like this, and it turned out to be way more fun than I expected. For starters, I got to take a flock of “tests” that I have read about for years but never actually took. Some were cognitive tests—not IQ tests, but measures of cognitive functioning, like how quickly do you switch from one sort of symbol to another or how many digits can you repeat backward (this one left me totally bamfoozled, laughing and stumbling over the numbers at the same time). Those were also fun because they were challenging, one of my top 10 signs of “fun.” Next I did some questionnaires about sleep habits and sleepiness. Of course they’d ask these things in a study of sleep, but it was interesting anyhow—who knew there were standardized measures of sleepiness and a.m. versus p.m. personality (that one is called the “Lark–Owl” test. Very cute).

Then we came to the speech part. I got to listen to and repeat strings of nonsense syllables, followed by reading a passage about John James Audubon. These don’t sound too fun, but I was so into the whole process by this point that I enjoyed it a lot. And then, best of all, they gave me this watch-like instrument to wear on my wrist for a week. It measures ambient light and movement. In other words, it keeps track of whether I’m wide awake and moving my arm around, nodding off amidst falling-asleep jerks, taking a nap in the middle of the day, or lying still in the dark because I’m actually in bed. I love techie “stuff,” and getting to wear this for a week is just too much fun.

Then, unexpectedly, the garden lady came by. There’s a backstory here. Earlier this spring, we got a consult from a friend of my partner, a gardening expert who helps her friends plan their gardens. We have a yard (actually, a small patio area in front of a town house) that we pretty much ignore. OK, we totally ignore it. Despite the fact that I have (or can create) a ton of “free” time, I have no interest in gardening. I find the idea of tending to plants—watering, weeding, dead-heading, trimming back, all of it—about as appealing as darning socks. But still, I want to be a responsible citizen of our little townhouse neighborhood, so I don’t want the yard to look totally tacky. I wouldn’t even mind if it looked beautiful and well planned, as long as that doesn’t require anything from me.

Among many other helpful tips, the consultant friend referred me to the sprinkler guy so I could get that system straightened out in anticipation of doing something with the garden. Or rather, finding someone else who would do something with the garden, with the idea that it would subsequently tend itself. So, the sprinkler guy came over to take a look last week, and he referred me to the garden lady (who, as chance would have it, was also on the list of names given me by the consultant friend). On the day in question, the garden lady called to see if she could come by to take a look. I explained the depth of my interest in gardening and my fantasy of a beautiful but totally labor-free yard. We took a walk around the neighborhood to get ideas and see how thing look in the ground instead of on the shelf at Lowe’s. Each time I said I liked something, she would look at me and either nod or shake her head—the former indicating a care-free choice, the latter promising unwelcome labor.


By the time we got back, she had planned a yard that sounds really nice—and really care free. To my great surprise, I realized that I was actually excited about this emerging yard. Not excited like “I can hardly wait to work in my garden!” (“get my hands in the dirt,” as I hear ardent gardeners say), but like, “It’ll be very cool for the yard to have some character and some color—and I won’t have to tend it!” So now, the garden is happily underway. The garden lady and the sprinkler guy are working together and have plans beyond my comprehension. I can hardly wait—truly!

Of course, all of these happy adventures took me to mid-afternoon, with nary a moment spent on the job that keeps me in socks. But heck, that’s one of the joys of retirement—plenty of time to fill with happy surprises, and plenty left to do what must be done.

I got to bed late that night, and my sleep study data-logger will pass that news on to the researchers. But that’s OK. I got to hang out with a very neat 10-year-old, I had a kick trying to remember digits backwards, and I’ll soon have a garden to not tend!

The circle game

And the seasons they go 'round and 'round

And the painted ponies go up and down

We're captive on the carousel of time

We can't return we can only look behind

From whence we came

And go 'round and 'round and 'round

In the circle game

- Joni Mitchell, “Circle Game”

In the past week or so, I wrote two blogs that now have follow-up stories. The original topics seemed to be on opposite ends of some continuum: one was about death and the other was about summer vacation. But there you have it, the two sides of retirement: the reality that it ends and the joy of being here in the meantime. 

So here goes: the circle game.

In the recent blog about death and dying, I talked about the odd ways we manage death—especially, managing to act like it isn’t really a part of life. Just a few days later, I went to a memorial service for a wonderful woman who seemed to so enjoy her life, and in the process, brought great joy to other folks. At the service, a couple of people mentioned how they had appreciated that blog entry. Only then did it strike me: Hmmm, I thought to myself, I knew this service was coming up before I wrote the blog. Maybe writing about death at this particular moment wasn’t just a coincidence. Of course, when I wrote it, I attributed my focus on death to Joe Klein’s Time magazine article. But I have to wonder if I was also thinking about death precisely because it was so close to my life at that moment—as close as a casual friend with whom I’d shared many potlucks, whom I often saw at the neighborhood movie theater before the cheap matinee so beloved by us retired folks, whom I’d seen at many LGBTQ events, always interested, always curious, always enthusiastic and earnest.

Seeing the connection was a reminder of how the reality of death floats around us all the time, how we keep it at bay, and how we find ways to process it when it insists on staring us in the face. We wrap the fearful future in the things we do every day to give meaning to our lives.

And in another domain entirely ...

Last week, I also wrote about my commitment to noticing the singularity of this summer—which is to say, to avoiding last year’s time warp when I realized that summer had passed, and I’d done nothing to appreciate it. I talked about how different summer vacations are now from when I was a kid—how today’s organized camps and outings have reshaped my generation’s unstructured time and neighborhood games. Well, this week, just to show how everything is connected to everything, retirement adventures and kids’ summer activities intersected.

I had planned to take another swell hike on Wednesday, but the smoke from the fire dissuaded me. (For those of you who aren’t in the Boulder area, there’s a major forest fire not far from here, and the result is not the clear mountain air we’re used to. It makes outdoor activities less enjoyable—and likely less healthy). So, I decided to visit Denver’s Museum of Nature and Science instead. 

Denver skyline from DMNS

        

There were lots of cool things to see, including a temporary photo exhibit on the Alaska Arctic (where I’ve been several times), and there's always lots to learn.  

But the best story is this: All around the museum were these swarms of kids in matching t-shirts. What a kick—these were the camp kids I mentioned in my blog! Here I am, an old woman, enlivening my summer vacation by exploring the museum, and I find myself surrounded by boisterous kids, enlivening their summer vacation by exploring the museum. Is this cool or what?

So much for the summer vacation “generation gap.” 

Welcome to the circle game.

Reclaiming my summer vacation

Summer vacations are really different now from when I was a kid. What I mostly remember about childhood summer vacations was days spent hanging out at the local swimming pool getting very tan (for which I am now paying with deep anxiety about melanoma), afternoon visits to the sports and crafts program at the local elementary school, trips to the bookmobile to stock up on summer reading, 2-week family camping trips spent alternately sightseeing and fighting with my sisters, and countless games of “kick the can” and “Red Rover” with other neighborhood kids. Oh yeah, and hanging out on the fringes of the boys’ pick-up baseball games, hoping to be invited to play. (Which I was—as catcher. Seems they had no mask. Anything to get to play.)

By contrast, my partner’s grandson, who is visiting for a month during his summer vacation, has his days filled with organized biking and skateboarding camps, a trip to Disney World … and maybe a few days of relative boredom, hanging out with the grandparents. I know this is now standard—kids go to camps for everything from make-up and fashion to computer technology, from gymnastics to science. This is good. Lots of research has shown that kids who do these activities retain last year’s learning better and come back to school more prepared than kids who don’t get to do them. But it’s another reminder of how the world keeps changing.

Last year at the end of the summer, a friend asked me how my summer had been. I was stumped for a minute, until I realized that summer was indeed over, and I hadn’t noticed it. Summer had been pretty much like any other season: I was busy with this and that, and the this’s and that’s didn’t change much from one month to the next. So I mumbled something inane and then started thinking about this situation I had created for myself. How many more summers do I have, I asked myself, and how many will I let slip by without noticing them? I live in Colorado, for Pete’s sake! What am I doing frittering away the summers indoors, doing the same things I can do in January? On the spot, I promised myself that I wouldn’t do that with this summer. So that has been my goal: to make summer different from every other season this year.

My “project” for the summer turns out to be more difficult to achieve than I first thought. As it happens, I have very few days with enough uncommitted time for me to actually go somewhere and do something summerish, something that’s different from the regular walks in the regular places. So, to make sure that I don’t have the same sort of mumbling moment come fall, I have proclaimed Wednesday my do-or-die do something! day. Declaring last Wednesday the start of my project, I took a wonderful walk on the Mesa Trail, camera phone in hand, and was treated to a profusion of early summer wildflowers (and some significant dark clouds and not-too-distant lightening). 


So here they are, the first souvenirs of my summer vacation.

           

Nice beginning, eh?

Passing, passing on, passing over, passing away, and just passing through

I just read a Time magazine cover story by Joe Klein about his parents’ dying and his role as their “death panel” (his words). He had to make decisions about which treatment his parents would receive and how their last months would be spent. The article is about what he learned about dying, and dying well, in the process. He’s especially clear about the kind of medical care he found for his parents—and about his firm belief in this medical model. (The  article is online here, or find it in the June 11, 2012, issue.)

Reading this, I started reflecting on my own views about the end of life. So, now I’ve decided to write a blog about death and dying. Usually not considered an uplifting topic. But the reality, as we all know, is that we all die. And as we age—which I, at least, am doing these days—that reality inches (or rushes) ever closer.

Many of us, like Klein, have already encountered death in the passing of parents, other family members, close friends, or acquaintances. Each of these events is a reminder that we’re all on the same path. That path leads off this plane of existence (I’m reminded of those old pictures of ships sailing off the edge of a flat world) and into … what? Many folks believe that death is followed by another life, maybe an exalted existence, eternal joy or damnation, or another incarnation. Others folks believe it leads to some universal level of reality where we merge with a cosmic Oneness, become part of some eternal existence with no persisting sense of personal identity.

For others, there is no continuing existence in any spiritual form. Instead, after the end of life as we know it, there is only the absorption of our cells into the physical makeup of the physical universe. I count myself in this last group. My own view of death is that it is, quite simply, the end of personal identity. Life stops. Identity ends. And our bodies become part of the material make-up of the universe. I like this image, actually. I like the thought that “I” (i.e., my cells) will nourish some other growing, living thing. And I am fine with the notion that “I” won’t continue. Well, “fine” may be an overstatement. I have pangs of deep regret that I won’t have any more experiences. But I am confident in and settled with this belief—as opposed to miserable about and resistant to it.

So, how does our understanding of death in the abstract affect how we experience it in our own lives? So far, my closest encounter with this question has been through the deaths of my parents and my younger sister. 

My sister knew she was dying. Her melanoma was spreading relentlessly, and she was in home hospice care. She died in her sleep, after an evening spent saying goodbye to her immediate family. My father chose his time to die, in the face of progressively more invasive medical procedures. Another heart surgery and ongoing dialysis were more than he wanted to endure, and he chose to stop treatment. He died in hospice with his immediate family around. My mother died last, unresponsive in the hospital after numerous medical crises. I was at her bedside, having come from New Hampshire. My older sister, who was Mom’s primary companion and support in her last years, had gone home to get some sleep. Mom died just seconds after I told her she could go if she was ready.

I would expect that how I understand death would shape how I have responded to their passing. Yet, I am struck by certain contradictions between what I deeply believe about dying and how I behave in its presence. For instance, here are two paradoxes:

First, since I believe that death is truly the end of individual consciousness, I don’t think that folks who have died are “looking down,” that they speak to us, or that they hear our pleas, prayers, or apologies. Nonetheless, I have occasional “conversations” with my mother and my sister—as if they existed somewhere as conscious persons, listening to me. So, I ask myself, why am I talking to them if they are simply and utterly gone? Have I so deeply internalized the storyline of our culture that tells of an afterlife, of their watching over us? Or do I not really believe that they are simply gone? Is that just an intellectual argument, while deep down inside, I really believe they still hear me? Or am I really just talking to myself, completing unfinished conversations, seeking reassurance or advice from some part of myself even though I’m addressing them? I think it’s the last. But sometimes, I wonder about my casual intellectualization of death—and about why it dissolves so easily.

The second paradox is in an entirely different vein. I know the importance of making sure that my wishes for end-of-life care are known. Both of my parents were absolutely clear about these things, and that fact eased the burden on their kids tremendously. Dad chose to slip into unconsciousness and die quietly. Mom chose to refuse “heroic” procedures, so no breathing tube was inserted to keep her “alive.” On the other hand, my sister was not as clear, and that fact made for some very difficult times, especially for her own adult children, who were charged with her care. So I’ve seen real-life examples of the difference it makes to decide in advance and to let others know my choices.

I also know the importance of what is routinely called “getting your affairs in order.” My father’s affairs were in order because my mother had always managed such matters, and she was (literally) a pro at managing financial records. For the same reason, her affairs were well under control when her time came. Both had clear wills and detailed financial records, and both had already arranged (and paid for) their cremation. My sister, on the other hand, lived a very chaotic life. She hand-wrote a fragmentary will the evening before she died, and her other records were virtually non-existent. I was the executor of her will, and trying to create order from this chaos was an awful task.  

So, I am totally aware that I need to tend to all of these things for myself. But as I reflected on this, my first thought was that I haven’t done any of it. Feeling embarrassed about my near-total lack of attention to “final things” in my own life, I shared this with my partner. Ever the realist, she pointed out that I have, in fact, taken care of most of these things. I have a will (although it’s way too old), I have long-term care insurance, I have identified my “last wishes” for medical care and cremation, I have a durable power of attorney for medical and financial decisions, and she knows who handles my annuities and, more or less, where my financial records are. There are a few things I should do: update my will, organize my financial records, and arrange in advance for my cremation and all the other things that others shouldn’t have to decide about. But mostly, I’m not so embarrassingly irresponsible in this area.

So, this raises an interesting question: Why am I so convinced that I’ve done nothing about this, when, in fact, I’ve done most things I should do? One possibility is that I continue to believe that there must be ways to “manage” death. If I just get this in order and that in line, death will be packaged, controlled. It’s not that I believe this intellectually—I really do know better. But this denial thing takes many forms, and one of them is surely the belief that we can somehow corral death. Since we can’t control the fact of death, at least we can control the circumstances of dying. So, in a paradoxical way, thinking that I still have things to manage may hint at my lingering belief that death can be tied up if I just apply enough twine. Not tying those last knots leaves me with unfinished tasks, so I still have something to do that will wrap this thing up.

But somehow, I just don’t get to these last tasks. I tell myself I’m too busy. This means that (1) I’m too busy to find the time to take care of it all, so I keep putting it off. And (2) the fact that I’m so busy proves that I don’t need to take care of it all. How can I be close to the end when my life is so full? I know this is nonsense. “It” could happen any day even though I have no reason to expect it. Besides, by the time I grasp that “it” is close, I could be physically or mentally unable to get my affairs in order. Obviously, this is not a good excuse. But it’s the only excuse I can articulate: I’m too busy.

Another way of understanding this might be that having a full life is another strategy for keeping this thing at bay. It gives me another layer of insulation, another way of denying what I know full well—intellectually, at least. My partner told me long ago about a book I should read: The Denial of Death by Ernest Becker (which is, amazingly, available online as a google book, or in old-fashioned book form at Amazon). 

Maybe it’s time I picked it up … if only I weren’t so busy.

  

Pollination

 Prickly pear cactus in bloom …

                                                                        

                                                      and with guests. 

I’d expect the bees

and even the butterfly (although this was a special treat!)

But who knew stinkbugs like prickly pear blossoms?

Seeing these reminded me of a really lovely (short) video that a friend recently sent. It’s about pollination, which of course is what these flying, buzzing, stinking things are doing, and it shows all manner of creatures in the act of eating and thereby pollinating—bees and other insects, humming birds, even bats. Check it out when you have 4 minutes to watch some amazing scenes.