Sunday, April 23, 2017

Should I have engaged "The Silent Majority"?

It was a lovely October evening. I was on the subway coming home from work. I was on the sixth avenue line which meant I travelled under Rockefeller Center, where the group of people got on and talked loudly, totally upsetting my commute. These people didn't know where they were going or how to get there, but they didn't stop to find a map. They loudly complained that the trains weren't labelled well.
Their accents sounded different, rather, they sounded neither like working class New Yorkers nor teenagers who are too wrapped up in their own lives to realize they are upsetting the commute for everyone else. Yes, most New Yorkers hold public conversations at a level that can be ignored, because to do otherwise is to encourage interruption or interference, connection. I'm not sure why, but I do know that after taking subways to and from work for almost 20 years, we spend a quality amount of time trying to ignore one another.
Why is this? I think it's because we can't possibly acknowledge everyone, and we also know that we don't want to. I don't know everyone and my commute is time for me that I steal out of the day. At the worst all I can do is contemplate the day. If I'm lucky I can lose myself in whatever I'm reading.

But not that day. That evening these people got on and when I realized they broke the social barrier of the Mass Transit system of New York City (we ignore you because we can; if we can't, you're being rude) I looked up to see who they were.
They were holding signs. They had just come from a march or a protest, but before I could feel a sense of comaraderie, I realized their signs said "Make America Great Again."

I returned to my book. I don't want to know these people. They're going to lose the election and then they will spend 4 years bitching and moaning about it, I thought to myself.
Thankfully, they got off at Rockefeller Center, with a boisterous clamor as they did so. One of them, probably a son, given the range of ages in the group, held his small "Make American Great Again" sign for us to see as they climbed the stairs to the exit.
There was a young woman sitting next to me, probably my junior by about 8 years. She and I looked at each other with relief as silence returned to the train, and smiled.

"Idiots," she said to me, at the right volume for strangers talking to each other, and I smiled my agreement and nodded.
We did not say anything else to each other. She was reading a magazine. I was reading a book. We were relieved when the comforting sounds of the subway returned to drown our lives.

I wondered that evening, after they got off the train. If I should have talked to them, found out what they thought and why they thought it. We certainly hadn't had enough time to have a meaningful discussion, but I could have said something.
The problem is, that something I would have said, on that day, as I returned home from my job as a public librarian, AKA a civil servant who depends upon tax revenue for her job and the institution for which I work, to continue, probably would have been
"You do realize that as soon as Rump gets into office, you're going to be thrown under the bus, right?"

That is not a way to build alliances, even I know that.
But what could I have said to them? Given that all I wanted to say was "you're being rude because we are all trying our best to ignore each other, and you are PREVENTING that from happening." what good would that have done? Perhaps they came from a part of the world where strangers are just friends you haven't met yet, though I don't imagine walking up to a friend and saying "there are more of us than there are of you and you are going to lose," is a way of making friends. Should I have approached them and asked where they were from? How long they were in New York for? How humiliating would it have been for me if I learned they came from Nassau County and found the city as foreign a place as Timbuktu?

Every story has a perspective. Everyone brings their own story to whatever story they hear, and to whatever facts they encounter. How can we do otherwise? Someone once told me that he was the product of his experiences, and eventually I found that tiresome, because all he was saying was "I have my story and the facts I gather are fit into that storyline so that it continues to make sense;" in this context, it was "all women are fucking me over and I assume that every woman I meet will eventually start lying to me," and of course he didn't trust women at all because he was waiting for each of them to fuck him over, eventually to disappoint him to badly that it was better not to try to trust any of them.

This is why we need to learn about other perspectives as we encounter the world, particularly when we meet people who (we believe) should share our perspective but don't. A coworker once described people as crazy, and it took some time for me to realize that she just meant she didn't understand how they could think the way they did. I imagine she didn't try to understand their perspective, because she couldn't imagine a different one from her own.

I am a great believer in the power of story. The stories we tell ourselves inform our lives and shape how we interact with people. That's why The Rug won, because he told people who felt that they were losing the American Dream not only that they were, but that they were losing because of them, the illegal immigrants, and the elites.
Can we understand one another better if we actually listen to what the other side is saying? Perhaps but not if our first response is "what you think is completely stupid and you must understand why what I think is the right way.
The conversation that would follow would certainly last longer than 3 stops on the sixth avenue line.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Tax Day March Crashing

I was excited about the Tax Day March. I went with a group called the March Chorus and I am happy that my contribution was a round based on Frere Jacques "Show your taxes. Show your taxes. Donald Trump. Donald Trump. Just what are you hiding? Just what are you hiding? Show them now. Show them now." It's an easy tune, everyone knows it, and the words are easy to catch. Only the third line is a little hard to copy. Divide your peeps into four groups and figure out which one starts first.

People joined in. They heard a bit of the first line and wanted to sing along! And this WAS the high point of my day. Somebody thought it should become a standard!

I need the positive affirmation. There's nothing wrong with that.

But then I wake up on Easter Sunday, remembering (again!) something my father told me about Easter being the Holy Day of the Christian religion ("Christmas is when Jesus was born," he once wrote me. "Well, all God's chilluns gets born. But getting crucified and resurrected? Now that is some holy business.") and I don't know how much good it did. The march in New York City got NO coverage in the New York Times, but the Mar A Lago rally did, presumably because the Rug saw it and it pissed him off.

I was unsure what to do today. Do I try to come up with a new round to sing at the March for Science next week? To share with the March Chorus before the rally? Do I write letters or postcards to elected officials?

Do I try to finish the pussy hat I promised someone?

Do I try not to sink into blue because my father would have turned 75 next Thursday, had he lived?

No, taking a day to relax and come down after the positive feelings after the march yesterday is necessary. I can only do so much, and we all need to be at our best now. Self-care is necessary. So is finishing the things I said I would, even (or particularly) if finishing them will require you to calm down and do something you enjoy.

Happy bunny day. I must drown peeps in hot chocolate.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Fighting Tyranny

I've been reading On Tyranny by Timothy Snyder and it's bothering me. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I suggest that what is happening in the United States is different from what's happened before. We've never seriously considered that a foreign government has interfered in our elections -- either through propaganda or messing with the voting technology. It's important to obey Douglas Adams' advice; DON'T PANIC!!! But it's also imperative to know when we're just letting ourselves be boiled alive, like the frog who doesn't realize that the water is being heated slowly. The frog being boiled a live is a great metaphor, and right now I don't care that Wikipedia tells me it's wrong, because history tells me that people will slowly adapt to changes, and accept things that they would not have found acceptable earlier. Tell us we're under attack and we need to give up our privacy, we'll do it. Some of us will fight back, but a lot of us will obey authority. We're taught to obey authority, and we are NOT taught to question authority at every turn. And perhaps in normal times, that is good advice.

I don't know what normal times look like anymore.

Because the Facebook posts (or chain email messages, for us old folk) that we saw in the long ago, preaching time nostalgia, were bullshit. Yes, John Waters, your childhood was wonderful. You were young when the sex was free and not nearly as dangerous as it is now, and the music was fabulous. But you also know that your generation had to fight for the Civil Rights Movement (you made a musical and a big Broadway Hit about it), and frankly, while the world is a better place than it 60 years ago in many ways, the world still needs work. One big problem is to raise children who know how to fight the good fight without raising children who turn out to be rampant smart alecks without any actual moral framework.

My mother has a pin that I remember her wearing when I was very young. Question Authority it said. She meant it.

But she did mean to question authority in the sense of "why are you an authority?" not "why should I do what you tell me to?" They don't mean the same thing. Questioning the presence of authority, how it gains its power and how it maintains power.

Life is scary right now in the United States. The Ego in the White House knows no bounds, and doesn't understand checks and balances. He also doesn't understand the word "no!" means something he doesn't want it to mean.

We must remember that being patriotic means loving our country and what it stands for. Our country is a democracy and we must fight to protect the weak and the voiceless. Scapegoats are not actually the people responsible for our problems. Scapegoats are what the people in power, the people who are responsible for maintaining a system that denigrates us, want us to keep looking at. Scapegoats are the magic trick politicians use to distract us when the politicians are keeping their masters fed.

Democracy is a fragile flower, and we must feed it regularly with water and nutrition by staying informed and holding our democratically elected leaders accountable. Staying informed means understanding that the American Care Act IS Obamacare, and the magicians who told you they were repealing Obamacare were taking away that health insurance you got to help pay your child's medical bills.

Yes I do sound condescending. People are letting their emotions, or hatred, feed their minds. We have to stop doing that.

Friday, April 7, 2017

Why CAN'T an essay be a story? Essay #13

"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is when I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.  In the first place, that stuff bores me. . . . I'm not going to tell you my whole autobiography or anything.  I'll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas." And this is how The Catcher in the Ryestarts; Holden Caulfield tells us what his story is about. ;He's not interested in his entire life, and he doesn't think you are, either, but these weird things happened to him when he got kicked out of school last Christmas and he thinks somebody should know about it.

It's a classic essay story, the classic essay story about a disaffected teenager. A Separate Peace is also an essay story, about how a school hasn't changed at all, but Gene has totally changed and he is disturbed by how much the rest of the world stays the same despite the awful events that he instigated.

My father has been dead for 1 year, three months, and 2 days. I still want to yell at somebody about it. It's the awful thing about death; One of the first stages of grief is anger, and death usually takes anger well. Death shrugs, walking off while you're still yelling, "I'm talking to you!" Death takes the loved one with her while she's at it. My father has lost his hearing, or he can't answer the phone, but he's not there where I can talk to him about the silly things that piss me off. I could blame him, actually. My father made a conscious choice to stop cancer treatment. He got to a point in his life where his life was not worth the trouble it took to maintain it, and I respect that choice, but I wish he'd told me who I was going to have to talk to when I was upset about something stupid.

We internalize the ones we love. Take comfort in this. Once they're dead, it is no longer important to worry whether what you love about your relatives is who they really were, or just what you remember.  What I miss right now about my Dad might just be what I would have wanted him to say if I called him on the way home, not what he would have actually said, and perhaps that's OK. Veracity is an overrated quality in memory.

On a cold spring morning, when I was eagerly awaiting my 8th birthday, my father and I were sitting on the couch. Correction, my father was sitting on the couch, I was barefoot and sprawled on the couch, sitting with my legs spread out in front of me. I was probably wondering if they were growing while I was watching them. My father saw my toes and contemplated them before talking.
"I wonder when you toes will start falling off," he mused, more to himself it sounded.
"What?" I asked, not sure whether to be terrified or start laughing.
"Your baby toes, honey. When you grow up, your baby toes fall off and you grow big ones. You see?" he reached out to grab my right foot and wiggled two of my toes, "they're already quite loose already."
And I stared at him, sure that he was lying to me, but who knows? I mean, I had older kid friends who should have passed this along to me, if only to terrify me themselves, and not leave it to the grownups to fill me in. I breathed in, and wiggled my toes. I think I was too terrified to pull up my legs and play with my toes the way my tongue had begun playing with loose teeth in my mouth.

It did not occur to me to wiggle the grownup teeth. I don't think I'd realized quite what was permanent and what wasn't, which my father was depending upon for his joke to work.  Why wouldn't my baby toes fall off?  Were they growing like the rest of me, or weren't they?

This set in motion a whole set of stories my father would tell me that were not true. I developed a mind-set that suggested alternate endings, the possibility that what you could make up might be a better story than what actually happened, and perhaps you should go with the better story, when reality was letting you down.
Why couldn't I remember to go with better stories during my adolesence? Why did I have to be so devoted to MY version of the truth, that people scorned me and made fun of me? Why couldn't I start believing in alternative realities then? (When I was 5 my father would tell me that he and Linda Rondstadt were going out for the afternoon, a fact that I never believed.) Perhaps because I figured that believing in alternative realities that made me cool as a teenager were not actually a successful means to becoming cool (which would have been accurate, nothing fails so much as pretending you're something everyone can see you're not). Perhaps I thought that alternative realities were things grownups can do, but they are not welcomed in people who are also unable to purchase alcohol.

And now my father is dead and all I can remember is the stories he told me, the way I wish his story had ended, and the conviction he had that his story was over.  The last two weeks of his life, he told his wife that he felt his life had become a movie and he wanted to end it and cry “Cut!” but he couldn’t.

Nobody was up to telling Dad that the correct call would have been “That’s a wrap!” because everyone in Hollywood knows that when anyone cries that out in the hospital, the machines return to the one solid tone, the lights go down, and the camera stops.

Nobody wants to disappoint a dying man.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

What I have to do

I couldn't finish an essay this week (this was started in March).  Why?  Because I couldn't just sit down and write one, basically.  I had time to finish reading the mediocre book (Murder at Rough Point) that I'd gotten as an Advanced Readers' Copy at a Conference;  a mystery/romance about a young woman who wants to be a newspaper reporter, when her parents want her to just get married to the right man.  I had time to do that, but I didn't enjoy it.

I couldn't finish an essay because most of what I'm writing feel more like journal entries than essays.  They feel like I'm writing down what I want to tell myself, not what I necessarily want anyone else to hear.  I'm writing into the void and I'm not sure why anyone would care about the details, and I can't come up with anything meaningful (socially relevant, or historical) enough that's worth pushing on anyone else.

Why would I think that this essay is pushing ANYTHING onto somebody else?   No one is forced to read my blog.  The only way somebody knows it's there is if I mention it to them personally or they see it on Facebook at 52essays2017.  Anyone else who finds it somehow went looking for it.

But I'm cautious, because what I ate for breakfast isn't meaningful.  I want to write an essay comparing Why I am not a feminist by Jenna Crispin (don't yell at me, I'm copying her capitalization, and I think she did it that way on purpose) and We Should All Be Feminists by Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie but I don't think that's a personal essay and isn't that what this exercise is for?  Or is it just to keep writing?  To make sure we are working on something while our lives toddle away?

I started THIS essay a few weeks ago, and vacation ensured that I was 2 weeks behind schedule when I returned;  so I wrote an essay for the week I got back, and decided that I would post 2 essays the 2 following weeks, rather than try to write 3 essays in one week when I was still suffering jet lag.

This sounds more and more like it's a journal entry, but many of them do.  And we are told not to worry, to just keep writing.  So OK.

What I have to do this week is different than what I had to do the week I started this particular entry (whenever THAT was) but it's not too different.  I have a different book I'm trying to read, and it's not grabbing me (yet) as much as writing will, so perhaps this essay will have better luck than it did whenever I started it.

And now I have returned from the vacation I was anticipating when I started this essay last month.  I have returned from the vacation and have written an essay about it.  The essay is not quite the essay the friend I was visiting wanted me to write, but it's a start for that essay.   My friend wants me to write an essay to help promote the festival she has developed.  I'm not sure if the essay I wrote is exactly what she wants.

I don't think there's anything wrong pointing out that I am doing the best I can;  that I missed two weeks because I was on the other side of the world, going to a New Age Festival that I might have scorned in the past, but am looking forward to going to again next year (if Julia schedules it for the two weeks that I have off.  Please!  Please!)

And fortunately I return from vacation to learn that I have to order new travel guides.  This is fun and an enjoyable way of prolonging an experience, I think.  I get to continue to look at books that might spark interest of new places I could go, things to do.

And the point of this essay and this whole exercise is to keep writing.  So what I have to do is remind myself that this process, like NaNoWriMo, is about quantity more than quality, because perhaps if I keep at it, the quality will improve on its own.  I'm not sure if that works, but we're giving it a try.

So I have to finish writing this essay, finish updating the travel section, get myself to the gym and MAYBE I'll be able to make the movie this evening.  Either way, I will continue reading Viking Economics, How the Scandinavians Got It Right-And How We Can To by George Lakey.  And then, once Lakey has educated me, I can start writing letters to 45, the rug in the White House, telling him all about what we're doing wrong in great detail, and nothing will ever come of THAT, but I'll feel better about doing something (like I did in January).

Balispirit Festival (Part 1?)

  You are not the person who believes in hypnotism.  You did notice while talking to yourself, that when you were tired, what you said tended to suprise you.  Maybe there's something to the idea that the conscious mind works to suppress what you don't want to know you actually believe.  But that somebody with appropriate credentials can induce this state by asking questions of you when you can't see her?  Just because you're laying down in a similar to sleep position?  No, that is not reasonable.

But that's in your normal life.  The one in New York City where your stuff keeps you safe from things that go bump in the psyche.  Where your therapist declared you well almost 20 years ago.  Come to Bali, an out of the way island, where the food and music styles are unfamiliar.  Even the friend you made 40 years ago has changed...or has she just remained more precisely herself, while everyone else has grown older, compromised their dreams, or realized that the ever elusive green light was not worth the wait and settled for the familiar.

Se you go to the Balispirit Festival, a week long festival of yoga classes, and music performances, and sound experiences.  Your father's recent death has freed you from his side-eye, he's not there to remind you that you think all of this is bullshit.  The Balispirit Festival, started a year or two after the Bali Bombing, was intended to help bring tourism back to tourism, and it's become a haven for the spiritual minded people, who believe in alternative medicine, or that's what you learn from afar.  From the safety of your first world apartment, your traditional job, your life.  You can stay, or rather retain a certain distance, from what you are suspicious of, from new age individuals who are the result of what capitalism did to the hope of the 60s, what happened when the hippies failed.

At least, you think this is bullshit in your normal life.
But surrounded by people who believe a better way is possible, it seems almost likely that change is possible, because you know that it  must be.  Hell, with (t)Rump in office, change is necessary by now.

You have always wondered if Julie created the writers' festival so you would go there and find my own community.  Hell, given Julie's mother's preference for your choices, you've always suspected that Julie wanted me to drop everything and move to paradise, if only to give Julie's choices more legitimacy.  Julie moved to Bali long before Elizabeth Gilbert made it cool.

Every evening, in the background at the concert hall, there is a video reminding you how the forests in Bali have been eviscerated by the paper industry, and you vow to start using hankerchiefs.  Staying in a hotel where the toilets can't handle anything more serious than actual human waste -- feces and urine -- and the toilet paper is tossed into a trash can next to the toilet, where it waits for the room to be cleared, reminds you again of our throwaway culture, and what it costs not only our civilization, but all civilizations, all species, our planet.

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world;  indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."  Margaret Mead once said.

I want to preach the value of laughter yoga.  Even in my "normal" life, I am a great fan of laughter.  We know that laughter is good for you, and laughing for no reason at all seems necessary in the current environment.  Better yet, laughter is as contagious as the common cold, as transmittable as TB.  When two people start laughing, others will follow.  I don't know how you could prove it scientifically (actually, I do, measure the air content of someone before laughing, have them laugh for 20 minutes, measure again), but I'm not sure you should.  Do we really want our doctors proscribing "watch 2 hours of SNL, 1st season, twice weekly for a month."?  Would laughter yoga lose efficacy once it's required?

The Cacao festival leaves you uncertain.  You are told to touch third eyes with your neighbor and the woman next to you asks, "Are you ready for this?" she sounds hesitant.  You're not sure if you are,really, but you also can't imagine what being ready means.  You're about to touch foreheads with a stranger.  Hell, you've been in crowded subways before.  Sure you can do it.

And it's not until that spot, an inch above the bridge of your nose, is touching someone else, is touching somebody else in the same spot, and you are sharing air, voluntarily giving up the notion of personal space, THEN you realize how intimate this feels.
Her hand touches your waist.  Yours brushes her hip.  You are unsure as to whether you are touching her somewhere else to break the connection, not to feel like you're mimicking her, or to maintain that crucial distance, but later that evening, when she embraces you, you do feel accepted, and almost as friends, and you debate letting your guard down.

But you all turn, and swear allegiance to the Cacao spirit...
And she vanishes, swallowed up by the crowd that brought her to you.
You are not sure if you're relieved, or sorry at the missed opportunity...missed opportunity of what exactly?  You're not sure of that, either.

What happens when everyone goes home?
You don't know how to turn good intentions into actions.  Do you send a follow up to everyone who attended the festival, telling them about organizations where they could volunteer or give money.  The festival is too big, there are people from all over the world, so you'd have to find the appropriate international organizations, but you also suspect that the Festival was not intended to be an instrument for social change.
But you think that a conference that got this big a following should be put to good purpose.  That just sitting around and feeling good isn't enough, and so you start to plot.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Do you know your friends on FB? (and do you care?)

A drawback of being on Facebook is that people you meet and like ask, "Are you on Facebook?" and you say, "Of course!" and you promise to keep in touch that way, through Facebook;  because Facebook is SO much easier than writing actual email messages, and nobody writes LETTERS any more and Facebook is a casual means of maintaining a relationship.

Maintaining a relationship with someone via Facebook is riskier because we are more blunt when communicating electronically and often we say things that we wouldn't when talking to somebody IRL (there have been studies, and I'm sure I could find one online, but right now I want to refer you to None of the Old Rules Apply by Dave Eggers, pp 191-211 in What We Do Now, edited by Dennis Johnson and Valerie Merians).  Over the past few months I have been tempted to "unfriend" people when I learn their politics differ from mine.  On Presidents' Day I changed my profile pic to a picture of President Obama and a friend disliked it.  Somebody asked her "why?" and she didn't respond.  We can only imagine that she didn't like looking at his face.  I'd posted as my status that I was going to do this on Presidents' Day, but she wanted to express unhappiness (which I actually registered as disgust) with my opinion.

I did not engage with this friend. Perhaps I should have.  But I don't really know her.  She was on a trip I took 6 years ago;  she was a grieving widow, and her daughter was taking her to a country she knew well.  We got along well enough on the trip, where everything was new and different, and we met a few months later when she came to New York to meet somebody who had flown in from Spain (one of the countries we visited).  We've never seen each other since, and I don't expect we ever shall.
So I didn't say anything.

A former coworker "liked" a post "Black Labs Matter" "All Labs Matter" and my stomach turned.  This woman should know better.  Maybe she just thought the picture of the Labrador Retriever was cute and was completely clueless to the political implications.  It's possible.

I thought about responding, but it was a post from somebody I didn't know, and....

Perhaps I am a coward.

I don't respond to conservative posts from Facebook friends, because I suspect that it is too easy for feelings to be hurt and for people to misread my comments, but perhaps I should respond.  Perhaps not responding just allows us all to continue to live in our bubbles, where everything is really awful right now because the world outside pushed through and ruined our illusions.

Also, not responding, not seeing is a privilege.  I can say "I don't think she really meant it that way," and walk on.  And perhaps it's time that we all stripped ourselves of that privilege.

Friday, March 3, 2017

Making granola and other Comfort Foods

Seasonal foods are great.  They are perfect luxury goods without being actually luxurious.  Come on!  The pumpkin spice granola I made last night will remind me tomorrow morning of Thanksgiving.  I'll sprinkle it on my oatmeal, and as I'm chewing on a pumpkin seed I'll wonder if there's any dark meat left (there is no more turkey anywhere in my house).  I'll contemplate cranberry sauce. though I'm pretty sure I can't find cranberries in the supermarkets anywhere by the end of February.  Everyone KNOWS that the cranberry fairy starts hibernating after January 3rd.

Granola is my memories of summers' past food.  I don't care that the pumpkin granola recipe isn't my great-aunt Nita's Granola recipe, which she was sure she had whenever we came to visit her up in the middle of nowhere, Vermont.  It tasted of cold mornings warmed up by berry picking afternoons, It tasted of fresh corn, and swatting mosquitoes that came from everywhere while looking out at the flowers in the front yard.  It smelled of fresh air that couldn't have come down from the mountains, because I think Nita lived in the mountains themselves.  It tasted of goodness, of simplicity like the people who had once built the Community House had wanted.
The Community House was a simple white building down the road that looked like it might have been a Shaker Meeting House.  It had walls.  It had benches.  It had nothing else.
The granola I make now isn't even the right recipe.  I have Nita's recipe;  it's in the Moosewood Cookbook, thank you very much, and I should make it, but I think it will taste different in my city apartment than it did in Nita's country house.  And since I can never get back to Nita's house (she died in the late 90s), I don't really want to alter my memories of Vermont Granola.  A granola that tastes simply of the ingredients needed and love.

Vermont Granola tastes of the promises of youth.  Nita used different raisins or something.  We often visited her at the end of August, just when the freedom of somewhere was getting a little wearing.  But the sparse nature of her house, added to the need to be aware of everything I could taste.  There were simple pleasures at Nita's house, I just had to stop whining about having to put a heating pad at the foot of your bed before I went to sleep.

But I have pumpkin granola now.  Made it last night from a recipe I found in November and had made once earlier.  Foods should be about more than just how we nourish our physical bodies;  Food should be how we our selves, our mind.

Do you want something that you don't really have to chew right now?  Do you have the chest bug that is making the rounds, and is the mucous setting up house in your lungs?  Then I have your recipe!  Cook up a third of a cup of brown rice with about three quarters a cup of chicken stock.  You want more liquid than truly necessary because you want to be able to slurp it down when you've finished eating the rice.  You want to something easy to digest because your body really isn't up to doing much more than moaning and coughing.  And the chicken broth will help with that chest congestion.

The fact is, the rice cooked in chicken broth is my perfect comfort food because my mother told me to make it for myself when I had the flu as a grown up.  I felt achy and slept more than people normally do, and I thought that I should eat something, but I couldn't really figure out what.

"Do you have chicken broth in the house?"  My mother asked.
"No, I don't think so."  I said, wondering what she was going on about.
"Go get some.  The supermarket should just have chicken broth.  Buy it with some rice and cook it with the stock instead of water.  It'll make you feel better."

I may have muttered something about not wanting to go outside, but I didn't really have any other option.  My parents lived 40 minutes away, and this is what I got for insisting I wanted to move out and live on my own.  What does independence get you?  It gets you the privilege of having to go out and buy your own goddamned chicken soup when your sick, that's what.

But she was right.  The fact is, the only thing you have to worry about when you're making chicken broth with rice (or Chicken Soup with Rice if Maurice Sendak needs a prop right now) is not falling asleep before the broth all gets soaked up by the rice.  It's HOT, it's got PROTEIN, it's bland, but it's got just enough salt in it to replace whatever your body is losing by sweating out a fever.  It's GOOD stuff.

And thus that is my comfort food for when I'm sick.

Comfort foods are sort of a luxury good, too.  Many people eat solely to keep from dying.  Anyone who has the time to think about what they're eating and why they want that particular food is extremely fortunate.  Perhaps that's the best comfort of all, knowing how lucky some of us are.

Friday, February 24, 2017

The Revolution will be Merchandized

I'm uncertain about the signs, not the sings we carry at the rallies, but how we find each other. I've bought three t-shirts; Samantha Bee's simple "Nasty Woman," which hasn't come yet, "I Never DREAMED I'd Grow Up to Become a Nasty Woman, but here I am Killing IT!" and I just ordered "Still, She Persisted." I have knit myself a pink pussy hat with ears (that actually make me look like an annoyed cat, because the ears tend to flatten out), and I have a few pins on my knapsack to identify myself of a Hillary Supporting Liberal.

Is this how we find each other? By our clothing choices? Because I really can't wear them all the time. At work I am supposed to wear "business like" attire, and t-shirts with slogans are not permitted.

I wear the hat to and from work, though. People smile at me. No one has said anything suggesting that they think the hat is inappropriate, but of course, that's because I'm in New York City, commuting between Brooklyn and Queens. It's a safe space, which might lessen the significance of wearing the hat. Now, when people wear them to the Westboro Baptist Church, that will be another story. But will that show that we have won? Or will that show that it's become safe and sanitized enough to wear the pussy hat.

In the 20th Century Cynthia Heimel wrote a piece Notes on Black in which she wrote, "If we didn't have clothes, we'd have to walk around wearing signboards saying 'Hello, I'm a radical lesbian mother with a Stalinist streak,' or 'Hello, I prefer you to think I'm athletic.'"  (Heimel, Cynthia.  If You Can't Live Without Me Why Aren't You Dead Yet?  Grove Press, 1991.)  So I guess I'm right after all, we do need to wear clothes to identify ourselves.

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Fear leads to Anger, Anger leads to Hate, Hate leads to The Dark Side

41 people were arrested in ICE raids in New York City. ICE raids that President 45 (I will not use the title and Trump's last name together) has said will defend us from terrorist attacks. That was the reason for the Executive Order that was ruled unconstitutional. But less than two weeks after Trump announced that he was going to protect the nation by preventing people from predominantly Muslim countries from entering the country, ICE goes on raids and arrests 41 people in New York City, all of whom were born in Latin America or the Caribbean. Yeah, because the next terrorist attack is coming from......

You know, I was going to make a comment that's probably racist, or would certainly be taken that way, but 45 is terrifying people, tearing families apart, in the name of protecting us from terrorists, but really just shipping out people who he can pick on.
Has he even thought about this?
Two people I know have responded negatively to FB posts of mine (or shared, let's be honest) in the past few days. One accused me of living in a liberal bubble and not seeing West of the East River. The other just gave a thumbs down to a suggestion that people post a picture of President Obama as a profile pic for Facebook on President's Day.

One hurt my feelings. I have lived west of the East River for over half my life. I've only been living in the Eastern boroughs of New York City for the past 16 years, plus for two years in Astoria inbetween college and Graduate School (both at institutions on the Continental United States, and therefore very WEST of the East River. I have spent more than HALF of my life living WEST of the East River.
But she doesn't mean where I live, she means I live somewhere where I don't see "real Americans," because, well, because I don't agree with either of these women, and these women believe they are representative of "real America" because their friends agree with them and know the problems they're having.
The foreclosure crisis is nowhere near as bad as it was 10 years ago, the year before Obama was elected. In 2007 people were talking about banks failing, and the FDIC was increasing the amount it would insure people's cash deposits to $250,000. It used to be only $100,000. Detroit is no longer the ghost town it was.

When 45 one the election, one of the stories was how could the Media be SO wrong? Phrases like "liberal bubble" were tossed around, but it's not hard to shake the feeling that 45 is a fraud. That he doesn't even WANT to be President, because he isn't acting Presidential. He's acting like a spoiled child who isn't getting what he wants quickly enough.
I don't want to engage the woman who gave a thumbs down to the idea of changing your profile picture, though one of my friends did. Perhaps that's the bad thing. If you don't think that 45 is a fraud, tell me why. Come up with a good reason, but tell me what your reasons are.. Just saying "NO!" isn't helping the discussion.
And if you don't want the discussion, don't talk at all.
Fear of hurting somebody's feelings is a powerful thing, though. I could post a link to the Unemployment Statistics to my FB page, but I suspect she doesn't trust facts, and I don't *want* to get into an argument that will (probably) degenerate into ad hominem attacks because that's where these arguments tend to go, particularly when the phrase "bubble" is used. So we have fear, which leads to hate, which leads....
Enter Yoda.

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Safe memories

I didn't look around much as I got on the Brooklyn bound Q train, I was just grateful for the Q instead of the N. Changing trains isn't THAT big of a hassle, but it's just so nice to be able to get on the subway at the first/last stop and take it to where you need to get off. You can pick where you sit, make yourself comfortable, get out your book, and settle in.
So that's what I did. I'd been sent to a different branch than my regular one for the day. They'd let me out a few minutes early, and the sun was setting. The sun was setting over the West behind the Continental United States, but I knew that if I sat on the right side of the train I'd get to look out the window and see the sunset over Manhattan, the high point of my day. A coworker once looked curiously at me as I did that. "Film companies give our state MILLIONS of dollars for that view," I told her. "I get it for the cost of a subway token." She shrugged. She was still too cool to think that it was significant, but I loved the view.
As I got out my book, I almost didn't notice the young man sitting across from me. His shoes probably made too much noise as he sat down, that might have drawn my attention, but what I noticed when I looked up at him, just for a moment, was his eyelashes; thick, long, the sort of eyelashes that women spent hours to get and envy terribly when the men they know have them. He sat across from me, also facing forward. I smiled to myself, and began to read.
Two stops later I glanced up, and there was a young woman sitting across from me, expertly applying makeup. She was trying to look older than she probably was. She wasn't wearing enough foundation for that not to be her skin, but her cheeks were clearly painted on perfectly. Her skin was flawless! Odd, I thought the young man was wearing that same colored hat...Where had he gotten off?
A bob underneath her chin caught my attention, and my concern. The young man had metamorphosed into a overly made up young woman while I was minding my own business. Why was he doing that here? Why couldn't he...
And I realized he was underage. Not THAT underage, exactly, he might have been 17 or even just barely 21, but he was probably still living at home, and telling his parents he was going to visit Jim and they were going out, and he securely painted on his face on the subway where no one he knew could see him, and I realized he was wearing panty hose, and I worried for him.
I worried because I was certain his parents didn't know where he was going and that he was going to make sure they never did. Perhaps he figured at some point he would tell them, one day when he was living alone somewhere, when what they thought didn't matter, but right now they could never know. Was he taking chances that he was sure he was prepared to deal with? Did he know what men were like?
I know nothing about being a gay man, but I still don't think a young man going out in drag is putting himself in a safe place, particularly if he has to get into costume on the subway. I don't think he has a safe place to retreat to if things get ugly out there, and I can't help but worry that a young man thinks he knows how men think but doesn't know how they think about women. And I wanted to tell this young man to be careful.
He put on a wig before we got to 57th street. I was suddenly sitting next to a tall beautiful blond woman with long curly hair that made me envious, but I wanted to call out before he got out at Times Square,
"Be careful out there! Give yourself to someone who cares!"
I minded my own business. New Yorkers are known for that. He was young and didn't want my advice. I wasn't sure I even wanted to give it. His world was different from mine.
That was about 10 years ago. Another Republican was living in the White House. I hope that young man has a safer place to put on his face and get into costume.

Saturday, February 4, 2017

How do you grieve? And for what?

I'll tell you, the thing I think I miss most about my Dad is his disdain for fools.
I'm having a discussion with a relative about how we're going to make "Mexico to pay for the wall," and my cousin pointed out that people would be more likely to buy American if Mexico has a 20% border tax on all its exports, and that's not the point. My father would have told me not to bother, and said something disparaging. I'm not listening.
Of course, I'm not listening because my father's been dead for almost 13 months, and he isn't talking to me anymore. I don't hear his voice from beyond the grave, I just *think* I know what he would have said based on years' of experience, and a fair amount of projection.
A few weeks ago I was reading the obituaries in the New York Times. Nicki Scarfo died in Federal Medical Center in Butner, N.C. He was part of the mob in Atlantic City in the 80s when he got sent away for (I think) basic racketeering involving hotels in Atlantic City. That's when Trump was busy buying real estate and turning Atlantic City into what it has become. (In the mid 1970s, it sounded kind of small townish, if Tiger Eyes, by Judy Blume is a reputable source.) And I mourned my father, because he might have remembered the case (he had an exceptional memory) and he would have had a smart comment, and we would have commiserated over how awful things are right now. We also would have taken a moment to suggest whether he knew Fat Hugo or Jimmy the Greek, two imaginary gangsters who could be relied on to beat up, injure and maim ANY bully who chanced to make me cry.
But he would have pointed out that I am not doing too badly. And while he would have agreed that I should care for people who are, he might have suggested that I not get carried away. He was always glad when Mom and I went to bond on political causes, but he hadn't joined us in that since....No, I'm not sure he ever joined us.
And what I grieve for is the special relationship I had with my father; he loved me, not someone he wished I would be, not someone he thought I really was. He was exceptionally proud of me, and his chest pushed out when I suggested that I was what happened when he and my mother were trusted with the upbringing of children. But I wondered if that was selfish -- I didn't miss Jack Robbins, I missed my Dad. I miss my Dad who would hold my hand as I walked along a ledge by Teachers' College on the eastern side of Broadway on my way to Nursery School, allowing me to see the world I was going to inherit. I missed a Dad who was always glad to hear from me when I called. I missed....
No, seriously, I worried that I was treating Dad as less than his own person because I mourned the person he was for me, not who he was as himself. I even got all philosophical about it, worrying that as saying, "I missed my Dad" meant that I missed the end relationship that I had with Jack Robbins and not Jack Robbins as himself (treat everyone as their own ends and never as a means, I think the that section of the categorical imperative went).
And then I laughed at myself, as I thought of him laughing and shaking his head at me. "You too hard on yourself, baby. Don't DO that!"
Of course I miss my Dad, and the special relationship I had with him. I was fortunate to have someone who loved me unreservedly, but was willing to discuss my flaws while warning me not to take myself (or my flaws) too seriously. There is no reason for me to have thought to have had a relationship with my father other than, well, father and daughter. That's who he was to me, and if we hadn't shared blood there would have been no reason for him to think so highly of me (unless he'd married my mother after I was born, or had been EXTREMELY creepy). He probably wouldn't have noticed me if I hadn't been his daughter.
So I will try to not be foolish when mourning him, a year after his death. Of course I miss MY DAD, who else should I miss?

Friday, January 27, 2017

New Year's Resolutions part 2...or Women's March on Washington resolutions

I enjoyed the March on Washington and I feel quite energized to actually continue marching. I had already been recruited into the Resistance but it was so good to know that over two million people worldwide agreed with my disapproval -- no, my disgust -- with "the orange one."

I was glad my cousin offered me and Mom a ride down to D.C. I was happy for the family bonding time, and spending it at a political march was too perfect. My Mom recruited me into the women's movement early. If I had a picture of me at the march celebrating the Roe v. Wade decision, I would post it, but I don't.

I do have this picture of me.

The crowd was amazing. I haven't seen any news stories dismissing the Women's March as too young, too old, too white, etc., which I take as a good sign that the march was representative of our country as a whole. Yes, I've seen a few posts about some women's bad experiences, and while I didn't see anything in particular I'm not going to deny these things happened. (I wasn't completely sure that I didn't witness something in the Million Micro-Aggressions March post.) However the organizers handed out leaflets to use the inertia for a good cause. So now I have a list of ten things to do in the next 100 days (or 95, given that it's now Thursday, January 26th. However, they push for printing them using THEIR software, and I've already read an essay telling me that I don't NEED fancy card stock quality paper for postcards. I can go buy 4x6 index cards and use them. I've even checked the USPS site and confirmed this. So I *could* just address them all to Senators Schumer and Gillibrand and have a few on hand for Representative Clarke and just be able to write my elected officials whenever it seems appropriate (which is more and more often).

Because things are getting scary out there. A friend used Facebook to post a link to H.R. 193, the American Sovereignty Restoration Act of 2017, which would remove the United States of America from the United Nations if it passes. That is an awful idea, and I don't want to think about who would think it is a good idea to remove the world's sole super power from an organization dedicated to maintaining international peace and security. I used this blog to help people who thought their representative MIGHT be behind this bill, in the hopes that people would call, email, contact in any way, the members of the House Committee on Foreign Affairs to say, "What the goddamned fuck is this?!?"

Yesterday I went to a gallery to see Nancy Chunn's installation Chicken Little and the Culture of Fear and it was both terrifying and fascinating. It is so easy to get hooked into the crowd and start following. Perhaps the best way to protect ourselves is to ensure that we *know* when we start getting carried away and take a moment to contemplate. (When you start running, pull back, sit on the sidelines and THINK about what you're doing!)

The March on Washington was to gather the women who are scared by what President Trump has promised (and has started) to do as President. It was an attempt to say "We do NOT support you, we ARE here." Even if Trump tweets "Why didn't they vote?" we can say, "but we did and you LOST the popular vote." It was an attempt to build momentum, and to get people out from behind their computers and out of their houses to see what momentum could look like. It's important to see how many people (over 3 million worldwide) do NOT support the President and are scared of what he has promised to do. President Obama has started a foundation and you can get involved through that.

Despair is easy. Don't fall prey to it. We can only make a better world if we get off our asses and try.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

My Many New Yorks

“So where are you from?” The new guy asked me. I eyed him carefully. He was probably old enough to be my father (though I wasn’t yet old enough to be a good judge of other people’s age) and I just figured he spotted me for a newbie, an immigrant to our fair city, and it was my job to set him straight.
“Me? I’m from New York,” with no uncertain amount of pride. Who cares that over 2 million people are born here every year? (I am totally making that number up.) I probably didn’t deserve any credit for being from the Big Apple, but I wanted to claim it as my own, just the same. The old guy looked at incredulously.
“You’re not from New York!” He cried. “Nobody is actually *from* New York!” I smiled at him. I was, and I knew it. I’d seen the City in its darkest times and I’d been mugged on the streets and I had my New York, certainly more than this man, who (I figured) had come to New York from Ohio, or maybe even Missouri (the OTHER side of the OTHER river). I had Steinberg’s view of the world. My mother had hung a poster of the New Yorker cover on the wall of our floor of our apartment building.
I didn’t even know how to drive. That’s how much of a New Yorker I was. All of you who live elsewhere in this country, have you ever even heard of such a thing? A young woman who is almost proud of the fact that she’s been legally allowed to buy alcohol for over a year, but doesn’t know how to park a car?
My New York City had improved over the years. I was born two days after the Watergate Break In, which means President Ford refused to bail out my home town before I started elementary school (my father even worked for the newspaper which ran the headline, “Ford to City, ‘Drop Dead’”). I remember Needle Park, the junkie who died on my very block, unfortunately in the spot between Broadway and the entrance to my elementary school, so too many parents had to explain to their children who the man who didn’t look like he was sleeping was doing in the alley. By the mid 90s New York had reinvented itself a few times, and Mayor Giuliani was busy criminalizing homeless behavior, so as to push the homeless into prisons and hospitals, to make the city SEEM like it was doing better, without having to actually improve it.
New York City had changed many times in the past 40 some years. So I had many New Yorks. The New York of the mid 70s, when my Dad would walk me to a Nursery School on 122nd street. I remember him holding my hand as I walked on a railing belonging to Teachers’ College, and I could see the Manhattan Valley open up before me; so many buildings and people living their lives. It didn’t matter that this was not the New York that people travelled to see, this was where I was going, this was the world I entered; diverse, full of smells from all over, with an elevated subway that would rattle just loudly enough to cover all the arguments people were having. That New York smelled of pot, dashed dreams, and fresh bread from the store across the street. Why would we have been walking down what was, by the time we’d passed the hill, the WRONG side of Broadway? I don’t know, but I can still smell the freshly baked bread, and I think I remember seeing the store still there in the waning days of the 20th century. What was it called? Oh, yes, The Bread Store.
Then there was 57th street; which my father made us walk across every six weeks for 5 years, while I was having my teeth fixed. We would exit the 7th Avenue IRT stop at the southern end, on 57th street, and turn east, passing Carnegie Hall, the Plaza was a few blocks to the North, Tiffany’s was right there, and we would have seen Alexander’s, but I wasn’t paying attention to clothes yet, so I never noticed it. We saw people being driven in Hansom Cabs around those few tony blocks where the Upper East Side slipped into midtown. I had seen the Arena at Columbus Circle when there was a huge fair with Chinese arts and crafts there. It was the New York that promised “if you can make it here, you’ll make it anywhere,” like Frank Sinatra sang, but it also decayed into a city that inspired fear in many. 57th street smelled like Daisy Buchanan’s voice, it smelled of money. Yes, my father remembered walking along 125th street and being greeted by Adam Clayton Powell. “How you doin, buddy?” Mr. Powell would say. Yes, the cultural mecca of New York remained, but it got gritty and hard. Reaganomics spread poverty over the city as mom spread cream cheese on her toasted bagel. Drugs hit our city hard, and the junkie who died on my school’s corner was just one victim of the Drug War. How did we survive?
We didn’t know any better. We didn’t talk to strangers. This was our normal, panhandlers on the corner, don’t go out after dark, call your father when you get to your friend’s house, look like you know where you’re going, particularly when you don’t.
But also, we had our corners, our little worlds: The bodega where the cashier knew us; The stationary store run by our next door neighbor; The little luncheonette across the street that got written up in the New York Times (not some local tabloid, the fucking Newspaper of Record), and the crazy people who sat on the park benches were part of our world, too. Many of these institutions would change, owners would retire or be bought out; stores would become local chains challenging the bigger supermarkets. Even the local crazies eventually died off, and we would notice, but know not to ask anyone what exactly had happened. My parents’ friends left Manhattan for Brooklyn, and we would see them a few times a year. Then the friends would move to New Jersey (technically closer to us than Brooklyn) and we would never see them again.
There is the Astoria of my early adulthood, where the bagel shop knew my order and would call it out when I entered the store. This Astoria is affordable, with cute little houses and illegal sublets. It smells of youthful exuberance and cigarette smoke. It is also SO 20th Century, because by the time I returned to New York City from Texas, Astoria was just another expensive neighborhood in a ridiculously expensive town.
There is the Brooklyn of now, which smells of young people starting families (you think fertility doesn't smell? Have you ever been to a playground?). This Brooklyn smells like a melting pot, of the new people, more new to New York City than new to the 'hood, but also new to America at all. It smells of the people who've lived there forever, and who glare at me for being an infiltrator, or, more likely, part of the gentrification. I'll bet this Brooklyn smells differently than the Brooklyn Heights of the 80s, which I went to....three times, perhaps? Twice to visit the people who later moved to New Jersey, and once for a class party in elementary school. That Brooklyn's smell has been drowned among other smells of childhood. The New York of my youth has priced itself out. It doesn’t exist anymore, as people can’t afford to live anywhere on the salaries they get paid. But I know The Mill Korean Restaurant is a second generation immigrant spot. The owners I knew were Concentration Camp survivors who saw things I can’t imagine, but managed to come to The Big Apple and make a success story of their lives, eventually selling the shop and retiring to (where else?) Florida.
That didn’t mean that the neighborhood amenities were unpleasant. My experience has always been that the people who see you every day are nice to you, provided you are nice to them. The waitress will memorize your order, if you’re so dull as to order the same brunch every week. The employees of Rainbow Chicken, on 108th street and Broadway, would spot my father opening the door and call out, “One whole chicken. No cut!” because my father didn’t want them to hack his dinner into tiny pieces and they knew that.
My home town. New Yorkers don’t know you when you move there, but stay here long enough, and we’ll all recognize our own.

Friday, January 13, 2017

Struggling through Winter

It's been pitch dark for more than three hours and I spent those three hours in well-lit places. I ate dinner and exercised in order to fight off the winter blues, and I came home to sit in the light when I just want to sleep for twelve hours. I should write my second week essay, or I should finish the book I'm enjoying, but I want to stare at the car wreck that is our democracy in the beginning of 2017.

Wrestling between things you want to do and things you feel you ought to do is never fun. It's slightly more enjoyable to wrestle between things you want to do when the things you ought to do are equally enjoyable. That's one reason why a person should try (if she can) to find a profession she will enjoy doing, so she will enjoy doing what she is obligated to do (I give thanks to Mark Twain for putting me on to this). Enjoying what you are obligated to do is never more important than during the summer months; if I must spend precious daylight filled hours indoors doing something, please let it be something I enjoy.

But the darkness calls me in, telling me it's OK to feel bad and lets the obligations weigh more than they should. And it is cold and dark and it *is* that much harder to get up and go and you must find ways to take joy in your obligations during these winter months. Look back on your New Years' Resolutions to remember the warmth of holiday fun, or of holidays past. Be spiteful to the people who are worse off and don't know it. Know that these are the dark days and you just gotta pull through.

Indulge the lesser evils. Know that other people's vices are worse than yours. but try to be kind. The darkness will give everyone an opportunity to hold on to grudges, and perhaps you should take the moment to fight that. I'm not sure if this is a good enough essay, but as of right now it's the best I can muster.

Sunday, January 1, 2017


“Did you make any resolutions?” Jack Baker asks.
“No,” Suzie Diamond replies. “I figured all that stuff’s a load of crap.” She takes a drag off her cigarette “I mean, you do what you do, right?”

This is not my attitude toward New Year’s resolutions, really. I am fond of navel gazing, and New Year’s Resolutions are a type of navel gazing. They’re reflective, and they are all about YOU. How you want to be better, and think you actually can become better. There’s an age when you become realistic about your resolutions. One year I resolved to quit smoking. The next year I resolved to quit smoking 3 times. Realism is important to resolutions, because it’s how you understand your limitations, or negotiate between your ideals and your limitations.

I think New Year’s Resolutions are poorly timed. We’re 10 days past the shortest day of the year. We’re just trying to sleep through the night, which we think is getting shorter, but we can’t tell exactly. Who wants to try to better yourself when you’re just trying to keep from going batshit crazy in the middle of winter? Who plans that timing?
New Year’s Resolutions should be made in the Spring; the days are getting noticeably longer. The weather is warmer and things seem to be getting better. It’s easier, in March, to think that maybe the changes you make will have a positive impression on the world. On January 2nd? Really, THIS is when you want to start going to the gym every day? When it’s still below freezing when you GET to work, never mind in the 3 hours beforehand when you are probably getting to the gym in the first place? (Caveat: I am a morning person.)
If we made our New Year’s Resolutions in the Spring, mid March perhaps, we would be buoyed by the positive inertia of the seasons. This would keep us going. You try to start going to the gym regularly when the next blizzard is coming, and you are setting yourself up for a fall and there’s not a whole lot you can do about it. But the Spring? The Earth is reviving itself, everything is going through its own natural rebirth, why shouldn’t we? Why shouldn’t we take Mid March to make our New Year’s Resoultions?
Cognitive psychologists (perhaps I’ve got the wrong specialty) would warn us about the WHOLE New Year’s Resolution as setting the bar too high. Why say that “I’m going to exercise 5 times a week ALL YEAR!” when you’ve now got all year to fall back on not doing it, and the minute you start to fail, well, you’ve not met your resolution and you just give up altogether. Why not make monthly resolutions? Better yet, make monthly resolutions for the things you think you’ll be successful at, and resolve to quit the harder stuff (I’m looking at you, smokers!) every other week or two. “I resolve to smoke a pack a day three times this week. The other four days, I’ll only smoke 10 cigarettes.” See? That’s doable. You can succeed at that.
And that’s the problem with the New Year’s Resolutions. WE typically pick big things that we KNOW we won’t be able to do, and we’re soft on ourselves when we fail, because we never expected to succeed in the first place. So pick something easy. Smile more at your sister’s jokes. Succeed at the small stuff, because inertia enjoys success and if you can succeed on the small stuff, you might be able to quit smoking. Well, at least for one week a month, at any rate. #52Essays2017