All (American) Women

Raised by Republicans, I was no Red Diaper Baby Feminist nor, having grown up in the complacent suburbs of the 50s, can claim an early awareness of social injustice. And yet from an early age—at least this is how I remember it—I knew that being a woman mattered. I can remember in junior high, maybe at UU Sunday school, discussing a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt or Eisenhower or . . . to the effect that American women were this country’s greatest untapped resource and, being eleven or twelve, thinking, “Yup! True. And when I get old enough, I’ll be a part of the tapping. I’ll be a part of Something Amazing!”

And I am. Although It’s taken way, way longer than I’d imagined when in junior high. And at that age and easeful time of my life, how could I have possibly imagined the power, the rage, the unspeakable cruelty of sexism? (Writing this, I realize that that the young, cosseted, idealistic eleven-year-old me still lives and breathes, sometimes. She’s the me so bewildered by horrific headlines: “How can this* be?”)

I see this Something Amazing every day: in the paradigm-shifting work of Michelle Alexander and Mothers Out Front, in the voices of Elizabeth Warren**, Rachel Maddow, Annie Hoffman, my yoga teacher, my strong, realized granddaughters.

And I see it in the faces, the smiles and nods of the women I pass by everyday, women from all over the world, women of all ages and ethnicities and classes and sexual persuasions, women in flowing robes and tight jeans and Birkenstocks. Not everyone, of course. But—and this may be Just Me—I see Sisterhood. I see silent acknowledgement of “Yup.”, a female version of a secret handshake.

Yup.

* For example

** This link’s worth watching on SO many levels, particularly the “Looking great!” comment. Really? You went there? “How can this be?”

“Let It Go”*

This past Sunday I spent most of (mostly) silent worship praying over a pair of fundamental questions: Why is it so often true that death allows our species to let go of old grudges and hurts? And why can’t we, knowing we’re going to die, learn to let go beforehand?

More about the first question: We’ve all heard the same stories, right? Of estranged family members or former friends who, knowing that someone from their past they’d bitterly quarreled with is dying, show up after years of silence—and all is forgiven. We all know not to speak ill of the dead. We all have attended funerals and memorials and heard the glowing—and, yes, true—tributes to the deceased; these dearly departed’s less than admirable traits aren’t mentioned.

My discernment on Sunday was certainly helped by an early-on speaker referencing Isaac Penington’s wisdom:

Give over thine own willing; give over thine own running; give over thine own desiring to know or to be any thing, and sink down to the seed which God sows in the heart, and let that grow in thee, and be in thee, and breathe in thee, and act in thee, and thou shalt find by sweet experience that the Lord knows that, and loves and owns that, and will lead it to the inheritance of life, which is his portion.
~ Isaac Penington, 1616-1679

So I sank down.

Today, working on this post, I stumbled upon another Penington quote (that will definitely be taped on my computer Hall of Fame) that beautifully points the way towards letting go:

Our life is love, and peace, and tenderness; and bearing one with another, and forgiving one another, and not laying accusations one against another; but praying one for another, and helping one another up with a tender hand.

Amen.

* Although it is impossible for me to think or say these three little words without seeing my four-year-old granddaughter brilliantly lip-sinc to the Frozen song, I am trying to say something different here. I think.

Limited Visibility

Sunday, waiting for a bus in the New York City Port Authority’s (poorly lit and oppressive) waiting area, a scruffy young man dragging a long-handled suitcase approached me to ask for money. I turned him down. “Happy Mother’s Day,” he sneered. “Thank you very much. Have a nice day.” And immediately walked over to another woman and went through the same routine; so did she.

After he’d moved on, a third bus traveler who sat next to the second woman—from her accent I’m guessing this third woman is Haitian—spoke up: “He only asked you two,” she noted. “He didn’t ask anybody else.”Just the two white women in the waiting area, she meant.

Reader: I hadn’t seen that.

Last night, as a potential ally,* I sat in on a parent meeting at Mystic Housing, a Somerville public housing complex, to listen as a racially diverse group of mothers grappled with the best way to begin recycling at their complex. (Single-stream recycling bins available to households throughout the rest of the city had not been distributed at public housing. After much pressure from Mystic residents, especially children from the Mystic Learning Center, the housing authority agreed to begin a pilot project there, starting this summer.)

Reader: I’d forgotten what it means to live in public housing ( For many years, back in the day, I’d taught GED classes at Mystic Housing’s community center). I’d forgotten how debilitating, how oppressive it could be if your neighbors scrawl graffiti onto freshly painted walls or defecate in the hallways—stories told last night. I’d not anticipated how a bright and shiny idea like “Let’s recycle!” might land on poor, overwhelmed, working-multiple-jobs mothers.

Sadly, how I “see” race and class sometimes looks a lot like last Friday at Brooklyn Botanic Garden: my daughter, two grandchildren and I sampling different scents from different lilac bushes on a pea-soup foggy and drizzly afternoon as La Guardia-bound jets flew right over our heads, close, loud—yet invisible.

* Somerville’s Mothers Out Front wish to connect with the women in public housing; I embodied that wish.

“Who Is My Neighbor?”

Holiday Cleansers was one of the happiest discoveries I made when I first moved to this neighborhood, although my thirty-five year old relationship with Billy and Kate, owners of a dry-cleaning business within walking distance of my house, began a little awkwardly: “Cash only,” Kate announced the first time I tried to retrieve my plastic-wrapped clothing. As if to say “It doesn’t matter that you and I were just having a lovely conversation about the books we’re both reading. I don’t know you!” But over time and many more book conversations, I was finally deemed trustworthy enough to write a check. Yes!

“Holiday Cleansers?” I verified before writing that first check.

“Yes,” Kate explained. “It’s probably a colloquialism.” (Billy’s mother, the original owner and someone who’d grown up in this neighborhood, had suggested the name as I recall.) So without my even telling you about Billy’s sardonic, wry comments re the state of the world which in no way mask his gentle, loving nature, or about the series of fluffy dogs that were always just there in a series of cardboard boxes next to the counter, or Kate’s extraordinary storytelling talent, you can see, can’t you, why I loved doing business, limited though my dry-cleaning needs were, at this oddly named dry-cleaners cum neighborhood drop-in center—because I was not the only person who loved to just hang out there, too.

Alas, Billy and Kate vacated the premises April 1st; their business and the building it occupied are slated to be razed any day now, a great, great loss to this neighborhood. (and to me, personally.)

If the Universe were fair, whatever is built on that site would be kind. Like affordable housing. Or maybe a fun community-gathering place could replace Holiday Cleansers—like an art center for children. Or, yes, a book store!

I know exactly what Billy would say at these helpful suggestions: “Don’t hold your breath!”

Fill In the Blanks

Seated in Meeting this past Sunday, for the life of me I couldn’t remember the Bible passage taped on my computer! Yes, I remembered the “walk[ing] humbly” bit, yes, I remembered how happy I had been to find a version of Micah 6:8 that advised me “to love kindness” rather than “mercy” (Mercy feels patronizing to me, as in “I bequeath my mercy unto you, O Inferior One.”) but what was the verb in front of “justice”? Because, given the dire forum I’d just heard that morning re climate disruption and the urgent call to DO SOMETHING, “seeking justice” was pretty darned namby-pamby!

Nope. The verb had to be “Do.” Do justice. Now.

But, wait! Was that right? Did I remember the passage, ahem, correctly?

And it came to me that Micah had never taught at Harvard Divinity School. He probably didn’t and wouldn’t care if I substituted whatever verb seemed most apt. For me. To best speak to my condition; to best guide my life. (Just as I had searched for a translation of his admonition that said “love kindness.”)

And lo, “do” Is correct!

I will lift up mine eyes . . .

[Salt Lake City’s reservoir; Easter Sunday, 2014]

A few summers ago, the teenaged son and daughter of an old friend—who now lives in Wyoming—stayed with us for a couple of days to take a look at colleges, these young people’s first trip East. At breakfast one morning the teenaged son stepped out onto our deck: “There’s nothing to see but houses!” he complained. “Back yards. How can you stand it?” Other Beyond-Route 128 residents have told us the same thing. “I just felt so boxed in,” the Washington-state father of my son-in-law complained of his college years at Dartmouth.

Gotta say, a major joy when visiting my step-son and his family in Salt Lake City is just looking up! To push my grandson on a SLC park swing and gaze at a snow-capped Wasatch mountain is always a thrill. Since I’m clearly quite content to live exactly where I live, in sardine-can Somerville, I must not require these heady, Rockies glances to sustain me. Or even, as Psalm 121 goes on to say, to be reminded of “whence cometh my help.” (Sometimes the King James version is just what’s needed, right? Or is it just me?) But these ever-present mountain views never get old.

No, as thrilling as these sightings are, my experience of Divine Assistance is inward. I know this is a construct, I know I’ve been using English, both modern and early 17th century, to explore The Unexplorable, “the light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world.” (John 1:9)

But it works for me.

We switched!

Click here to learn more.

“The Deepest Thing Inside”*

Last Saturday I took the 83 bus, which was running late, to an all-day workshop on restorative justice circles** in Cambridge. Seated across from me was an elderly, well-dressed African American man; he was also blind. When the bus approached the intersection of Beacon and Washington Streets, he pushed the call button indicating he wanted to get off. The bus maneuvered towards the bus stop but was stuck in heavy traffic. So I had plenty of time to notice a young, heavy-set African-American man in a denim jacket and jeans, clearly agitated, who paced the sidewalk maybe ten feet ahead of the bus. “What’s his story?,” I wondered. (And, yes, my Flight or Flight was definitely triggered—not bigtime—but I was a little wary, shall we say?)

When the bus stopped, as the blind man, guided by his cane, slowly and carefully walked from his seat and approached the opened bus door, the agitated man brightened and quickly moved to the left side of the door so that when the elderly man stepped off onto the curb, the young man gently and tenderly took his arm and the two began walking slowly towards the corner.

“Why don’t more people tell stories like that!” I wondered as the bus pulled away.

So I did.

Naomi Shihab Nye

* “Kindness”

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.Before you know kindness as the deepest thing
inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

**Because as my F/friend Lynn says: “If we’re going to change the criminal justice system we have to come up with an alternative.”

Ex Libris

A couple of weekends ago, my sibs, our respective spouses, and I began dismantling my parents’ last home, a somber task made almost joyful by everyone’s good will and good humor. Coming home Sunday afternoon, I looked around my own home as if my children were to tackle the same daunting task—and began to recycle piles of files and papers no one, not even me, could possibly find valuable or interesting.

I did unearth this treasure, however:

What is “the good news”? That true life, eternal life has been found — it is not something promised, it is already here, it is within you: as life lived in love, in love without subtraction or exclusion, without distance. Everyone is the child of God — Jesus definitely claims nothing for himself alone — and as a child of God everyone is equal to everyone else. [Frederich Nietzche, German philosopher, 1844-1900]

“What Happened [to the women’s movement]?”

[Still-life in front of a Union Square storefront]

Thursday evening I attended a showing of Catherine Russo’s documentary, “A Moment in Her Story: Stories from the Boston Women’s Movement” at the Cambridge Public Library. When the lights came up, everyone in the 99% female audience, individually or in twos and threes, asked the same question: “What happened?” What happened to the vibrant, collective, in-your face movement depicted in Russo’s film? Why are we STILL fighting for freedom of choice? Wy are women STILL so disproportionally represented in politics, as movers and shakers in the arts, etc.* Why, why, why, after all this time, did Sheryl Sandberg STILL HAVE TO write Lean In? Huh?

Here’s my 2 cents—or, rather, my Susan B. Anthony dollar coin:

1. “Complacency:” (Those quotation marks indicate irony. Lots of irony) This complacency, the same kind of lazy and facile reasoning that declares “Racism is no longer an issue because, heh, Obama’s president.” says: “Women no longer burn their bras because, heh, women are doing pretty well these days: they wear pants, now, abortion is legal—although, in places like Texas, access is tricky—and, heh, look at Angela Merkel and Hillary!”

2. Actually, the beat goes on: (It’s just not Evening News worthy, anymore). For example, if you go to the “Her Story” link and click on the trailer, at 4:11 you’ll see a group picture of the women who created Our Bodies Ourselves back in the day. The incredibly important work of The Boston Women’s Health Book Collective continues. (Some of you will recognize one woman in that group picture—my dear friend Wendy Sanford.) And let’s not forget Mothers Out Front, a women’s mobilization re climate change!

3. 9/11: It’s next-to-impossible to analyze one’s own era; we live it, we breathe it. But every time I see a woman driving an SUV I’m reminded that I live at a time in history marked by pervasive fear. “Women want to feel safe,” SUV makers tell us. (How sad that auto makers, like politicians and the media, use women’s and men’s sense of vulnerability to their own ends.) How that plays out regarding women I only sense. Stay tuned.

4. Sexism, like the poor and racism and homophobia and anti-semitism, will always be with us. There’s always gonna be haters.

* Judy Chicago spoke at Harvard a couple of weeks ago and, not surprisingly, had lots to depressing things to say about the art scene these days.

“What Nourishes You?”

[Before the guests arrived; Easter dinner, 2013]

This year, instead of giving up something for Lent, I’m adding something*: every day I try to do something—in a meaningful sort of way— that nourishes me.

To be honest, this is a cheat. I pretty much always get to live my days and years doing exactly what I love, what sustains me, what feels like I’m supposed to do! (Lucky, lucky me. Privileged, privileged me. ) But, hey. When, in years past, I gave up something for Lent—cookies or chocolate usually—I inevitably forgot. Or cheated. Or once, I’m ashamed to admit, when I was reluctant to parade my spiritual practices in a social setting, weazeled. So, as I eventually came to understand, for me, this giving up something for Lent business is really about humility. About the “now face to face” moments when I have to admit my crassness, my weaknesses, my inadequacies. So why not design a Lenten ritual that acknowledges such inadequacies!

But there’s a deeper meaning around my adding-not-denying Lenten ritual. The Jesus who told of “Good News” nourishes me. The Jesus who reminded me that it rains on the just and the unjust. Who gave all of us so many confusing and intriguing parables, The Beatitudes, the story of The Prodigal Son. That’s the Jesus whose life and teachings most speak to me—not the Jesus on the cross.

So why not acknowledge and celebrate that Jesus during Lent?

* A lovely idea I picked up from a F/friend.

“. . . and good in everything.”

*And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it.
[Shakespeare, from As You Like It]

And this is a Mother Nature update from the ‘ville: Last week, the heaping piles of filthy snow mixed with salt finally began to melt, forming exquisite spun-glass-like creations along the sidewalk. (The genesis of these lovelies has something to do with pure snow melting at one temperature, snow permeated with salt melting at another, and snow beneath dark objects like dirt and debris melting at yet another rate. And there’s mystery, too, right?) Most of these delicate towers and undulating sculptures were so thoroughly mixed with grit that their beauty was not at first apparent. Until they were. And sometimes, somehow, bits and pieces of snow remained pristinely white and sparkled when caught in the puny, March sun. Praise be!

I would not change it.