Re-viewing

Remember seeing the picture of two profiles that could morph into a picture of a vase if you just looked a little differently? Or the one of the old woman and young woman, merged into one ... until you identify each of them individually? If you've run into these, maybe in Intro Psych, you may have heard them described as examples of reversible figure-ground relationships—what you see, what is figure and what is ground, can shift when you change your focus to a different bit of the picture or change your orientation relative to it. The picture doesn’t change. Your perspective does. You do.

       

                

So, here's my own recent encounter with a reversible figure/ground moment: 

Walking happily along a favorite trail I spotted this stump with a huge hole straight through it, so cleanly through that you could see the contours of the field behind it. I saw it from a distance, and was stopped in my tracks by the improbable perfection of this hole.

So I moved closer, wanting to see how it was done, this huge, precise hole …

and then closer yet ...

Not a hole at all, but the blunt end of a sawed-off branch, pointing straight at me. I've seen this stump a few times since. Each time, I'm first struck by the surprising hole, clean through. Only when I get closer, shift my perspective, do I remember that it's something else entirely.

Recently, I’ve had some of these moments on a totally different plane—not so much perceptual as conceptual and emotional shifts, in my experiences related to difference, oppression, diversity, and privilege.

A couple of weeks ago, we went to see the movie "I Am not Your Negro." The movie traces the experience of  James Baldwin, the noted African American author, speaker, and sometimes activist, as he decides to re-enter the fray—the Civil Rights movement—abandoning for a time his self-exile/ex-pat status in Paris (and sometime Turkey), where he went to escape the racism of his birth nation. I knew of Baldwin's work before, both because of its significance as literature and because of its meaning to the African American and LGBT communities.  But to be honest, I've never read  his work, not even the novel that I know gave voice to many queer folks' experience, Giovanni's Room. 

Joshua Dysart, in an IMDb review, writes of this movie, “a large part of this film consists of clips from Hollywood's rough history of reducing or falsifying the black American experience, often with Baldwin's own criticisms laid on top of them, weighing the clips down, eviscerating them. There are hard juxtapositions here as well, such as the innocence of Doris Day pressed up against the reality of lynched black men and women swaying in trees. By contextualizing these images in new and fresh ways the film is able to paint an impressionistic portrait of American denial.”

American denial. The shoe fits. I used to love Doris Day (and Sidney Poitier, the “good” Black whose acceptance proved we weren’t racist). I used to not think about—not even know about—lynchings.

The film, Dysart continues, “also ties itself to the moment. Images of Ferguson, photographs of unarmed black children left dead in the streets by police, video of Rodney King being brutalized beyond any justification, all of it means that Baldwin's words ring timeless, his call to action not remotely diffused by our distance from him and his time.”

If you have seen the film, you’re likely with me at this point, recalling those scenes and the awful discomfort they stirred. The self-righteous outrage, of course, but also the memory of when these things happened, and how I, personally, watched from afar, horrified in principle, but not moving. American denial.

Among the most compelling moments in the film came during interviews by then-famous talk-show host Dick Cavett. At one point, Cavett invites Baldwin to sort of absolve the US of the continuing sins of racism, appealing to a common argument: Sure there's still work to be done, but we've come a long way, right? Baldwin refuses the bait, noting instead how far we have not come, how much American society/culture continues to use Black people as an object of projection: whatever is bad among us, we attribute to Black people. Cavett is  caught noticeably off guard by this response, frozen except for his eyes, which glance nervously around like he's looking for help—or an exit. It's here that Baldwin utters the line that rang in my head as the credits rolled: “What white people have to do, is try and find out in their own hearts why it was necessary to have a n****r in the first place. Because I'm not a n****er. I'm a man, but if you think I'm a n****r, it means you need it. . . . If I'm not a n****r here and you invented him — you, the white people, invented him — then you've got to find out why…"

When I heard it, my breathing stopped the way my steps did when I saw the sawed-off branch that had seemed so clearly a hole, clean through. Racism isn’t just an absence—of understanding, of empathy—It’s not just a hole. It’s the sawed-off stump of our own need for something, someone to contain all of the things we fear, all of the things we hate in ourselves. And I’m talking here not just about individuals—those other “others” whom I can dislike and disown because they have bigoted ideas. I’m talking about each of us, and all of us as a collective. A society that has invented, in Baldwin’s words, others to hold our own disowned shadows—the Red heathens, the Yellow demons, the Black n****rs, the Brown “rapists and murderers.”

Heavy, huh? No wonder Cavett was stunned into (at least temporary) silence. So was I. As we were driving home, talking about the film, my partner said that Baldwin was her first anti-racism teacher. I can see why. I've added Giovanni’s Room to my iPad library so I can catch up with the 1950s on my next trip, just 60 years late.

Shortly after that, we attended an event at History Colorado, organized by the Japanese American Citizens League. The occasion was the 75th annual Day of Remembrance commemorating Executive Order  #9066, issued on February 19, 1942, just weeks after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, launching the US into WWII. Order 9066 opened the way for a program of mass eviction that would eventually see about 120,000 people of Japanese ancestry—at least 70,000 of them US citizens—moved from their homes, their jobs and businesses, and their lives along the west coast and imprisoned in concentration camps elsewhere in the US. The ostensible rationale was, of course, that they might prove a danger to the war effort, since any Japanese attack would likely come from the west. Disregarded in this rationale was the fact that only a small proportion of Japanese residents of Hawaii—fewer than 2000 of the 150,000+ living there at the time—were similarly incarcerated, despite Pearl Harbor. Not to mention that infants and people with 1/16 Japanese ancestry were included (remember the “one drop” rule for who was considered Black?). In reality, no person of Japanese ancestry was ever convicted of espionage, treason, or sabotage during the war.

The camps were scattered around the West, mostly in desert or cold mountainous regions. One, called Amache, was in Colorado, in the south eastern plains, near the town of Granada. Not far from Sand Creek, the site of one of post-Civil War America's most horrific massacres of indigenous people (about which I’ve written here before). The Colorado connection tugs at me. It reminds me of this state’s checkered past in matters of racism—the Indian Wars and Sand Creek in the late 1800s, the dominance of the Ku Klux Klan in Colorado politics during the 1920s, Amache in the mid-1940s. It belies my idyllic image of this gorgeous, complicated state, seen in my early years through the eyes of a child born and raised here, sheltered and privileged, oblivious to it all.

The Day of Remembrance, like “I’m not your Negro,” was full of moments of insight and disarming new awareness. A few of these stand out in retrospect. One was when the organizers were making introductions. After recognizing a few dignitaries, they asked, “If anyone here is a survivor of the camps, would you please raise your hand?” Maybe 20 hands went up—I can’t be sure, because my eyes filled with tears. Here, right here in this room, I thought, are people who were forced to leave everything behind—everything, that is, but one suitcase—and climb on buses to nowhere. They survived, and here they are, sitting scattered among us. Still here, still in America. After all that. Later, after the keynote speaker (who was very interesting in a detached, academic sort of way; not exactly what I was wanting at that point), they opened the floor to people’s stories.

Not surprisingly, I guess, there were many stories of the racism that preceded the war—taunting, harassment, overt discrimination in employment and housing, inability to own land, limitations on educational opportunities and professions open to people of Asian descent. So reminiscent of more familiar tales of racism in my own lifetime—especially directed at African Americans—recently 'managed’ by non-discrimination laws and increased social censure for such attitudes and behaviors. Until, that is, the presidential campaign that made it all OK again.

Then there was the story of a man whose family had lived in Peru. The US government went to Peru to pick them up, and transferred them to a camp in Texas (where, incidentally, there were also German and Italian detainees). And the now-90-year-old woman who recalled the kindness of friends and allies who had made it possible for her to go to college. And the woman, an ally, who helped her friend, a Japanese American, whose recently deceased mother had been in the camps, to take care of her mom’s possessions after mom’s death. They found money hidden all around the house and multiple bank accounts, each with a substantial amount of money. Breadcrumbs pointing to lingering fear of being taken away. Again. Though it had been 70 years.

There was no dearth of explicit parallels drawn between those years and today—particularly for people of color, especially immigrants. The threat of profiling, the possibility (however remote it may seem) of similar Executive Orders, similar restrictions, evictions, even camps. The fear of the police, who are helpers to the privileged, but sources of danger to the targeted. And American denial writ large. 

The museum has an excellent online exhibit about Order 9066 and the Japanese Internment. I recommend the whole thing, but especially check out the propaganda video on “Japanese relocation,” obviously designed to convince Americans (non-Japanese, non-German, non-Italian, non-Jewish, etc. Americans) that not only were these camps a good idea, but the people being moved to them were delighted to go. It’s chilling. American denial.

But importantly, another, very different part of this experience was my awareness that this huge room was full to overflowing, and some large proportion of people there were not apparently of Japanese descent. Allies. The room was not sprinkled, but splotched with allies. One of the best moments in the Women’s March—and, by the way, one of the most empowering moments in my partner’s video about responding to this political moment—was the recognition that many, many people really do believe we’re all in this together. 

This morning, I heard a radio show in which one of the guests, who is Jewish, pointed to the oft-repeated caution in the Jewish community: never again. And that means, he said, never again. We must stand up right from the beginning so that what happened in Germany can never happen again, to anyone. I saw a sign in photos from one of the Women’s Marches—in D.C., I think. It evoked the famous Martin Niemoller quote, written after the Holocaust:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out— 
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— 
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

but this sign had a contemporary twist:

First they came for the Muslims

and we said, not this time, f***ers!

It was really heartening to see that, almost 4 months after the election, 6 weeks since the inauguration, it is still possible to fill a large room with people who are genuinely interested in and standing with marginalized groups of which they are not a member. 

That, my friends, fills me with hope. Which is hugely different from the emptiness I would feel, the despair at history repeating itself, if I didn’t notice this joyful part.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2017. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Ooof. The electoral apocalypse, a week later

(If you received this blog by email, you might want to visit the actual site. The pictures work much better there. 

Just click on the title “Ooof ….”)

So, I’ve been missing from the blogosphere for a long time. Sometime, I may try to pull my thoughts together to explain why. But not today, one week after Hillary Clinton gave her concession speech. A week and a day after Donald Trump became the official president elect. Today, I have to talk about that event, because it pretty much dominates what I’m thinking and feeling as I go through these days. I don’t presume that I have anything novel and newsworthy to say here. Lots of people who are lots smarter and more informed than I have already written volumes. But I’m hoping that writing about this experience will clarify it for me … and maybe speak to someone else as well. Maybe I’ll throw in some pictures, just to break up the ocean of text. Visual notes from a sunnier summer.

OK, how to begin describing the plunge in hope and mood that started last Tuesday evening – an experience I know I shared with many – and my efforts to crawl back to the surface? Background: I worked a lot on the Dem campaign because I knew I had to do something. Otherwise, if Hillary lost, I’d feel awful, knowing I hadn’t done whatever I could. So I started in early September, registering voters. Then in November, I moved on to canvassing, going door to door and encouraging people to vote … preferably to vote Democratic. Let me just mention that this activity is my second-least-favorite pastime in the world, surpassed in its awfulness only by phone banking. I’ve done lots of both over the years, and I hate it. But out I went, into local neighborhoods, clipboard in hand, knocking on doors and checking folks off my list. Each time I got out of my car, I’d take a deep breath and tell myself, “Just do this, Janis. Just do it.” Then I’d put on my friendly face and start knocking on strangers’ doors. I was glad I was doing it.

Then election day, at last. I worked all day, coming and going from the campaign office with a new list every few hours. The mood there was so up-beat, so casually confident, I caught the easy optimism, and left there late in the day, looking forward to going home and cheering as the results came in. You all know what happened next.

I went to bed late, slept poorly, and awoke feeling like I had a sandbag on my chest. I recognized the raw feeling that comes when you realize that a terrible thing happened yesterday, and it’s still there. It wasn’t a dream. I spent hours buried in news stories, hoping for a glimmer of hope, disbelieving what I read. Some moments, I felt angry – at Trump’s very existence, at the people who voted for him, at the media, at the Democratic party, at Hillary … looking for someone to blame. Sometimes, I felt deeply fearful, a bit for myself, but mostly for the very vulnerable people that Trump so actively, egregiously targeted during the campaign. Mostly, I felt depressed. Heavy of heart, unable to move from my computer chair, not interested in … anything. I was hugely relieved when my partner quietly said to me, “It’s not depression. It’s grief.”

            

Grief, I thought. I might be able to manage grief. Struggle through it rather than sink beneath it. I know some ways to keep grief from becoming full-fledged depression. Like getting active, physically and in other constructive ways. The first thing I did was go for a long walk. And on that walk, I began to sketch some thoughts for surviving the coming days of this to-my-core sadness and for getting active as it lifted.

My first thoughts focused, not surprisingly, on this question of grief. I asked myself what I was grieving for, what had I lost? Well, for starters, the possibility of a continuation of relatively progressive politics in this country. The possibility of shifting the Supreme Court toward a more positive stance over the next several decades. The chance to see a woman as president, which would be a remarkable experience, given that I personally remember being unable to get a credit card or a bank account in my own name. But more: I had lost my country. Or, more accurately, my fantasy / beliefs / assumptions about my country. I knew that there were lots of folks who disagree with me on many levels. But  I did not know that there were so many of us who could endorse this man, whose unself-conscious bigotry, ignorance, and meanness you all know too well. And now, I realized that I had just lost that imagined country.

(By the way, none of this was as rational and linear as my description. I cried as I walked, felt simultaneously too alone and very glad for time alone, simultaneously strong and off balance, generally disoriented. And I noticed that I wasn’t noticing my walk – which is unusual for me.)

                   

The walk helped, but that heavy, hopeless feeling was still there. I had to figure out what I could actually do about this state of affairs – my own internal state, and the state of the nation (heck, the world!)  I’m really lucky here, because I know there's a ton of psychological thought and research on how to survive these miserable moments, much of it done by my partner. Years of osmosis have paid off, so I had lots of these ideas at my mental fingertips. For those who aren’t quite that lucky, she just wrote a column for Out Boulder, so you too can have access to this wisdom. If you read it, you’ll spot the influence of these ideas in virtually every step of my own process.

So, following my Wednesday morning walk, I knew that my first step had to be learning  to understand the people who had voted for Trump – not just as bigots, but as people with real needs that they imagined Trump’s presidency could meet. I knew this would be a stretch for me. I was feeling far too fragile to start reading hateful diatribes against Hillary or “big government,” too angry to hear how inspiring Trump is or how he’s the perfect person to save his “fans” from The Machine. But I really did want to understand his supporters, what their lives are like. I needed to do this to interrupt my tendency to demonize and stereotype them. That path gave him too much power over my well-being,  and me too little.

My partner and I began a concerted effort to locate and read information about Trump voters. This turned out not to be too hard, once I got outside the “echo chamber” of people as demoralized and outraged as I. I soon located  a series of articles that addressed just this aim (you can find some of them here, here, here, and here). 

Gradually, I/we began to see and talk about these people in a new light. Not just as white men (mostly) who resented the progress of women and people of color over recent decades, who were suffering from “privilege deprivation.” But as people who have been … are being … genuinely ignored, dismissed, trivialized, discounted, and taken for granted by governmental systems that purport to support them. People who feel isolated from urban centers of power and privilege, and who want their governments, local and national, to “see” them and reflect them. Some folks have described the loss of dignity that people in this situation might well feel. In this vein, I was so struck by a comment made by Arthur Brooks in an exchange with Gail Collins (both of the NY Times): “A few years ago,” Brooks reflected, “I was having lunch with [the president of a progressive think tank]. I asked her to given me a simplest explanation for why some people who never prospered over the past few years nonetheless loved President Obama so much. She said, ‘He gives them dignity.’ I thought that was very profound, and I think that’s a big part of what’s going on today as well with Trump,” he finished. Maybe that was what Trump's supporters heard beneath his hyperbole: a promise of simple dignity.

I could  say much more, but I’ll let this sketch suffice for now. If you’re interested, you’ll find more discussion at the bottom of this blog entry, or you can read more about it in the articles linked above.  

So, with a tenuous handle on my fear, rage, and disbelief, the next step was to manage my sadness and sense of powerlessness. I needed to get myself active. The physical part was pretty simple I happily slid into my now-regular pattern of daily activity. Beyond that, I needed to be politically and socially active. Buoyed by the hope of coming out of this a better human being, I imagined great leaps into activism, sailing forth on a wave of indignation and inspiration. But I knew I’d have to start slowly. Really slowly, as it turned out. Those first days, I managed to write checks to some orgs that I really respect. I considered where I might volunteer down the road. I pondered a lot and read some. I talked to myself and with friends. But actually acting, as opposed to considering acting, was harder.

My first tiny step came while I was walking home from the gym on Friday, three days after the election, I encountered a pile of dog poop left by a pooch whose human hadn’t bothered to pick it up. I added a detour to my walk to fetch a plastic bag, returned to the scene of the drop, picked up the offending pile, and carried it to the nearest trash can. A small act, but it seemed important. I felt like I had made a gesture toward the universe, saying I can make a difference, a change for the better in my world.

The next day, I passed a woman on the bike path whose dog was keeping a careful eye on me as I approached from the rear. I greeted them both and then said, “It’s nice to have someone watching your back right now. The world is more dangerous for a lot of people since the election.” I realized I had just made a mini-ally statement, calling to her attention the reality that for some people, the potential for real danger is greater this week than last. Another tiny step toward showing up.

Then on Monday, my partner and I met with some other folks to help plan an upcoming event related to the election’s outcome, and I agreed to help organize an event in January – although the last time I organized an event, I swore I’d never do it again. More steps. Today, I went to Denver for a rally in support of immigrant families. Small steps. But slowly, I feel more present to life as I go through my days,

This is not to say that it's been a steady path forward. During the past week, I've had moments of progress and enthusiasm, and moments of descent back into deep sorrow. I’ve felt empowered (picking up poop), and I’ve had tears come to my eyes for no apparent reason (stretching in an aerobics class). In the low times, I’ve tried to call up the advice offered in the aforementioned Out Boulder article: to pause and think of what I value, what’s important in my life. It helps me get away from the obsessive focus on what’s wrong and back to what I want to create from this. In those moments of reflection, I’ve realized that writing this blog has been something I’ve valued, for a whole host of reasons. As of today, I’m planning to resume blogging, as time permits. I’ll be good for me, I know. It always was. I’ll try to catch up with some blog-worthy stories from the past year – or at minimum, some pictures. I’ve passed up on so many opportunities. Anyway, here I am, writing a blog. Whether or not anyone reads it, writing this particular post has helped me pull together a week’s worth of struggling to dig out from the sticky post-election morass I sank into Tuesday night. It’s another step.

…

Now it’s Thursday morning, and Nicholas Kristof, a NYT op-ed writer whom I love, has weighed in with a column that summarizes beautifully much of what I hope to take from this week (I told my partner he’s channeling her work). For an added boost in your own process, read it here.

...

Now it's Friday morning, a week after the dog poop incident. There's snow on the ground, and a sunny day ahead. I'll be taking a long walk with a friend's dog, a fun companion for me. And I'll be telling her all about it, sorting it out some more. And waiting to see what happens next, where I need to show up.

-----------------------

Post  Script:

If you’re interested, here’s more about what I’ve come to understand about the people who voted for Trump.

Many of the people who voted for Trump – especially those in rural areas and the Midwestern “rust belt” (who have historically been reliable supporters of Dem candidates) – are people who work dawn to dusk at back-breaking labor, playing by the supposed rules, who are still unable to make ends meet. Their parents did the same work and were able to get ahead, leaving more to their kids than they had – but now those kids find themselves stuck, with no hope for getting ahead.

They see highly educated people who live in big cities with tons of resources and opportunities – schools, museums, culture, support services, government offices – who are far wealthier than they are, although those urbanites don’t appear to work anywhere near as hard. They see the seats of power located, always, in these cities, readily accessible to city dwellers as sources of information, services, and high-paying jobs. They read about people of color and other minority populations, mostly clustered in cities – unfamiliar to folks living in rural areas, and therefore easily stereotyped and misunderstood, even vilified. They hear about government programs like affirmative action, that (in their understanding – but how would they know otherwise?) – assure jobs for these folks who look nothing like the people they know, whether or not they’re deserving. They see officials of all stripes who never ask them about their lives. Who never visit their homes, never work beside them, never talk to them. Politicians who drop by during the campaign, visit the state fair and eat a corndog, maybe have coffee with locals at the diner, and call that “connecting” with their rural constituencies.

Add to this the implicit biases we all learn just by growing up in this culture and absorbing its mores: racism, sexism, and abelism; xenophobia, anti-Semitism, and Islamophobia; homo-, bi-, and transphobia. We all learned them. But some of us have had opportunities to unlearn them, or at least to temper them. Those opportunities are available almost entirely in cities; anti-racism intensives would be hard to find in rural mid-America. So those of us who have had those learning opportunities condemn those who have not, labeling them bigots – when what really separates us from them is our (often unrecognized) privilege.

Why wouldn’t these people believe that the deck is stacked against them? Why wouldn’t they think that city dwellers – even “foreigners” in the cities – have a better shot at the American dream than they have? Why wouldn’t they believe that they system has left them behind and left them out?

All it takes, then, is for someone to tell them just that: the system is rigged against you. Of course, they shout, Yes! Finally, someone has seen us! Has recognized our distress!

To fire up the enthusiasm even more, that person need only violate all the norms of “polite” (or “politically correct”) conversation – ill-defined norms that are foreign to their lives – by saying the things that they dare not say, have been condemned for saying. We’ve created, in the words of political scientist Katherine Cramer, a politics of resentment. And resentment is a mighty motivator.

In a sense, this isn’t even about Trump himself. It could have been anyone who poked the right tender spots, who saw the distress and resentment of these people and named it, pulled for it, capitalized on it. Who made them feel visible, important, central – and named the system that had previously left them feeling the opposite: their own government. The added energy evoked by allowing them – in fact, encouraging them – to think, to say, and to do the things that are forbidden by “polite” society energized a movement that made them feel powerful, like they could change the system.

It just required someone who seemed not beholden to the system (at least in the usual ways), someone who was willing to thumb his nose, flip the bird at the system. Someone to tell these abandoned Americans that they, like he, are the real Americans.

Deal sealed. No need for millions of demons. Just ordinary people, rendered invisible by the powers that be, plus a rank narcissist willing to use their distress for his own aggrandizement.

Oops. I guess I’m not totally done villianizing yet. Like I said, it’s a slow process …

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Music for a Sweet Land

OK, enough of the second-guessing, the recriminations, and the self-adulation. Enough of the analyses and the pundits, enough of the advice from every splinter of every constituency of every party. That’s not to say that there’s no wound-licking left to do, no crowing, no slicing and dicing. But in a broad sense, it seems like time to move forward. Time to apply the lessons of the campaign and election, mapping and morphing them into useful directions. It's time, as Hebrew scripture advises, to beat the swords into plowshares. And what better way to do that, I say, than with music.

And, lo and behold, with exquisite timing born of sheer luck (on my part) and wisdom (on the part of others), I get to hear two concerts this week that are destined to provide hours of healing, inspiring, motivating music. The first is a performance on Wednesday by Jackson Browne, who, in addition to making beautiful music, is also known as a human rights and environmental activist. My personal all-time favorite is “The Rebel Jesus.” I don’t expect him to perform it this time, given that it’s really a Christmas song. But it’s relevant no matter what the season, so I can always hope.

And then, on Saturday, a concert that anyone within travelling distance of Boulder really, seriously wants to attend. Sweet Land—Choices of Dignity is a free, everyone-invited performance “inspired by the challenges of the presidential election and reflecting on our lives, our history, and our shared future.” It’s sponsored by Resonance Women’s Chorus of Boulder and Sound Circle, a women’s a cappella ensemble (both of which I’ve written about before and both of which are directed by Sue Coffee) and by One Action, One Boulder, a year-long program to encourage conversations and action around issues of race, class, and inclusion. In addition to performances by these two choruses, the event will feature local musicians, spoken word, the 1000 Voices Project, and more. The performance will be at First United Methodist Church (also a sponsor) at 14th and Spruce in Boulder. It starts at 7:00, but doors open at 6:30, and you can count on a line.

This is sounding like a promotional ad, but it’s really not. For one thing, the event is free, so there’s nothing to “sell.” But more to the point, the reason I wanted to call your attention to it is that I’m so impressed by the very existence of this event—which itself has nothing to sell, other than community.  A bit of a back story: 

Sue Coffee is best known as an inspired conductor, and you’ll see why in this concert. She is also deeply committed to building community, and she’s quietly wise in how she uses music to do that. This is not the first time Sue has worked with others in the community to create a free concert with precisely that goal in mind. She did it after the 2004 election and after the 2008 election. 

To quote Sue (with permission),

“We did a concert after 2004 called Music for a Purple Country, and after 2008 called How Can I Keep From Singing. . . . the collective need in 2004 was to come together, the collective need/gesture in 2008 was to celebrate.”

And here we are again, at the end of a horrendously long and bitter campaign, trying to find our way out of the sludge of political posturing, pandering, and prevarication and into sunrise in America (to reprise the theme of my last two blogs). And here are these two gifted choruses led by this gifted woman, joined by other artists and co-sponsored by a grassroots program intended to build community. It's perfect.

In Sue's words,

“The collective gesture of this election is a sigh of relief and a readiness to look ahead. . . . The Choices of Dignity subtitle speaks to 1. regardless of the outcome of the election, still there is the question: what are your personal choices? and 2. [it also] refers to Obama's intent to focus the country on important questions about how to be together.”

The evening will bring these many artists together to wrap us, residents of this sweet land, in hope even as they challenge us to make “choices of dignity.” What better way to spend a Saturday evening than in the midst of this kind of community, building community?

So, come! You will be ever so glad you did.   

537 votes

I just saw an excellent political ad. I know that sounds like an oxymoron, especially after months of them. But this one was particularly compelling. Surfing the net a bit, I learned that this ad is called “537,” referring to the number of votes that decided the election in Florida—and thereby in the nation—in 2000. The year the US Supreme Court installed George W. Bush as president.

Watch this ad … and then, if you haven’t voted yet, do. Tell everyone you know to do the same. As the now-familiar poster says, “Your vote is your voice,” and every voice matters. Especially now.

Full disclosure, just in case my own preference in this matter isn’t clear: I tremble and whimper at the thought of a Romney presidency—for women, for poor folks, for immigrants, dreamers, and would-be citizens, for people of color, for old folks, for students needing or having loans, for folks with existing health problems, for folks who rely on Medicare and Medicaid, for LGBT folks, for the environment, for the role of the US in the world community, for the composition of the Supreme Court for years to come, and for a lot of other reasons. On the more affirmative side, although I have been disappointed in Obama’s first term in many ways, I have also been heartened by the steps he has taken, despite intractable resistance, and I’m hopeful that there is more to come.

If you are in that vanishingly small sliver of still-undecided voters, I’d be happy to help you decide.

In any case please, please vote.

Welcome winter (and the end of the election season)

First, the really fun (important) part: Watch this short kick-ass, re-empowering reminder as we near the end of this nasty political season. I got this through a friend ... pass it on to yours at will. (Those of you who remember Lesley Gore will especially appreciate this.)

  

And then, the really lovely (cold) part: Views of an early winter early morning:

You can hear the dry earth whispering ... "let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!" Sort of like the voters whispering ... "4 more years, 4 more years, 4 more years!"

Two things ...

… (both short) that you can hardly wait to read. 

In the past couple of days, I’ve come across two really great (and really different) ways to fill a bit of time between tasks or chores (or naps … whatever).

One is an excellent example of what I referred to in my last blog as “popular science.” It’s an article about the recent “Red Bull Stratos” project. You know, the guy who skydived from “the edge of space.” This is a discussion of the really interesting science that got left out of promotions for (and later stories about) that jump. Read it here.

And then, if you’re looking for some wit (as well as, IMHO, wisdom) in the midst of this insane political campaign, check out the recent blogs by Margaret and Helen. Some folks wonder if this blog is really written by two old women, lifelong friends who carp and bicker and educate, with a healthy dose of humor thrown in. Personally, I don’t have any trouble believing that’s just who writes the blog, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s great in any case. And I have a suspicion that the doubters are just envious. Anyway, check it out here.