Occupying in NYC

I went to an OWS General Assembly meeting the weekend before last in Zuccotti Park (also ironically called Liberty Plaza). It was interesting to observe the process, and to contemplate how the ham-handed response of the opposition has only seemed to strengthen the movement. For example, watching the human mic in action ("Mic check." "MIC CHECK.") was really interesting, and brilliant. It came about in response to law-enforcement taking away microphones and amplifiers from the protestors; it is amazingly empowering and has changed the way people communicate in this context. It makes discourse really really slow, and forces people to be concise and to stick with the model for meetings. There is a whole vocabulary of hand signals: I agree, I'm not sure, I disagree, point of process, point of information, clarifying question, be more concise, wrap it up, I vehemently disagree and I block this action. Amazing. The slowness of it disallows grandstanding. The commitment to consensus building is profound. The opponents seem not to know what to do about this movement which does not have clear leadership and does not articulate talking points.

I was surprised at how small Zuccotti Park is. I've read that it's 3/4 of an acre, but it seems smaller, maybe because it was enclosed all around the main area with metal barricades, tied together with zip ties, with one place to enter and exit. It's a tiny space. Anya said it was completely full of tents before the crack-down. Now they've put white lights in the trees and it's very pretty. There are lights in the concrete paving of the park as well. A facilitator announced that the General Assembly would start in 5 minutes, and about 2 minutes later the park went dark. The people in the park just scoffed and laughed. Some people lit candles. Of course, there were tourists (like me) there, homeless folks; a couple of times somebody yelled something out of order and the crowd just ignored it. There was little overt police presence, though I'm sure the meeting was well-attended and watched. Two men with a big video camera and boom mike were filming the whole time. It's not clear if they were from the press, from OWS, or from law enforcement. The camera was pointed directly at me for a long period of time. Am I paranoid? I don't think so, but I wasn't doing anything very interesting if it was a media camera. But it was very overt; all the occupiers seemed to be ignoring it. Maybe someone is making a documentary. Maybe they're just getting new faces on film for the homeland security archives.

We stayed for about 1-1/2 hours. The group was discussing a Vision Statement proposed by a sub-group. There was intelligent commentary, thoughtful and respectful disagreement. The process allowed for voices to be heard, and the culture of the group dictated that the discussion remained civil and honoring of all sides. This was definitely not the Tea Party. And by the way, why are protestors being tortured with clubs and pepper spray on college campuses, while Tea Party protestors were coming to town hall meetings with guns a year and half ago?

After that, we went to see traditional Indian music at a cafe. It was amazing, wonderful musicianship, moving and uplifting.

That was my first day in NYC.

Quote of the day

Walking past a high school student, I heard:  "I don't like him.  He cursed right in front of my f**king mom!!

Charlie casts a long shadow.

Jill Bolte Taylor's stroke of insight | Video on TED.com

Jill Bolte Taylor's stroke of insight | Video on TED.com

Losing my dad

My dad died just before Christmas December 23, 2000, at the age of 74. He had suffered from a stroke 10 months earlier, and seemed to be recovering well, but he was having some minor cognitive difficulties. It wasn't clear if this was a side effect of the medication he was taking, or a result of the stroke, or some combination of the two. At any rate, my brilliant father, my intellectual mentor, had lost his edge. I remember asking him once what he was reading, and he said, "Oh darlin', I don't really read so much anymore." He also became more emotionally expressive after the stroke. He took delight in little things, was more likely to engage in small talk.  He spent a great deal of time with his youngest grandchildren, who were frequently left in my parents' care.  He was a bit of a practical joker, and loved bringing humorous gifts home to his grandchildren.  He liked the silly stuffed animals with the electronic widgets inside which played a song when one squeezed a paw.  He told jokes and acted silly; he told his grandson's friends that his nickname was "Handsome Dude".

In mid-December that year, my mom had become ill and was hospitalized for a week.  The situation was grave, and there was concern that my parents, who were in the process of updating their will and establishing a living trust, should get their affairs in order in case my mom (who suffered from diabetes and congestive heart failure) should pass away before the documents were completed and signed.  I was unaware that my mom had been hospitalized, as my sisters--in a truly cruel and vindictive act--had chosen not to call me or return my phone calls; they were angry with me, having assumed that I had reported my dad as an unsafe senior driver to the DMV through their Request for Driver Reexamination Program (I had not, and it's likely that it was his physician who had done so).  On Tuesday, December 19th, one of my sisters left a message on my answering machine saying, "Hi Donna.  I thought I'd tell you that Mom's in the hospital.  She's been there for about a week, and they don't know if she's going to make it.  Just thought you might want to know."  I called the hospital in a panic and was able to talk to my mom, who had, by that time, recovered somewhat.  I cried and told her how sorry I was that I hadn't come to see her, that I had left messages both at home and with my sisters, with no response.  She was surprised that I didn't know that she was in the hospital.  I then called my dad at home and he answered the phone.  I was crying, sobbing, and I told him I was so sorry, that I hadn't known about Mom's condition.  He seemed surprised as well, and said, "I thought they [my sisters] called you."  I explained that my youngest sister hadn't been speaking to me because she was angry, assuming, wrongly, that I had reported him to the DMV.  He had obviously been told that I had, because he seemed surprised, but he said, "Don't worry about that, Darlin'.  I know you love us, and we love you.  Just don't pay any attention to what they say."  I told him I would come to see him and Mom the next day, and he said, "Why don't you just wait until Saturday?  They'll be doing tests on her all day tomorrow in the hospital, and her doctor will be coming to see her before she's released on Thursday, so it's going to be busy for the next couple of days anyway.  If you come on Saturday, she'll be home and settled in."  So I said okay, I'll see you on Saturday.  "I love you Dad."  "I love you too."

That was the last conversation I had with my dad.  He collapsed early Friday morning from a massive heart attack.  Mom was home, and he was up early, making coffee in the kitchen and talking to her, telling her how happy he was that she was home in time for Christmas.  She said later that he remarked that he felt so cold, really really cold, and then he collapsed onto the floor.  He didn't cry out or clutch his chest or show any sign of pain; one moment he was speaking, and the next he was unconscious.  She called my brother first, then 911.  Paramedics arrived about 10 minutes later.  They began CPR and transported him to the hospital.  They managed to get his heart going again and put him on a respirator, but he never gained consciousness.  Fortunately, my sister called me this time, and I headed south to see him.  It pained me to see him like that, kept alive artificially, which was contrary to his stated wishes. But my mom, in her grief and confusion, couldn't give consent for him to be removed from life support, so we waited.  The following morning around 5 a.m. we received a call from the hospital that he had suffered another heart attack.  We went to the hospital, and were informed that he had passed.  We asked to see him, so the nurses let my sisters and me into the room.  My younger sister and I went together to see him, and we cried and even laughed at some joke he had told her recently.  My older sister went in alone afterwards, and came out with a swatch of his hair she had cut.  Dad still had a full head of hair, and she cut it from the front in the middle of his forehead.

That same day my sisters, my mother, and I went to the funeral home to see about making arrangements right away, as Christmas was just two days away.  The funeral director asked my mom what she wanted: cremation, burial, open or closed casket, etc.  She wanted a burial, and she asserted that she definitely didn't want an open casket.  We purchased a burial plot for the two of them, and shopped around for a location for the service.  We settled on a chapel in a neighboring town because the cost was more reasonable than the upscale funeral home at the cemetery.  Somehow, in the process of arranging the service, the funeral director talked my mom into having an open casket.  He explained that, since many of my dad's old friends and work associates had not seen him in a long time, it would be nice to have him displayed for viewing.  This surprised me, since my mom been so clear about the closed casket.  She was shocked, confused, and vulnerably suggestible.  My sisters wanted to pick out clothes for Dad, which they delivered to the funeral home.  They also suggested that the grandchildren place into the casket mementos which were personally meaningful to them and their grandfather.  One grandson contributed a baseball bat and a ball.  My own daughters wrote notes to him.  And my 15 year old niece contributed a stuffed animal--a moose in a Christmas elf outfit, which played a recording of the song "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" when one squeezed it's leg.  I didn't have input into any of these decisions.  I had decided that my mom should be able to choose what she wanted, or delegate decisions as she wished.

My brother-in-law arranged for a limo to take the family to the funeral home on the day of his memorial. We arrived at the somber chapel, and soon people began to arrive:  former coworkers, old friends, a few relatives.  Many of the guests were people we hadn't seen in many years.  And there was my father in the open casket, dressed in a cheap white t-shirt from the mall with a photo of the grandchildren (minus my own two daughters) and a casual blue shirt with the collar left open so the top of the t-shirt photo would show.  In the shirt pocket, my sister had placed a bendy plastic pen in the shape of a skeleton, it's little posable arms carefully bent over the top of the pocket to hold it in place.  She explained that my dad had purchased the pen in the sale bin at the pharmacy after Halloween, and it was his favorite pen.  My father's face had been carefully made up, and he looked okay, except for the missing lock of hair in the middle of his forehead.

I cannot describe the sense of foreboding and embarrassment I felt as I looked over the situation.  My father had been an executive for a national manufacturing company.  Guests who knew him as a successful, articulate, well-dressed, intelligent man were now viewing a man dressed in casual Grandpa-wear, with a weird haircut, a bendy skeleton peeking out of his shirt pocket, and a baseball bat and stuffed moose peeking out from under the half-lid of the casket.  The dignified man I had known all my life had been reduced to a caricature, the funny, slightly muddled post-stroke man he had become in the last 10 months of his life.  It's not that this manifestation of his character wasn't lovable or sweet, but it was a short phase of a long life, which had been richer and fuller than that portrayed by the silly old man they had dressed and accessorized in his open casket.  I had the sense that my sisters liked him better that way.  He was less intimidating, less intellectual.

The somber mood--the echoey chapel, dim lights, murmuring condolences of the guests--was broken by the sound of the little electronic widget singing out from the casket, "Grandma got run over by a reindeer. . . "; my niece and nephews squeezed the stuffed toy over and over again.  My 5-year old nephew approached the casket, rapped on my father's forehead with his knuckles, and said, "Hey, Grandpa!  You in there?"  I approached my sister:  "I don't think it's appropriate for him to be knocking on Dad's forehead like that."  Her response: "Leave him alone.  He's grieving in his own way."  I looked around at the guests, who seemed somewhat uncomfortable and out-of-place in their suits and ties and dresses; I imagined them wincing every time the moose toy sang out, but I was too embarrassed to look.

The grave-side service took place at the cemetery a day or two later.  Mom had arranged for a priest from the Catholic church, which we had attended regularly when I was a teenager, to give a brief grave-side service.  The closed casket sat beside the grave, and a few folding chairs were set up for the service.  I felt my grief well up at the finality of this ritual.  I sat beside my mom in the front row of chairs, and the priest gave his brief benediction.  Thankfully, the toys were secure inside the closed casket, out of reach of my niece and nephews' mischief.   As the priest concluded his prayer, and we bowed our heads in quiet reverence or reflection, my uncle, Dad's youngest brother, came forward, dropped to his knees, threw himself onto the casket, and began to weep, calling out my dad's name.  This touching display of grief was overshadowed by the sight of my uncle's butt, exposed between his hiked-up polo shirt and his trousers.  My brother, in response to this final clownish ending to the farcical debacle of my fathers funeral, stood up, stepped forward, stood directly behind my uncle, bowed his head, and blocked the view of my uncle's butt from the crowd.

Ah, but wait, this wasn't the final or most permanent act in the embarrassment of my father's funeral.  My sisters decided to design and order the gravestone for my parent's grave.  Carved into the marble is my father's name, followed by the words "Handsome Dude".

A History Lesson Relevant to Current Events

The Gifts My Mother Gave Me

Several times while growing up, I heard my mother tell the story of her near-drowning experience when she was 9 years old.  She was with her family at a lake and was playing in the water near the shore.  She accidently stepped into deep water, and, unable to swim, she sank and was unable to surface or find solid ground.  She was drowning.  But then she had the sensation of floating above the scene and seeing the people below frantically searching in the water for her.  She saw a bright light.  She felt absolutely serene. She said she was torn between going toward the light, or returning to her body, and though she was powerfully drawn to the serenity of the beyond, she realized how sad her mother would be if she didn't return. So, out of compassion for her mother, she came back to her body.  Meanwhile, the searchers had found her under the water and had pulled her to shore.

My mother told me that she had no fear of dying.  She said her experience at age 9 had convinced her that death was not a frightening experience, but rather a positive and serene one.  She always said, "When my time is up, then I'll go."  She planned to live her life as best as she could, and then peacefully go at the end, and that is apparently what she did.  She died at home.  I was not there; my sister and her family were living with my mom at the time.  My mother's last couple of years, after my father died, were not easy.  She suffered some disability from diabetes and congestive heart failure.  She was relegated to the family room, sleeping on a hospital bed, no privacy, her home no longer her own.  She lived in circumstances that would have made many people bitter and resentful, but she accepted her fate, and, I believe, was waiting for the day when she could follow her beloved husband to the afterlife.  And so they found her one morning, at age 72, already gone.  I don't know what her last moments were like, whether they were painful or serene.  But I know she wasn't afraid to face her death.

My mother gave me some very powerful gifts.  She told me that giving birth was joyful, and that dying was not to be feared.  She was right, as I discovered, in the first case, and I have no reason to doubt her in the second case.

Family Dictionary

My husband Herb and I have, over our years together, developed a vocabulary which is somewhat peculiar to our family.  As aptly described by our eldest daughter in her own blog:  "I am sure every family has those words, where you find out in your mid-twenties that when you say to someone, 'you deserve rah rahs,' they have no idea what you mean."   

Many of the words in our family dictionary originate from Herb's playful verbal inventiveness, and precede our partnership.  Some sprang spontaneously from the delight, fatigue, and endless fascination of being parents together.  Some came from our daughters (see "frup").  

Here is a sample:

Dominus Obisbum:  the state in which an animal, usually a dog, lies on its back with back legs hanging in the air in a relaxed state and mimicking the gesture of blessing given by a priest.  The priest's gesture involves both hands in front of the shoulders, elbows bent, forearms nearly vertical and slightly askew from the front view, with palms open and facing forward and slightly toward each other.  The phrase, "Dominus Obisbum" is corrupted from the Latin phrase "Dominus Vobiscum (familiar to Catholics who observed the Latin mass prior to Vatican II, in 1965), meaning "The Lord be with you."  According to Herb, it is important to acknowledge that dominus obisbum is a state of grace, and should not be disturbed; one must avoid the temptation to squeeze the toes, grab a paw, or cause any other annoyance which might disturb the state of dominus obisbum.

Back paws:   Feet.

Vapter paws:   1)  Feet, especially baby feet pudging out of shoes or pant legs;  2)  Cute feet.

Grippers and spreaders:  The state of contraction or relaxation of toes.

Gripper paws:  A state of eager and ready anticipation.  Example:  "I'm ready to ace the GRE; I have gripper paws!"

Push-the-nose:  a technique to unfurrow a furrowed brow; a reminder given to another person to relax his or her face, or to attend to a state of stress or irritation.

Frup (verb):  to vomit, from the phrase "threw up".  i.e. "Mommy, I frupped in my bed."

Cheezy beekoes:  n. (alt: cheezy beeko):  1) A person, usually a child, who elicits an urge to pinch the cheeks in an affectionate manner.   2) The manner by which a person responds to observing a child who is so cute that one cannot sit still; the phrase "cheesy beekoes" is used simultaneously to express affection and to discharge the teasey impulse.

Rah Rahs:  the act of celebrating an accomplishment with a chant or cheer. 


Mayonnaise spreaders:

Earth Shoes, or other such footwear with a rounded toe, resembling a spatula.


Manny toe-paw spreaders:
The reproducible action of squeezing the pad of a dog's foot, resulting in involuntary spread of the toes.
(note: this phrase belongs in the Family Dictionary only for translation purposes, since only Herb uses this phrase, or is compelled to annoy dogs in this way.  When asked whether this phrase applies to cats, he said, "It is inadvisable to attempt this maneuver on a cat.  Besides, who would ever want to do that to a cat?" Also, Herb disputes the assertion that doing Manny Toe-paw spreaders on a dog is "annoying" to them.)


Wall-walker: 
An independent child who is compelled to walk on elevated surfaces rather than along the ground, and whose parents are relegated to serving this compulsion at every opportunity.

Ancestors

A cousin has been collecting family history, and she sent this photo a few years ago.  The man and woman in this photo are Francis Furrow and Elnora Bennett Furrow, my great great grandparents.  The young man in the center is Harley Furrow, my great grandfather, who I met once when I was a child, when he was 91 years old. The small bits of family history I've gotten seem to confirm what I already know:  the family story is peppered with history of discord, abandoned children, and infidelity.  It's interesting to see the faces and recognize family features in later generations, to ponder our immigration patterns, to contemplate how each decision ripples down through the generations.  Being estranged from my own siblings, I recognize the complexity of family relationships, and I wonder if future generations will try to puzzle out the story, how one branch of the family broke away from the other.  I wonder if patterns repeat themselves, whether the discord, the substance abuse, the mistrust and fear that imploded the tenuous connections that existed between my siblings and I, are just patterns of behavior unconsciously carrying forth from one generation to the next.  

Elnora and Francis (Frank) Furrow divorced after this photo was taken.  Elnora remarried, and Frank left Michigan to homestead in South Dakota.  The two youngest girls in the photo, Mabel and Martha, were sent to an orphanage.  Mabel died in 1900.  

Happy Happy Valentines Day

Pug Heart

Suzy is not a boy

When my daughter was young, I made her a hand sewn cotton doll with embroidered face and long braids made of yarn. The doll was stuffed with wool so she would be soft and warm to the touch. A friend of mine admired the doll and offered to pay me to make a boy doll for her son, Toby, who was about 3 years old.  She wanted the doll to be anatomically correct, so I made a lovely boy doll, with little boy parts and short hair, like Toby's, made of yellow yarn. Toby decided to name the doll Suzy, and referred to it as "she". His mom asked him why he decided to name his doll Suzy. "Because that's her name." "Why do you call Suzy a 'her' when the doll has a penis and testicles?" "The artist made a mistake", said Toby.

Suzy the doll had a gender reassignment procedure.

Just right

Today I read this thought-provoking blog post by Aman:

http://pafnuty.wordpress.com/2011/01/17/not-hot-enough/

Yes, this is a powerful metaphor, the longing for the spice which satisfies. I do not crave spicy food, but the metaphor provokes me. My experience is that this kind of elemental satisfaction has come when I stopped looking for it, but this has been said so many times that it sounds banal.

The post makes me think of a paradox I've been contemplating lately. Why is it that I had such angst when I was young, such longing, such inability to find what would satisfy me, such fearfulness that some choice, large or small, would lead me down the wrong road and defer me from my destiny? Why, when I was young, and pretty, did I feel so inadequate? Why, when my body was strong and fit, did I find myself stumbling through my life? Why, when my mind was at the peak of it's prowess, did I make wrong-headed decisions, failing to see the potential joy that existed in every gift of another day? And now I find, at age 55, that I'm happier than I have ever been. I feel more loved than I have even felt. I am learning to be more playful, more free. I know that the choices I make, sometimes inadvertently, may lead me down a path I never expected, perhaps far better than I could have imagined or planned. I am learning to trust fate, not fear it. The change has not come about because I've changed the circumstances of my life so much. It happened because I no longer hold the goodness of my life at arm's length while I search for some elusive better path. And the paradox is that, even as my spirit becomes more youthful, I am already so far down the road of my life; my mother and grandmother were already gone when they were just 17 years older than I am now. 17 years! I might get more than that, or I might get less, but, either way, I have traveled far more than half the journey already. It brings tears to my eyes to think that it took me so long to get here. But the experience of my life tells me, don't hesitate! When I calm myself, and trust, I believe that the trajectory of my journey may well take me to greater satisfaction, that the end will come when I dissolve into bliss.

George Bernard Shaw said, "Youth is wasted on the young"; he describes this paradox more succinctly than I have done.