In progress. Will update after I seek mental health assistance. (And I stated that I was retiring from blogging. Lie.)
However, I am trying to flex my creative writing muscles. So, this post will be about the nightmare of moving.
Friday, December 2, 2016
Thursday, March 10, 2011
MEMORIES COME FLOODING BACK
This seems to be a week where the Way-Back Machine is operating at full tilt. Everything I see, read, or touch brings back memories of the past. Lots of media coverage of women's rights and the ongoing battle regarding abortion rights. International Book Day was yesterday and I am now reading The Help and revisiting the deep south in the 1960s. Wow, We have come a long way since then.
1964: traveled through the south on our way to Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale. Took pictures of billboards saying, "Impeach Earl Warren" and the many KKK signs sticking out like dirty Band-aids on tree trunks. Water fountains, restaurants, washrooms, hotels with signs saying "Whites Only" or "No Coloreds." Heady stuff for us Northerners who thought we were above all that. We weren't. It was just a lot more subtle. Like the white elevator operator in Macy's in 1962 that I saw wave a well-dressed black man to the service elevator. And the well-dressed man complied silently. Meantime, I, a mere teenager, made a scene. Oh, how self-righteous I was back then. (I guess I still am.)
Even my high school, a private, Catholic girl's school suffered a lot of negative publicity by enrolling a couple of sisters who were black. That was in 1960. I had to field questions from "well-meaning" friends and relatives who were curious as to what it was like "going to school with coloreds." Were they allowed to use the same lavatories? Did they eat with you in the same cafeteria? I gave very snotty answers and grew more and more angry with each question. What was the matter with these so-called adults? Which might explain why my generation went on to be such a bunch of radicals. About that time, a black family moved onto our lily-white North Buffalo street. A neighbor actually started a petition to tell them to buzz off, they weren't welcome. I was the one to answer the door when she came around with her petition and I let her have it in no uncertain terms. Thankfully, my family was on the same page as I was regarding the racial issue, so I felt comfortable in expressing my outrage about the petition. The family still lives on the street and they have been joined by a couple of other black families. And the neighborhood is just as desirable as it always was.
Then, there's the situation in Wisconsin that is actually painful for me to watch. As a proud union supporter, it appalls me that unions are being destroyed by a political party with its own agenda, not caring what people think. If it were not for unions, children would still be working in mines and factories; workers would have no benefits; wages would remain low; the forty hour work week would still be a dream; and unjust firings would be the norm. Enlightened countries give a place at the table for the unions and the results are positive for everyone involved. In the US, class warfare has broken out.
Of course, this brings back memories of my own union involvement and the hard work it took to bring the female telephone operators forward from the days where they were fed the myth that they were working for "pin money."
Then there's the abortion issue. And that brings back some painful memories. I was never faced with "the decision" but I knew people who were. And that was before Roe V. Wade which gave women the right to choose a legal abortion. The women I knew had to come up with a lot of money to fly to Puerto Rico or pay a so-called "back alley abortionist" if they had an unwanted pregnancy. Some took the matter into their own hands and almost died. The shot-gun wedding was another alternative whether the couple was ready for it or not. While I find abortion to be a terrible solution to an unwanted pregnancy, it should still be an option. I would prefer to advocate that every female be offered free information and birth control options rather than abortions. If proper birth control is used (there's even a simple five year sub-dermal option available,) the need for abortion would be hardly necessary. Oh, and I remember the lies young women had to tell their doctors to get a prescription for birth control pills. Unmarried women were often not offered the option of good, safe birth control.
So, I will now curl up on my new chaise longue and get back into reading The Help. (Ain't retirement grand?) I would suggest that everyone read this book. It is in the same category as the seminal To Kill a Mockingbird.
1964: traveled through the south on our way to Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale. Took pictures of billboards saying, "Impeach Earl Warren" and the many KKK signs sticking out like dirty Band-aids on tree trunks. Water fountains, restaurants, washrooms, hotels with signs saying "Whites Only" or "No Coloreds." Heady stuff for us Northerners who thought we were above all that. We weren't. It was just a lot more subtle. Like the white elevator operator in Macy's in 1962 that I saw wave a well-dressed black man to the service elevator. And the well-dressed man complied silently. Meantime, I, a mere teenager, made a scene. Oh, how self-righteous I was back then. (I guess I still am.)
Even my high school, a private, Catholic girl's school suffered a lot of negative publicity by enrolling a couple of sisters who were black. That was in 1960. I had to field questions from "well-meaning" friends and relatives who were curious as to what it was like "going to school with coloreds." Were they allowed to use the same lavatories? Did they eat with you in the same cafeteria? I gave very snotty answers and grew more and more angry with each question. What was the matter with these so-called adults? Which might explain why my generation went on to be such a bunch of radicals. About that time, a black family moved onto our lily-white North Buffalo street. A neighbor actually started a petition to tell them to buzz off, they weren't welcome. I was the one to answer the door when she came around with her petition and I let her have it in no uncertain terms. Thankfully, my family was on the same page as I was regarding the racial issue, so I felt comfortable in expressing my outrage about the petition. The family still lives on the street and they have been joined by a couple of other black families. And the neighborhood is just as desirable as it always was.
Then, there's the situation in Wisconsin that is actually painful for me to watch. As a proud union supporter, it appalls me that unions are being destroyed by a political party with its own agenda, not caring what people think. If it were not for unions, children would still be working in mines and factories; workers would have no benefits; wages would remain low; the forty hour work week would still be a dream; and unjust firings would be the norm. Enlightened countries give a place at the table for the unions and the results are positive for everyone involved. In the US, class warfare has broken out.
Of course, this brings back memories of my own union involvement and the hard work it took to bring the female telephone operators forward from the days where they were fed the myth that they were working for "pin money."
Then there's the abortion issue. And that brings back some painful memories. I was never faced with "the decision" but I knew people who were. And that was before Roe V. Wade which gave women the right to choose a legal abortion. The women I knew had to come up with a lot of money to fly to Puerto Rico or pay a so-called "back alley abortionist" if they had an unwanted pregnancy. Some took the matter into their own hands and almost died. The shot-gun wedding was another alternative whether the couple was ready for it or not. While I find abortion to be a terrible solution to an unwanted pregnancy, it should still be an option. I would prefer to advocate that every female be offered free information and birth control options rather than abortions. If proper birth control is used (there's even a simple five year sub-dermal option available,) the need for abortion would be hardly necessary. Oh, and I remember the lies young women had to tell their doctors to get a prescription for birth control pills. Unmarried women were often not offered the option of good, safe birth control.
So, I will now curl up on my new chaise longue and get back into reading The Help. (Ain't retirement grand?) I would suggest that everyone read this book. It is in the same category as the seminal To Kill a Mockingbird.
Monday, January 26, 2009
I'm Crabby
I've been crabby the past few days and today, my crabbiness reached critical mass. It started out okay as I was trying to tidy up the kitchen - finally - for the umpteenth time. I was putting away my nifty Tupperware spaghetti holder and the plastic top flew off like a Frisbee at the beach. It lodged behind the refrigerator, hiding amongst the detritus and cat hair, which, by the way, is omnipresent in my existence. So, I had to move aside the garbage chair (my great invention) and try to retrieve the now dirty, hair laden disc. This precipitated moving the refrigerator (luckily it's on wheels) and then thebringing out of the vacuum and what ensued was a half hour deep-cleaning exercise that included every damned inch of the back and the front of the goddamned refrigerator. Then the rewashing of the lid and the realignment of the garbage chair and then wiping everything down once again and I forgot what I was going to do earlier. By then, I was off and running off at the mouth with expletives and a generally bad attitude. Oh, I was going to make coffee. That was it. I looked over towards the love seat in the living room and noticed that my two male cats were sleeping soundly on top of some material I had just (before the lid incident) taken out of the dryer and folded, anticipating its use to make a slipcover for a chair in the living room. The two were busy shedding in their sleep all over the light-coloured material that had been pristine and clean mere moments before. Why had they not stayed in the bed that they had already defiled with their hair. The sheets were just washed the day before and they had quickly established their beachheads amongst the white fleece and flannel.
Note: all these activities are interrupted by frequent trips to the washroom due to the blood pressure medication I'm currently taking. It now takes a lifetime to pee these days. Whole books have been read in one day as a result of these frequent forays to the washroom. E-mails sent from my Blackberry; eyebrows plucked; crossword puzzles completed; all done while waiting for my bladder to finally empty. I have dozed off occasionally. Of course the mind wanders. What ever happened to that guy I was so crazy about in my sophomore year at UB? How many inches is 12 cm? Where did my life go so terribly wrong?
I recall a phone call from the previous evening when my drunken crazy-ass neighbour accused me of 1.) running up his gas bill and 2.) complaining to the SPCA about his dog and 3.) not finding him devilishly attractive. I mean, he's got two functioning teeth, a grizzled beard, bad breath, filthy clothes and looks like he hasn't bathed in weeks; what's not to love? The phone call devolved into a screaming match and I finally ended it with a triple-dog-fuck-you. What did I do to deserve this? I ask myself as rehashed the event while perched on the toilet. Then there was the e-mail from someone I hardly know, who somehow got himself involved in a situation that was none of his business, but felt that I needed to hear his opinion of me and a friend, which was not complimentary. Besides the WTF response, I was forced to remind myself of previous dealings with this douche and the relative peace I had experienced in the five or so years since our paths crossed until now. I knew there was a reason why I avoided this guy like the plague and here he was back again, being a douche. As the Chinese New Year of the Ox is being celebrated, I am beginning to wonder if my own personal New Year will be the Year of the Douche, or Assholes-I-Have-Known-Who-Moved-Away-and-Then-Came-Back. Not to worry. When one asshole closes a door, another one opens it.
I sometimes open my e-mail with dread. Not the Strand Blog e-mail; that's a hoot. My personal e-mail. Daily findings might include an e-mail from my delusional friend in Tennesee who takes stalking to a whole new level by tracking down old boyfriends, manufacturing fantasies about how they were fated to be together and actually convincing them to buy into the fantasy. Of course, they must be either alcoholics, convicted felons or both by the time she hooks up with them. Her last conquest, a boyfriend she hadn't seen or heard from since high school recently died of alcoholism-related cirrhosis, but she has already embarked on her next conquest: a guy who is just out of jail for beating his wife. But he had such beautiful, curly hair before he shaved it off in stir. Previous boyfriends were an Am-Way salesman who was a closeted gay; a broken-down country and western singer - hence the Nashville trip; and a former secret service agent (at least that was what he told her when they had a fling in Spain thirty uears ago. She was unsuccessful in connecting with him as he did not answer her faxes and letters. She was convinced that his wife was destroying these messages before he could see them, because, if he got them, he would leave his wife and come to her, as they were "fated to be together." Oh, and she's changed her name three times since I met her in Crystal Beach, which she said she came to because, as a child, she visite the amusement park with her parents and her father remarked that "one day you will live here." It was also the place where she tracked down the gay Am-Way salesman. (He has since moved on to Key West with his lover.) When he finally told her the awful truth, she was thrown into a deep depression that had me really worried - until she found her last love, the cirrosis-laden alcoholic who was living in a flop house in North Carolina when she tracked him down through his estranged father. Since her husband's (she actually married this one; she was wife number three,) death, she has once again been very depressed and long distance or e-mail help has been spurned while she cast around for her next victim/boyfriend. And we have a winner! The ex-con has moved ahead of the pack to take his place in her pantheon of star-crossed lovers. I'm still waiting for her to flesh out the fantasy as this one doesn't fit the usual MO. He's not a blast from the past; he's a recent addition; someone she met through her husband. For some sick reason, I'm anxiously awaiting her latest fiction. I particularly loved a recent one (that ended badly; he just wanted to fuck her, not "be with" her as he was already married,) the has-been C&W singer. That was an inspired fantasy: she claims that she saw a picture of him in a bar in Toronto where he supposedly had appeared and she "knew right then" that she would meet up with him later in life. Amazing, isn't it? Maybe that's what I need to do: find some old boyfriend from the battlefield of my life and resurrect him as the fantasy prince charming who was torn away from me by sinister forces and who I can now reclaim from the internet and live happily ever after.
Note: all these activities are interrupted by frequent trips to the washroom due to the blood pressure medication I'm currently taking. It now takes a lifetime to pee these days. Whole books have been read in one day as a result of these frequent forays to the washroom. E-mails sent from my Blackberry; eyebrows plucked; crossword puzzles completed; all done while waiting for my bladder to finally empty. I have dozed off occasionally. Of course the mind wanders. What ever happened to that guy I was so crazy about in my sophomore year at UB? How many inches is 12 cm? Where did my life go so terribly wrong?
I recall a phone call from the previous evening when my drunken crazy-ass neighbour accused me of 1.) running up his gas bill and 2.) complaining to the SPCA about his dog and 3.) not finding him devilishly attractive. I mean, he's got two functioning teeth, a grizzled beard, bad breath, filthy clothes and looks like he hasn't bathed in weeks; what's not to love? The phone call devolved into a screaming match and I finally ended it with a triple-dog-fuck-you. What did I do to deserve this? I ask myself as rehashed the event while perched on the toilet. Then there was the e-mail from someone I hardly know, who somehow got himself involved in a situation that was none of his business, but felt that I needed to hear his opinion of me and a friend, which was not complimentary. Besides the WTF response, I was forced to remind myself of previous dealings with this douche and the relative peace I had experienced in the five or so years since our paths crossed until now. I knew there was a reason why I avoided this guy like the plague and here he was back again, being a douche. As the Chinese New Year of the Ox is being celebrated, I am beginning to wonder if my own personal New Year will be the Year of the Douche, or Assholes-I-Have-Known-Who-Moved-Away-and-Then-Came-Back. Not to worry. When one asshole closes a door, another one opens it.
I sometimes open my e-mail with dread. Not the Strand Blog e-mail; that's a hoot. My personal e-mail. Daily findings might include an e-mail from my delusional friend in Tennesee who takes stalking to a whole new level by tracking down old boyfriends, manufacturing fantasies about how they were fated to be together and actually convincing them to buy into the fantasy. Of course, they must be either alcoholics, convicted felons or both by the time she hooks up with them. Her last conquest, a boyfriend she hadn't seen or heard from since high school recently died of alcoholism-related cirrhosis, but she has already embarked on her next conquest: a guy who is just out of jail for beating his wife. But he had such beautiful, curly hair before he shaved it off in stir. Previous boyfriends were an Am-Way salesman who was a closeted gay; a broken-down country and western singer - hence the Nashville trip; and a former secret service agent (at least that was what he told her when they had a fling in Spain thirty uears ago. She was unsuccessful in connecting with him as he did not answer her faxes and letters. She was convinced that his wife was destroying these messages before he could see them, because, if he got them, he would leave his wife and come to her, as they were "fated to be together." Oh, and she's changed her name three times since I met her in Crystal Beach, which she said she came to because, as a child, she visite the amusement park with her parents and her father remarked that "one day you will live here." It was also the place where she tracked down the gay Am-Way salesman. (He has since moved on to Key West with his lover.) When he finally told her the awful truth, she was thrown into a deep depression that had me really worried - until she found her last love, the cirrosis-laden alcoholic who was living in a flop house in North Carolina when she tracked him down through his estranged father. Since her husband's (she actually married this one; she was wife number three,) death, she has once again been very depressed and long distance or e-mail help has been spurned while she cast around for her next victim/boyfriend. And we have a winner! The ex-con has moved ahead of the pack to take his place in her pantheon of star-crossed lovers. I'm still waiting for her to flesh out the fantasy as this one doesn't fit the usual MO. He's not a blast from the past; he's a recent addition; someone she met through her husband. For some sick reason, I'm anxiously awaiting her latest fiction. I particularly loved a recent one (that ended badly; he just wanted to fuck her, not "be with" her as he was already married,) the has-been C&W singer. That was an inspired fantasy: she claims that she saw a picture of him in a bar in Toronto where he supposedly had appeared and she "knew right then" that she would meet up with him later in life. Amazing, isn't it? Maybe that's what I need to do: find some old boyfriend from the battlefield of my life and resurrect him as the fantasy prince charming who was torn away from me by sinister forces and who I can now reclaim from the internet and live happily ever after.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
THE OPOSSUM WHO CAME FOR CHRISTMAS
Now that I am sufficiently sated from an absolutely wonderful, delicious Christmas Feast with friends, it's time to get back to reality and the problem 'possum who came for Christmas. He's still here somewhere ~ out in the attic loft, probably making a nest amongst the junk I have stored out there. I first noticed him as I was hanging my Advent Calendar against an outer wall. I could hear scrabbling close to the baseboards where the outer wall meets the attic roof. In that one foot window of opportunity, the opossum managed to start a small hole in a weak part of the wall. Soon, I saw the hole widen and a snout appeared. Yep. It was an opossum all right. Trying to get into my living room from the attic. Quickly, I found a large piece of wood and jammed it up against the hole and wedged it in tight. In daylight, I ventured into the attic and looked for the beast, but he was hiding, or he had gone outside through whatever method he had used to get in. For days, I looked for him and for the hole that brought him inside, but to no avail. In the darkness of night, I could hear him scrabbling around out in the attic, but I was too nervous to go out there as the lighting isn't good and frankly, I was afraid he'd jump out at me. (I've heard they can be vicious when provoked.) My three cats were absolutely no help at all. They pretended to not notice the sounds of an impending invasion. I told friends about my intruder and they all advised me to contact my landlady. I kept putting it off, knowing that she really couldn't do much to help and by this time, we were fast approaching the holidays. The big snowstorm arrived and while out shoveling, I spoke with a neighbour about my problem and he said he noted pawprints coming from my place. I took that as a good sign that my little friend had given up and moved on to warmer quarters as my attic is not heated or insulated. (BTW, I have the greatest neighbours. They ploughed my driveway; snowblew the sidewalk in front and helped me get my vehicle on the road.) My neighbour also brought me a cage to catch the little beast on Boxing Day. I was feeling complacent that my 'possum problem was over and settled in for a nap on the dark afternoon of Christmas Eve. Two of my cats snuggled up with me in bed and we drifted off into a pleasant sleep. I awoke and noticed that it was after 5:00 p.m. and it was pitch dark. I had an hour to get ready to go for a Christmas Eve gathering at a friend's home, so I ran around turning on lights. When I got to the living room, I quickly turned on the table lamp next to my little antique crib-turned-settee and suddenly, the room was awash with light, revealing the opossum just sitting on the cushions, like he belonged there. The cats had finally awakened from their nap and wandered into the living room, completely ignoring the 'possum. It was as though time stood still for a good five minutes, while I figured out what to do. Gotta take a picture of this. No one will believe it. Camera was recharging in the kitchen and I quickly snapped off a couple of shots. Okay, now what do I do? I notice that my intrepid intruder had gnawed a huge hole around the wood covering the original hole. I went out in the attic and got a large cupboard door stored there and got that ready. I took a broom and found that it was very easy to coax the opossum back through his hole. Soon as he was out of the living room and back into the attic, I plugged up the holes with a two by three foot piece of solid oak. So much for that. I went to the party late, but I had the perfect excuse on my camera. It was quite the hit of the party, but I was very nervous when I came home several hours later. I immediately did a nose count of the cats; looked at my makeshift barrier (OK) and breathed a sigh of relief that the critter didn't make a return visit while I was gone. Didn't hear anything on Christmas and went to the feast and stayed several hours (boy do these people know how to put on a partay!) Still no sign of my Christmas Eve visitor, but on Boxing Day, I once again heard scrabbling behind the wood barrier. And then my neighbour came by with the trap/cage. The onus is now on me to catch the critter and take him somewhere and let him go. (Can't kill him.) Where does one take an opossum anyways? What function do they perform on this earth except to look so ugly they're cute? They sure have sharp little teeth, capable of chewing wallboard, but what else are they good for?
The only other 'possum I ever heard of was Pogo Possum late of newspaper comic fame. He was a favourite at my house when I was growing up. I didn't care for his comic strip, but, to adults, he was the sage/satirical/commentator on the times and he was very political. Written by Walt Kelly, the strip took on such sacred cows as Joseph McCarthy, J. Edgar Hoover and various other political figures of the time. The famous line, "We have me the enemy as he is us," came from Pogo.
Who knows? Maybe my visitor brought a message, like the three ghosts who visited Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Eve so long ago. Maybe I should start a political comic strip. Or maybe I am the enemy. Naw. Nothing that deep. I need to call my landlady.
The only other 'possum I ever heard of was Pogo Possum late of newspaper comic fame. He was a favourite at my house when I was growing up. I didn't care for his comic strip, but, to adults, he was the sage/satirical/commentator on the times and he was very political. Written by Walt Kelly, the strip took on such sacred cows as Joseph McCarthy, J. Edgar Hoover and various other political figures of the time. The famous line, "We have me the enemy as he is us," came from Pogo.
Who knows? Maybe my visitor brought a message, like the three ghosts who visited Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Eve so long ago. Maybe I should start a political comic strip. Or maybe I am the enemy. Naw. Nothing that deep. I need to call my landlady.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
JFK REMEMBERED
One generation remembers Pearl Harbor; another 9/11. For most of us Baby Boomers, it was November 22, 1963, the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas that will forever be etched in our minds as the first time we shared the gut-wrenching grief and sense of loss with the rest of the world.
Those who can give personal memories for all three seminal events are dwindling; the narrative lessens over time. Today marks a milestone in time and remembrance. Forty-five years have passed since the day Kennedy was shot. My parents often recalled what became known as a "Day of Infamy" Pearl Harbor (December 7, 1941.) However, I was too preoccupied with childish concerns to understand the significance of that event. Historians are still debating whether the US knew ahead of time that Pearl Harbor, Hawaii was to be attacked by Japanese war planes that would kill thousands and destroy the Pacific Fleet, thus precipitating the US entry into World War Two. No one will argue that it was an event that brought the nation together in grief, outrage and the resolve to avenge the deaths and destruction of the attack.
I was born on the cusp of the Baby Boom; we were the first of the wave of children who would crowd the school systems and later challenge just about every tradition and value of previous generations.
It had started out okay for us. A new president had been sworn into office in January, 1961. With Kennedy, came a hope that America would move ahead; conquer space; and overcome discrimination and injustice. The Kennedys were a beautiful, charismatic family who were the source of fascination and even satire. Just about every home had a copy of Vaugh Meader's "First Family" an LP that was a send-up of the Kennedys, especially Jacqueline Kennedy's White House Tour that was broadcast into living rooms all across the country. Despite the satire, Americans loved the first family and pictures of Jackie and their two adorable children were seen on covers of magazines practically every month.
So, to the question that is oft asked: Where were you on __________(Pearl Harbor Day, Kennedy Assassination or 9/11,) the responses are as varied as the people who answer, but few don't automatically answer that question; it stays with one forever. As for me, I was just finishing a physical education class at Clark Gym on the campus of the University of Buffalo. At the time, I was a Phys. Ed. major, believe it or not. Someone said that the president had been shot, so I quickly dressed and went to the student union and I knew it was bad when I opened the main door of what was always a beehive of activity, especially on a Friday afternoon, and was met with absolute silence. As I walked the empty hall, I heard the sound of a television in one of the lounges and went in that direction. Several hundred people stood silently watching the television screen and I joined them. Then Walter Cronkite made the pronouncement: John F Kennedy, president of the United States was dead. The audience gasped and the crying began. All I wanted to do is go home and I did - in a daze. My mother was the only one home; she was crying in front of the television as the news of the assassination continued and the shocked and disheveled Jackie Kennedy made her way to the plane that would carry her husband's body back to Washington, D.C. The next several days were filled with fear and pain; Vice President Lyndon Baines Johnson was sworn in aboard the same plane that carried Kennedy's body back to the nation's capital; Jack Ruby shot suspect Lee Harvey Oswald live on our television; the lying in state; the newspapers; the tributes; the memorial and burial at Arlington. In the middle of all this, John F. Kennedy Jr. celebrated his third birthday at the White House. Heartbreaking.
Like Pearl Harbor and 9/11 the debate over who really killed JFK rages on. Many believe that there was more than one shooter and that Oswald was a "Manchurian Candidate" brainwashed and trained to kill by the Russians/Cubans/Mafia or whomever. It really doesn't matter to me. He was killed and the world was never the same afterwards. Many in my generation gave up hope that things would change, myself among them. Eventually I turned my anger towards something I could change and became involved in union organizing. Otherwise, I might be a retired phys. ed. teacher and coach.
Yes, the day Kennedy was shot changed many of us early Boomers forever; the death of JFK was also the death of a generation's dreams and hopes, although we did not realize it at the time. That would come just a few years down the road in Viet Nam.
Those who can give personal memories for all three seminal events are dwindling; the narrative lessens over time. Today marks a milestone in time and remembrance. Forty-five years have passed since the day Kennedy was shot. My parents often recalled what became known as a "Day of Infamy" Pearl Harbor (December 7, 1941.) However, I was too preoccupied with childish concerns to understand the significance of that event. Historians are still debating whether the US knew ahead of time that Pearl Harbor, Hawaii was to be attacked by Japanese war planes that would kill thousands and destroy the Pacific Fleet, thus precipitating the US entry into World War Two. No one will argue that it was an event that brought the nation together in grief, outrage and the resolve to avenge the deaths and destruction of the attack.
I was born on the cusp of the Baby Boom; we were the first of the wave of children who would crowd the school systems and later challenge just about every tradition and value of previous generations.
It had started out okay for us. A new president had been sworn into office in January, 1961. With Kennedy, came a hope that America would move ahead; conquer space; and overcome discrimination and injustice. The Kennedys were a beautiful, charismatic family who were the source of fascination and even satire. Just about every home had a copy of Vaugh Meader's "First Family" an LP that was a send-up of the Kennedys, especially Jacqueline Kennedy's White House Tour that was broadcast into living rooms all across the country. Despite the satire, Americans loved the first family and pictures of Jackie and their two adorable children were seen on covers of magazines practically every month.
So, to the question that is oft asked: Where were you on __________(Pearl Harbor Day, Kennedy Assassination or 9/11,) the responses are as varied as the people who answer, but few don't automatically answer that question; it stays with one forever. As for me, I was just finishing a physical education class at Clark Gym on the campus of the University of Buffalo. At the time, I was a Phys. Ed. major, believe it or not. Someone said that the president had been shot, so I quickly dressed and went to the student union and I knew it was bad when I opened the main door of what was always a beehive of activity, especially on a Friday afternoon, and was met with absolute silence. As I walked the empty hall, I heard the sound of a television in one of the lounges and went in that direction. Several hundred people stood silently watching the television screen and I joined them. Then Walter Cronkite made the pronouncement: John F Kennedy, president of the United States was dead. The audience gasped and the crying began. All I wanted to do is go home and I did - in a daze. My mother was the only one home; she was crying in front of the television as the news of the assassination continued and the shocked and disheveled Jackie Kennedy made her way to the plane that would carry her husband's body back to Washington, D.C. The next several days were filled with fear and pain; Vice President Lyndon Baines Johnson was sworn in aboard the same plane that carried Kennedy's body back to the nation's capital; Jack Ruby shot suspect Lee Harvey Oswald live on our television; the lying in state; the newspapers; the tributes; the memorial and burial at Arlington. In the middle of all this, John F. Kennedy Jr. celebrated his third birthday at the White House. Heartbreaking.
Like Pearl Harbor and 9/11 the debate over who really killed JFK rages on. Many believe that there was more than one shooter and that Oswald was a "Manchurian Candidate" brainwashed and trained to kill by the Russians/Cubans/Mafia or whomever. It really doesn't matter to me. He was killed and the world was never the same afterwards. Many in my generation gave up hope that things would change, myself among them. Eventually I turned my anger towards something I could change and became involved in union organizing. Otherwise, I might be a retired phys. ed. teacher and coach.
Yes, the day Kennedy was shot changed many of us early Boomers forever; the death of JFK was also the death of a generation's dreams and hopes, although we did not realize it at the time. That would come just a few years down the road in Viet Nam.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
JONESTOWN
Drinking the Kool-aid
A common phrase these days, but few know its true origin. It was thirty years ago in Guyana that Jim Jones' cult came to an end when close to nine hundred people committed mass suicide by drinking a cyanide-laced fruit drink. A survivor, who escaped before the November 19, 1978 "massacre," told of numerous rehearsals for the final exit strategy where cult members were told to assemble in the main building of the compound and drink from a vat of a bitter-tasting brew that she said "tasted like that kid's drink, Kool-Aid without the sugar." Later her words would take on a whole new meaning after the horror of Jonestown. Now the phrase, "Drinking the Kool-aid" means accepting the philosophy or position of someone else without question, like a brain-washed cult member.
A couple of years before Jonestown, I had a brush with a cult when I was covering a story for a local Buffalo newspaper. A prominent local businessman/advertiser had a son who was a member of a well-known cult, the ones often seen at airports in those days, whose official name I have conveniently forgotten. He asked that we do a feature story on his son's group. We received a phone call from the son who invited me to visit their headquarters to write the story. I was to meet my "guide" at 11:00 am for a tour of their spacious Victorian quarters on a tree-lined street in a toney section of the West Side. As I parked in front of the beautiful home, I was immediately impressed that pan-handling on street corners and airports could afford such a large sumptuous setting for the local adherents to the religious sect. I had been assigned a female who immediately told me that I was not allowed to take any pictures, just one of many of the rigid rules of the group e.g. diet, food preparation and even laundry. There was a distinct heirarchy as the "leaders," all men, wore different-coloured vestments and even ate in a separate area of the dining area. I had lunch with them, but I was relegated to the "children's table" with the women and children. We all sat on the floor to eat some gruel-like substance which was prepared in the large, well-appointed kitchen by the leaders. The kitchen was cloistered, something I found out accidently by entering unawares. I was quickly ordered out by the food preparers. Pardon me! We ate in silence, except for one woman who read aloud from one of their religious tracts. The scripture sounded like a pot pourri made up from various Eastern religions. By then, I was looking for my own exit strategy. Then one of the children started to make a fuss, perhaps because of the lousy tasteless food and his mother tried to quiet him. The "leader." a very intense young man, turned from his place at the head of the room and gave the woman such a look of pure hatred and venom that I practically gasped. So much for peace and love and Hare Krishna. After the men went back out on the streets, the women, all young and very docile, resumed their housekeeping duties. The place was spotlessly clean. The dining room floor was cleaned with a special mop and the dishes, which I helped with, had to be washed downstairs in the basement laundry tub. When I asked about the kitchen, I was informed that only the "saved ones" could enter the kitchen. My guide was a novice, having been in the cult for only a few months. No men were left behind at the manse; they were part of the fund-raising committee. So, we washed dishes in the laundry tub and that's when I noticed the piles of gowns/saris/vestments near the washing machine. They were sorted by colour, but also, there was at least a foot separation between the piles on the basement floor. I asked about that and was told that the garments of the novices could not be in contact with the garments of the "saved" as they were not sanctified. I asked my guide about her life before joining the group and she told me that she had come to Buffalo to attend college and was recruited on campus. She said that all the others came from local colleges and universities in the area. She came from a very religious Jewish family (as did our newspaper advertiser's son) and she said that many others were from very religious families. She talked about the daily routine of rising at 3:00 am for morning prayers and worship; another round of prayers at 6:00 am and chores the rest of the day between meals. The day ended late with more prayers. Of course, there was no television, radio, or newspapers. There was a phone, but no one was allowed to use it without permission. Contact with family members was very limited. The group was planning a big celebration on the weekend of a wedding between two of the group's members and a special ceremony to dedicate a plant that was a god. The plant was a large, healthy marijuana-like house plant in an attractive urn on a beautiful pedestal in one of the two formal parlours of the house. I was really wanting to leave by then. Last stop, the upstairs dormitories, a warren of rooms where the women and children slept on one side of the house and the men on the other. "Married" couples did not even share private quarters even though there was plenty of evidence of sexual congress: a number of the women were pregnant, nursing infants or herding babies and toddlers in the rooms. They were not allowed on the third floor where the leaders slept. With promises that I would return on Sunday for the marriage and plant celebration, I put my loafers on and left; got into my car; drove immediately to the nearest McDonald's Drive-Thru; bought a Big Mac and fries; went back to the newspaper and quit.
A common phrase these days, but few know its true origin. It was thirty years ago in Guyana that Jim Jones' cult came to an end when close to nine hundred people committed mass suicide by drinking a cyanide-laced fruit drink. A survivor, who escaped before the November 19, 1978 "massacre," told of numerous rehearsals for the final exit strategy where cult members were told to assemble in the main building of the compound and drink from a vat of a bitter-tasting brew that she said "tasted like that kid's drink, Kool-Aid without the sugar." Later her words would take on a whole new meaning after the horror of Jonestown. Now the phrase, "Drinking the Kool-aid" means accepting the philosophy or position of someone else without question, like a brain-washed cult member.
A couple of years before Jonestown, I had a brush with a cult when I was covering a story for a local Buffalo newspaper. A prominent local businessman/advertiser had a son who was a member of a well-known cult, the ones often seen at airports in those days, whose official name I have conveniently forgotten. He asked that we do a feature story on his son's group. We received a phone call from the son who invited me to visit their headquarters to write the story. I was to meet my "guide" at 11:00 am for a tour of their spacious Victorian quarters on a tree-lined street in a toney section of the West Side. As I parked in front of the beautiful home, I was immediately impressed that pan-handling on street corners and airports could afford such a large sumptuous setting for the local adherents to the religious sect. I had been assigned a female who immediately told me that I was not allowed to take any pictures, just one of many of the rigid rules of the group e.g. diet, food preparation and even laundry. There was a distinct heirarchy as the "leaders," all men, wore different-coloured vestments and even ate in a separate area of the dining area. I had lunch with them, but I was relegated to the "children's table" with the women and children. We all sat on the floor to eat some gruel-like substance which was prepared in the large, well-appointed kitchen by the leaders. The kitchen was cloistered, something I found out accidently by entering unawares. I was quickly ordered out by the food preparers. Pardon me! We ate in silence, except for one woman who read aloud from one of their religious tracts. The scripture sounded like a pot pourri made up from various Eastern religions. By then, I was looking for my own exit strategy. Then one of the children started to make a fuss, perhaps because of the lousy tasteless food and his mother tried to quiet him. The "leader." a very intense young man, turned from his place at the head of the room and gave the woman such a look of pure hatred and venom that I practically gasped. So much for peace and love and Hare Krishna. After the men went back out on the streets, the women, all young and very docile, resumed their housekeeping duties. The place was spotlessly clean. The dining room floor was cleaned with a special mop and the dishes, which I helped with, had to be washed downstairs in the basement laundry tub. When I asked about the kitchen, I was informed that only the "saved ones" could enter the kitchen. My guide was a novice, having been in the cult for only a few months. No men were left behind at the manse; they were part of the fund-raising committee. So, we washed dishes in the laundry tub and that's when I noticed the piles of gowns/saris/vestments near the washing machine. They were sorted by colour, but also, there was at least a foot separation between the piles on the basement floor. I asked about that and was told that the garments of the novices could not be in contact with the garments of the "saved" as they were not sanctified. I asked my guide about her life before joining the group and she told me that she had come to Buffalo to attend college and was recruited on campus. She said that all the others came from local colleges and universities in the area. She came from a very religious Jewish family (as did our newspaper advertiser's son) and she said that many others were from very religious families. She talked about the daily routine of rising at 3:00 am for morning prayers and worship; another round of prayers at 6:00 am and chores the rest of the day between meals. The day ended late with more prayers. Of course, there was no television, radio, or newspapers. There was a phone, but no one was allowed to use it without permission. Contact with family members was very limited. The group was planning a big celebration on the weekend of a wedding between two of the group's members and a special ceremony to dedicate a plant that was a god. The plant was a large, healthy marijuana-like house plant in an attractive urn on a beautiful pedestal in one of the two formal parlours of the house. I was really wanting to leave by then. Last stop, the upstairs dormitories, a warren of rooms where the women and children slept on one side of the house and the men on the other. "Married" couples did not even share private quarters even though there was plenty of evidence of sexual congress: a number of the women were pregnant, nursing infants or herding babies and toddlers in the rooms. They were not allowed on the third floor where the leaders slept. With promises that I would return on Sunday for the marriage and plant celebration, I put my loafers on and left; got into my car; drove immediately to the nearest McDonald's Drive-Thru; bought a Big Mac and fries; went back to the newspaper and quit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)