I was thinking this morning about how much space there is in our society for hate — and fear and bigotry and misogyny and racism, among many other things. Why is there so much room, I want to know. Why can’t we inhabit that space with love, and compassion, joy and even humor? How do we fill up our psychic spaces with good and push out all that is not?

As jaded as I am, I find myself amazed that people are still traveling to Washington, DC, to support the so-called president. (And if he was not so-called before then surely the fact that he has abandoned ship since he lost the presidential election should cement that moniker). There are people hanging out at the White House with signs that suggest they have no clue how elections work and what desperate liars actually look like. As he drives by in his presidential caravan these people rush the car like it’s Elton John in there. The Proud Boys are front and center at these events, and they are officially a hate group, at least according to the Southern Poverty Law Center who probably knows hate when it sees it.

Fear? Well, it brings destruction. And violence. It’s why police officers are terrorizing unarmed peaceful protestors in New Jersey right now, as just one example in a sea of many. Last night anti-ICE protestors outside of the Bergen County Jail — there to support the hunger strikers inside the facility — were pepper-sprayed, thrown against barricades and arrested. For what? Protest is legal in this country last time I checked. A few nights before that, another contingent of protestors stood outside the home of the Hudson County Executive in Jersey City. Hudson County had initially announced that they would cancel their money-making scheme with ICE but then reneged — even after an hours-long public comment session where their constituents all spoke out against the contract. So there in Jersey City, as the protestors were moving away from the scene after cops insisted there was some some sort of injunction against them, people started getting arrested. Violently. My son was thrown against a car hood, had his bag ransacked and was then tossed into the police van with three other innocent people. Here is an Op-Ed he wrote the next day: https://www.nj.com/opinion/2020/12/we-protest-at-homes-because-ice-is-terrorizing-people-opinion.html The cops have developed trigger-fingers from living in constant fear of losing their power and autonomy. They are angry at all the questions people seem to ask these days. Those fingers press triggers and kill people on a daily basis.

Bigotry. Religious bigotry is alive and well in this country, from travel bans to clothing regulations. “They” need to be more like “us,” is the message. Who is us? Attacks on mosques and synagogues continue. Jersey City just honored the victims of those killed at the Kosher Market there one year ago. Jews are being assaulted on the street in broad daylight when their clothing shows them to be observers of their religion. And a few days ago, the Utah State University Football team refused to play their next game in support of their interim coach, a member of the Church of Latter Day Saints. Apparently the president and athletic director at USU questioned his merits based upon that religious background. What does religion have to do with coaching football?

Misogyny? Oh boy, where do I begin? I am always surprised by how many of my female-identifying students believe there is no such thing as discrimination against women anymore. As a female academic I can testify otherwise. And so can all sorts of women in all sorts of other professions and industries. Let’s look no further than yesterday when a man wrote an essay in the Wall Street Journal exhorting the incoming first lady to get rid of her title of Dr. Most of you have probably already read this article that the Journal editors apparently saw no problem in publishing. Here’s the link just in case you want to read it again, just in case you haven’t experienced enough blood-boiling yet today: https://www.wsj.com/articles/is-there-a-doctor-in-the-white-house-not-if-you-need-an-m-d-11607727380

Entitled, “Is There a Doctor in the White House? Not if You Need an M.D.” the article begins, “Madame First Lady—Mrs. Biden—Jill—kiddo: a bit of advice…” I mean, are we for real here?! I won’t give the author, Joseph Epstein, any more play than he is already receiving. No such thing as bad publicity and all that. I’ll just say that the hashtag #damnrightimadoctor is trending. But you see, we cannot get too focused on this particular case. Just like with all the other hate, and the violence based on fear and bigotry, if we focus too hard on just one thing we run the risk of treating it as an isolated incident. Instead we have to ask, what kind of system is in place that allows, for example, a man — who has written a bunch of books but has no advanced degree nor is tenured at any university– the authority to tear down a woman who has achieved said advanced degree and is doing the good work with it? I think it starts out with a deep-seated privilege that would move a person to reach out to editors of a national publication and say, “Hey, I feel the need to take Jill Biden down a notch or two. You game?” And the men (please, God, don’t let a woman have been a part of this decision-making process!) in charge of the publication say, “Hey, great idea. Go for it.” That’s where we have to start, I think, all the way back there at the entitlement.

Racism. It’s everywhere, and intertwined with all above-mentioned evils. We don’t even have to look outside our homes to spot racism. Who is on your television, doing what? What reports did you hear about Black people in your community today? Who wrote the books in your bookshelves, and the music in your CD collection? What businesses did you purchase food and clothing from recently, and who owns them? Who gave up their homes for the land those businesses stand upon — or gave up their health (or that of their loved ones) so they could work at these businesses during a pandemic?

In Los Angeles, Black Lives Matter and allied social justice groups are protesting at the home of Mayor Garcetti. They want to call attention to his inadequate handling of housing and transportation issues in the city, issues that markedly affect the Black and brown residents. I mean I have a home — and a car; I’m all set. A lot of folks are not. These activists want to disabuse Joe Biden of the notion that hiring the Mayor to run the federal Housing or Transportation Authority is a good idea. Last week these folks were violently attacked as they held a brunch vigil outside the Mayor’s home. Kids were there. I saw the videos. You know how the event was described in the news? “Police cleared the area of protestors.” Like they were just softly ushered out, police tipping their caps to them as they departed. Racism + fear = violence & continued inequity.

So yeah. This is a somewhat socio-political rant today, not my usual (?!) thoughtful considerations on life. But I am just super-worked up by the inequities in this world right now and I’m trying to figure out how we starve them, while feed goodness and compassion. Some of us are continuing to provide oxygen to the darkness, and that’s got to stop. It’s not that we should ignore all the wrongdoing and selfishness and immorality, but that we shine a light on it and then go forward with love, the agape kind of love that Diane Nash and her fellow civil rights leaders organized around. I’m not saying anything new here. “What the world needs now is love sweet love…” and all that. It just seems like a good time to raise our consciousness, to focus our intentions, to create a collective burst of goodness that will not only eliminate the haters but maybe even help some of them come around. It seems to me that the ultimate goal is to conquer the fear that is behind each and every racist slur and violent response. I haven’t quite figured out how to fuel this reversal yet, but it seems we might be headed slowly in that direction already. So maybe we just do what the O’Jays suggest and, “join hands… start a love train–love train!” I mean we’ve got to do something.

December 7th is Pearl Harbor Day. And my dad’s birthday. A day that will live on in infamy. Pearl Harbor Day, not Dad’s birthday. (But really my dad lives on a bit infamously, too). On this historical day my father had a birthday, lied about his age in order to join the war early, went to the Navy, ended up teaching at the Naval College, dedicated his life to studying the causes of war, became a true dove — a Communist to many minds — and ended up having a Veterans for Peace chapter named after him in memoriam (https://www.vfp93.org/about). Just another life story, in the world of life stories, that swirls around our universe. There are so many of those right now, aren’t there?

I like to celebrate days of birth rather than death. Fact is I have a numerical disability so trying to remember too many dates just wouldn’t work for me anyway. But more importantly, it’s the birth of someone that means so much to me. I mean when folks pass, sometimes we say we have lost them. But for those who believe in heaven — or another form of afterlife, or just think of the departed a lot — don’t we really always know where they are? And anyway, once someone is born, if they make a mark on us, then they are never truly missing because we carry them around with us. That hurts sometimes, of course, because we want them to actually be with us. We want to speak to them, tell them things we are thinking, share stories. But we don’t get to have exactly that when they are no longer on this earth. And as this pandemic has shown us, we humans are not real fans of not getting what we want.

Sometimes it feels lonely to carry around the person who is no longer with us. Like a giant cut-out figure clipped from your life page, a hole where that person once existed. I miss my Dad’s physical presence (there was a lot of it), like his voice on the phone. (Even if he did have a habit of suddenly ending a call just when I thought we were deep in conversation). Strangely, right now there are a lot of of people my age who are almost glad that their elderly parents are not here anymore. We see our friends struggling to care for and comfort their own aging parents who are living in isolated senior facilities, or sequestered in faraway homes.

What would Dad have thought of this mess? Well, as with so many folks who have seen a few things, he would have known it would pass. (And he would be concurrently angry with the incompetence that is going on). I tried to explain this feeling of knowing things as we get older to my son. He said he understood. We were standing in the kitchen in our Airbnb in Sterling, Scotland. I was there for a conference and my son joined me from his temporary home in Berlin. It was a wonderful time. So we were talking about wisdom and aging and all that kind of stuff and I said there comes a time when the knowing goes from the head to the heart — or maybe even deeper in the body. Like I know this pandemic will end in a way that some younger people may just not be so sure. Because I have witnessed some horrors, globally, personally — and they are now in the past.

It seems to me it’s more about what we do in the midst. “In the Midst of It All,” is a song we sing in church sometimes:

“I’ve come through many hard trials
Through temptations on every hand
Though Satan’s tried to stop me
And to place my feet on sinking sand
Through the pain and all of my sorrows
Through the tears and all my fears
The Lord was there to keep me
For He’s kept me in the midst of it all.”

Here’s Yolanda singing it. (She needs no last name)! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWuUG_3EcTY

Anyway, what are we doing in the midst of it all? In the midst of the pain of missing a loved one? The death all around us? The immorality and violence being waged against the incarcerated, the African American, the poor…? One thing that older folks know about getting through things is you got to do something to get through them. After all, you can’t just pull up to a tunnel and then put the car in park and wait for the light at the end of it to come to you. Some people pray; some protest; some do both. Some love, and some learn.

I would like to call Dad today and wish him Happy Birthday. I would like to hear his righteous indignation at the laziness and selfishness being practiced in front of us by the powerful and not so powerful alike. And I would like to hear what it is he is doing in the midst. But I can’t. So I light a candle, emulating the Jewish Yahrzeit tradition — but honoring the birth, instead of the death. Because I’ll have you know Dad’s still very much hanging around — and he says I’ve got lots of work yet to do. So I better go.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

“The Uninvited Guest” was the name of this Sunday’s sermon. The Pastor referenced Luke, chapter 7, when the “sinful woman” crashed the dinner party that the Pharisee (Simon) was having for Jesus. (I won’t go into how in the Bible, reflective of society, the women were almost always the accused — even when that “sin” required at least two people to commit it). So girlfriend walks into Simon’s party because she wants to see Jesus. And the host is disgusted that his invited guest would even acknowledge this trashy interloper. At this point you either know, or can guess, the rest; basically Simon gets schooled.

I was thinking how many guests are uninvited in our lives. The word guest has its roots in the words stranger and even enemy. And sometimes these uninvited guests sure feel a lot like enemies, don’t they? The pandemic comes to mind. (“I didn’t invite him, did you?”). And what about tragedy? Thoroughly uninvited; nobody hopes to see tragedy coming around the corner. How about a job layoff or a physical injury? A break-up with a friend or lover? All uninvited, and all unwelcomed — just like the woman come to see Jesus.

Yet there are times when someone didn’t make your guest list, but you sure are happy when they decide to come by, anyway. A new friend; a compliment; a smile; the smell of something delicious as you walk down the street… Sometimes uninvited guests even creep up behind you, and before you know it there they are making you feel good. You hadn’t thought to invite them, in fact you were pretty busy with your guests doom and gloom. It was just that kind of party, until the party-crasher showed up and changed the whole vibe.

But what I am wondering, in all of this, is if there really is anything in our lives that is truly uninvited. The moment that we form an idea we invite that thought into our mind. “I am so alone,” a lot of us are thinking right now, for example. And here comes loneliness, isolation, self-pity, and sorrow, letting themselves right on in. I am not suggesting fault here, that is a defensive response to this idea — a response all too frequent in today’s I’ve-got-to-be-right society. And this idea is not a new one, obviously. Religious, spiritual, and intellectual practitioners have been teaching of the power of the mind for so long.

In that passage from Luke, Simon can’t believe the gall of the uninvited woman. But maybe she was invited, just not by him. Jesus (and I think this might even make sense to those who do not see Jesus as Messiah) invited all sorts of people to him. In fact, it was hard for him to get away, what with all the folks seeking him out. He invited them with his open spirit, his inspiring teaching, and his all around accepting manner. So certainly, you did not invite the pandemic, but others in the world did — through all sorts of channels: infection, unwarranted travel, mismanagement, arrogance… But we are all at the same party now, and thus all exposed to the guest in question. A guest who, for some by the way, has yet to leave, and has caused great calamity in his wake. (And yeah, I’m going to use the he pronoun in order to make up for thousands of years of sexism).

There are all sorts of seemingly uninvited guests we think we want nothing to do with. But after getting to know them, we start to realize just how lucky we are they dropped by after all. Job losses, relationship endings… those folks were not dressed correctly. But once we got over our judgements, they turned out to be valuable additions. One of my favorite verses in the Bible is — I think I even used it in my blog before: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares” (Hebrews 13:2). Wow. So, assuming strangers are just guests we thought we didn’t invite, it’s best we welcome them all — at first anyway. Then, once we have gained what we were meant to, we can show them to the door if necessary.

In the end, however, there are going to be a few select strangers who become our best friends, our dear family, our lifelong partners. And there’s a good chance we would have missed out on them had we stuck to the original guest list. So go ahead and invite who you want, and then see who actually shows up. There might be some angels in your midst.

Thanks-giving. Yup, on everyone’s minds. I hope. I assume. But boy, oh boy, a lot of us are thinking about how much we don’t have to be thankful for these days. This holiday has always been a confusing one for me. When I was a kid, I actually thought it’d be a good idea to say what we were thankful for – I’ve always been kind of literal that way. Well, that sentiment was met with looks of resistance and sounds of disdain. So never mind, just pass the pumpkin pie. Oh that’s right, I never had pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving because no one else liked it.

But enough of my childhood woes. As I grew, I understood the holiday to be about pilgrims – and some Native Americans somewhere in the background. Thanks, traditional social studies curriculum. One year we made paper pilgrim hats and (cringe) colorful feathered headdresses, and ate turkey and stuffing off of cheap paper plates at school. Thanks classroom mothers (they were only mothers back then). In 5th grade I played the potato in the Thanksgiving Feast, a true honor. My mom fashioned a laundry basket into a paper mache costume. I could not have been less thankful as I recited my fears of being mashed, boiled, or baked.

Thanksgiving kind of fell off my radar as I got older. Family unions weren’t really a thing after a while, and when I was in my twenties in New York City who knows what I did. (Sometimes I am thankful for lost memories). But then, I had two fabulous children and believed it my duty to reenact the dinners I had witnessed on television. You bet there was pumpkin pie, thank you very much.

In our early years our family home was Kosher-vegetarian. So no giant meat item was going to grace our artisan antique table. We had fish. Delicious, stuffed fish. And all sorts of other things. And I don’t think the kids even noticed, or complained. (Though I can’t quite remember that either). I wrote a children’s story when they were in pre-school and read it to their class. It was called Fishy Turkey Day. It was about a family that celebrated Thanksgiving without the traditional bird, and probably contained a few moralistic teachings about gratitude as well. (No, the book is not available on Amazon, but I have a few of the copies I made at Alphagraphics if you’re interested). As a family, we definitely went around the table and expressed our gratitude. And I always cried, thankful that we had arrived at some semblance of a meaningful celebration. Plus I got my pie. Plus I cry at everything.

Then there’s 2020. Well, if we haven’t heard a hundred news reports, podcasts, and interviews on how to contend with the fact that folks can’t have the whole clan (not Klan, although I guess those people celebrate, too) to dinner. I’m over it. Like this is the breaking point of the pandemic for people? Not the overworked hospital workers; furloughed food service employees; Black people suffering at an excess in all ways possible; detained immigrants; unhoused humans; and all those actually mourning dead family? Sure, I am the first to say that all pain is real. We cannot always do what my dad did to us, compare our ills to nuclear war – case closed. (One more childhood woe). But at some point we have to work on the gratitude aspect of this alleged holiday.

Now for a little church. The Bible tells us, in general, that giving thanks to God is a door-opener for God’s riches. So basically, thankfulness equals opportunity for more to be thankful for. Those who consider themselves not religious, perhaps, but spiritual, would probably still agree with this tenet. So the job is to be thankful. And to be actively thankful requires opening our eyes to what we already have. Everything from shelter, to love, to a new car that finally makes its way across the George Washington Bridge (shout out!). In making this effort to be thankful we have to look around, don’t we? So it becomes a kind of eye exam, because as we look for what to be grateful for, we find more stuff to be grateful for. The gifts just start showing up because we are actually seeing them. Now some folks have to work harder than others, to be sure. But most anyone reading this probably doesn’t have to look too, too far into the distance for those gifts to be visible.

I learned a new word this week, Phariaism.* In my devotional, Jesus Calling, it defines it as, “a subtle form of idolatry; worshiping your own good works…” It’s more generally defined as being self-righteous; the Pharisees, and all, not always practicing what they preached. It might be a reach, but is there a way in which we are all worshiping our works around Thanksgiving, and not focusing on the giving-of-thanks part as much? It may be easier for someone like me who has never had a large family, everyone passing the Green Bean Fried Onion casserole from one end of the table to the other. But even if that’s usually your thing, do you have some family, someone to celebrate with this year? Food to eat at the celebration? A roof under which to eat the casserole? Well, then thanks are in order. We can bang pots and pans as long as we like, but if we forget to come inside and be in gratitude for that which surrounds us, I think we will always feel like we are missing out, that the world is against us, and that there’s no reason to push on because we can’t have it our way.

Hebrews 13 reads, “Keep on loving one another as brothers and sisters. ² Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it. ³ Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.” This doesn’t actually have the word thankful in it, but sure seems like a good formula for living a grateful life. I’m working on following it. So, thanks for reading my words. And Happy Thanks-giving.

*here’s how you say that word: https://www.google.com/search?q=pharisaism&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS901US901&oq=ph&aqs=chrome.0.69i59j69i57j46i433l2j69i60l4.1698j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8

The power of the one. That’s what Bootsie Collins was talking about in a recent interview on WNYC. He was speaking of his latest album of the same name. Bootsie’s 69. I felt he’d been around so long he had to be older – or even dead. But he is exceptionally alive, and generous and philosophical — and funky — talking about the power of the one. He says it’s most simply an understanding that we as individuals have power within us, and that when we all work together with our powers, great things can happen. His album certainly happened, a collection of collaborations that include Snoop Dog, Christian McBride, and George Benson. It was a really uplifting interview and obviously amazing music was played, and I most certainly need to buy the album! (And yes, I mean album). Here’s a link to the title track’s music video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoGoKe8z7Ok. It’s funky!

As lots of people have probably been doing, I’ve been thinking a lot about the power of the one in my own way. I’ve thought about the concept on a macro level, as in the presidential election, and the micro level, as in me. Individual power, collective efforts, solos, collaborations… This thinking then brought me to the concept of loneliness, what it means to be alone — and if isolation is different than loneliness. Is there actually any power in the one?

I’m in a new place, moved all across the country — during the pandemic. “It’s going to be hard to meet new people,” I was warned. Yes, yes it will be. But I think it’s always hard to meet new people because I find it incredibly wearying to start fresh with a human being at any time. That is one of the many reasons online dating is so unappealing to me. I’ve been meeting new people here through tennis, and it feels a lot like online dating must feel: lengthy communications to arrange a date; judgement on first appearances; disappointing wastes of time; and once in a while a rare moment of connection.

In my vast knowledge of science (not) I know that the word isolate is used when extracting something into its purist form. Or when stopping a current from connecting to an object that would allow that flow to continue. These days we hear the word isolate a lot because people are isolating from COVID — to stay “pure” — or because they have COVID and don’t want their particular energy flow to get transferred. At the same time we are also being told that “we’re all in this together,” which is a pretty heartening idea until you accept the fact that it’s kind of a lie. Because there are a whole bunch of folks who are not in whatever this is with us. They don’t even see it as a communal experience, and that’s their own personal power of the one.

A lot of my students probably feel isolated right about now. And I am wondering if that has contributed to their emailing me at the 11th hour for an extension to an assignment they knew was due since the first week in September. Because it’s just one email as far as they are concerned. But what happened was that all those isolated particles — I mean students — formed into one and proceeded to pelt me with email requests on a Friday night. The power of the one exploded! In turn I felt isolated, as a professor, because none of these emails acknowledged my experience. I wanted someone to know that all those single actions had affected me. But I can’t say that to the students. So I responded to each one, individually, perpetuating their feelings of individuality — or isolation.

In his interview, Bootsie Collins was relating stories about his various collaborations for the album and how they changed suddenly once COVID hit. From playing together in the studio to Facetiming in order to lay tracks, Collins said it forced them all to be creative. There certainly is a lot of creativity going on these days. But sometimes I wonder if maybe it’s a tad misdirected. All this energy behind the need to connect, to de-isolate a situation, to revamp typical experiences into COVID-friendly ones. To be together. Is it possible that all this screen time is simply perpetuating our feelings of isolation? Perhaps it’s just me, but when I “attend” a lecture or concert online I am deeply aware of the fact that I am alone in a dim room staring at a laptop screen — not participating in a community experience whatsoever. At least when I’m reading a book or writing a story it feels right because they are activities meant to be performed as solos.

The light leaves the sky earlier these days. Night time is a reminder for many of us of our alone-ness. Outside activities wind up and human presence becomes less palpable. If we live alone we might even feel lonely. I am not sure if that is so bad, though. For it is when we are alone that our thoughts have a chance for our attention. I’ll bet artists like Bootsie Collins have some pretty cool thoughts when they’re alone. I write this blog alone, isolated perhaps in the physical sense, but communing with the one who will eventually read this. Maybe that is my power of the one. Maybe you are the one that provides me power. Maybe together we are the essence that makes up this funky world we live in.

Well a whole bunch of us just felt like Whitney Houston in Waiting to Exhale. I mean just because we exhaled, not because we sing like her, or that her character in the movie is all that applicable. Because her man never left his marriage for her, but we just somehow got out of one heck of an arranged marriage. Anyway, a lot of exhaling, sighing, screaming, yelling, dancing, crying, shofar blowing, and champagne drinking has occurred these last few days. Woo and hoo!

Maybe because I’m in LA now I keep thinking of movie references which is pretty funny seeing as how I don’t really do movies. But I’ve been thinking how these last 4 years are akin to a horror movie where one never knows who or what is lurking around the corner/under the stairs/in the backseat /on the news. So you’re constantly on edge, so much so that it becomes normalized after a while. But in the meantime you’re getting eaten up by stress, which you deal with in some healthy (and not so healthy) ways. And then one day, voila!, you just get to walk off the movie set. Well, some of us do anyhow.

And this is where we wet blankets come in, with our warnings against complacency and misplaced revelry. Because we’ve seen this movie before – and there are sequels! Now, full disclosure, I voted for Bernie Sanders. I mean I voted hard for Sanders. I mean I wanted to see all the stuff our country was carrying around smashed onto the sidewalk like a giant bag of watermelons. And then I wanted to see us go to back to the store and start over with a whole new list. But alas. My son and I cried the day Sanders ended his campaign. But we moved on and continued to put our energies behind causes that we see now were all the more urgent considering the administration we were handed. But make no mistake, these causes have needed our attention for a multiplicity of years.

I voted for Biden, of course. And Harris. The latter definitely a more exciting choice than the former (because of the woman of color thing, not so much because of her stance on justice reform). Nothing against Joe, he just isn’t my personal idea of all that this country needs right now. But the bar is low so I, too, cried watching his speech, because Joe Biden actually acted like he was beholden to other human beings. Like someone else was in the room with him. I felt like a part of a collective that had just been reinstated.

So the “good” thing about this so-called President’s term has been that people who perhaps were a bit complacent up until 2016 went, “What the living hell is going on?!” and did some stuff. We need to keep doing stuff. A lot of stuff. Because there are a whole bunch of Americans who will be no better off, no more a part of the collective, after this transfer of power. We must remember that this was not some three and half year aberration that occurred. It was actually a bright fluorescent highlighter taken to the deeds and thoughts that have been practiced in this country for centuries. We absolutely deserve to let off a little steam — those of us privileged with the time and resources to do so. But then it’s back to work… for Black Lives and immigrant rights and healthcare for all and decarceration and your issue of choice.

I want to finish with a stanza from a Marge Piercy poem I have been sharing, introduced to me by a good, smart friend in Texas. (Yup they have those there)!

“The Art of Blessing the Day” ……………………………………. This is the blessing for a political victory:
Although I shall not forget that things
work in increments and epicycles and sometime
leaps that half the time fall back down,
let’s not relinquish dancing while the music
fits into our hips and bounces our heels.
We must never forget, pleasure is real as pain.

So tonight we dance, and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that we get back to work on earning our keep as citizenry and fellow humans. Always looking, of course, to mix in a little pleasure whenever possible.

• From “Joy and Pain,” sung by Maze.

Let’s agree to disagree. Some of the most annoying words you will hear these days, am I right? Or is it just me? I mean we can agree to disagree on which Housewives show is the best (and by best I mean worst) or whether dark chocolate tastes better than milk chocolate (it does). But we cannot agree to disagree on, say, whether immigrants’ children should be separated from their parents for years at a time, or if denigrating people wearing masks is fit behavior for a President. There is no middle ground there. So, no, I do not agree to disagree on these issues — or the myriad other subjects of morality and civility that seemingly have become debatable.

I’ve been thinking about the word agree a lot lately. Especially since Thursday night when I attended an online Bible Study. The leader said things that made me understand that his beliefs were different than mine when it came to certain social situations. Situations concerning love and sex and marriage. I felt flushed as I sat watching, and listening, and viewing the chat fill up with “amens.” It wasn’t a fiery speech he was making or even an admonishment, it was just clear that the preacher’s stance was different from mine. And I started thinking, well he knows way more than I do about the Bible and he has presumably read much commentary on all things Biblical. So what was I disagreeing with? I mean, with what tool did I generate this differing opinion? In other words, what is it in us that triggers the disagreement alarm to go off? Is it always related to our deep beliefs in human love and equality, or is it sometimes just a knee-jerk reaction to someone saying something we don’t like, or something we have espoused in the past to be wrong? I am not suggesting I was necessarily wrong Thursday night, but it did get me to thinking about what dis-agreeing really was.

Remember Agree Shampoo?! I do. It claimed to “stop the greasies.” It made my hair smell wonderful, like being in a CVS where someone had opened up all the bubble baths and hair products at the same time. Anyway, in thinking of their ad campaign, I was wondering if the message was that if we used Agree(ment) we could stop the greasy, messy state of (dis)agreement. The word agree, by the way, originates (I’m way into etymology in case you hadn’t noticed) from “Old French agreer, based on Latin ad- ‘to’ + gratus ‘pleasing’” (Google). So people who agree are pleasant, I guess.

A man (White) recently told me about Jordan Peterson (who he was surprised to learn I had never heard of) and his book, 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos. He explained Peterson’s theory to me, that in life the metaphorical bigger rat has to let the smaller rat win 30% of the time or else the smaller rat will refuse to continue playing whatever “game” it is they are involved in. Now he was explaining this self-deprecatingly as he likened himself to the smaller rat in terms of our tennis capabilities. He was noting how nice it was of me to “let” him win some points now and again. After I enjoyed a moment of flattery, I quickly shifted into feminist mode wherein I stated that women probably did not need to heed that particular suggestion as we had been doing that for the last few hundred years already. When we actually are in the situation of being the “bigger rat” we are too well aware that the male ego requires constant soothing and uplift when it is not Charles in Charge. My tennis partner laughed and said that if, as I claimed, men (White) tended to hold positions of authority anyway then he was certain they didn’t need to be assuaged by the occasional bigger rat as they already knew they held some kind of general all-encompassing power already. I laughed back and was just about ready to launch into a short lesson on American history and the centuries old fear of the White man of any other group of humans who looked like they just might be up to the same tasks as they were, thus diminishing their power… when I stopped my laugh short and just smiled. I most assuredly did not agree with this man, but he may well have walked away thinking that not only did I agree, but that I was agreeable. That was certainly not my intention, and I still do not know why in that moment I chose to let the subject go.

When a wine is agreeable, it is not something you’re excited about, it’s just fine. When your friend wants to see a movie that you don’t care about, you go anyway just to be agreeable, to be pleasant. But I feel un-pleasant on the inside, when someone says something I don’t agree with. And I don’t mind at all seeming unpleasant on the outside if the statement made is egregiously immoral or stupid (such statements being low-hanging fruit these days that I don’t even need to pick an example for you because there’s probably one in the near vicinity already). I guess I am still wondering why people disagree, how that physiological, neurological, intellectual response gets initiated in the first place. And then I am wondering how can we go about questioning our responses for a more constructive, affective, and effective communication. And then finally I will continue to wonder when exactly one “should” make their unpleasant response public. I tend to err on the side of often as an answer to that question, but I don’t even know if I really agree with myself on that.

Politics is not a bad word in and of itself. It started out meaning “affairs of the cities” when Aristotle first introduced the term, politiká. But we all know how powerful connotations are, and the word has become burdened with an identity of contention, greed, and backroom dealing. When we don’t get a promotion we say it’s because of “office politics”; when we’re explaining why a referendum did not go the way we thought it should , we say it was “too political”; and apparently many are admonished at Thanksgiving dinner not to “talk politics.” (Of course, that probably won’t be such an issue this year as everyone is staying home with their Swanson’s Turkey TV Dinners). But shouldn’t we be concerned about the affairs of our cities, and suburbs, and villages, and counties? Can’t we all have a chance to talk about these affairs without fear of a dangerous fireworks display?

The affairs of the city and county of Los Angeles are many. I have never seen a ballot with so many measures, propositions, “down-ticket” candidates and the like. We’re being asked to decide, for example, if “scientific research” is really sciencey enough to deserve increased funding (Prop 14); whether corporate properties worth more than 3 million dollars should be taxed (duh! Prop 15); and if rent control should be expanded — a proposition that apparently many folks with money are against because the only ads I see on TV are “vote no on 21.” Fortunately the good people at Black Lives Matter and Democratic Socialists of America provide handy voter guides wherein they both say “hell yes,” to 21 and that’s good enough for me. Of course, there are always arguments to support each side, but that doesn’t mean the arguments are for the good of the “body politic,” for the cities these bodies live in, for the people.

When did we get so selfish? When did we become a NIMBY, everyone for themselves, you’re a jerk if you don’t agree with me kinda place? Oh, we always were? Because it was a part of the country’s DNA? Because we left an oppressive society in order to start a free one where everyone could do just what they wanted, but not really because it was actually that everyone could do just what the powerful wanted? That? But wait, one has to be selfish when one is carving out their rightful space in a new land, right? Like when a scholar secures a job at a university (this is hypothetical of course because there really aren’t any jobs at these places anymore, and these places probably won’t exist much longer in any recognizable form anyway). The scholar moves into their little cubicle, self-consciously places some books on their shelf, and then keeps to themselves until they have mastered the environment, right? Maybe if they are a male of European descent. But if they are a woman, and especially a woman of color, they will actually be pulled limb from proverbial limb to help with that program, sit on this committee, and advise a very particular cohort of students.

Where am I going with this? The founding fathers were males of European descent, right? So they took some time time to settle their land. Of course some folks were already there, so that had to be dealt with. But once they built their houses and got the farms started — or blacksmith businesses or silver trading posts (I’m just making things up now as I draw from memories of my 5th grade social studies unit on colonial jobs ) — they staked their claim, with no intention of going anywhere. This left lots of time and space to discuss the affairs of their cities. The women meanwhile were cooking, cleaning, churning butter (we did that in the 5th grade unit, with a jar and some cream) and thus weren’t invited to join in on the conversation. And of course we know that the non-White folks were mostly creating the wealth that allowed for the White people (men) to sit around discussing (their) politics in the first place. Flash forward, as they say, and it kind of looks like that now. Certainly lots of women and people of color and those who fall into less defined groups are visible in the vast world of politics, but when it comes down to it, who are we electing to hold office? Who is giving us the information that we base this voting on anyway? Who are we fighting when it comes to housing discrimination, or labor rights, or immigration reform? Just saying.

I had a male White student email me last semester after his essay’s rough draft was workshopped by a peer who was a woman of color. She pointed out what she saw as some blind spots having to do with race in his US History I paper. He told me in that email that in no uncertain terms that this was “reverse discrimination,” that he would never be “allowed” to make such racialized comments to her because she was Black, and that he refused to continue the workshopping process if he was to be paired with her again. “I don’t have to hear this kind of stuff,” he stated adamantly, “I am not a racist.” (She did not accuse him of such, by the way). But he was right about one thing. As a White male his identity will allow him to sidestep, skirt, and skidaddle away from most any uncomfortable discourse, including politics. Or he will enter politics, urged on by the myopia of this young lady when it comes to race. Eventually he will rule his own fiefdom with a focus on the rights of (certain) folks not having to take insults anymore, exhorting that it is time to take back this country — and the country’s discourse — to how things used to be. When things were “great.” Hmm, that sounds familiar.

I read a fabulous poem recently. The LA Times includes one in their daily “Essential California Newsletter.” The poem was called “ted talk,” written by Jenny Zhiang. (See the link at the bottom). My favorite line?: “I have never seen someone forgive themselves/as elaborately as the wealthy.”

Wealth comes in a lot of packages, including that of privilege. Politics needs to be returned (or given to for the first time) to the people, the people whose quotidian experiences are based upon the affairs of our cities. Us, we, the people.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/151740/ted-talk?utm_source=sfmc_100035609&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=33340+Essential+California+-+Saturday+Edition&utm_term=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.poetryfoundation.org%2Fpoetrymagazine%2Fpoems%2F151740%2Fted-talk&utm_id=16534&sfmc_id=3291130&fbclid=IwAR2UYXyJc2jkJGsEzIIxD2JDLJ-extw-0YwnhDB60U59UYdFDkw28vtSl1k

There is so much on my mind right now that I can’t seem to zero in on a particular subject. And I just did yoga, which is supposed to center me. Which it did, while I was staring up into the waving branches of a Southern California black walnut tree. I was meditating on sacrificing, on bringing things to the altar, as per the sermon I listened to yesterday. In my tradition we have altar prayer during worship wherein we approach the altar (in front of the pulpit) and pray for people. In addition, we are to leave things there. It’s a parallel of the Old Testament practice of bringing animal sacrifices to the priest in repentance for misdeeds and the like. It’s a nice thing to do, and I was doing that under the walnut tree this morning.

But then I went to Von’s — California’s Stop ‘n’ Shop. And it’s just really hard to stay centered in a grocery store. At any time, but even more so now because, well, COVID. I’m trying to avoid people (even more than usual) and I don’t know about you but I find it quite hard to see with my mask on. It cuts off my peripheral (or lateral?) vision. Anyway, I did find the lactose free cottage cheese I like, so that was a win.

I’m actually worried — which I don’t do much — about all the news reports on the national election polls. I feel like I’m in some kind of repeat of 2016, but I’m the only one who knows it already happened! Remember 2016? Polls? Hillary Clinton? The presidential election results? Folks stayed home because the polls “said” Clinton was going to win. Yes, she did win the popular vote, but seeing as how that’s not the way our electoral system works it seems like a pretty irrelevant thing to say. Like pointing out that one tennis player actually won more points than her victorious opponent. Don’t matter. The opponent is the one lifting the trophy. So yeah, I’m worried that people are going to get complacent(er) and not vote. Or vote for a third party — which we totally need, but the subject must remain moot for now. (But just wait until after the election. There are a lot of organizations out there with big plans to remind us that we have choices).

Now worry doesn’t have to equal anxiety. My friend in Atlanta and I were talking about this via Webex the other night. Because to worry something is literally to turn it over and over. To ruminate intellectually, maybe. We all know about worry beads and worry stones, right? So when I use the word worry here, I think I really mean that I’m mad as hell at the media for perpetuating their mistakes of 2016. Everyone from The Los Angeles Times to National Public Radio is guilty. These stats are saturating the ears of our citizens and that’s dangerous. A pundit recently said something like: polls tell us what people ate for breakfast, what they might eat for lunch, but definitely not what’s for dinner. So we have to make sure we elect the dinner of our choice!

Another thing on my mind is that I have a virtual conference this week, and I find that super depressing. Granted, there are all sorts of creative technical initiatives that the organization is employing in order to convene us folks, but it just feels like I’m in a giant game of Sims, the Academic Version — and I don’t want to play. Somebody tweeted that they missed the bad coffee and crowded receptions and even the read-straight-from-the paper-presentations of live conferences. And the laughing, and the drinking, and the thinking as a physical collective. Sigh. I need to embrace this moment, to compromise my expectations — as I’ve written about in the past. Easier written than done, apparently.

Anyway this blog is more affective than usual and I appreciate your indulgence. As I said, my mind is full. Maybe I’ll just go out to my sandy yard for a while, lie down on one of the plank benches, and stare at a lemon tree. It worked once, maybe it’ll work again.

My Sunday blog is happening on Monday because I spent most of the day Sunday unpacking bags, boxes, and other receptacles full of things I didn’t think I owned. Because I thought I was a minimalist. Well, after this move, it is clear that that was a false identity I was clinging to. So, forgive me all those who I have judged in the past for having stuff, because I. Have. Stuff.

Pretty much the only other thing I did yesterday — aside from watching the Lakers win the NBA finals because I live in LA now, and because Kobe, and because Lebron– was attend a virtual church service in the morning. I have been “shopping” for churches lately, listening to sermons on the gospel radio station and watching pre-recorded messages on church websites. Yesterday I tuned into a live service, replete with a preacher and a handful of singers. Friendship Pasadena Church. It used to be called Friendship Baptist but apparently they removed the word at some point. I’ll be looking into that later.

So I sat and watched and listened and actually enjoyed worship, as much as one can through a screen. Rev. Lucious W. Smith was charming and funny and bantered with folks off camera who were helping with the technology side of the service. The energy reminded me of my home church, the First Baptist Church of Madison and my pastor, Rev. A. Craig Dunn who also thinks he is funny. Anyway, Rev. Smith’s engaging sermon was about resetting, about going back to basics. It was about returning, in terms of faith, to that time you first “fell in love” with Jesus, with God. It was about remembering how that felt. And like any good sermon, it felt like it was meant for me.

I don’t have to elaborate much on this principle because once we imagine the concept our minds can go to just about any facet of our lives and insert a lens of reset; we can then start remembering, within our bodies, when things were new. I mean we are all so tired, so burdened right now. What if we just started fresh? I mean, I have the perfect venue and moment to do so: I just moved to a new state, a new home! The grocery store is new; the highways are new; the daily sunshine is new; getting to see my daughter on a regular basis is new. And yet, as I watched those movers carrying in my belongings through the front door I felt the past tugging at me. I didn’t think that then but now I see that each time I discover a Ziploc bag full of hair accessories, or unpack a basket of lint rollers, that I am walking backwards in time. I am seeing these things in my old psychic space, on my old me.

So at yoga this morning — on the top of Mount Washington at amazing guru Nora Brank’s gorgeous nature house — I set my intention to start anew. Within. So that scrunchie is going to be worn a different way, and the lint rollers will be stored somewhere else other than the bathroom. Little changes can make life feel fresh. Now, of course resets don’t always work. (Take for example the red reset button on my new AT&T modem which has timed out almost every day since I arrived). But I am sure we can use our powerful minds to find some newness in our lives, in our friends, in our jobs, and in our faith.

It’s fall. The Jewish New Year was just celebrated. My daughter’s birthday is this week. The narrative of our world right now might feel old and tired but we can walk through this barrage with refreshed eyes and hearts if we want to. That’s what I’m going to do — even as I keep unpacking old things.