Serving up Poetic Justice

This story begins in a convergence of back alleyways on a recent Friday evening in my hometown where a free concert, one of a summer series,  is about to begin. The band is a popular local group of sixty-something-year-old males who play country music and know exactly how to please their audience. The alleyway is crammed with people – young and old – and by the time the concert is underway, there is standing room only. Looking around, people north of fifty and those who are specially-abled are over-represented in this crowd.

My brother is one of those who are specially-abled. I have brought him to this concert because the band, TGR, is his hands-down favorite.  And although the direct care workers in his group home do their best to get him and his housemates to these concerts, occasionally circumstances arise that prevent them from doing so. I’m not taking any chances.    

It is a gorgeous night. The heat wave has broken, there’s a pleasant breeze and everyone seems happy and relaxed. It’s ‘bring your own chair’ so I set mine up next to T, who works in my brother’s home and who has, in fact, come with two of his housemates. There are other employees from other group homes – angels all – there with their excited charges and I am introduced to everyone.  

Promptly at 7 p.m.  the band members take their place on the stage and in a moment, the distinctive and familiar opening bars to Amarillo by Morning flow from the stage.  I love this song. I love TGR's rendition of it. I sink into musical bliss. I glance at my brother and wait for his metamorphosis. To watch him in this moment is to experience the true meaning of the 1970’s song, I’ve Got the Music in Me.  His facial expression grows intense. His feet start tapping. His arms begin moving.  He no longer appears to perceive anyone around him. It’s just him and the music. Within a few measures, every cell in his body is chair-dancing with a vengeance. Soon his chair can no longer contain him and, as if propelled, he springs suddenly to his feet.

He will dance every single dance tonight, with gusto, mostly by himself.  And he’s damned good.  His teachers include the best – Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Elvis Presley (those hips) – even Barbara and Bobby (and later Cissy) from The Lawrence Welk Show.  He's got all the moves. He’s light on his feet. He keeps the beat.  The words ‘debonair’ and ‘suave’ come to mind and stay there.  Oh, and a pinch of The Fonz coolness for good measure.   

A group of women enter the dance space and begin line dancing. My brother studies their moves, joins them on their periphery and tries to copy them. It is hard not to laugh and I admit I do but it is with glee. In his seriousness, he is just too funny. He is about ½ step behind because he’s following them.  They turn 180 degrees and he spins around, perplexed at what they did when his back was to them. They lift their leg, he does too. They clap, he claps. He scrambles out of their way when they suddenly switch direction and threaten to run him over.   And when they leave the floor, he is still practicing what they did.

A slow dance comes on and couples come out to two-step, fox-trot. My brother is still intent on his line dancing. I can tell by the look on his face that he is getting lost in his dance practice and soon he will be oblivious to everyone around him. On a crowded dance floor, this is not a good thing. I get up, I’m only a few steps away. I put my arms around his shoulders and say, “How about a dance with your old sister?” and I steer him in to a slow dance with me. His t-shirt is wet from his efforts. He stiffens at first – I’ve interrupted his escalation, but then he allows me to defuse his intensity.  I tell him I noticed how hard he was working to line dance with the women and what a great job he was doing. He looks at me so earnestly, and says, “I try.” Yes, my sweet bro, you try.

******

Not long before their break, the lead singer who I shall call BM (real initials, swear to God), waves a pile of 8-1/2 x 11 fliers and announces that it is their performance schedule for the near future. He sets them down on the stage. Three or four of the specially-abled attendees immediately take one and head back to where we are seated to present these to their staff chaperones. “Hey!” calls BM into the mic. “You guys can’t read!”

It takes a split second for this comment to register, to realize which “you guys” he is talking about. I look up at T, sitting next to me.  “That wasn’t very nice!” I exclaim. She agrees with me, as do others with us. BM begins to sing again. I am sitting, appalled and in stunned silence. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’m stunned, yes – but silent, no. I am fuming. How dare he make that stereotyped assumption and into a microphone no less! T is upset too because not only was BM insensitive – what he said was patently untrue.  You can be sure that if there is a piece of paper with this band’s name on it – TGR – all three of the guys traveling with us would be able to read it AND the dates AND the venues.

At intermission, I approach the stage. BM is fumbling with equipment. My brother and his friend, G, are close to the stage. I put my arm around both of them and look up. “Hi BM, my name is Jan and I’d like to introduce you to my brother, David, and our good friend, G.”  BM is eyeing me suspiciously, unsure of what to make of me. I continue, “These guys are two of your biggest fans…… they come to every concert you give that they can get to.”  BM is fidgeting  and looking like he wishes to evaporate. “And there’s something else you should know about them.” I pause for effect.  “They can READ.” BM looks everywhere except at me. I repeat myself, “They can READ.” BM starts to back away and mumbles, “I saw him singing.”  My brain explodes.  I lead my brother and G away – they do not know they’ve been dissed, and I can see that the big BM just does not get it. Back at my seat, the others let me know they watched BM’s reaction carefully and agree that the man is clueless (and classless, I might add).

*****

The next evening after dinner, I meet my friend Jim for ice cream.  Jim is a drummer and he knows this band – TGR  – well because he subs for their drummer on occasion. He tells me that he will, in fact, be working with them later this week.  I tell him about the events of the previous evening, hoping that he will “get” why this has upset me.  I can see in his expression that he does and I am relieved. He volunteers to say something to BM and I tell him, no, it’s ok – he doesn’t need to do that. But I am grateful for his willingness.

We are quiet for a moment. Then Jim chuckles and I look at him questioningly. “You know,” he says, conspiratorially. “None of these guys can read music.”  I wait for more, unsure why he is telling me this. “On a gig, when I pull out sheet music…. they can’t relate to that.”  He continues. “Maybe I’ll just hand BM a piece of music, then say, ‘Oh that’s right!  You can’t read this’ and pull it away.”  Jim is grinning at the thought.  I laugh with delight, inwardly marveling at the poetic justice of this plan.

What goes around doesn’t usually come around quite this quickly!

Stuffed, Part 2: A Study in Anthropomorphism

Let me introduce you to some members of my immediate family. From L-R, we have:

1) Morgan the bear, named after the youngest son of a dear old friend. Morgan used to be the favored companion of my sweet daughter until his position was usurped sometime during high school by a now-mangy monkey known variously as Gottlieb, Hiccup, or more often – Monkey. Poor faithful Morgan – I couldn’t tolerate the idea of him being cast aside in favor of another species, so I invited him to take refuge in my room.

2) Sammy the snowman, a gift one Christmas to my daughter. Sammy joined Morgan and loved him as a brother but alas, he met a similar fate when my daughter decided she only had eyes for a monkey. Not wanting to separate brothers – and having become a rabid fan of all things snowman – Sammy was also welcomed in to my space.

3) Smiley face, a Christmas stocking gift to me from my thoughtful daughter – who knew I had a “thing” for smiley faces back in the sixties. Smiley doesn’t take up much room.

4) Ladybug is the newest member of the family. My mother liked ladybugs. Buying ladybug items was one of the ways we healed ourselves after she died. Ladybug stays no matter what.

5) Next we have Alex and Jordan, the polar twins. Or it could be Jordan and Alex, I can’t tell them apart. Alex was my daughter’s first Gund – she fell in love with him in a toy store on vacation in Williamsburg, VA, at about age 8, and despite the fact that Alex cost way more than I ever should have afforded at that time in my life, she found him under the tree the following Christmas. Alex was also discarded when a certain monkey came to live with us.  Jordan, named for the third son of the same dear old friend noted above, was a gift to me from my daughter two years after Alex joined the family. She wanted me to have something soft and cuddly at night. No smart remarks, please. 

6) Finally, meet Sick Bunny.  That’s not her birth name but I don’t remember what that was. Sick Bunny is dressed in a cabbage patch doll outfit. She is so-named because when my daughter was young and would get sick, I didn’t want her getting germs all over her regulars.  So Sick Bunny was appointed to be the designated hitter during times of illness.  My daughter long ago left Sick Bunny in the dust. But I could not bear to do the same…. Sick Bunny had been there when she was needed, how could I throw her away?   

All these family members reside on a sofa in my bedroom. I don’t use the sofa any longer  for sitting (myself) – many years ago (like 23) it was a gift from loving relatives when I had no money for furniture.  I frequently lament the amount of space it is taking up in my room – space that could be put to good use – or, here’s a novel idea – space that could just be space. Said sofa’s sole purpose in life is to provide a home for the above-described motley “family” – a family I have long been convinced has real feelings. I’ve never said this aloud before but I think maybe the sky would grow dark and lightning might strike me down should I ever deign to… um… dispose of these bodies.  

For I remember how Morgan and Alex wept when Monkey moved in to their turf. “Mommy doesn’t love me anymore,” I would make one, then the other of them wail and kick their little feet in a tantrum, much to the delight of my child. “I still love you,” she would assure them but as night fell, it would be Monkey that she reached for.   

I exhaust myself, I really do. Part of me knows that some of this craziness is likely due to “first, but not last-born neurosis” [a.k.a. Wasn’t I good enough?] Most of my life, I have been able to avoid confronting this tenacious inability to let things go because I was willing to move over and have every square inch of my living space filled. But now I’m not. I’m tired of being a slave to my possessions. More than that, I’m tired of dusting them.  Or thinking I should dust them.

I’m going to get past this. I know this because I’ve come a long way.  For years I could not discard a printed photograph, no matter how fuzzy the picture, how unattractive the pose, or that it existed in triplicate. The photo had FEELINGS, as did the person who was its subject. I tried to pass this neurosis on to my progeny, but luckily, she knew in her soul that this was nutty. And now, I too can discard a photo without feeling twenty twinges of guilt for murder.  

So –my furry friends’ days just may be numbered.

But the Ladybug stays…..

And Smiley face doesn’t take up much room…..

and Jordan’s fur is very warm when I’m cold…..

Stuffed

Just about 9 years ago, as I was packing up my apartment in Queens to move to my own place, an old friend gave me some sage advice. “Think about what you want to take with you. Surround yourself only with things that you truly love. You don’t have to cart the last fifty years to another county.”

I did hear what she said. Unfortunately I was convinced I loved it all. Or thought I should love it all. Living in small NYC spaces for nearly 20 years, much of my precious stuff had been sentenced to boxed lives under beds, in the back of closets, at my mother’s.  Now I was going to have enough space for it all and I gleefully envisioned a Christmas-like reunion with my stuff.

So along with me came two full sets of china, more vases than a sane person needs, an unwieldy collection of decorative cups and saucers from various dead people, hundreds of books including text books from college, souvenirs from trips taken as long ago as 1965, a large collection of 45s and LPs most of which I had not played in years, and scads of beginning-to-get-gross metal paper clips, dozens of on-their-way-to-being dried up pens, and personalized manila envelopes rescued from an office I had worked in years before that had closed. And that’s merely a tip of the iceberg, I am sorry (and embarrassed) to say – but it’s a taste to illustrate the breadth and depth of my stuff.

When my mom passed away three years later, I added a lot more stuff to the mix. I tried to be careful and discerning as we sorted, discarded, and/or sold, but this stuff was my mother’s things and the idea of divesting myself of anything belonging to her felt like I was discarding not only the item, but her. That would never do. So my sister and I took turns choosing first – jewelry, china, depression glass, lead crystal, cups and saucers, unused dish towels and pot holders.  We discovered vestiges of our childhoods lovingly packed away in old trunks and squealed with delight over my first Easter coat and bonnet, matching jumpers our grandmother had made, dresses we wore our first days of school. We divided those items up, the ones that weren’t yellowed or torn, dreaming of future grandchildren. Slowly the small piles in each of our childhood bedrooms became full car loads of more stuff to be lugged to our respective homes.

It was hard to assimilate all mom’s stuff into my apartment. I took care of some of the breakables by appropriating her china cabinet which fit nicely against an available wall, its dark wood closely matching my own furniture. But I should also mention that I inherited most of the items that were already housed in that china cabinet – a huge collection of crystal ware given to my parents as anniversary gifts in the early 40s. So I stacked things a little higher than she ever had in said china cabinet and hoped for no earthquakes.

Other items never found a permanent home, unless you count a corner of my dining area as permanent. There sits my mother’s sewing machine – at first claimed by a niece who fancied a career as a fashion designer. When she changed her mind about her major, it was claimed by my daughter, who fantasized learning enough about sewing to tailor her own clothes. Even though claimed, however, it never actually made its way to any place she’s lived. Keeping the sewing machine company in that corner have been mom’s old slide projector, boxes of old slides, mom’s really old regular 8 movie projector, and boxes of old 8 mm movies.

Not long ago, a designer who’s helping me to renovate my kitchen, came over to survey my stuff to ensure sufficient cabinet space.  She looked at me gravely and said, “You have to edit.” My throat started to close. “Edit??” I gasped. “I’ll come over and help you,” she announced, breezily. I harrumphed.  Over my dead body.   

After she left, however, I looked around.  Was I really that in love with all of this? I admitted to myself that the little collection of antique machines in the corner irritates me. Not only does it collect dust, it fights for space with my jewelry-making supplies (another story of stuff). I had made a half-hearted effort to deal with some of it last year when I sorted through mom’s slides and sent the more memorable ones off to be transferred to a CD. What was now stopping me from chucking the rest of them along with the projector (the bulb of which disintegrated when I turned it on)? Not long before she died, mom had made the herculean effort of transferring all the 8mm films from my sister’s and my childhoods to videotape. Why could I not dump the original film and put the decrepit projector out of its misery? 

I opened one cupboard, which had been specifically targeted for editing. There were at least a dozen generic clear glass vases of various shapes and sizes that gained access as receptacles for various bouquets over the years. I had no particular attachment to these;  maybe I could part with some of them if they were duplicates. Heaven forbid I not have the right size vase for all the cut flowers I don’t bring home.

There were another eight or nine bud vases. One of them featured an etched “H” from my former husband’s last name. Have I ever put a bud in a bud vase? More to the point, how long has it been since my last name started with “H”?  There’s an old Avon bottle, black with flowers, shaped like a vase that I’ve carted from apartment to apartment for thirty-five years, and never used. My former husband gave that to me, too.  I tossed the marriage long ago and never looked back, why can’t I toss the relics from it?

Now it got harder. I picked up a teeny-tiny vase with a lily of the valley on one side. I don’t remember who gave it to me but I know it was because the giver was aware how much I love lilies of the valley.  It would seem very ungrateful to get rid of that, now wouldn’t it. In the back corner was a small pink and white ceramic baby shoe, made for me by a dear old friend when my daughter was born. It had been “customized” with my daughter’s name, her birth date, and her birth weight.  It had not held a plant since the first one it held in 1976. To get rid of that would be akin to getting rid of both my daughter and my old friend.  A two-fer.

I closed the door. I would make no decisions that night. I needed to figure out by what criteria I would honestly be able to determine what stayed, what went, and why.  And whether I could do it without guilt or remorse…….

Next up….. anthropomorphism, or do stuffed animals have feelings?   

      

Cellular Connections

I’m slightly amused and a lot amazed when I enter my crowded commuter train morning or evening and witness dozens of suited bodies with eyes fixated, fingers dancing, and attention captivated by tiny hand-held slivers of technology. Occasionally they talk on them. Mostly they poke and swipe at them. During a break in any meeting anywhere, colleagues pull out their blackberries and smart phones with a sense of urgency.  What might have happened during the last ninety minutes that they simply must know? I sat in a theater last Friday night and during the intermission the same thing happened. Instead of talking with each other or reading the Playbill, most people around me communed with their cell phones.

Recently I took the final course of my doctoral studies – an elective on qualitative research methodology. To provide an in vivo experience in qualitative research, my six classmates and I were required to undertake a small group project wherein we would interview each other on a chosen topic and then collectively analyze the transcripts. After much debate, we settled on the topic of one’s relationship with one’s cell phone. We entertained the idea of going a day without our phones to see how that felt.  One of my classmates practically hyperventilated at the thought. It was vetoed.

Looking around the room, everyone except the professor and me had their cell phones out on their desks every class. I don’t know where his was – but mine was four floors above me, locked in my office. I was unconcerned about what it might be doing in my absence. One young woman sitting next to me sent and received text messages continually during the entire class, every week. I wondered if she thought our professor was blind to what she was doing. Or maybe she didn’t care.

I’ve been teaching for thirteen years.  Over the years I’ve added directives to my syllabus that cell phones must be set on vibrate so their rude ring doesn’t interrupt the class – or more accurately, my concentration. Two years ago I had to add a ‘no texting’ edict during class.  Still, they can’t resist. So I stop in the middle of a lecture when I see texting behavior – head bowed, eyes intently fixated on something just below table level – and demand, “Those who are texting please stop now.”

People clearly are attached to their cell phones with a passion that borders on the obsessive. These miracle machines also serve as mini-computers, movie theaters, music players, video game consoles, calendars, calculators, cameras, video recorders, and GPS systems. Do we really need entertainment and/or stimuli “to go” every waking hour? Do we really need to be so available to everyone’s impulse?

Don’t get me wrong. I love my cell phone. It was the first item I ever owned to which I attributed “stress-busting” status.  Twenty years ago, my first cell phone was an unwieldy device housed in a large black vinyl case with a heavy battery. It also required an antenna mounted on the hood of my car.  Unless one was weight-training, it was not the kind of thing that you would carry around with you. It had been a gift from older relatives worried about the time I spent in my car at odd hours and in unsavory neighborhoods in my work as a writer/photographer for a union.  I plugged the phone in to my car’s cigarette lighter and felt instantly relieved. No more hunting for a pay phone, finding a safe place to park, and digging for change. No more increased blood pressure when caught in traffic late for an appointment. But service was expensive then so I used the phone sparingly, not even turning it on unless I needed to make a call. “Need” had nothing to do with impulse or inability to delay gratification.

Over the years, my phones got lighter and smaller and eventually fit nicely into my purse or my coat pocket. However, I don’t really like talking on any phone, be it land line or cell. I dislike the feeling of disconnectedness and lack of visual cues.  I also tend to resist advances in technology, typically buying new toys long after most people have done so (or not at all).  I keep my phones long past the time when Verizon has deemed me eligible for an upgrade. Counting that first albatross, I’ve had four phones in twenty years. That’s six fewer than Verizon would have preferred.

Last winter my cell phone battery cover somehow broke off. I went without it for awhile. Then my best friend showed off her brand new Samsung Fascinate smart phone. I was – well - fascinated. I sprang for it. We have a love/hate relationship. I hate that a smart phone can make me feel so dumb. I gaze at all the little icons and wonder which one I need to tap to do what I want. Or more likely, which one will cause me to do something I don’t want to do. I panic if I’m engaged with my phone in a simple activity like sending a text – and something else happens, like..... it rings. I’ve yet to master how to deal with call waiting. I’d really rather the second caller would just get a busy signal.  I am, after all, busy. I hate the little genius living inside the phone who second-guesses what I want to type and auto-corrects my mistakes to the amusement of recipients.   

I don't quite "get" the need, however, to have one's phone become a body part.  Yes, they are wonderful when you're running late or are stranded with a car that stopped running. But do we really need to be plugged in and entertained on the sidewalk, waiting in line at the post office or grocery store, and during intermission? What has happened to watching where we are going, waiting quietly, taking in our surroundings, being fully present in this moment in this space? No batteries needed.