Category Archives: Community/Interconnectedness

When I was a little girl, my mother had read somewhere ( in The Christian Science Monitor, I’m guessing) that in order to clue in those clueless drivers who’d left their directional signal blinking for miles and miles and miles,  passengers in cars passing these witless drivers should make a Soon-To-Be-Universally-Understood hand gesture as we passed by—rapidly opening and closing our hands, as I recall.  My brother Paul and I took this car-to-car communication to heart; whenever the occasion arose, there we’d be, noses against our car window, eagerly and enthusiastically signaling.

Trouble was, NO one else had read that article.  No one. So after a few, fruitless weeks,  Paul and I finally gave up. (And, perhaps, came a little closer to understanding that what was True and Real and A Good Idea in our family wasn’t necessarily universally shared.)

Several times this past week,  I’ve wished for a gesture equivalent to the instantly and universally understood thumbs up sign in order to convey “You have every right to be here.”

Who would I “say” this to? For openers, to every greater-Boston Muslim I’ve encountered since the Marathon bombing. A wary, shutdown bunch these days, Muslim women especially—or so I believe I have observed.

And I would have liked to convey this same message to that young man with the double stroller on a crowded # 1 bus Saturday morning when people huffily made A BIG Deal getting past him/it.

Unfortunately, there is no universally-understood sign to convey this much-needed message—although smiling comes close. How to make “You have every right to be here.” more explicit? Something to ponder.

[Branded # 3 modified by paper-and-scissors artist Delia Marshall]

The New York Times tells me that my life has returned to normal so that must be true. Except . . .

. . . that like I was after 9/11, I am piercingly aware of my own vulnerability and everyone’s around me. (Over time, my tenderness towards my fellow human beings wore off. Maybe it’ll stay with me this time?)

. . . that two of my daughters went to Cambridge Rindge and Latin; so did the Tsarnaev brothers. Which means that my hip, progressive, supposedly inclusive world is rocked. Permanently:

Last week, before the surveillance pictures had been released, I realized that should we learn that the perpetrators of the Marathon bombing were home-grown, that I would be far, far more distressed than to learn the perpetrators were Al Qaeda. That to discover that this cruel attack (Ball bearings? BBs? Tiny nails? Timed to kill and maim just when the runners for charity would cross the finish line?)  would force me to to acknowledge a home-grown rage so much nastier, meaner, uglier and of a breath and depth than I had been willing to admit existed.

And lo, this rage was nurtured not in a white supremacist’s jail cell nor at a Tea Party nor on an Obama and Biden Want To Take Away Our Guns site but in my own backyard. In the spirit of Truth-telling I must admit that I now wonder if, given my proximity and same-school connection to the Tsarnaev brothers, there was something I should have done.Which is both crazy but required.

Yes, yes, I know that Tamerlan Tsarnaev took a six-month trip last July to Chechnya and Dagestan where, it is speculated, he became radicalized.But shouldn’t all of us living in the village that, to a significant degree, raised these brothers wonder why this radicalization took root?

So, no, I’m not back to normal. And never will be.

So here’s the story:

Last month I showed up at a MA Mouth story slam at the Rosebud in Davis Square, just to recon—and won! (there hadn’t been enough storytellers that afternoon to make it an “official slam,” was urged to tell a story simply to have the required ten warm bodies on the stage, yadda yadda yadda.) So last night, having stumbled into this whole thing, nervously walked to Club Passim in Harvard Square to compete against other winners of other storyslams  at other greater-Boston MA Mouth venues.

Didn’t win, of course—several of the competitors were gifted, experienced storytellers—but didn’t throw up onstage, either. (I was the 16th out of 19 storytellers so had plenty of time to work myself into a lather.) The presence of dear and recently-made friends calmed me. A receptive, supportive audience meant that the actual storytelling experience was fun! And at its heart, my story had been about my love and admiration for my women’s creative writing class students; my love for those “wise, resilient, funny”women grounded me and my story.

So Suzanne, Harriet, Mary, Irene, Gladys: thank you.*

Both last night and during a Friends Meeting at Cambridge retreat this past weekend, I got to listen to a LOT of stories. And was reminded that everyone has a backstory and that when we hear that story, our ability to acknowledge “that of God” in others is so much easier!

* Harriet, Mary and Irene have died, Suzanne’s in a nursing home, Gladys, who was the only student my age, is happily retired.

The Boston area was graced with a (moderate) snow storm on Saturday and by now, anyone planning to shovel sidewalks or driveways has done so.

Last night, walking to a Sanders Theater/Boston Baroque concert along a well-known route, I joyfully noticed  a couple of first-time-ever shoveled paths, i.e. sidewalks that had never been shoveled in the past. (Inveterate walkers keep track of such things.)   And I also saw those little gaps—usually about two or three feet long—between shoveled paths where two, adjoining property owners (or the crew hired to shovel) had just quit: No Man’s Land.

[BTW—and this is probably only interesting to me! Recently during a meeting for worship I realized that when I think “war” my mental image is of trenches and Big Bertha and cratered, barbed-wire covered No Man’s Lands et al, i.e. World War I?!]

These unshoveled gaps used to make me angry. “What’s the matter with these people?” I’d mentally sputter. “Can’t they see where their property ends? I mean, thanks a lot of shoveling what you did do.  But now I have to trudge these last few feet through the snow because you’re so clueless?”

But now I’m more, as Dickens would say, benignant. Because isn’t it obvious that our interconnectedness isn’t obvious to most people?

So why not just accept that?

Just back from Superstorm Sandy-damaged Brooklyn and thinking about Naomi Shihab Nye’s Kindness. And about how all over the Northeast, right this minute, people are being kind to other people. At my grandson’s soccer game in Prospect Park, yesterday, for example, a soccer mom casually mentioned to my daughter that arranging a play-date between the soccer mom’s son and my grandson might have to wait awhile because her family’s camping out with friends until their waterlogged, Redhook home is habitable again. “It’s crazy right now,” she explained. Sheepishly.

Displaced families have found refuge on kind friends’ couches and floors. Other kind people are posting schedules on Facebook  for dinners. Or a shower. All over Park Slope I spotted notices for relief-aid fund-raisers slapped onto store windows.

No one’s videoing this kind acts. No one’s keeping score. They’re just happening. Quietly. And, because there IS “that of God in everyone,”as Quakers often say, these lifegiving, generous acts will keep happening. I believe that.

A sweet opening at Meeting this morning: Why not just assume that everyone’s got a traumatized family camping out in their living room? I tried on. Why not assume that everyone’s operating a soup kitchen for their neighbors or are spending their days tending an ailing, confused parent? Instead of wishing more people would get involved with—oh, let’s say Climate Change or Our Criminal Justice System, why not simply assume that everyone is already busily, busily KIND?

(Just tried this on in meeting this morning but, gotta say, this construct has already proven enormously gratifying!)

Budget 4 All passed—even though I did not hold a “Vote YES for Question 5” sign on Election Night for 3 hours; my frozen toes sent me home after an hour-and-a-half. (Sometimes the world does very nicely, thank you, without my help!)

A wonderful moment that cold, cold night: Sonja Derai, a F/friend walked past.( Does anything in Somerville actually happen without Sonja?) Elizabeth Warren’s Somerville campaign manager, Sonja was checking in with her crew. And was pleased: “Yup,” Sonja declared. “The whole world’s singing ‘Kumbaya’ tonight.”

Here’s the thing: Sonja knows that Somerville ain’t the whole world.

Here’s another thing: Apparently Romney’s defeat came as a big, big shock to the people who actually believe Fox News.

Here’s the thing: The whole world could be singing ‘Kumbaya.’ OK, maybe not. How ’bout “People Get Ready”? Because no matter what bubble we’re living in, darlin’, we are in this together.

Saw “Good People” at the Huntington Theater last night. Not a perfect play. But a, ahem, TELLING one.

And a play that speaks to the nationwide argument we’re having.

(Watch the trailer; leave a comment.)

As perhaps noted previously, I am in waiting mode. I’ve finished a couple of big writing projects and now must wait for the recipients of numerous queries* to respond.

Waiting’s hard.

So, inspired by Hare With Amber Eyes, I’ve begun a research project re three Chinese rice-paper paintings I’ve inherited. Apparently my great, great aunt, Isabella Faulkner Ranlett, bought them—maybe in Shanhai?—in the mid-eighteen-hundreds while accompanying her husband, Captain Charles Ranlett, Jr., captain of the clipper ship “Surprise.”

Lots to discover. Here’s just one thing of hundreds that intrigues me. Why did “Belle” buy a painting of an opium den?

But, also, lots to ponder. Like this: Given that Belle was the sister of my great-great grandmother, Amy Faulkner Wild, my claim to these paintings seems a little tenuous. How did they end up on MY wall?More than that, these beautiful artifacts are still in my family’s possession. Not sold.

That this is true  is both cause for deep gratitude and cause for curiosity: What art, what artifacts, what treasures hang on the walls of my neighbors? What things of beauty had been passed down to them, brought to Somerville from, say, El Salvador, Eritrea, Iraq? Perhaps lovingly wrapped and carried in luggage because of dire circumstances? And yet, despite hardships and economic setbacks, held on to. Kept. Treasured.

So am mulling this over with the hopes that something will jell. Because how cool would it to figure this out in time to apply for a Somerville Arts Council LCC Grant? (Deadline: October 15th.) An interactive exhibit at the Somerville Museum, maybe?

Hmm.

* an e-mail or letter sent to an agent or theater company or publishing firm saying, essentially, “I’ve written something you’re gonna LOVE! Contact me.”

It’s the wrong question.

Or, rather, it’s the wrong question if asked as a referendum re Obama.

Is Obama responsible for Citizens United? No.

Is he responsible for the NRA’s death-grip on Congress? No.

The Kardashians? Or weird and terrifying weather? No.

Racism? And how it impacts our criminal justice system? (In The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander’s analysis re Obama’s constraints made me sit up and pay attention.)

That my beloved father died two years ago? C’mon!

Indeed, I heard in Obama’s acceptance speech at the Democratic Convention a poignant reminder: “Hey! I’m the president. Not God.”

Here, in Bubbleland,* I feel God/Spirit moving. The real God—who shakes and moves through us. Whose love means that, yes, over the past four years my life HAS become better:

My family thrives. Which is another way to say: Grace happens.

My (diverse, integrated) neighborhood’s better connected—we even have young families living on the street, now. (How clear is that of God’s blessing? That parents have chosen to raise their children, here!) And one small action, a raised-bed vegetable garden in a neighbor’s back yard (we have little sun in our own), points the way to other shared, sustainable neighborhood initiatives.

Bubbletown streets are filled with bikes and hybrids, now; each a reassurance that, yes, the paradigm is shifting.

And speaking of paradigms, I sense that, WAY too slowly, the “Get tough on crime” mindset is morphing. And I take strength from my black and brown brothers and sisters who know, in a way that I never will know, that God’s time in not human time. And, like they have been doing/continue to do, to “hold on.” And, like them, keep showing up, keep praying.

More and more over the past four years I feel, my meeting’s been asking Spirit: What is asked of us? And listening for answers.

So: How does the truth Prosper among you?

* Bubbleland: My tiny Somerville/Cambridge world.