Texas notes: All that glitters

     Sometimes you flap and flap, and just can't get off the ground, and I felt for Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey this week, admiring her professional determination to get airborne. Been there. She finally soared away, and for the first time I felt tempted to insert an editorial aside along the lines of, "Editorial note: Old journalism maxim, 'It is easier to apologize than to get permission.'" You'll see what I mean. 

     This week was hiccupy to say the least. I am writing this piece propped up in bed in my tiny house, in frozen Austin at 7:30 Friday night.
     Since COVID began, I dedicated myself to what I call radical self-care. Healthy food, long walks, meditation, lots of rest, and refusing to take on too much. The word “no” is such fun to say. Who knew? This approach has kept me relatively balanced, and when I’ve had slumps I’ve been able to get back on the saddle.
     This is the first Friday in ages I’ve felt squarely thrown off. There were times this week I was precariously hanging off the side of a horse from one boot, my rag doll body helpless to right itself, my hair grazing the dusty ground.
     Talk about curve balls. Just when I thought I’d safely fielded one, another came whizzing up. I had unexpected and uninvited financial news, and a rocky start with a new contract. I’ve had to beat down a few rounds of carpenter ants who came marching in from the cold. (If you need to know the best ant bait, I can tell you). A creepy neighbor made a couple balls jokes to me, and when I shut him down retaliated by insulting me. I’ve tried for hours to secure a COVID vaccine for a relative, to no avail.
     My blog post did not go as smoothy as usual. My first idea just didn’t gel. I had completed a new piece, edited it, sent it Neil and was ready for bed. I had contacted the person I wrote about for some clarification and their response was “I am not comfortable with you writing about me.” That piece got ixnayed. And to top it off, as I sit here writing, I just got stung by a bee. Yes, a bee. Ouch! The Texas critters are trying to come in from the cold that’s for sure. Lest I sound too whiny, I must say that all of the good things in my life are not lost on me, and I know this too shall pass.
     While reflecting on my week I have come to realize that I threw the hardest ball at myself. A few weeks back, I did not trust my intuition. Things snowballed to the angsty place I have been trying to extinguish all week.

   Here’s what happened: I reached out to an acquaintance from my teen years who I wanted to write about. We have not seen each other in over 30 yeas, and though our connection at the time was powerful and memorable, it was brief.
     He decided it was a sign— citing several synchronicities— that I’d reached out to him and we, therefore, were meant to be together. He’s in Texas now (as am I), and in his eyes that’s even more of a reason to rush into something blindly. As a person who would rather be in partnership, a part of me was intrigued and fell for his charms. Since we had a childhood connection and have friends in common, I felt a false sense of intimacy with him.
     I entertained a short flirtation (a few weeks) of phone calls, texts and FaceTime with him. I quickly saw that we are not compatible. When I set boundaries around my availability to talk or text, he became mean and harassed me with messages. Instead of immediately running away, as I should have, I decided I would try to wean him off of his delusional dream.
     We’d talk, I’d remind him that I am not seeing anyone due to COVID, plus I feel we are not compatible. He’d fuss, I’d ignore him and/or respond with more boundaries, and he’d apologize. I’d go back to chatting and laughing with him until the cycle resumed. He lost his temper more than once, and cussed at me. In my rational moments I was scared. Then there was the part of me that wanted to be patient with his process. He clearly has deep attachment wounds and my presence activated them.
     I didn’t realize how bad it was until, the other morning when I heard a snippet on NPR. It was about the fact that coercive control (exactly what he was doing) may soon be illegal in the U.S. as it is in other parts of the world. I realized with crystal clarity that this person was trying to manipulate me into staying in contact with him and I want no part in it. I cannot help him.
     The mistake I made, and the stress I felt this week will help me relate to others when they take similar missteps. Each unwise decision I make renders me a better therapist with real life experience to pull from. It also propels me further into keeping my life small and safe, with plenty of radical self care. Now I will drink my ginger tea and cozy up for the night. Exactly where I want to be.
     If you want to listen to the piece that woke me up, here it is: 

     https://the1a.org/segments/coercive-control-domestic-abuse/

Capitol attack not a finale, but an opening act

 

                     "The Legislative Belly," by Honoré Daumier (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     Next week, when most Senate Republicans refuse to convict Donald Trump for inciting the Jan. 6 attack on the Capitol, as they surely will, there can be only one reason.
     They think the tide of chaos will break their way.
     Not in the past, not the wave of anger and insurrection that washed over Washington a little more than a month ago. That’s over done with, and receding; it sometimes feels as if the jarring events are already staring from a history book, where no doubt they will be prominently displayed as our union’s lowest point since the Civil War.
     Unless there are lower points to come.
     Because the struggle happening right now is not about the past, a month ago and fading no matter how sharply the Democratic impeachment managers set out their case.
     It is about the future.
     Are we to continue as a representative democracy?
     Or not?
     Simple question, really. Do American voters cast their ballots and select those who will run the country? Or do demagogues determine what has happened and will happen, while we all must obey? Is democracy discarded when you don’t like the result, as Trump tried to do? Is it to be dismissed as “rank democracy?” A term Sen. Mike Lee, R-Utah, used in October.
     Or do voters — whatever their color — still get to choose our future?
     That battle is not behind us. That battle is in front of us. State after Republican-led state will wage their own legal riot against the ability of American citizens to cast a vote. They will call these measures efforts to stem voter fraud, which the election of 2020 proved is nearly nonexistent. Their real motive — cling to power even if a majority of Americans don’t want them — will never be spoken out loud. It doesn’t have to be.
     “Stop the steal” is a great rallying cry. Who cares whether there really is a steal to stop? Not Republicans. The slogan brought the mob to Washington, and will justify suppression of Democratic voters. Just watch: more long lines, as mail-in voting is scrapped and polling places removed. Higher hurdles raised to casting a ballot. It worked in Mississippi in the 19th century. It almost worked in 2020. They’ll try again.

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Not a finale but an opening act

     Stacey Plaskett, a Democratic House impeachment manager, a delegate from the U.S. Virgin Islands, presented her case coolly and carefully Wednesday, like the former assistant district attorney she once was. 

     At one point she used the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks as a metaphor, focusing on Flight 93, the passengers who fought back, forcing their plane down near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
     "Forty-four Americans gave their lives to stop the plane that was headed toward this Capitol building," she said. "Those Americans sacrificed their lives, for love of country, honor, duty, all the things that America means. The Capitol stands because of people like that."

     She was trying to appeal to a sense of Republican decency that just isn't there. She might as well be painting a picture in ultra-violet light. If they could see it, we wouldn't be here.

     The rest of us, we can see it all too well. It's been a relief to stop seeing it, this past month.

     For all the shock of the storming of the Capitol Jan. 6, the scenes of rioters surging through the building pales in horror compared to the yawning indifference of the bulk of Republican lawmakers. To be honest, that is worse. That the lawmakers can, at their leisure, contemplate what Donald Trump wrought, and still support him. Out of fear. Out of confused self-interest. Out of cold political calculation, that standing up for our country might make their deluded voters look askance at them. Looking to their futures. Confident that this is the path upward. For them.

     How could they close their eyes to chaos, lawlessness and mob rule? The endless lying necessary to grease the skids of that wreck? How can they rationalize it and shrug it off? I guess because it works, for them, and they expect it to continue to work. It is like, on Sept. 11, surveying the damage done to our country, and not only wishing you could be in some cave in Afghanistan, washing the feet of Osama bin Laden. But traveling there and doing it. This is passivity made active. They conjured up the Beast. And now they serve him.

   

Black parent faces loss of Catholic school

  

 

Ever Strong at Christ Our Savior Catholic School in South Holland.

      Last week I got an email that begins with journalistic clarity I could never improve upon:
     “My name is Carolyn Strong and I am a parent at Christ Our Savior Catholic School in South Holland, Illinois. The archdiocese recently announced that they were closing four Catholic schools. What they failed to say was that all of these schools were located in either Black or Brown communities. What they also failed to acknowledge was that with the closing of Christ Our Savior and St. Ann located in South Holland and Lansing respectively, they have created a 25-mile dearth of Catholic education in the southeast suburbs.”
     That seemed worth a follow-up. I phoned Strong, who has a doctorate in education.
     “We have 146 students, all Black and Brown, 137 Black, nine Latino,” she said. “It is the only all-minority Catholic school outside of the city. There are no others. My decision to send her there: because I am an educator, there are certain things I’m looking for. Because we’re a two-educator household. Because I am raising Black children, what I’m looking for is a mixture of academic rigor and cultural responsibility and a chance for my child to see herself reflected in the day-to-day of the school. Representation is very important. I’ve learned from my own work, which centers around Black students, the impact of anti-racism on Black kids. Representation matters. When you’re ‘othered’cq from such a young age it has an impact moving forward; it’s not a good one. That was top of mind choosing a school.”
     She has two daughters. Eden, 18, in the middle of her COVID-constrained freshman year at Northwestern. And Ever, 5, in first grade at Christ Our Savior. That age gap is no accident, Strong said. Raising a gifted daughter requires undivided attention and determination.
     “There are people who believe you can’t be both Black and smart,” Strong said. “The things we went through with our older daughter. People doubting her. We came in with IQ scores. Came in with testing. None of that stuff mattered. All they saw was a Black child.”
       Christ Our Savior is different.

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Karen Lewis, 1953-2021: "Sometimes profane, but always profound"

     Karen Lewis was a fighter.
     As the president of the Chicago Teachers Union, she battled for the best contracts her members could get, even as she struggled against aggressive brain cancer.
     “Tell our delegates let’s get ready to fight!” Lewis said as she went into another surgery.
     The death of the 67-year-old Lewis was confirmed Monday by her spokeswoman.
     Lewis clashed fearlessly with Rahm Emanuel, calling him a liar and a bully and worse, to his face. She dealt Chicago’s combative mayor the first public defeat of his mayoral career when she outmaneuvered him in the 2012 Chicago teachers strike, winning raises for her membership in a stumbling economy and inspiring teachers nationwide.
     “It had a riveting effect across the country,” said Randi Weingarten, president of the 1.7 million member American Federation of Teachers. “You heard that a lot in 2013, 2014: ‘Just like it happened in Chicago, it can happen here.’”
     Lewis was angling to give Emanuel an even bigger blow in what was expected to be her own campaign for mayor in 2015.
     Lewis formed an exploratory committee and was “seriously considering” a run, she said, and polls showed her beating Emanuel. But a brain cancer diagnosis late in 2014 forced her to abandon her plans. As it was, her handpicked surrogate, Chuy Garcia, made Emanuel sweat, forcing a run-off election Lewis occasionally participated in, despite faltering health.
     “A force of nature, smart as a summer day is long,” said Weingarten. “With a heart as big as the city of Chicago.”
     The always outspoken Lewis was twice elected CTU president. In April 2016, just days after Lewis led a one-day teachers walkout to draw attention to deadlocked contract talks, she was appointed to her third three-year term; the CTU governing body canceled the election because she had no opponent.
     Lewis condemned Chicago Public Schools’ addiction to borrowing. “We cannot continue down this road to perdition,” she told the Board of Education. She spoke out, demanding “Dreamers,” undocumented immigrants brought to this country as children, be legally protected.

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True greatness comes from facing history

 

“One can’t walk in the streets and the newspapers are not allowed to print the truth, because they are afraid that the Polish currency would be shaky. A Jew is not allowed to go out in the street at night because his life is at risk.”

     You know the great thing about centuries of slavery in the United States? The big positive that gets overlooked, even during Black History Month, between Harriet Tubman and those wood cuts of tightly packed slave ships? I should probably draw this out, because a lot of readers are thinking, “What?” reaching for the cudgel of outrage. But there is one undeniably positive aspect to both slavery and the 150 years of oppression that followed.
     Ready?
     That we can talk about it now, honestly, openly, write and discuss, and contemplate our nation’s difficult and tortured past, unafraid. That is an undeniable greatness of America, one to be proud of. Because not every country can manage it.
     This week, in Poland, a verdict will be handed down in a libel case against two historians, Barbara Engelking, with Warsaw’s Polish Center for Holocaust Research, and Jan Grabowski.
     The pair co-edited a book, “Night Without End: The Fate of Jews in Selected Counties of Occupied Poland.” Lucky for them, they couldn’t be prosecuted over a 2018 Polish law that criminalized associating Poland or Poles with World War II atrocities — that effort was greeted with such international derision it was reversed.
     But the government still funds the Polish League Against Defamation, which sued the authors for recounting history that contradicts their sense of unmitigated national glory by suggesting that one individual credited with saving Jews also sent them to their deaths.

     “In America, one’s life is safe. Here a Jew’s life is worthless ... My friend and I were in the garden, sitting on a bench, engrossed in a book. All of a sudden, several hooligans appeared holding sticks in their hands ...”

     Like our own country for the past half decade, and nations around the world, Poland fell in the grip of resurgent nationalism. A shameful political philosophy that believes a country becomes great, not by actually doing great things, but through talk, threats and pressure. Their greatness is declarative — tell everybody “We are great!” Over and over and over.
     Poland has a long history of anti-Semitism....

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Walk the dog

   

Kitty

     "I can't walk the fucking dog."
     Spoken in a kind of amazed, compressed, staccato anger. "I can't ... walk the ... fuh-king ... dog!"
     Late December. The occupant of the White House bracing himself in the doorway of the Oval Office, leaving claw marks in the lintels, howling about stolen elections. The Last Lie. And the biggest, and most damaging.
     As if that weren't bad enough. Our little dog Kitty hurt her leg. Running figure eights around our living room, pure enthusiasm, unaware of political developments. Adding injury to insult.
     She had needed a bath. Because her coat had gotten too long. Because there is a global pandemic and getting the dog groomed seems a thing that can be put off. Because I had administered the dog bath, and set her down, and she did her yippee figure 8s, and I let her because, well, she's been doing it for a decade and maybe it would help her dry off, encouraging the evaporation process. So it was sorta my fault, when she let out a shriek, and came up limping, her little back right leg curled up. Hurt. There was nothing to do but pat her and stroke her and let her rest.
   "We'll see how she is in the morning," I said. But that night, about 9 p.m., gently scooping her off our bed, intending to take her outside, she let out a yip of pain, and we hustled her to the animal hospital instead. Because I'm not going to go to sleep and leave the dog in pain. They gave us some doggie aspirin and told us to see the vet in the morning. Probably a torn meniscus. $225 please.
     "Like Derrick Rose," I said, exhausting my Bulls knowledge.
     We took her to her regular vet the next morning. Probably a torn meniscus—x-rays are pointless, since they wouldn't show the ligament. Have her keep off it as much as possible—no long walks. No stairs. Another $225 please.
     We blocked our stairways off—our house has four levels—with broken down paper boxes.
     I would carry her down the front steps of the house, a half block to one of her favorite spots. And this is the heartbreaking thing. She wanted to go. Go go go. Pulling the leash. Wanted to do our usual walks. True grit. 
     Dogs are heroes of routine. It broke my heart to see her surging forward, all determination, her little back leg curled up.
     "She can go as fast as three legs as she can on four," I marveled to my wife.
     I worried about her. About having to drop $5,000 on dog knee surgery. About not being able to walk her for two months. She'd get fat. I'd get fat. It seemed the final indignity. I can't go to the gym. Or restaurants. Or see friends. Or travel. Or see my parents. The country is dissolving before my eyes and NOW, I can't ... walk... the ... fuuuuuucking dog!"

      It seemed too much. And a reminder that distant abstract woes, no matter how enormous, do not register the way small private ones do. I'm sorry that 450,000 Americans have died in the past year, and try to use that fact as a rag to stuff in my mouth whenever I feel inclined to complain about anything, which is often. But nothing sliced through this whole COVID nightmare like watching that 15 pound bichon-shihtzu mix powering forward, its little leg back right leg curled up, useless.

     But time passed. I carried that dog up and down the street, scooping her up after she did her business, imagining my neighbors tisking and tutting from behind their curtains. "That strange old man is carrying his dog again. He must have completely lost his mind. They say he drank, you know."

     And then after a span of days—four, five, a week, two, hard to say now. Less than a month—she started tentatively putting her weight on her right rear foot. A few steps at first. I sobbed, I'l admit it. Briefly, out of relief, and joy. The leg works, and it's getting better. Thank you thank you thank you.

      And it has. Two months in, she never curls it up. She boldly powers through what we call the "used ta" walk—the walk my wife used to take with her before she—my wife—got her current job. Eight blocks round trip. About a mile. The spheres returned. Things go wrong, but things get better. If you let them, if you listen to the vet and crumble the little cylinders of joint herbs into her food and are patient. Recovery is possible. You never know how precious ordinary life is until it's yanked away. Someday I'm going to be sitting in that Thai restaurant on Madison Street, as the waitress slides my beef and broccoli before me and shake my fists in exaltation and cry out, "Yessssssss!" But not yet. You just have to wait.