tricia

Congratulations, Mr. Bill.

As I write this, it’s midnight at my parents’ house. Normally, midnight in the middle of the week wouldn’t be a big deal at all, but this midnight is different because I know that my father, who would normally be in bed, is awake–probably playing on the internet. Maybe he’s watching television. Maybe he’s reading a book. This is his favorite Friday night pattern. Stay up until all hours toodling around the internet and the house until, at about 3:00, crawling into bed with the wonderful feeling that Saturday is ahead. He gets to stay up all night tonight, on a Tuesday/Wednesday, and I’m thrilled for him.

He gets to do this because after 51 years of work, he gets to enjoy the rest of retirement.

I wish I had something poignant or clever to say, but I don’t. I just know that I am deeply happy for him. He started working when he was 16 and, with the exception of the year when he looked for work after he completed his service in the Air Force, he has always worked. Always. When I still lived at home, I would sometimes hear him getting up early to go into work. He had a habit of showing up hours before the day started to get a head start on the day’s work. This meant he went to bed early and left before I was up, but I could sometimes smell his cologne in the hall, long after he’d gone.

Forgive me while I wax nostalgic for a sentence or two. My father came of age in a work force where it was possible to support a family on a single salary. It wasn’t a magical time–the military still paid decent salaries and offered full benefits to active duty members and their families–but it was a time when money matters made a bit more sense than they do today. So a young Airman who managed his money wisely could support a wife and daughter. And support us he did. My mother has worked for much of my life, but she’s always said that she felt blessed that she didn’t have to work. I “worked” in college but at the kind of jobs that college students used to have to help pay for books, gas for the car, and pizza. I don’t think I even knew how much my parents paid for my tuition. Talk about privilege. In my senior year, when he retired from the Air Force, I had to take out a student loan (that’s right a single student loan) to pay for my last semester. I think I had to borrow $1800. That’s because my dad worked.

My mom and I have been hoping for this for the last year or so. She retired last year and has been so happy, and she wanted him to be happy too. She’d say to him, “Bill, just think, everyday can be Saturday.” But he’s good at his job, and his boss couldn’t bear to let him go, and he didn’t want to leave her hanging. So we waited, and we hoped, and mom pined (quietly…mostly quietly).

And then he decided it was time. When he told his boss, she cried. My mom and I did too, but for different reasons. My mom said, “Now every night can be his Friday night.” What a wonderful reward for a man who has worked so hard for it.

Unpacking the Battle

In literary studies, we talk about “unpacking” a text or part of a text. This means looking closely at it–at its language and form and cultural context–to determine multiple meanings. It drives some students crazy, but when we talk about “critical thinking skills” as one of the benefits of studying literature, this is one of the exercises that develops that mechanism.

I was thinking of this “unpacking” in relation to the California Supreme Court’s decision to uphold the ban against marriage.

I was driving home from running errands when I heard the news on NPR that the California Supreme Court had voted to uphold the marriage ban. I uttered words that get bleeped on television and my happy feelings about Sotomayor’s nomination melted.

I’ve been reading different blogs about the significance of the ruling and kept stumbling upon the logic that argues that the ruling is not actually about banning gay marriage but about protecting the voting decisions of voters.

This is ice-cold comfort.

But according to a blogger over on DailyKos who has done the work of unpacking the language of the ruling, those of us on the side of good shouldn’t feel as bad as many of us do. The post is long, but here is the part that gave my sadness pause:

In last year’s landmark 4-3 decision, In re Marriage Cases, the California Supreme Court decided that same-sex couples have a fundamental right under state law to every single advantage that heterosexual couples do, including the right to call their legal union “marriage.”

Today, the court unanimously upheld the substantive fundamental right. Liberal to conservative, they all now accept it. They construed Prop 8 as narrowly as possible: as a initiative that addressed what we would label these relationships that we normally call marriage. The voters said that we can’t call these relationships “marriage” when they involve same-sex couples. That’s an insult to gays and lesbians and I hope and believe that it will not last. But note what this does not say.

Prop 8, now that the Supreme Court has stripped it down to a bare bone, does not say any of the following:

(1) It does not say that any provision of California law that invokes the label marriage does not also apply to these “civil unions” or whatever we call them — how about “marrijezz”? — that same-sex couples will henceforth undertake.

(2) It does not even say that these legal relationship aren’t marriages. It just says that the voters decided that in California, if they occurred after a certain date, we aren’t going to call them that. This isn’t a minor point: it means that if a couple that has had a California “marrije” leaves the state, they have the right to say that they are “married” and have a correctly spelled “marriage” and — when the Full Faith and Credit case eventually comes down — have the same right to full faith and credit as does anyone from another state who got officially and legally married.

(3) It doesn’t say that the participants in “marrijezz” can’t call each other “husband” or each other “wife” — or that they can’t legally demand to be able to call themselves husbands and wives. This was, in the eyes of the California Supreme Court, entirely about cutting a particular tag off a dress before allowing same-sex couples to buy it. Do you think that the “this is called a marriage” tag is the same as the “I can call this man my husband or this woman my wife” tag? Nope — that’s a different tag. If voters want to eliminate the words “husband” and “wife” from same-sex partners, they have to pass a new initiaitve. Does that start to convey a sense of how deeply the Court carved down Prop 8 today?

I’m still reading through the whole post, but that bit of unpacking is helping ease the sting, if even just a wee bit.

Beyonce vs. Aretha? vs Dyson vs. West?

If anyone told me that I’d ever see Michael Eric Dyson offering his imitation of Beyonce, I would have taken them straight to the nearest mental institution. But here he is in an energetic “debate” with Cornel West (aka the coolest black man walking the planet) about who is better. I wish I’d seen Tavis Smiley’s announcement about his movie on HuffingtonPost earlier because the movie (“Stand”) looks interesting:

I WANT MY MARY!!! (progress??)

As I posted a few months ago, fans of the “Mary Tyler Moore Show” were about to be cheated by 20th Century Fox and Amazon. People began to complain and some people even wrote to the New York Times about it.

It seems we’re making progress.

According to some guy I’ve never heard of, on a site I never visit, some progress has been made in getting the last three seasons of “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” According to the report, “No official reason was given for the change, but the main reason SEEMS to be that fans who already own the first four season sets didn’t want to feel pushed into re-buying them to get the remaining three seasons; they wanted Seasons 5-7 issued individually.”

I’m going to assume this is true, that we’re going to win.

Now the only question is when the fifth season will be released. I. just. can’t. wait.

Thoughts on Michelle Obama I

It’s a relief that the focus on Michelle Obama had broadened, just a bit, from her magnificent wardrobe to the projects she has embarked on as FLOTUS.

FLOTUS. I love the sound of that because it brings to mind two lovely words: the word “flow” and the image of the lotus flower. I only have a passing understanding of the different cultural significances of the lotus flower, but I have a pretty clear sense of what “flow” looks like. I don’t think I can define it but, like art, I know it when I see it, and she’s got it. Those of us who supported Obama during the Democratic Primary and the general election have seen it all along. It’s evident in the way she moves, the easy rhythm of her speech, and the values that she has stayed true to all along the way—family, community, service.

The press succumbed, as it so easily does, to the Republican’s caricature of her, gladly discussing her as a liability and depicting her as a version of black womanhood America is comfortable with dismissing and/or dissing—dark, angry, and unfeminine. And then they were shocked and stunned to discover a woman they still can’t really define.

While the focus on her wardrobe seems silly, I can understand why it has played out this way. To put it simply, the media do not have the language, the lexicon, or the rhetoric to report on a woman like Michelle Obama. She’s like a unicorn but more rare because she doesn’t even exist in American, or international, legends. Think about it. Can you name one famous black woman who is not an entertainer who is like Michelle Obama?

You might be tempted to compare her to the women of the Civil Rights Movement because she is already a historic figure, but she is not like Sojourner Truth, Rosa Parks, or Shirley Chisholm. She is certainly no Angela Davis or Fannie Lou Hamer. She is more their descendent than a figure cut from the same mold. She is no Oprah. And she is no Condoleeza Rice and not just because the two women have different political leanings. She’s not like either woman because she easily wears a mantle that neither woman has taken on—mother and wife.

This is, in itself, a radical thing for a public black female figure, and it’s a thing that the mainstream media simply can’t understand. They also have not quite yet figured out how to report on why she has charmed the majority of the nation. This is, in part, because doing so would require them to say the kinds of things that many white Americans simply don’t want to hear—for to discuss Michelle Obama in real terms is also to discuss the mistreatment of black women by all the different parts of this country.

She takes on this tricky problem fearlessly, though I’ve noticed she does so by speaking very little about the present. When she refers to her ancestry as a descendent of slaves, her very presence in the position of our first lady affirms that “ancestry” can be seen as “ancient” and “history.” At the same time, she exhorts young people to think about and plan for the future. She wants them to be what she has so successfully been throughout her life—a strategist, someone who can see the forest for the trees and who does not let herself get distracted by the small things in a culture that has a habit of cordoning people off from their ambitions.

Her strategy seems to be acknowledge the struggles of the past, work hard in the present, plan for the future.

I don’t mean to make Michelle Obama out to be larger than life, but she is. She’s actually a larger figure than her husband. As my friend Johnny said the day after the election, the miracle is not that Americans elected an African-American man to be president but that they accepted a black woman as their first lady.

When it comes to her, I’ve done little more than watch her and, at times, emulate her style. I’m inspired by her and comforted by her presence because she is unbreakable proof that black women can be more things than the media portrays us as being. But I’m still trying to find the language, the lexicon, the rhetoric to describe this unicorn of a woman. Thankfully, there is plenty of time, and she’s giving us plenty of good material to think about.

Writing Retreat: Home Again

While the writing retreat is officially over, I am still in writing mode. It doesn’t look like it as I putter around my apartment trying to put it back in order after the flood that forced me to pull everything out of all of my closets. I’m not a neat freak, but the chaos caused by having boxes and suitcases and shoes and furniture in the middle of my apartment is maddening. While I put things away and spend time watching the peonies I bought the other day bloom one at a time, I know I’m still working. The pages I wrote are floating around in my head, and I know when I look at them this week, I’ll be able to see them differently and, hopefully, more clearly.

I must say it was a lovely week, but I was right when I noted that the peace of the week was coming to an end. By the time I finished what turned out to be my last writing session on Thursday, the sidewalks and shops were filled with a different species—rotund men in plaid shorts and windbreakers talking about their boats, thin women (all of whom looked so hungry) already looking bored with the “season,” and the shop owners whose fiscal well being depends on catering to their every whim.

When Karen and I walked into the restaurant for dinner our last evening I wondered in passing whether or not shouting “Obama!” would have the same result as yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater. These are the people afraid of “class wars” and having to pay taxes and, after about five minutes, they all look alike. Seriously.

So while I was sad to leave Sadie and Karen, I was glad to wake up at the crack of dawn and head back home. I left early (5:22 am) and got to enjoy a quiet Newport. It really is a lovely town, and, in addition to getting good writing done, I found the time I was there very soothing. There is something about feeling good pressure to write all day every single day that allows other things to fade and heal. Walking along Thames Street in the morning and then again in the afternoon and then again in the evening was good for me. I’m not sure how it was good for me, but I’m sure that in a few weeks I’ll really be able to feel it.

I noticed a lot of things about myself. For example, with my new hair cut, my shadow looks exactly like a bobblehead. Deep stuff, man…

And a child shall lead them

Stumbled upon this on the HuffingtonPost. This (adorable) kid organized the rally as a class project. According to HuffingtonPost:

“He was concerned about the issue after hearing about anti-gay remarks on the playground and then learning about a same sex couple in his neighborhood that couldn’t get married.”

Regarding brown people in Newport…or the (supposed) lack thereof

After noting the lack of brown people in the town in my post yesterday, they started showing up all over the place—in cars, on skateboards, and in restaurants. Maybe Wednesday is a special day that I don’t know about. I was reminded of my favorite moment in the most recent film version of “Hairspray” when Tracy Turnblad announces, “I wish everyday was Negro Day!”

Writing Retreat: Day the Fourth

It’s time to go home…

The tourist are trickling in bit by bit, stroller by stroller

I’m down to my last pair of clean knickers (they’re from Marks and Spencers so “knickers” applies)

Adam Lambert lost “American Idol” to the sweet but bland Kris Somebodyorother, and that awful fourth judge proved why we will never have a woman president

The Starbucks café card I bought to get “free” internet only has 41 cents left on it

My essay isn’t finished, but I expect it will be in my first few days back in the hell that is my Jersey suburb

Given my teaching schedule, I never remember the Memorial Day holiday, so I couldn’t figure out why my quiet little street was bustling so early in the morning and why the café I’ve spent three or four hours in every morning this week was almost full when I arrived. Unfortunately, my ipod battery died, so I was forced to listen to the charming chat of some local young’uns:

Guy #1 Yeah, she’s a nutcase.

Guy #2 Didn’t she go out with that guy who worked the back?

Girl #1 mumble, mumble F*!&^&@ mumble.

Guy #1 Yeah. But he couldn’t stand her, so they broke up and now he just does her on the weekends.

Girl #1 mumble, mumble F*!&^&@ mumble.

Guy # 2 Do you have to say mumble, mumble F*!&^&@ mumble all the time.

Guy #1 It’s really cool how it works out. He gets exactly what he wants.

Lovely…

Desperately pushing the middle button on my ipod-mini, I realized I’d left my pencil case back at the house and took that as a sign that it was time to leave.

The local Starbucks is quieter, and I’ll spend the day reading. The walk here is just long enough to let breakfast settle, and it’s relatively quiet. And it’s interesting to see a town getting ready for the start of tourist season. Shops that have been closed this week are open, new shops are putting on the final touches, and new mannequins have appeared in some of the store windows.

I’ve contributed my part to the retail community, which is astonishingly cheap. I’m not sure what black ballet slippers contribute to writing, but I’m convinced the pair I bought yesterday will help me with this final productive day. I also bought a totally touristy Newport hoodie. It was red and fit perfectly, and I couldn’t resist.

I finally got up to the “sunbathing” deck, but I kept my clothes on, thank you very much. It was cold (Karen and I went up at sunset to enjoy a drink and the view), and I hadn’t had enough to drink.

While I was walking to Starbucks this morning, I was thinking of what one needs for such a wonderful, productive writing retreat, and I came to the conclusion that there is no formula or recipe. This was luck, and I don’t know if, or when, the stars will line up again. Karen found a great place at a very low price, we’re here the week before the town gets too crowded, I was at a good place with this essay, and the dog was in a fabulous mood all week.

I will say that if this is a taste of what my summer will be like, I’m looking forward to the next few months. I have lots of interesting writing I’m looking forward to, great friends and family to hang out with, a lovely new wardrobe (thanks, Onie!), and some celebrations on the horizon.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll head home. I’m hoping to wake up early to beat the weekend traffic. But I have a day left, good writing ahead of me, and tonight Karen and I are going to a festive seafood place for dinner. I don’t know if they have chicken-fried lobster on the menu, but if they do…

Writing Retreat: Day the Third

I’m still thinking about that chicken-friend lobster, but mostly I’m in that happy writing place where I’m seriously hopeful that the essay will be finished AND good. I have things to say, know how I want to say them, and, most importantly, how the essay will fit together.

So often writing feels like putting together a puzzle of a clear blue sky or a blank page. There is simply no way to know how all the pieces can fit together.

Newport continues to charm me, though I’ve finally noticed the dearth of brown people of any kind…at all. I’ve seen maybe three brown people since I arrived, and they were applying for jobs at a local restaurant. After years of living in New Jersey where rich people come in various hues, it’s a bit strange to be in lily-white land. I don’t feel particularly uncomfortable (I am, after all, just visiting), but it is noticeable.

I’m not a big “house” person so mansions don’t do much for me, but I am impressed by both the size and number of mansions in this town. Some of the mansions are museums, but some of them are places where people still live. It’s a life I can’t even fathom, but it’s interesting to get a peak at how the other one percent live.

As a person attached to her rituals, I am beginning to miss the moments that tend to mark my day, specifically WNYC’s Brian Lehrer show in the morning. Without internet access I can’t have it on in the background as I putter around, and I miss that. And I kinda miss “puttering” around. On a vacation when I’m busy with activities or busy doing nothing, I don’t feel the lack of my daily habits so much.

Still, it was lovely to write outside on the deck this morning, and I’m liking Hemans more and more. She’ll never come close to Mary Shelley in my heart, but she’s good company to keep.