I want to thank Sherri Frank Mazzotta for pinch hitting this week. I'll be back doing my thing next Monday. Enjoy her post!!! Zach
Lately, I've been spending a lot of time with my mother in doctors' offices and hospitals. "You're my only kid that doesn't tell me anything," she says, apropos of nothing, as we sit in the ophthalmologist's waiting room. "It makes me feel like I've done something wrong as a parent."
For a moment, I feel guilty. My sisters tell my mother everything. I have friends who are close to their mothers. But I've never volunteered much about my relationships, jobs, or health. I'm not sure why. Here, in the waiting room, all I can do is shrug. "Guy doesn't tell you anything either," I remind her, referring to my brother. She agrees, and thankfully, moves on to another subject.
There's no sense in sharing my thoughts now, at 47. Is there?
It means my mother doesn't really know me. And I suppose, I don't really know her. But how do you change patterns of communication that have lasted a lifetime?
To be honest, I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about it. I've never been one of those women who needed to write about her angst-filled relationship with her mother. It isn't angst-filled. We have a good relationship, meaning we spend holidays and birthdays together. We talk on the phone. But expressing emotions has never come easy to my family.
Maybe it's due to age, but suddenly my mother is pondering such issues and asking me to ponder them with her. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm not prepared.
When she was having heart palpitations, she waited all night before calling. "I didn't want to bother you," she says.
In the emergency room, I help her change into a johnney. The nurse puts electrodes on her chest, and I watch the numbers on the EKG climb higher and higher. Mom's 73 and has mostly been in good health. But as I look at her thin arms and exposed back, I wonder if this is the beginning of tests and pills and appointments with specialists.
After the nurse leaves, my mother makes a face and whispers, "She touched my tits."
"No she didn't, she was just putting the disks on your chest."
She shakes her head. "She didn't have to touch me there."
This is the mother I'm used to. The one who worries about people staring at her on the bus; people eavesdropping on her conversations; and whether the nurse is a lesbian. Not the mother who's worried about me keeping things from her.
After her heart rate comes down, they admit her to the hospital for more tests. I'm afraid she'll be nervous having a male nurse do the intake, but when he steps out for a minute, she says, "He's handsome, isn't he?" I'm married, so it's not me she wants to fix up.
The nurse has a long list of questions. "Do you follow any special diet?"
"No," she says, thinking hard. "But I want to try Nutri-System. I've heard it's better than Weight Watchers."
I laugh. "Mom, that's not what he's asking." This is also the mother I know: The one with a quirky sense of humor.
The nurse asks if she feels safe at home, and the question confuses her. "Safe? Yes, I live with my daughter. I couldn't have done that if my husband was still alive. Not that I wanted him to die," she says. "That didn't come out right."
She lives with one of my sisters. My father died nearly 20 years ago, and I'd always hoped she'd find male companionship again. From her admiring comments about the nurse and other men over the years, I think she wanted that too. Yet she never pursued it.
"He was my one and only," she tells the nurse.
When I was growing up, I watched my mother apply lipstick each night before Dad came home from work. "I still get excited when I hear his voice on the phone," she'd say. She got up early to make us breakfast. Made sure we lived in a clean house and had clean clothes to wear. Was waiting for us after school. But I remember thinking that I didn't want to be anything like her: Tending to husband, house, and children.
That thought astounds me now. Makes me ashamed because it overlooks the generosity, compassion, and selflessness that were imbued in everything she did for our family--qualities that I aspire to.
We spend two days together in the hospital. During that time, we talk about my father, my husband, aunts, and cousins. It's mostly my mother talking and me listening. Despite my silence, she says, "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here, Sherri." I wish I could offer more in the way of comfort. Wish I could share more of myself. But instead, I focus on practicalities like helping her walk to the restroom. Bringing food when she's hungry. Making sure she's not alone when they wheel her downstairs for the echo test.
For now--because it's always been this way--that's all I can give.
Recently she said, "We never say 'I love you' in our family, but we know we love each other. Right?" Once again, I didn't know how to respond. This is a new way of talking. A new kind of courage. Maybe someday I'll have that courage too. But it won't be like a Lifetime movie, where one traumatic event suddenly brings us closer together; makes us spill our emotions like a sticky syrup. It will happen--if it happens at all--gradually. Clumsily. One moment at a time.
At the end of that first day in the hospital, after yet another nurse had examined her, my mother looked at me and said, "Everybody's playing with my tits today, I don't know what it is."
"They must be a hell of a pair," I said, and we both laughed.
It was one moment. One brief moment out of thousands more to come.
I've never stepped on a major league pitching mound. My name is not Curt Schilling, but my Sox are bleeding anyway.
I've written a number of times about my love of baseball. The beauty I see between the white lines, the sweat and prep and luck it takes to reach the majors, the joy of watching people play.
I also appreciate baseball. During the 1980s I discovered Bill James, a writer/statistician who significantly changed the traditional paradigms of evaluating an individual player's talent, and team statistics. He analyzed baseball from a perspective so different it opened my eyes to an entirely new way of seeing the game. And you know he had to be one hell of a writer for me to understand what he was saying since I still count on my fingers.
But there is another side to the love of the game: being a fan and rooting for a particular team. Truth is, I have many team allegiances, but I've lived in Boston longer than anywhere else so I'm first and foremost a Red Sox fan.
Hell, at one point I lived close enough to Fenway Park to hear the voice of announcer Sherm Feller, through my open windows. Or to walk over before an afternoon game and score a ticket. In those days, tickets were available and affordable.
Neither are true today--though you can still get tix through re-sellers. If you don't mind turning your pockets inside out.
Just one of many downsides when you finally field a championship team.
Before the Sox were winners, they had a different karma--heart breakers. I remember a World Series game that was one out away from winning the whole enchilada. It was the middle of the night so I ran around the house waking up Sue, Matt, and even Jake who didn't know a baseball from a Big Wheel. I wanted them to see history. They did; they saw a ground ball dribble through our first baseman's legs instead of the championship out.
But that was then. New century, new ownership, new general manager, new attitude. Theo Epstein, the youthful GM, even hired Bill James as a consultant. Still, it took a while for the karma to change. There was one last hammer to the head season when, during the definitive play-off game that would send us to the Series (and a game we were winning), our manager sent pitching great Pedro Martinez back to the mound in the eighth. Everyone in the stands, watching on television, listening on the radio, knew Pedro was gassed. Done. Nothing left. Need I say more? We're talking another heartbreaking season.
2004 changed Red Sox fever. We felt the decades of heartache and hatred--even the Curse--were in the past. We could actually hope. And succeed. After 86 years and a record-breaking three game comeback during the play-offs against our arch rival Yankees, we actually won the World Series. How sweet it was. How sweet it was.
There was a new attitude. Big-time spending on players by the new owners (Baseball economics creates a huge differential in terms of wealthy and less wealthy teams. For years the Yankee's were vilified about "buying pennants" but, though true, a number of teams are now in that club including the Red Sox). Management hired a fresh manager, Terry Francona, who bought into the relatively new statistical analyses that James and Epstein believed in. (Read Money Ball by Michael Lewis for a lucid explanation of these new tools.)
Our bright view was rewarded. Another World Series 'W' in 2007. Fan life was good. Fan life was good. Very, very good.
But now it's 2012 and something is rotten in Red Sox Nation.
After last season's historic September collapse, Francona was sacked, Theo Epstein left to try to replicate his magic or luck with the hapless Chicago Cubs, our new GM crapped on by ownership when they rejected his managerial choice.
And ownership's choice for manager is looking like a pitcher who lost his fastball. For a team that still relies upon statistical analysis, when the manager doesn't know whether the opponent's pitcher is left or right handed, you gotta raise your brows.
(To be "fair" around $70,000,000 of talent is injured so you could argue the teams' dismal end to last season and beginning of this is out of their control. You could, but it sure doesn't feel that way.)
Drought has dug in and suddenly the old break your heart fear (come close but no cigar) is sliding into the 60's mindset of "they stink," with a litany of reasons and numbers.
But there are other indications that don't fit into baseball's stat game. Snakebites. And while I'm not a superstitious person, when the fan has hold, then hold the damn phone. Everything is a sign.
Which all point to the cellar. Which makes me hope I'm very wrong. (I've said "the season is still young" a ton of times. True, but not really reflective of my gut.)
Sue, whose best sports moment is Hoosiers, watched and suffered through the Pedro pitching fiasco. As is our custom, she fell asleep while I worked the clicker. About an hour later, she burst out of a very deep sleep, lifted up onto her elbow, turned toward me, eyes closed, and said; "If this is what it means to be a sports fan, then I say fuck it."
I say, good for her, 'cause I can't. I'm gonna bleed until my Sox are in the washer. Or not.
"Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent." Marilyn vos Savant
On May 19th my oldest son is marrying Alyssa Casden, a truly wonderful woman. The marriage comes at the end of one of Matt's most painful years when his mother and his mother's sister died within months of each other.
Dealing with death is always tough, but not only did Matt and Alyssa work through their emotions, they played point on all the arrangements and every detail.
Yes, they had help. Peg and Marlene's friends, us, Jake, Alyssa's family--but the weight fell on them. Bigtime.
Watching Matt handle the situation with calm sensitivity wasn't a surprise. Alyssa at his side didn't surprise either. But until Federal Judge, Mark Wolf, who will officiate their ceremony, asked Sue and I to write about them that my lack of surprise made serious sense.
When I think of life together with Matt, lots of thoughts and images pop into my mind. He began living with me half the week at a point where I was much less stable than now. But he rolled with it. Even enjoyed some of the mishigas like being brought to school on a motorcycle (I wrapped a rope around the two of us) or when we hitch-hiked in town when I no longer had the cycle or a car. Hard for people not to stop when a little, little guy has his thumb out.
He didn't eat all that well when with me since I can't cook. Spagettios were a staple as was baked macaroni, the only meal I knew how to make. But we did well, despite the lack of nutrition, and having to move into different apartments a couple of times during those early years.
But more importantly than us doing well was Matt's ability to do tremendously well academically and socially no matter what was happening in his home life. Which, as time moved on, became more stable--as did I.
We moved in with my friend Bill who helped father Matt in more ways than I can count. Built him his own house out of a giant empty refrigerator box and was always willing to play 'pong' which was the video game of those times. We also ate a whole lot better. It was Bill who took him to newly created video arcades. Bill and Matt had a ton of fun together and still do whenever Matt visits. And it still makes me happy to watch them hang.
But when Matt was seven our lives really settled down once we moved in with Sue. During those beginning years I worked evenings at home upstairs. When I'd come down after meeting with a client, many times during the week Matt and Sue were sitting at our kitchen's enamel topped table having tea together along with an after-school snack. And often their conversation centered around going to movies and having a 'candy' supper.
Despite the sugar, or perhaps because of it, I was always amazed at his intense work ethic. I knew he was both smart and insightful, but the degree of commitment to flat out work (academic or otherwise) was mind-boggling. I can't count the number of times during high-school when, at 1 A.M. and I was ready for bed, I'd go into Matt's room and find him asleep in his clothes, school book open on his face. I'd wake him, suggest he go to sleep, and was consistently met with, "Thanks for waking me, Dad. I just want to get in one more hour."
As someone (me) who always had difficulty with school, there were times when Matt's success blew me away. When he graduated from Boston Latin as president of his class, 6th academically, then accepted to Yale with close to a full boat, I felt like an immigrant parent: "My son the American."
It was also during his high-school years when his half-brother was born. When Jake was able to motor around the house, Matt used to lay on the living room floor, wait until Little Guy was in reach, snatch him, and roll around wrestling and tickling until Jake would 'get away' and repeat his run waiting for the next grab.
Watching them become even closer now, as they both grow older, has given both Sue and I great pleasure. And gave Peggy pleasure as well when she was alive.
Another picture also always comes to mind. Matt's internal desire to meet, reach out, make friends with people of all colors and nationalities. A tough do in Boston. But something he did from before high-school and continues to this day. Something that makes me proud and appreciative about the person he is.
And of course my intense satisfaction in knowing about all the positive work he's done from his high-school years to now with people less fortunate. Matt has an unending commitment to helping high risk kids in inner city schools. It's pretty clear he won't rest easy until schools and school related programs provide an education that gives these kids a legitimate shot at a decent life.
Which goes for Alyssa as well. It's not accidental that they share those basic beliefs and dedicate their lives to them.
I can't imagine anything that could bring more joy to a parent (me again) than loving Alyssa, for who she is herself, as well as for the wonderful qualities she elicits from my son. I simply can't imagine a better example of people who love and bring out the best in each other.
As mentioned above, Alyssa lived through one of the most difficult times in Matthew's life. And stood shoulder to shoulder every inch of the way. I have absolutely no doubt he would have done the same. It's pretty damn nice to see people who love and give to each other. It's a mitzvah.
And finally, having spent time with Alyssa's family, it's gonna be really great to have them as
relatives.
Although I'll be writing next Monday's post, Sherri Frank Mazzotta will pinch hit for the 21st. The following week I'll be hunting and pecking, the only difference--I'll have a larger family. And will love it.
Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving
safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in
broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out and loudly proclaiming
"WOW, WHAT A RIDE"
About four years ago, Sue, some friends and I spent two to three nights a week at a local telephone bank making calls for Barack Obama. I'll never forget election night when, after the last call had been made and the telephone center cleaned, a group of us walked to a nearby watering hole. And damn near couldn't get in the door as wall-to-wall people boisterously cheered the countdown to his victory. Strangers hugged and kissed and there were more than a few wet eyes as hope became reality. We had our first Black president, and one who promised the next four years were going to be different than the previous eight. We believed we’d finally reached the end of the Reagan Revolution.
Not so. The war in Afghanistan continues; Iraq is still a mess; innocent until proven guilty doesn't count for people who the government defines as potential terrorists; indeterminate detention has become part of our daily life. And all this and more with the president's tacit (sometimes not so tacit) approval.
Not exactly the change I was hoping for. Not even close.
I understand the obstacles the president faced. Blue Dog Democrats who were stalwart against any significant reform. An opposition party that made it clear from the jump they had only one agenda item—anybody but Obama in 2012. And stuck to it no matter how many times the president played nicey-nicey.
I'm even aware of the positive changes Obama managed to press through despite opposition from both parties. He…
Overhauled the food safety system;
Approved the Lily Ledbetter "Equal Pay" for women rule;
Ended "Don't Ask/Don't Tell" discrimination in the military;
Passed the Hate Crimes bill in Congress;
Pushed through the Affordable Health Care Act, outlawing denial of coverage for pre-existing conditions, extending until age 26 health care coverage of children under their parents' plans while adding coverage for around three million more people.(Though a really long spit from Medicare for All, it actually is better than what we had before.)
Expanded the State Children's Health Insurance Program (SCHIP) health care for children;
Pushed through a $789 economic stimulus bill that saved or created 3 million jobs and began task of repairing the nation's infrastructure; (Again, way, way too little money to really jump start the economy.)
Established the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and used a recess appointment to keep it on track in the face of GOP attempts to derail it;
Outmaneuvered GOP in naming two members of the National Labor Relations Board blocked by the Republicans in their attempt to shut down the NLRB;
Won two extensions of the debt ceiling and extensions of unemployment compensation in the face of Republican threats to shut down the U.S. government. (Ask the unemployed how they felt about that one.)
And, in my mind, most importantly, appointed two progressive women to the U.S. Supreme Court including the first Latina.
Sadly, despite the above and more, he hasn't stopped, or even slowed, the Reagan vision of America. Nor has he sustained the enthusiasm and hope of his most ardent supporters--young people. Which leads to the one overriding emotion he has engendered in me.
Fear.
Gore Vidal once said, "We live in a nation that has one political party with two right wings." That rings incredibly true. But given our choices, it's the Republican wing that scares the hell out of me.
I've watched the Supreme Court turn corporations into people, tear the Miranda decision to shreds, permit search and seizures without probable cause and, in general, turn back the clock as if the present and future just don't matter. This is what we have now and, with two judges deep into their eighties, I don't want Mitt Romney picking potential nominees. Not ever.
Still, I find myself unwilling to put the time and effort into Obama's re-election and my friends feel the same. While I'm guessing most progressives will probably drag themselves to the polls and vote, it might not be enough to keep Republican hands off the driving wheels of all three branches.
More fear. It may all come down to our younger adults. Will they vote for Obama given their disappointments? Right now, I ain't betting rent.
So what's a progressive to do? Sit still, vote, and pray that we're not looking at a Republican horror show at the end of the day? Drag our asses to the phone banks? Somehow I don't think that idea is really gonna be enough this time. Which leaves progressives with the imperative to talk to those young adults. Without their willingness to vote for Obama (holding their noses, if need be) we're gonna be catapulted back in time in ways that will annihilate what little progress we've made.
I don't want corporations to be ”people." I don't want a larger net fishing for those who DWB (Drive While Black—and, now Brown as well) I don't want Arizona to lead the nation into greater and more pervasive racism. I don't want the rich to grow richer while the poor grow poorer and the middle class slides down the greased economic pole. I want to retain all that remains of our civil liberties and the First Amendment. I don't want back-alley abortions.
So yeah, I'm gonna vote. And I'm gonna talk to every young adult I can about voting too.
As far as canvassing and calls, I’m not sure. Probably depends upon how much more frightened I am as we approach November.
And I'm plenty scared now.
“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any.” Alice Walker
I'm not gonna lie, when I read the line"…the measure of my Jewishness had been tossed into a hospital's foreskin container…" I laughed out loud. As those of you who follow my posts know, I'm deep into proofing my four original Matt Jacob books for digital downloads. And what I'm discovering is how much I enjoy my earlier work and how scared shitless I am about the new Matt Jacob books that will be coming.
Frankly, I'm not sure that at my age of sixty three I still have the chops to turn a phrase, think of a phrase as snappy or interesting as I could in my forties. Forgetfulness alone makes a huge difference. When I was forty and walked into a room to retrieve something, I remembered what I was there for.
Not that I was a young forty. I was born old, or quickly got there given my childhood experiences. But even an old forty is damn different than sixty three. There are, however, similarities. Then I decided to write because I had used up being a counselor. Now because I felt finished with my time as a trial and jury consultant. In both instances I turned to writing because the way humans act and interact is, for me, the most interesting aspect of life. And to fictionally chronicle both is a way to express not only what I see, but how I understand it.
I'm still confident in my ability to observe and understand. Confident about relationships. How they work—or don't. Why they work—or don't. How groups of people function—or dysfunction. Furthermore, age brings the gift of deeper understandings. But at forty I never even bothered to define those talents. I simply decided to write detective fiction, sat down, and wrote.
In those days my biggest worry was the twists and turns of a plot. Could I create situations where readers would wonder about what was happening, but look for clues and not find the ones that were there. (An aside—I start writing by thinking about a theme I want to explore, the natures of my ongoing and non-ongoing characters, and finally try to imagine a dénouement that ties the theme with the people—though my endings are never even close to those which I imagine before I begin.) Back then I was still young and brash enough to push away the plot fear and plunge ahead, secure with my voice, main characters, and ability to write in a style that would hold readers. And be pretty funny along the way while I developed interesting stories.
Now the fears are more numerous. What will Matt Jacob sound like now that I'm 20 years older and he is older as well? Hell, my personal voice is different, won't his be? My personal issues are different, won't his be? Can I still see the world with the same quirky eye? Can my style be as captivating as it had been? How will Matt's neuroses play out now with more age and experience packed onto his life? Mine are certainly different and, while fiction is, in fact, fiction, it's also a reflection of a writer's insights. And of course there's still that deeply felt plot fear, which has never left and I don't expect ever will.
Of course, now that I’m older and gifted with deeper understanding something just struck me. Are my fears really more numerous now—or am I just more capable of admitting and eyeballing them? A somewhat comforting thought.
It's funny how things change. In my forties I felt competitive with Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Ross Macdonald, Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, and a number of other writers I admired and respected. Now I find myself in competition with only one author—me.
It's also funny how things stay the same. Then I really, really wanted to push the limits of detective fiction into the world of literary novels and not be consigned to the genre bin. Now I still want to push those same limits, but no longer care about categories. Though the goal is still the same, and I'll work just as hard to attain it, age has taught me something about what I can and cannot control. I don't do the labeling of my work, other people do--and it will be what it will be.
Soon my new website will be up, the books for sale, and it will be crunch time.
But as I write this I remember sitting down for the first time to work on STILL AMONG THE LIVING thinking, Damn this is one hell of a cliff dive. Well, the cliff is now different but the void is the same--and it's almost time to jump.
"Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night!"
Margo Channing from Three Faces Of Eve.
Some people begin their new year at midnight every December 31st. Some, the first day of school in September (you know who you are). And while I really enjoy partying on New Year's Eve--often too much--my year starts in April.
Twice actually. First, on the opening day of major league baseball, then a week later with Jah Energy's first game.
This year, and probably for the rest of my life, I'll only have one. For the past 24 years Jah Energy (named after the Jamaican god, not an oil company) has been my coed community softball team and my summer's major activity. Sue and I make it our business not to plan trips, tell out of town guests they'll be coming to games, and generally make certain nothing gets in the way of my taking the field.
That said, April softball in Boston isn't much fun. Layered clothing--two pair of socks and occasional long underwear--is not the appropriate uniform for the "summer game." But the game must go on as must I, despite my antipathy to the cold
When I first joined Jah, a year after the league began, I had no idea how long I'd play or how important the team would become to me. As time passed, its importance increased and I began to dream of playing until I was 65. In fact, the team, league, and games grew so important that I've begun considerig having my ashes scattered on home field. Seriously.
I was lucky to have never missed a game due to injuries. Even luckier to have both sons, a nephew, and a niece play alongside me for many years. And even able to bring home a couple of championships.
A banjo, but steady, hitter and an excellent defensive first baseman, in tough situations I always wanted the bat in my hands or the ball to be smashed toward me at first. But a couple of years ago I started feeling the tickle of fear when an opponent's left-handed power hitter strode to the plate. Eventually, I was forced to acknowledge that I no longer wanted them to hit toward me. I simply couldn't cover ground the way I used to. And worse, that banjo's strings started to break and I had more and more trouble getting on base.
Two years ago I finally admitted the obvious, talked to the manager about playing half games and coaching third the rest of the time. We also agreed that his wife Sammy and my son Jake had become much better at first than I. To say nothing about their hitting, which dwarfed my own. So the half games I played were usually at catcher, though the manager still liked the way I picked the ball out of the dirt and put me at first in particular situations.
Last season our manager stepped down so I co-managed the team with Sara. Although Jake would yell at me for not placing myself into the line-up, I had the teams' interest at heart and felt he and Sammy were so much better it would have been unfair to sit them. I was able to play a couple of games as catcher, and one or two at first, but mostly I helped Sara and coached third. Still, the dream of playing when I became 65 never faded and I just assumed it would occur.
Then came my shoulder problems. The operation and the months and the months of rehab ahead has made it impossible for me to even coach or manage. And so, for the first time in 24 years, I am no longer a member of Jah. One of the most painful aches I've felt since my operation was putting my glove away.
But I'm here to praise baseball, not bury it. I often catch a lot of grief during major league play-offs because I root for other teams if the Sox aren't in it. I've always rooted for my home teams so I don't hate the Yankees or White Sox, or the Tigers in loyalty to Sue. Even the deserters, the Dodgers and Giants, which, after they left New York, I'd listen on my transistor radio to Les Keiter bang sticks together in front of a fan noise record as he called the Giant's games from a delayed ticker tape.
For me the game is larger than any single team. Yeah, I know it's millionaires playing for billionaires and much of the enterprise has nothing to do with anything but money. No matter. When I see players running onto the field, it's all about what happens between the white lines. The fleet outfielder gliding, body outstretched to snare a certain base hit. A runner sliding headfirst into second safely then jumping up, pulling on his pants to get the dirt out of his crotch. The myriad of signs that emanate from the 3rd base coach, a batter lunging after a pitch that's impossible but somehow manages to slap a flare single. Frankly, I could go on for pages. (And no doubt someday I will.)
I know baseball has lost its preeminent role as 'America's pastime.' (Yea football.) But for me it will always be the beginning of my year and the backbone of my summers.
Oh. As far as Jah goes, I intend to rehab all year so next season when I'm 65 (which will be my 25th year in the league), I will play a single game then retire on my terms. Some dreams never die.
"It's so hard to say au revoir, so let's just say hors d'oeuvre."
Martin Mull
Nate's quote, (see last week's post LOCKED IN LEISURE), was an accurate reflection about his impending death, but the real meat of our relationship had much more to do with living than dying.
I live in Jamaica Plain, a mixed Boston neighborhood next to predominately Black Roxbury. In the lull between writing and my trial and jury consulting, I decided to channel my unemployment into getting in shape. Located across from Roxbury Community College, the Reggie Lewis Community Center was a well-appointed gym with spacious community rooms, a state-of-the-art indoor track, and virtually no White members. It was also affordable, opposed to gyms where you gotta refinance your house in order to join.
As mentioned last week, it wasn't very long before Nate invited me into his circle, mainstays at the Center and the heart of their senior citizens club called The Sensational Seniors. Suddenly I found myself reveling in an entirely Black social life and paying dues to the seniors club.
Now let’s time machine back about 30 years from then. I spent my last three years of high school at a residential Hasidic yeshiva in Brooklyn—and believe me, five days a week were more than enough. So I began to visit my mother and her husband Seymour's house in Orange, New Jersey, desperately hoping to find some sort of weekend fun.
I did. Seymour taught in a local high school and his colleague, who lived down the block, had a son named Clifford who was my age.
Although he was ordered to visit me, turned out we liked each other and became really close friends, hanging out on a steady weekend basis. Clifford and his family were Black.
Which, despite my liberal upbringing, was a new do. Especially when we went out. In fact, the first dance we attended thrust my face into my own unconscious racism. There were about three hundred kids and, for the first hour, mine was the only White face in the crowd. Although Cliff had been teaching me to dance, I just paced the periphery. Then a White girl strolled through the door. My eyes lit up. I figgered I was golden. Gonna have a chance to practice my new moves. Hey, one White guy, one White girl.
A half a dozen dances later, Cliff whispered into my ear. "You know she's albino, don't you?"
"What's an albino?"
"She's a Black girl who looks White. Plus, her boyfriend just walked in and you're dead meat if he sees you dancing with her. You better take that leap and dance with a black Black girl."
He was sweet but I understood why I had waited to dance for someone who was "White."
For the next three years my entire weekend social life was hanging with Cliff and his friends. Needless to say, I danced with any and all the girls with whom we partied and played and took to the White Castle before going home.
Still, it had been a long jump since high school and took a while to grow comfortable with Nate's ever expanding crew. On the other hand, it was sort of like déjà vu all over again, having the time and space to rap and hang out and get to know people without rushing off to the next place to be.
Soon our hour-long gym sessions had two hour kibitzing chasers. I remember a woman confiding one of her greatest experiences was when Duke and his orchestra came to town. There were tears in her eyes as she recalled Duke prancing down from the bandstand in the middle of a song to ask her for a dance.
I also learned about the racism traveling Black musicians faced, Duke included, whenever they rolled into town during the 40’s and 50’s. Any town, but Boston was particularly nasty where they were forced to sleep in buses or peoples' houses.
I learned through my friends' firsthand knowledge how warm Louie Armstrong was, the hours Coltrane kept (returning from a gig at 2 A.M and practicing until dawn every night), how difficult Sonny Stitt was at times.
Eventually I began gyming three days a week then going to lunch across town at The Old Country Buffet where Nate made it clear he wasn't gonna sit in a booth. "That's where cockroaches live in restaurants," he explained. There were about six of us who became regulars, becoming great friends with the manager, and spending most of our afternoons eating, talking, (serious and otherwise) and playing with other customers as many grew to know and enjoy our hijinks.
It was flat out fun and an eye opener—despite the ribbing I got from my other friends about belonging to a Black senior citizens group and spending my days hanging at Old Country. An eye opener because their stories also brought back memories—some not so sweet—to those who were telling them. Unlike my high school friends, these men and women had lived through some of the worst racism 20th century America dished out.
I learned directly about the hostility and horror my friends had faced and truly began to understand the strength it took to survive all those decades. I listened to personal accounts about how an oppressed community dealt with the shit poured on their heads and still managed to stay intact despite it all.
But what I learned the most was there really are times when color need not be a barrier to love and friendship in a way I hadn't in high school. This despite the subtle but strong weaving of racism throughout the fabric of our culture.
Thanks Nate, you reminded me of something I'll never forget again. He was bright and interested in ANYBODY who was sympatico. He also had the ability to have fun in any situation and was able to share that fun with those around him. That’s the really fine art of living.
"Success is not to be pursued; it is to be attracted by the person you become." --Jim Rohn
"Sitting in the mornin' sun, I'll be sittin' when the evenin' come…"
Problem is, there's no dock, no bay, and no damn ships to watch roll in.
The Beginning
I am trapped, tilted back in a recliner, the release lever inches from my slinged arm. Getting up and around is impossible. So I'm in front of a television, armed with painkillers and a machine (affectionately known as Iceman) that pumps iced water through a tubed "wrap" on my shoulder. Worse, I have everyone in the house running around, not only doing my chores, but taking care of me as well. Not a situation I'm used to or enjoy. All part of having a bum shoulder that needed a three and a half hour operation. AND, the fucking shoulder hurts since it takes about three days to adjust the meds and get ahead of the pain. Big relief.
Not everything is bad. First, the operation was more successful than the surgeon originally hoped--there's a possibility I'll regain more mobility than thought, it was my right shoulder and I'm a lefty (gasp), and old reruns of Perry Mason are on two hours a day. Plus, I'm learning to type with one hand. Who knows when that will be useful again? I hope not too soon.
The real up is the way my family and friends have responded. Sherri and Harry stepped up and filled in for my Monday posts. Can't thank them enough. Not only were the columns funny and interesting, both writers were incredibly kind about my control freak meddling. Thanks guys. Much, much appreciated.
And it's gratifying to have friends who understand how much of a burden this is on Sue, so people bring dinner multiple times. Or, they visit regularly so it isn't just me and the television during Sue's long work day and Jake's job. Thanks, without you I'd be living a pretty lonely life.
Finally, if I ever had any doubts about the Internet's importance, they're now completely shattered. It's my main connection to the outside world (sorry but local television news is nothing more than a compendium of who went psychotic and acted it out on that particular day) and allows me to participate in a number of political/cultural discussions after the worst of the drugged up stupid wears off. There have been worse beginnings.
After The Beginning
I'm now able to get in and out of the recliner on my own. This is huge. Calling Jake or Sue for "permission to pee" at 3 a.m. sucked. Now I can move about as freely as possible, given the contraption that locks my arm tightly to my side. Not the best of all possible worlds, but much better and bigger than the first couple of weeks. In nice weather my friend Bill and I are able to walk around the local pond. (I even found my twenty-year-old poncho to wear outside as a coat, since right sleeves have nothing to do with my reality.) I can get into the passenger's seat of a car and, most importantly, I can begin to work. Still, I'm tired a lot of the day and sometimes I love Iceman as intensively as a junkie loves his pusher. Jake continues to carry a huge load and has been an amazing caretaker. A real mensch.
But now that my head is clearer I find my thoughts drifting into what it's going to be like when I officially become old and infirm. I think a lot about all the people stuck in wheelchairs and shot full of dope without much hope of change. And when I think about this, I see myself and wonder whether cable and television and my laptop will be enough to want to live. Kinda depressing, but thoughts go where thoughts go. And in this context there's no stopping them from sliding into mortality.
I find myself thinking a lot about Nate. We met in the gym I used to attend and one day overheard him talking about Horn and Hardart's famous macaroni and cheese. Well, it happened that Sue once wrote an article about the last of their restaurants (actually the one he used to go to in New York) and managed to walk away with the m&c recipe. I handed it to Nate the next day and watched his 66 year old leather lined Black face break into a small smile. Bonded us for life--at least while he lived.
Nate always had a twinkle in his eyes; there were times when it was impossible to tell whether he was serious or not. Like when he'd found out he had kidney cancer with just a few months left to live and it took me twenty minutes to realize he wasn't just yanking my chain. I spent much of those months in another recliner next to his hospital bed, almost becoming part of his family, occasionally doing a KFC run for his favorite fried. Mostly we sat quietly watching TV with Nate reminding me we were "perfecting the fine art of doing nothing."
Now
Well, when shit hits the fan, apparently no one is safe. This past Monday Sue was in a car accident and broke both of her left forearm bones. Her operation included plates, pins, and rods. She finally came home from the hospital on Wednesday with a cast. To her great relief, she can sleep lying down so we won't look like two bookends sitting and sleeping upright on each side of the living room.
Although I'm obviously able to help more now than a month ago, I'm still limited to opening pill bottles, fetching, and keeping her out of mischief. The house looks like a M.A.S.H. unit with Jake in charge. And while those infirmed and mortality thoughts haven't disappeared, there's comfort in knowing we will recover. Though I don't know how much dancing we'll do at my son's Matt's May wedding, we'll be there celebrating.
Truth is, "perfecting the fine art of doing nothing" is a really tough do.
Thought I'd be back this Monday but turns out I'm on the bench for one last week. So Sherri Frank Mazzotta has kindly filled the breach and is batting 4th. Thanks, Sherri. Will see everyone next Monday.
I never learned how to drive. Not formally, at least: No driver's ed. No practice rides in parking lots. When I was 17, Dad pulled into the A&P and said, "Okay, you drive." So we switched places. I got behind the wheel of his big-ass Lincoln Town car. This was back in the early '80s, before they'd shrunk the Lincoln and all cars down to environmentally friendly versions. The hood stretched two-lanes wide. The pedals seemed far away. "Which one is the gas?" I asked, just to be sure. Then I adjusted the rear-view mirror, clutched the wheel, and off we went.
We took back roads that had corn fields on both sides. Cows and horses in pastures. It was August and sunny and I was scared to death, wincing at oncoming cars, hoping the road was wide enough for both of us. But I was driving.
"Go easy on the brakes," Dad said. Every time I touched them, we'd both pitch forward toward the windshield. This was before people wore seatbelts too.
By the time we hit the highway, I was feeling more confident. I put my elbow on the arm rest, the way Dad always did. "I'm doing pretty good, aren't I?" I asked. He just shook his head and told me, "Keep both hands on the wheel."
I drove for an hour. I was trembling but exhilarated by the time I got out of the car. Dad let me drive on the way home, too. All went fine until I stopped hard at a light. He lurched out of his seat, grabbed the dashboard, and hit his head on the sun visor. "That's it," he said. "I'm driving."
And that was the end of my driving lessons.
Still, I got my license on the first try, though I failed the parallel parking part of the test. I guess parallel parking isn't that important in New Jersey, where every house has a driveway and every store a parking lot.
Soon afterwards, I took Mom's Mustang to the mall. It was dark and raining when my sister and I finished shopping. I got confused trying to find the entrance to Route 80, and somehow headed up an off ramp. I managed to turn around, but as I made a second turn, a car rammed into our passenger-side door.
That was the end of driving Mom's car, too.
After that, I became terrified to drive. Not because of the accident, but because I never got enough practice. My friends picked me up and dropped me off on endless trips to the movies, Burger King, and the mall. It's true, there wasn't much to do in Jersey. My older sister got up early to drive me to work. My brother took me to play rehearsal. I became a perpetual passenger, carted around like a sack of laundry. Dependent on others to get where I was going--which I resented.
At night, I dreamed I was trying to drive but the car wouldn't move unless I ran with it, like Fred in his Flintstones mobile. Even then, I couldn't keep it going for very long. My legs got tired. The car stalled. Others speeded by, but I was stuck.
Then I moved to Boston and didn't need a car. I could get most places by bus or subway. My friends drove, so I could also get to the beach--but only when they wanted to go. I hated that Volkswagen commercial with the tag line, "Drivers wanted." It implied that drivers were bold, fun-loving people. And passengers were just dullards, relegated to reading maps and scraping up change for tolls.
The less I drove, the more daunting it became. There was a lot to be daunted by, especially in the Boston area: The rotaries. The Route 1 autobahn. Storrow Drive and the Jamaicaway, with their ridiculous twists and turns. I'm convinced they can only be safely navigated via horse and buggy. And don't forget Jersey barriers, cluttering every road--I'm ashamed they bear the name of my home state.
I was also ashamed I couldn't drive. It was my deep dark secret, hidden the way some people hide the fact that they can't read. To me, it meant I wasn't an adult. I wasn't in control of my life, which was difficult to accept.
When I got a job opportunity in Sudbury, I rented a car for the interview. Sure, I'd rented cars before, but each time felt like the first time: Sweating. Trembling. Sleepless a week in advance. After I got the job, I borrowed money to buy a car. Maybe I was motivated by the prospect of a new situation. Or maybe I was just tired of waiting on rides. But suddenly I owned a car and I was a driver. I was breathing the sweet scent of gasoline on a regular basis, and it felt good.
It took years to feel comfortable behind the wheel. Now, I drive all the time: At night, in the rain, in the snow. Between Massachusetts and New Jersey. On one of those trips, an 18-wheeler ran my car off of Route 84, and I ended up in the gully between lanes. My husband jolted awake in the passenger seat, cursing. But the car was fine. We were fine. So I just pulled up onto the road again and kept driving. Sure, I was shaken. But I knew how important it was to get back in the saddle. Or in this case, back in the bucket seat.
Others may be proud of their golf scores or their cooking skills, but driving is still one of my biggest accomplishments. Every time I merge onto Route 128 without being hit by a truck, it feels like a victory. I take my place on the highway and smile, knowing that I've moved far beyond my Flintstones mobile.
"If everything seems under control, you're just not going fast enough." - Mario Andretti
This is the third and final week of guest columnists. Batting today is a return visit by Harry K.Representation of a divorce client: $20,000Representation of a large company in a contractual dispute: $200,000Representation of a poor person accused of a crime: priceless.I'm often asked, “How can you represent someone you know is guilty?” and “Why do it when it doesn’t even make you rich?” For the record, I am very rich, rich in the incalculable rewards that come from representing the very poor. There have been times that I haven’t had enough change in my pocket to buy coffee. But I always knew there was going to be more money coming. Those of us who always had a roof over our heads cannot imagine the skills, the resourcefulness, the tenacity, the sheer will that it takes to survive POOR. When medical, mental health, or addiction problems are added to the picture, some of us might become judgmental. But when you meet a real human being, when you touch, smell, hear, listen and talk to them, it's impossible not to want to translate your brief moments together into an opportunity for them to make a life better than the one they are living. It’s really all about power. Maybe you’ve felt the powerlessness of being unable to relieve a loved one’s pain, or not being believed when telling the truth. Now imagine that you had the power to relieve that pain or to persuade that doubter. That’s what it feels like to represent a poor person. Take my Haitian immigrant client in the lockup last week. The mother of his two kids claimed that he’d pushed and choked her after having too much to drink. He got arrested and she got a restraining order, so he had to scramble for another place to live. When he sent her a text to see if he could visit the kids, she called the police and he was arrested again for violating the restraining order. Time passed, the kids clamored to see their dad, so she invited him over. They argued again, she called the police again, and he got arrested again. I’m seeing him in the lockup because his bail has been revoked. He’s been brought to court for trial about the pushing and choking that started it all. He is in the U.S. legally, but could suffer any number of immigration consequences if found guilty. Some might think: he shouldn’t have put his hands on her, or what an idiot he was to have texted her and gone over there. Some people think, send him back to Haiti. But I think about him in jail. He can’t see or call his kids. The only pictures he has of them are on the phone that was confiscated. He can make only collect calls, and only to those people whose numbers he actually remembers--a job his phone used to do. If his cellmate is a screamer, there’s no spare room. He has lost the hourly rate paying job that took him months to find. He is powerless. I am the only force in the world that can help him change his situation. So I do. Will he stop drinking too much? Will he be able to spend more time with his kids? Will he control his anger? Will he get another job? These questions are his to answer, but at least I can help him to regain the possibility of power over his future. Are some of my clients guilty? Of course. And some are not. John Adams once said: “It is more important that innocence be protected than it is that guilt be punished, for guilt and crimes are so frequent in this world that they cannot all be punished. But if innocence itself is brought to the bar and condemned, perhaps to die, then the citizen will say, ‘whether I do good or whether I do evil is immaterial, for innocence itself is no protection,’ and if such an idea as that were to take hold in the mind of the citizen that would be the end of security whatsoever.” Guilty or innocent, my clients are people with problems on a scale that most of us cannot understand. Imagine wondering how you’re going to find a place to sleep for the night. Every night. Imagine being branded a sex offender for the rest of your life for having sex with a fifteen year old girl when you were eighteen and her parents involved the police. Imagine seeing the look in people’s eyes who believe you to be a criminal because of your skin color. Imagine being presumed to be guilty.There are injustices to right, and power to be kept balanced. That’s why I look forward to seeing my clients every day. “Power must never be trusted without a check.”
― John Adams
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