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Tuesday, February 6, 2024

Chapman, Combs, and a car

On Sunday night, Grammy Award host Trevor Noah began a segment about country singer Luke Combs and the first song he learned to play on the guitar. Combs described it as “my favorite song before I knew it was my favorite song.” 

When the segment was over, the broadcast cut to a pair of hands — a pair of Black hands — playing an iconic opening riff. 

Luke Combs is White. It was not him playing the guitar. 

As the lights went up and the camera pulled back, the crowd roared. 

The iconic riff belonged to the 1988 song, “Fast Car.”

The Black hands belonged to singer-songwriter Tracy Chapman, who made her splash into the music world in the mid-‘80’s. “Fast Car” got to number six on the Billboard Hot 100. It also won her three Grammy nominations: Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best Female Pop Vocal Performance. She won in the latter category. 

Last year, Luke Combs fulfilled a dream and recorded “Fast Car” as a single. He sang it straight, not changing a word, even down to singing, “work as a checkout girl”. His version hit number one on the Country Airplay chart, making Chapman the first Black woman to have a number one country song with a solo composition. “Fast Car” also won Song of the Year, making her the first Black songwriter to ever win that award. 

When Tracy Chapman stepped on stage at Sunday’s Grammys and began to strum the opening riff of “Fast Car”, it marked the first time in nine years that she’d performed live. I don’t know if it was common knowledge that Chapman would be there along with Combs; I have not followed the Grammys for many years and I barely knew the names of some artists who were nominated. 

But that crowd roar, and then Tracy’s distinctive voice singing, “You got a fast car,” detonated a musical bomb in the audience of the Crypto.com arena. Her smile lit up her face as she realized the audience knew who it was playing the song. 

Luke Combs stood next to her. They traded verses back and forth, coming together on the chorus, “I remember we were driving / Driving in your car . . .” 

Throughout the song, when he wasn’t singing, Luke Combs was looking at Tracy, drawing attention to her. He had not brought an instrument. It was Tracy Chapman, with her guitar, and a couple of violins and a drum in the background. 

And in the audience, people standing up, clapping along, singing along (CBS showed a two-second shot of Taylor Swift singing and dancing). 

The energy must have been electric. 

When the song ended, Luke gestured towards Tracy and bowed. 

She bowed back. 

And the audience cheered. 

They cheered for an honest song that told the story of someone who wanted to “get out of here”, hoped for something better, and yet, in the end, ordered her significant other to “take your fast car and keep on driving.” 

In a polished world of autotune, glitz, red carpet glamour, and scripted performances, Tracy Chapman appeared in a simple, button-down shirt and blue jeans, with only the silver in her hair hinting at her age (she will be 60 next month). 

She slung her guitar over her shoulder and moved her fingers through the chords, performing like the artist she is. 

In the end, it all came back to the music. It all came back to a song that made a young woman famous, and a song that, 36 years later, still had the raw power to bring an audience - an audience with members who probably are jaded at times with the industry -  to its feet to pay tribute. 

“Fast Car” shows the power of a song to bring two unlikely people  - a Black female pop artist and a White male country artist - together. 

It showed the respect and humility of a White artist honoring a Black artist who impacted his career in ways he could probably not have predicted. 

The group Gallery, back in 1972, released the song “I Believe In Music”, which contained the line, “Music is the universal language.”

Sunday night, February 4, 2024, those who saw the Grammys saw an example of that universal language bringing people together, if only for those few moments. 

Thank you, Tracy Chapman and Luke Combs.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.



Monday, January 29, 2024

‘Cause she’s happy . . .

Until Saturday, I had never been to a funeral that played Pharrell Williams’ “Happy” and Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” on a continuous loop before the services began. 

The odds of my attending such a funeral again are rather low.

But in between lies a funeral where Pharrell Williams and Bobby McFerrin set the tone - or at least set the tone as much as they possibly could. 

Saturday, I attended the funeral of a dear 41-year-old woman named Valencia. Valencia was the daughter of a woman who often sings on our church’s praise team. 

Valencia’s middle name was Coniah, which means, “Strength of the Lord”. She and her family needed every ounce of that strength. 

Valencia was born with Down’s Syndrome. And no matter how much you hear about the “blessing” Down’s Syndrome children are to their families, they are also a challenge, as all people are who deal with a disability, whether physical, developmental, or otherwise. Valencia was fortunate to have a caregiver - a woman who bonded with her over many years while Valencia’s mother worked. 

Before that caregiver, however, she and her family had moved to Georgia from Oregon . . . and then they had to send Valencia to Milwaukee for her to get the help and education she needed. Georgia, at the time Valencia’s family moved there, could not meet Valencia’s needs. And although some things have changed for the better in Georgia in the care and education of the disabled, Georgia ranks near the bottom of the 50 states when it comes to services to the disabled. (A person can make more money walking a dog in Georgia than they can caregiving someone with a disability. That is criminal. Our minister has developed a heart for the disabled and those who care for them, and during Valencia’s eulogy, called on us to vote for people who would work for their interests. Didn’t Jesus talk about “the least of these”, and how whatever we do for “the least of these”, you do for Him?) 

Since the song “Happy” was written for the movie “Despicable Me 2”, and since Gru’s minions do have streaks of mischief, “Happy” was probably more appropriate for Valencia’s funeral than one might realize. One of Valencia’s sisters commented that Valencia was a “sneaky ninja” when it came to getting out of the house. She could figure out any lock put on a door. Eventually, her family installed alarms on the doors so they’d know if she was getting out. 

She’d also watch to see where stuff was hidden. I have a feeling that no hiding place was safe from her.

Back in 2004, Valencia was baptized, and her obituary testified to her love for God.  

Towards the end of her life, Valencia’s vision deteriorated. But if you said to her, “Hey, V,” she’d turn her face towards the sound of the person’s voice. 

When she was at church, not only did she have her mother and sister near her, she had a group of people surrounding her, making sure she was loved. 

After the funeral, Valencia received one more honor: a funeral repass (also known as a reception) that featured many of Valencia’s favorite foods, including chicken tenders and potato chips. I don’t know if Valencia liked chocolate or not, but there were several chocolate desserts available (and I had too many :) )

It’s become common to refer to funerals as “celebrations of life”; I think because “funerals” have a negative connotation. I do think of people weeping and wearing black mourning when I think of “funeral”.  

But this truly was a celebration of a person’s life; a person who lived, who was happy, who was sometimes a “sneaky ninja”, and who, in the end, loved and loved back. 

When people loved you, and you loved back, you deserve to be celebrated by two songs singing about being happy.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 


Monday, January 15, 2024

So why was MLK in Memphis in the first place?

It rained in Memphis on Thursday, February 1, 1968.

I grew up in the South, so when I hear that “it rained in February,” I picture a sky the color of gray putty and the rain just falling. Not being whipped around by the wind, accompanied by bright flashes of lightning, and then the thunder, the sound of which can range from a low rumble to a loud bang, and if the thunder happened immediately after the lightning, you knew that the worst part of the storm was right over your head. 

But in Memphis, Tennessee, as in all cities, the trash had to be collected.  So two employees of Memphis’ Public Works Department,  Echol Cole and Robert Walker, hopped onto the back of their truck and began their day’s duties. 

The Public Works Department gave them no gloves, no uniforms, and no place to shower. The smell of rotting food, the slimy grease from restaurants and homes, and perhaps the decomposing corpora delecti of mice, rats, and other vermin clung to their clothes, their skin, and their hair. 

By 4:20 p.m. on that Thursday, the rain had reached torrential status, with flooded streets and overflowing sewers. But Echol Cole and Robert Walker could not get off the truck to seek shelter.  Historian/writer Taylor Branch, in his book At Canaan’s Edge, explained that after complaints about “unsightly picnics” by the Black sanitation workers, the city barred shelter stops in residential neighborhoods. 

The only place Echol Cole and Robert Walker could go to protect themselves from the rain was into the back of the truck. So, into the back of the truck they went.

Cole and Walker may or may not have known that that specific truck was in bad condition. At least one fired sanitation worker, T.O. Jones, filed a complaint about the truck, asking it not be used. Instead, Memphis’ Department of Public Works - run by future Memphis mayor Henry Loeb - installed a new motor. To get the truck to work, workers had to jump start it and then let it run all day long. 

What happened next isn’t certain. It’s possible that a shovel crossed over some electrical wires, causing the trash compactor to malfunction. What we do know is that the trash compactor started and pulled both Cole and Walker into it, head first. 

Within moments, both men were crushed to death.

Echol Cole was 36.  Robert Walker was 30.  Both men were married. It’s not clear if Cole had any children, but Robert Walker left behind five of them, and his wife was pregnant with number six. 

Their deaths made front-page news in next day’s Memphis Commercial Appeal, but not as a banner headline. The story, with the headline “Garbage Truck Kills 2 Crewmen” was crowded onto a front page dominated by news of the Vietnam War and, down at the bottom right-hand corner, the announcement of the birth of Lisa Marie Presley, Elvis Presley’s only child.  

Cole had no life insurance. Neither did Walker. They couldn’t afford it. In fact, a sanitation worker’s pay was low enough to qualify them for food stamps. And since the City of Memphis classified them as hourly employees, their families received no workers’ compensation. 

Henry Loeb, now the mayor of Memphis, approved a payment of $500 to each man’s family. 

The cost to bury a body was $900.

Black residents in Memphis donated $100,000 to Cole’s and Walker’s widows. The United Auto Workers donated $25,000.

Ten days after Cole’s and Walker’s deaths, their union, Local 1733 of the American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees, met. Over 400 workers complained that the City of Memphis refused to provide decent wages and decent working conditions. The union wanted immediate action. The city said, “No.” (I wonder if they actually said something along the lines of General Anthony McAuliffe’s famous response to the German demand for surrender in December 1944: “Nuts.”)

On February 12, 1968, the sanitation workers of Memphis drew their line in the sand. 

Of 1100 sanitation workers, 930 didn’t come to work.  That included 214 of 230 sewer drainage workers. Of 108 garbage trucks, only 38 continued to move. 

Ten days later, the Memphis City Council - after a sit-in of sanitation workers and other supporters - voted to recognize the union and to recommend a wage increase. Mayor Henry Loeb, however, rejected that vote. Only he, he said, had the authority to recognize the union, and he was not going to do it.

On February 24th - after enduring mace and tear gas attacks by the police on nonviolent demonstrators marching to City Hall, 150 local ministers formed Community on the Move for Equality (COME). A longtime ally of Martin Luther King, James Lawson, led COME.  They determined to use nonviolence - as others had used in previous demonstrations - to fill Memphis jails and bring attention to the conditions of sanitation workers. 

Reverend James Lawson addressed the strikers with these words:  “For at the heart of racism is the idea that a man is not a man, that a person is not a person. You are human beings. You are men. You deserve dignity.” 

Not long afterwards, men in the demonstrations began wearing placards with the famous slogan, “I AM A MAN”.

During these difficult days, Reverend Malcolm Blackburn composed and recited a prayer he called the “Sanitation Workers’ prayer: 

Our Henry, who art in City Hall,

Hard-headed by thy name. 

Thy kingdom C.O.M.E

Our will be done

In Memphis, as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our Dues Checkoff, 

And forgive us our boycott, 

As we forgive those who spray mace against us.

And lead us not into shame,

But deliver us from Loeb. 

For ours is justice, jobs, and dignity,

Forever and ever.

Amen.

FREEDOM!

Martin Luther King arrived in Memphis on March 18th, encouraging the strikers with the words, “You are demonstrating that we can stick together . . . that we are all tied in a single garment of destiny, and that if one Black person suffers, if one Black person is down, we are all down.” 

King planned to return to Memphis on March 22 to lead a citywide protest. But that very day, a snowstorm hit Memphis (hiding the trash piles?). The protest was rescheduled for March 28. 

On March 28, after marching for several blocks and singing “We Shall Overcome,” Black men, carrying iron pipes, bricks and signs, began smashing windows and looting in the stores. Police pounced with nightsticks, mace, tear gas and gunfire. At least 60 people, most of them Black, were injured, and 280 people were arrested. When James Lawson ordered the demonstrators to return to Clayborn Temple, the church that was their meeting place, police followed them, then released tear gas and began clubbing people. 

During the chaos, police officer Leslie Dean Jones shot and killed a 16-year-old demonstrator, Larry Payne. Witnesses at the time said that Payne had his hands raised as the officer fired a shotgun into his stomach. (During a later federal investigation, Jones stated he saw a knife in Payne’s hand and shot him in self-defense. In 2011, the Department of Justice concluded that there was no evidence to prove “beyond a reasonable doubt that the subject willfully used excessive force when he fired his weapon at the victim.” Payne’s case was closed on July 5, 2011.)

After Payne’s funeral on April 2 (held as an open casket funeral in Clayborn Temple despite police pressure for a closed casket funeral held at the family home), sanitation workers marched peacefully downtown.

The next evening, Martin Luther King returned to Memphis. The speech he gave at the Mason Temple, we now know as the “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” speech.

Who knew what was running through Dr. King’s mind? Did he somehow know that the end was near? That he would not see his wife or four children again? Did he confide his concerns and fears to anyone? Or did he keep his thoughts between himself and God? 

On April 4th, Dr. King, the Reverend Ralph Abernathy, and others on King’s staff left room 306 of the Lorraine Motel. (Abernathy would later tell the House Select Committee on Assassinations that he and King stayed in Room 306 so often that it was known as the “King-Abernathy Suite”.) They were heading for dinner at the home of local minister Billy Kyles. 

They would never make that dinner date.

At 6:01 p.m. Central Time, from a rooming house across the street, a man raised a rifle, checked carefully through his scope, then used his index finger to apply the proper amount of pressure needed to send a bullet straight into King’s body.

King had just told musician Ben Branch, scheduled to perform later that evening, “Ben, make sure you play, ‘Take My Hand, Precious Lord’ in the meeting tonight. Play it real pretty.”

Then the bullet hit King’s right cheek, broke his jaw and several vertebrae, and severed his jugular vein before lodging in his shoulder. 

He would die an hour later.

*****

Today, January 15, 2024, is Martin Luther King Day. I’m guessing that the two speeches that will be highlighted will be the iconic “I Have a Dream” speech and the “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” speech. 

The media will talk about how for many, this is a day of service. What better way to honor a man of service than to do an act of service in his memory?

His children, Bernice, Dexter, and Martin III (his fourth, Yolanda, died in 2007) will remember him, and will also remember how their mother, Coretta Scott King, worked with him. 

I hope today, we’ll also remember why Dr. King went to Memphis that one last time.

He went there to reinforce the idea that yes, you do hard work, you do dirty work that few people would want to do . . . and you deserve to be treated like the men you are, with dignity and respect.

Robert Walker and Echol Cole deserved basic dignity and basic respect. 

They got neither. 

They were men. 

MLK wanted others to know that they, too, were men.  That they, too, were worth of basic dignity and respect. 

We all are.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.







Monday, January 1, 2024

Can someone gift me a HAZMAT outfit for 2024?

 I am not looking forward to 2024. 

It’s an election year, and we all know what has happened in the last few election years. Especially 2016 and 2020. 

On January 6th, it will be three years since a group of rioters stormed the Capitol building in Washington, DC and left in their wake broken glass and other property damage (including poop on the walls). They terrorized and traumatized the 535 members of Congress who were carrying out their duty to certify the Electoral College results. 

And to this day, there are those - including Donald Trump himself - who believe the election was stolen. 

This year, there is going to be so much mudslinging that I think I need a HAZMAT outfit to protect myself from the elements. 

The Presidential election is going to be bad enough. The vast majority of the GOP and the political media are predicting that Trump will be the Republican nominee for the Presidency. 

I suspect that, unless something very unexpected happens, Joe Biden will be the Democratic nominee. So we will have a rematch of 2020. (Bring your gloves, shake hands, and come out swinging!) 

There just seems to be this malaise hanging over the US that nothing seems to dissipate. Statistics show that inflation is down and unemployment rate is low . . . and that does not seem to matter. The media are holding their breath waiting for the stock market to crash and for another Great Depression/Recession, etc. 

I live in the Atlanta area, one of the places where Donald Trump will be tried for election interference.

And two states, Colorado and Maine, are keeping Trump off the ballot due to the third clause of the 14th Amendment of the US Constitution, which reads:  

No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice-President or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any State, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. But Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such disability.”

I’m not a lawyer, so I can’t say whether this clause applies to Donald Trump. I am a legal proofreader, and between that, court reporting school, and maybe Law and Order, I might be able to score decently on the LSAT! To me, whether this clause applies to Trump should be decided by the Supreme Court, and I hope they would use the rule of law to decide rather than their feelings about Donald Trump. 

There are people I don’t talk politics with because it just is not a safe subject. And that saddens me. 

At the moment, we also have two major wars going on; one between Israel and Hamas and one between Russia and Ukraine. February 24 will mark two years of violence and bloodshed between Russian and Ukraine. 

On the home front, I find myself continually trying to balance work and running a house, trying - and too often failing - to write, and I badly need to take care of my health. Tomorrow I have my annual physical, and I may or may not need to assume the position in order to have a Pap done. I need to tackle my weight. I do have a Planet Fitness gym membership and will use it this year. 

The one piece of good news that stood out for me in 2023 was that we’re two-thirds of the way towards paying down my student loans. I’ve been seriously working at it since Matthew was about sixteen.  He’ll be 25 next month. 

The world may not be in the shape I see it in; there may be better things going on than I am willing to admit. 

But on the other hand, I sort of feel like Bette Davis’ character in All About Eve. 

To paraphrase her most famous line from the movie: “Fasten your seat belts.  It’s going to be a bumpy year!”

And please do NOT take your HAZMAT suit off. Because, if past events are any predictor of future performance, you will need it!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.


Friday, December 8, 2023

Why to learn Hebrew . . . and why not to

On Tuesdays, with breaks for spring, summer, and Christmas, I meet with a group of women at my church for Bible study and discussion. This year, we did "secret sisters", where you draw a name, and then remember to pray for them and send them the occasional note. 

This Tuesday, we revealed who our secret sisters were. 

One woman in our study received a beautiful basket of scented flowers. On the front of the basket, the words "Love First" were written on it in Hebrew. The giftee has made many trips to Israel and has a true heart for the people there. "Love First" is the motto, slogan, whatever you want to call it, of our church, and she is one of the people who tries to live it out daily. 

What a wonderful reason to learn Hebrew! 

Both the gifter and the giftee were blessed. 

Now, here are reasons not to learn Hebrew. 

(Content warning: references to and graphic descriptions of sexual assault, sexual violence, and death. Please use appropriate self-care if you choose to read further.) 

A recent NBC News article covers what they call a "mounting body of evidence" of "gender-based crimes" committed by Hamas terrorists on October 7th. 

One of the pieces of evidence, according to Israeli officials, was a Hamas pamphlet they discovered which gave instructions on how to pronounce the following phrases in Hebrew:  

"Raise your hands and open your legs."
"Take off your pants." 

Israeli investigators are cautioning against using exact numbers of rape victims right now. NBC News quoted them as saying that "evidence continues to come in and that the investigation is likely to go on for months."

What they are finding so far is -- if the reports are true -- horrific.

  • Female corpses tied to beds.
  • Eyewitness accounts of sexual violence
  • Reports of women being repeatedly raped repeatedly, their bodies mutilated while still alive.
  • Women shot in the breasts and in the vagina.
  • Terrorists allegedly having sex with dead bodies. 
  • Women bleeding from between their legs.
  • Bodily mutilation of private parts, both women's and men's.  
I am sick just writing this. 

At the moment, investigators just aren't sure of the scale of sexual violence. They are moving slowly and carefully to make sure they have a thorough investigation.

But during videotapes of Hamas terrorists being interrogated, they, according to NBC News, talked about rape of women and children as a "Hamas tactic of war." One Hamas militant was quoted, "To have our way with them, to dirty them, to rape them." (NBC News noted that they could not independently identify the authenticity of the videos, and that "officials declined to provide unedited versions of the interrogations.)

Yes, rape is not only a crime, not only an act of violence, but a weapon of war, mostly utilized against women and children. 

And before anyone says to me, "But what about crimes that Israelis have committed against Palestinians?" I'm not doing an overview of the history of the Middle East since 1948, when Israel was founded as a nation. In this specific case, Hamas started the war.  

If reports are accurate, Hamas invaded Israeli territory. Hamas murdered people. Hamas attacked people. Hamas raped people. Hamas kidnapped people and dragged them back to Gaza, through their network of tunnels. The youngest hostage is a baby, 10 months old, and I have not heard if the baby is alive or dead. 

It is a wonderful thing to learn Hebrew to communicate a message of "love first."

It is a brutal, sickening thing to learn Hebrew in order to violently assault someone. 

Last night was the first night on Hanukkah. Since around 2008-2009, at the urging of my son (who is autistic and learned about "December holidays" in school) we have celebrated our own version of Hanukkah. We light our menorah and read from a book that talks about the history of Hanukkah. 

There are three prayers said on the first night of Hanukkah (from www.chabad.org): 
  • Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Hanukkah light.
  • Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who performed miracles for our forefathers in those days, at this time.
  • Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.
Too many Jews were not enabled to reach Hanukkah at this time. This year, not only have the survivors lit Hanukkah candles, they have lit candles for their dead and sat shiva.

A Jewish friend of mine says that the celebrating of Hanukkah is also the celebration of hope. 

I pray he is right. 

People should learn Hebrew to communicate "love first". 

Not, "take off your pants."

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 
  •  

Wednesday, December 6, 2023

The pain of the “r” word

(Content warning:  References to and some usage of language now considered offensive, especially to the disabled population.) 

Last week, although I carried on and participated in life, I was assaulted by memories of being called “retarded”. 

I don’t know if this was what triggered it, but a poster on Twitter/X commented that he was glad that he didn’t hear “the ‘r’ word” anymore. He also mentioned that the only place he saw it was in a recent thread of people defending their right to use it. (I remember, but cannot find, a post saying, “I choose to use the word because I choose to use the word.”) 

“Retarded” was commonly used 40, 50 years ago to describe those who are intellectually disabled. The word itself means “a holding back or slowing down; to delay or impede the development or progress of.” (From Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary.) 

In a psychology class I took in high school, our teacher (this would have been around 1980-81) ran through the IQ labels used at the time:  0-25 was “idiot”, 25-50 was “imbecile”, 51-70 was “moron”, 70-80 was “borderline deficiency”, 80-90 was “dullness”, 90-110 was “average”, 110-120 was “superior”, 120-140 was “very superior”, 140 and above was “genius.”

Somewhere along the way, “idiot,” imbecile,” “moron”, and “retarded” all became slurs and insults. The teacher who ran through the IQ labels *had* to know that people in her class would use these to insult others. If I remember correctly, there was plenty of snickering during that particular lesson. 

I can’t remember when I first got called “retarded”. I’m not retarded, or intellectually disabled; in fact, I participated in a gifted program in middle school and graduated as number four in my high school class (I was the top girl and if I had taken some harder math classes, I might have scored higher. :) ) 

As a kid, people knew I was smart; but my social skills weren’t the world’s best. I really did not know, at the ages of five and six, how to approach other kids and introduce myself, ask, do you want to play? etc. I was able to make friends; I can name you who was my best friend at a particular point in life. But apparently, I was marked early on as an easy target; and the trap was sealed with these three data points:  1. Being told to “ignore them”, 2. Being given the impression that if I fought back, I would be punished at school and the bullies would not be; 3. The Bible said you were supposed to love your enemies and forgive them.

In sixth grade, someone at the bus stop said, “Didn’t Tina’s bus already come? The PARC bus?” PARC was Pinellas (County) Association for Retarded Children. 

But it was one boy’s constant chant, “Tina’s re-tar-ded,” that stuck with me all last week for some reason. He would just never stop. And even if I had turned around and punched him, again, I might have been the one who got into trouble. And who knows how much worse things would have gotten. (My parents finally pulled me off the school bus in 12th grade after I snapped and punched someone in the back. I was then asked, “Hey, Tina, why don’t you ride the bus anymore?”)

Last week, I functioned, I did the stuff that I needed to do . . . and I still kept hearing the person’s voice in my head, “Tina’s re-tar-ded.”

When I told my counselor about it a couple of days ago, I realized that I hadn’t fallen apart; I had still done what I needed to do, but the question underneath my memories of being called “retarded”, of having my books stolen, of having my shoes thrown in the trash, of having embarrassing questions flung at me, of having someone deliberately *not* giving me an assignment paper that the teacher had asked him to pass out to everyone (with him saying the words, “you don’t deserve one”), of having someone snatch my paper and copy answers from it (where I should have told a teacher but didn’t, because I’d already been beaten down enough; this was 8th grade when this happened), having my wallet stolen, having a person ask a guest speaker — and making sure I could hear them — what was wrong with a person who didn’t talk in class (because I didn’t talk in class unless I was answering a teacher’s question), being asked, “Your little sister drinks milk from your breasts, doesn’t she?” (implication being, you’ve had a kid and you’re pretending she’s your sister; for the record, I didn’t have a little sister and I had my only child when I was 35); having someone try to force a ring on my finger, being kicked under a lunch table, being accused of misbehaving at the lunch table when I didn’t . . . underneath all of that, and other incidents I haven’t mentioned, is the question:  “What in the world did I do that was so horrible that you decided to make me the target of your bullying?” 

The counselor pointed out that what I was doing was trying to make sense of what was going on, which was normal. 

I also said that I considered myself — and my husband, to an extent — intellectually smart but emotionally stupid. We’re very good with facts and data. We’re not the world’s best when it comes to relating to people.  I’ve changed a lot since I’ve been in my current church; I am a lot better at talking to people I don’t know but I tend to ramble at times. I think that comes from anxiety. My husband, if given his head, will talk and talk about what he’s interested in and his opinion on certain events, and I don’t think he always knows when it’s appropriate or not appropriate to insert his opinion. He and I have talking about what we call “know it all-itis” and he’s working on it. I have “know it all-itis” as well, to an extent. 

Since my son was diagnosed with autism at the age of three, I’ve wondered if my husband’s genes and my genes combined to wire his brain so that he is autistic. I’ve wondered if my husband and I have a touch of autism, and maybe that is why we came across the way we came across. 

My husband coped by digging deep into history, especially military history (he told me he got bored after hearing the beginning of American History for the third grade in a row) and playing Dungeons and Dragons and other board games with people. 

I coped by creating imaginary friends and using my Barbie dolls to act out some stories; I created a fictional rock group that also solved mysteries (see episodes of Josie and the Pussycats!); I read a lot of Nancy Drew and made up mystery stories. My favorite part of 6th grade English was Fridays when we did creative writing. 

But I admit, how much healthier would I be if I had never been exposed to the bullying, or if I’d been able to defend myself? 

Those who defend the use of the “r word” ignore the pain and the hurt it causes when it is hurled as an insult and a slur. The “r word”, and the other words used to describe intellectual levels, are mostly used these days as a way to insult and hurt people; not as a way to identify disabilities and then find a way to help others reach their potential as people. They’re used to dehumanize and depersonalize others. (If anyone has watched the movie Hotel Rwanda, the beginning of the movie shows a radio broadcast where the Tsuti minority were referred to as “cockroaches”. We in the USA have our own history with dehumanization of not only the intellectually disabled, but non-White ethnic and racial minorities.) 

Do we want to keep doing this? 

Do we really want to keep the “r-word” and other insults alive?

Do we really want to have an excuse to use words that may not have been designed to hurt but that have been used to hurt, to insult, to slander others? 

And if we do, why? 

Why would we want to subject people to the pain of the “r word”? 

Why? 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.



Friday, November 10, 2023

In the park, but not on Saturday

 On Friday, October 13th, 2023 (yes, a Friday the 13th!) I fulfilled an item on my bucket list. 

I went to Central Park in New York City and spent about three hours there with my husband. 

We only did half the park, entering at 59th Street/Columbus Circle, and going all the way to the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir before turning around. 

It still amazes me that for the price of a subway fare, you can hop a train, get off at 59th Street (or whatever other park entrance you pick), and just about 50 feet in, you forget that you are in the world’s biggest city, with all of its traffic noises, horn-honking, police-whistling, siren-sounding, and just the general noise, wear, and tear of a big city. 

Central Park is an oasis when you can find a favorite tree or favorite slope and sit down with a book, or journal, or whatever it is you’re doing, and do it. It’s a wonderful place to people watch.  There were at least two groups of kids doing some sort of play activity; I’m wondering if it was a school activity. 

We walked down the Mall, where statues and busts of famous people decorate each side of the walkway. 

We stopped and chatted with a man who was selling handmade note cards; he’d learned how to do the art during the COVID lockdown. And after wandering through the park, I’m convinced that if it can be made and sold, you WILL find it in Central Park! 

A man wanted to give a brief, free massage demonstration to Frank. He declined. 

Along the way, we were serenaded by a guitar player and a saxophonist; and there were probably other musicians in areas of the park we didn’t even hear. 

Central Park also has its share of joggers, bike riders, and walkers.  If you want to, you can pay for a pedicab and take a ride while the cabbie improves his overall health. If you have the finances, you can upgrade to a horse and carriage ride. 

Frank and I elected to walk. 

I specifically went looking for two very famous statues: one of Alice in Wonderland, the other of Hans Christian Andersen. Both statues are near life-size, and you are encourage to climb/pose/sit on/sit next to them. Around Alice’s statue are quotes from Lewis Carroll. She is posed with the Mad Hatter at his tea party. 

Hans Christian Andersen is posed with a quill pen in his hand, bending over an open book, with a duck next to him. He is reading/writing the story of the Ugly Duckling.

We finished our visit with a quick trot through Strawberry Fields. I was looking for a mosaic — which I found — with the word “Imagine” in the middle of a sunburst. If you listen carefully, you can hear John Lennon’s “Imagine” playing in the background. This is Lennon’s memorial; the Dakota, where he and Yoko Ono lived, is not very far from Strawberry Fields. 

Back in the late ‘60’s or early ‘70’s, a young singer-songwriter paid at least one visit to Central Park. Many years later, he described shooting some home videos there, and while viewing them, taking notes on things he saw and the impressions they left with him, and distilled it all down into a three-minute, 56-second of joyous, explosive celebration. 

The song that resulted, “Saturday In the Park,” introduced me to the band Chicago.

“Saturday In the Park” hit number three on the Billboard Hot 100 in September, 1972, the best performing of the band’s singles to date. 

My husband and I experienced some of the things this young singer-songwriter probably did during his time in Central Park: I didn’t see a man selling ice cream, but the park had its share of food trucks and plenty of people took advantage of them. 

There was a man playing guitar, singing for everyone (I found myself singing Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day” along with him). 

And there was the “bronze man” who could still “tell stories his own way”, which I understand is a reference to the Hans Christian Andersen statue. 

There’s a magic in Central Park that maybe you can catch in one visit; maybe you will have to go back again and again to truly experience it. Perhaps, if I had been younger or wearing better shoes (my feet were hurting and had been ever since a walk down Boston’s Freedom Trail inspired them to threaten their own Revolutionary War), I would have been able to capture more of the atmosphere that makes Central Park, Central Park.  

We exited the park at Strawberry Fields and, while trying to find a McDonald’s, walked down a street or avenue that was the perfect example of the neighborhood usually used in an establishing shot on something like Law and Order. It was a shady street where the steps to the houses/apartments run down to the sidewalk, the cars are all parked on the street and probably have to be reparked every so often; and had we been there later in the day, we would have mingled with the crowd coming home from work. 

All magic must end, and we had to leave behind the magic of Central Park and dive back into the “real” New York City, with its crowds, traffic, and the accompanying noises. 

What I did not know until later that day brought Central Park magic and my love affair with both Chicago and “Saturday In the Park” full circle, in a sense. 

Friday, October 13th, 2023, was the 79th birthday of that young singer-songwriter, Robert Lamm, who put a joyous day spent in Central Park to words and music and brought its magic to fans both old and new. 

So, on the birthday of the man that wrote the song that introduced me to Chicago, I wound up visiting the place that inspired the song in the first place. 

In a sense, that was, in the words of “Saturday In the Park,” a “real celebration.” 

If nothing else, it was a wonderful coincidence that topped off a beautiful day. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.