On "Civility"

Yesterday, I marched in downtown Los Angeles against the Trump administration's policy to separate immigrant children from their parents at our "border." I joined tens of thousands of other Los Angelenos on a beautiful southern California afternoon in protest of our government separating thousands of children in what appears to be a systematic form of child abuse and crime against humanity.

America is not a great country at this point, if it ever was, and anyone who's arguing for more civility is deluded and naive. My friend, the great writer Lidia Yuknavitch said the other day on her social media account that civility has always been determined by those in power. 

Civility has always been defined by those in power.

We have babies in cages on our "border" (not to mention the dismantling of environmental laws to protect the planet, the specter of women losing reproductive rights, the vilifying of the press, the collusion with world dictators, the Muslim ban, the racism that permeates literally every single directive from the POSPOTUS and his enablers) and are being told, even by those on our "side" (Bernie Sanders, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, etc.) that it isn't "American" to deny someone like the lying press secretary a peaceful dinner in your restaurant. This doesn't settle with me -- and not the so-called lack of civility.

What, exactly, does civility mean, and how has it been defined in this country from its very inception?

These aren't rhetorical questions but, rather, real ones that are if not tormenting me than at least filling up my mind to the extent that I feel near anguish. The anguish comes, I think, because the situation at hand calls for so much self-reflection -- so much probing of one's interior, one's ego, one's impulse to be right. I say one's because I imagine it's true for a lot of people, particularly those of us who are privileged (and I don't mean economically; I mean white). What does it even mean to be a good person, to act with civility when the very definition of the word has been determined and defined by those in power?

The center does not hold.

I feel the same way when I read arguments against what white men call "tribalism" or "polarization." Honestly?

I got into an argument on a friend's thread on Facebook -- not with the friend but with one of his "friends." I've sparred with this guy before, and while I'd like to make him irrelevant by not even engaging with him (his comments are nearly always dull and condescending with that overwhelming sarcasm and fake irony that marks the intellectually lazy), I'm learning through the engagement what it takes to be truly disobedient. Or maybe what it might take to be truly disobedient to the mores and definitions of civility that not only our ancestors but also our contemporaries demand.

Again, I'm just thinking about these things. I am certain of very little.

I'm a person who has trouble even uttering the word fuck, mainly because of the way I've been brought up, yet in uttering the word fuck I alienate even my own parents whom I love.

The person with whom I sparred on Facebook responded to my call for civil disobedience by asking whether I was prepared to be violent against my fellow citizens because being disobedient might cause a schism like we haven't seen since the Civil War. He asked, "Prepared to defend and even harm others if need be?"

I answered, "I will personally not commit acts of violence against any human beings, but I am prepared to stand against anything. That means anything. Absolutely. There are plenty of examples of peaceful and resolute civil disobedience across history. It's not a matter of "winning" or "losing." I align with those people. When and if my rights as a woman are compromised as they very well will or might be very soon, I will stand against that and for other women, minorities and the disabled."

I added, "The path to change is seldom polite. And the definition of civility is generally set by those in POWER."

The guy responded, "The definition of civility in this country was originally established when the first inhabitants began following the codes and mores of western civilization, along with the principles of the rule of law. Men opening doors for women, pulling their chairs out. You know that kind of demeaning, misogynistic behavior ya'll are so eager to abolish in favor of...I don't know what. Hip hop?"

If I had one, I'd rest my case. 

Mull on that, Reader.

 What Kind of Times Are These

By Adrienne Rich

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled

this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.

 

Russian Bots

So, I’ve got an interesting twist on yesterday’s post. This morning I learned that the man who had wished for me to be “sterilized” when I stated my antipathy to guns (I actually called for them to be melted. I was emotional) on a friend’s thread on Facebook, was actually not a man at all. I had joked to another commenter also insulted that he might not even be a person, but, rather, a Russian bot. Reader, I don’t know what the hell a Russian bot is, but we use language like this now. Willy nilly. Apparently, someone was impersonating my friend’s friend — was it a hack job or a Russian bot?

What is going on?

The world is ugly and the people are sad. Piles of dead children are growing.

Someone from Russia tried to reach me yesterday. There’s a screenshot of the number.

What is going on?

Charlottesville

I sat at my turquoise tile table this morning and fed Sophie oatmeal, peaches and almond milk. She has several scabs on the bridge of her nose, and a bit of swelling from a fall. She fell into a pile of toys the other day, in a corner of her room, a tiny spot not covered in padding, her head face-down, catching the edge of something hard. Language can and should be brutal. I saw that or have seen that spot, have looked away. It would seem that chance conspired with my moment of looking away to cause injury. Is it in my power to control, literally, everything? The injuries she's acquired as a result of disability and epilepsy make my heart ache more, I think, than anything else. I don't need to explain why, and you don't need to tell me.

While I fed her, I looked at the photo above. I stared at the photo above, at every inch of it. I saw it yesterday in the frantic period after what happened, and I looked away. Some insist that we should not allow "in" images like the one above, while others insist on the importance of being a witness to what is illustrated. There is a risk of voyeurism and a risk of dissociation. I believe in confronting what is difficult and sitting with what is uncomfortable, even traumatic, particularly if I am able to do so, and I am very much able to do so. Tears stream down my face, but I am able to do so, to look, to confront.

An old friend asked this morning on Facebook whether we were capable of extending compassion to those who wrought that. All persons are worthy of compassion and need to be heard. To be seen. To be heard. If you could ask them one question, she wrote, what would it be? I quickly responded and then quickly deleted my comments. I tried to imagine what I'd say to the people who wrought that and realized that it was too early for that. Too early, too raw. Obscene. The asking, the telling, the looking, the looking away.

Right now, though, I know the question. I'd ask them what they saw when they looked at that, when they looked at that photo. What do you see? I'd ask.

What do you see?







I see that person there, in the right lower corner, with one foot on the ground, the other vulnerable and resting on the bumper of the car. I see the man in the center, caught in flight, the man to his right, upside-down, his shirt riding up, exposing his tattooed back. I see the colors of their skin. Next to him, I see the sign LOVE it says. LOVE, it says. I see the person to the left, his hand at his face. I see the woman to his left, her mouth open in a scream. I see stop signs STOP and the rush of movement even as it is suspended. I see a Black Lives Matter sign, a peace symbol, both upside-down, next to a man's legs, toes pointing to the sky, upside-down. The world upside-down. A sign that says Solidarity, right side up, a fist raised to the sky, below it a foot, a leg, a crumpled body the glint of metal. Death in light.

I can pore over this photo and see everything, everything there is to see. Language can and should be brutal. We can live questions without answers. I will not look away and you should not either.

There is Nothing New Under the Sun and Love is Still a Verb

Russell Simmons

A dear friend wrote me an email, asking me where I'd been on the blog and why I wasn't posting as often as I generally do. I can't really tell you why, other than I feel a bit dumbstruck and distracted by various things in my life (good ones) and by the shitstorm/clusterf*^k of the last few weeks in this country. I don't have anything more to add to what you've already read about the senseless brutality against black people by police officers or about the monster that is running for President of The Disunited States. I have decided to be as vocal as I am wont to be and even went so far as to tell a particularly dense white commenter on a black friend's Facebook page (you know the kind -- the one that says all lives matter and spends an inordinate amount of time making excuses with rhetorical questions) to STFU. I actually told someone to STFU and LISTEN for the first time in my life. I know there are many of you out there who will read that and raise your eyebrows and think that I should be less angry or maybe more tolerant or more Buddhist or Christian or gracious or whatever, but in this case I was not, and I do not regret it for one moment. The person who was doing all the mansplaining asked me another rhetorical question and then bowed out of the discussion. While I don't pretend to know anything at all, nor that I am able to change everything, I do know when we white people are flailing around and making excuses for something that is obvious and plain to see, and I do take seriously the directive of black people who are asking for us to be co-conspirators and not just allies. I agree with my friend and mentor Lidia Yuknavitch, too, who said the following:

well hell, i'm of the mind that we need all the voices, the signatures and protests, i think we need the calm and eloquent voices, i think we need the riots, i think we need the diplomatic nice people who call for balance, i think we need the agitators and rabble rousers and those willing to risk danger, i think we need all the stories and images and yawps and poems. i think we need it all. radical change does not come from one mode, one voice, one way of articulating. radical change comes from a plurality of voices that rise variously and unstoppably and refuse to shut up.

Tomorrow, Oliver and I are going to our neighborhood police station (a couple of officers whom I know personally since I've called them to intervene in the bullshit goings-on at the McMansion built behind my house) and enquire about how they as a station or part of the greater LAPD are working on non-violent conflict resolution. I'm going to tell them that I'm concerned and upset by what's happening in other parts of the country and hope that they are, too. I'm going to ask them what their policy and saturation is regarding body cams. I'm going to tell them, too, that I will be writing about their answers on my blog.

It's a little thing, such a small thing, but if we could all grab that veil and keep pulling we just might change things.

#blacklivesmatter

Fixing Chariots

Sophie has a wheelchair that we received after about nine months of wrangling with the various agencies and insurance companies. It cost just under $10,000. All the paperwork is in a file that I labeled Sophie's Chariot.  Yesterday, I spent about thirty minutes trying to thread one of the straps back in so that she could be secure. I used tweezers. I fixed the Chariot.

I had an interesting discussion on Facebook the other day on a thread responding to Florida Senator Rubio's assertion that he wouldn't support abortion for those fetuses affected by the Zika virus. Since I've basically weeded out or hidden all my "friends" that have right-wing viewpoints (in the name of sanity during an election year), the comments were predictably liberal-minded with much derision toward Rubio. Given that the man also believes that a fetus should be carried to term even if the woman has been raped or in cases of incest, I was not surprised by his vehement response.  I should make my own assertion here that I am, of course, utterly "pro-choice" and do not believe anyone has the right to tell a woman what to do with her body, including the fetus, should she become pregnant.

Marco Rubio can go f*&k himself before telling me about the sanctity of life.

Where I get squirmy, though, is the talk about aborting children with microcephaly.

This is a post about some squirmy stuff. I don't want to argue and will just present what I'm thinking about when I hear people talk about Zika and microcephaly and abortion, and before there was even knowledge of Zika, these would have been the same thoughts regarding abortion and any sort of disability.

Again, I am decidedly pro-choice and believe unequivocally that it's the woman's right to make decisions regarding her body and that, should she make the decision to have an abortion for whatever reason, she has full and equal access to the procedure with her doctor.


Here are a couple comments from the Facebook thread:

• So. He's planning on putting through legislation that ensures these children have life-long free medical care, schooling, aides, wheelchairs, dental and all things they will need for the next 50 plus years, RIGHT?
• In that case, little Marco and the so-called "pro-lifers" should adopt, raise, and continue to support indefinitely each and every one of the severely handicapped children that are born of Zika-infected mothers.

My first thought is how everything -- literally everything -- is reduced to economics -- or how should I say it? -- worth and value. These children, born of women infected with the Zika virus, are not just a great burden to their families but also to society. This kind of reasoning reminds me of how people argue against the death penalty by stating that it's "more expensive to kill people than to house them in jail for a lifetime." Again, I'm just throwing out some of my thoughts here. 

What if we shifted the whole paradigm and asserted the primacy of the vulnerable, how the disabled bring a certain light to the world and evoke the best in the rest of us. I'm not implying that there's a reason for suffering, a plan or some sort of divine imperative. I don't believe in God that way. I believe more in chaos and, perhaps, meaning wrought from it.Sophie is not here to teach me through her seizures and silence, but I am here to learn what it is to truly love.



Here's another comment:

Anybody ever tell these 'interventionists' about the kids that won't be born, because the one they compelled to be born will take the time, energy and finances of the potential kids a couple might have had, were they not over-burdened with the deformed child an abortion could have prevented? Seems to me, there are more potential children condemned to "death" than the fetus the anti-abortionists insist on bringing to term.

Cartoon thought bubble:

Hard as it might be to believe, over the last couple of decades, I've had several people ask me whether I would have aborted Sophie had I known she would have refractory epilepsy and severe developmental disabilities. The hard to believe, for me, is the audacity of the asking, not the answer. I have learned to literally live the questions and not the answers. I have no answers. I've said it before, but I hold opposing thoughts and ideas at once. My hands, you know, are large and strong. When I was pregnant with Henry, I declined an amniocentesis because I already knew that we never know. I was thought a fool by those who advised otherwise. Fools never know. When Sophie was diagnosed, I mourned for what seemed like lifetimes. I mourned the loss of the baby that I thought I had carried and then brought into the world. I thought that she had been replaced by a new baby until I realized that she, Sophie, was always who she was, had been so since spark and stardust and love created her. The mourning never stops, but neither does the love.

Remember hands, how much they carry. It is both terrible burden and incredible honor to care for Sophie. I couldn't do it again and I'd do it again, And not but.

Principles of Non-Violence

Militarism – war, imperialism, domestic violence, rape, terrorism, human trafficking, media violence, drugs, child abuse, violent crime…

 “A true revolution of values will lay hands on the world order and say of war- ‘This way of settling differences is not just.’ This way of burning human beings with napalm, of filling our nation’s homes with orphans and widows, of injecting poisonous drugs of hate into the veins of peoples normally humane, of sending men home from dark and bloody battlefields physically handicapped psychologically deranged, cannot be reconciled with wisdom, justice and love. A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.”

from  Where Do We Go From Here: Chaos or Community?” by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.; Boston: Beacon Press, 1967

I had a post planned about my wonderful weekend. I took a boat from Ventura to one of the Channel Islands. I took some amazing photos of wildlife -- whales and dolphins, birds and sea lions. I walked uphill for miles and looked down on the Pacific. I had a magical encounter with a friend and an Island Fox. Honestly, it was one of the most beautiful days I've ever had. I promise to post some of those photos and do some writing about it soon.

But then there's Orlando. I posted a provocative thing on Facebook in an inane attempt to weed out my "friends" -- namely anyone who espouses the use of guns as protection or a "right." I'm sick of the fuckery of gun violence and the same old gobbledy-gook about liberty and one's "right" to protect oneself and one's children from harm. I am not afraid and refuse to believe that owning a gun -- any kind of gun -- in order to protect myself or my children is my right. I have absolutely no desire or feel any fear or need to do so. I took the post down mainly because one of my relatives let loose and spewed a whole lot of hatred and racism, and it just about made me sick that I might have provoked it.

In any case, I'm hunkering down and re-familiarizing myself with the principles of non-violence because I believe the contemplation and practice of them might be the only way to live. I'm not talking about breath here, but life. Living. Loving. I do understand that MLK had quite backward views of homosexuality, and those backward views do disturb me. I can only hope that he might have come to a more enlightened and educated view had he lived longer. His principles for dealing with conflict are sound, though, and they are dynamic and ongoing.

I've copied and pasted the following from The King Center website.  I send all my love to those affected by the violence in Orlando, particularly to those in the LGBTQ community who suffer at the hands of violent people in thought and deed every single day.

SIX PRINCIPLES OF NONVIOLENCE

Fundamental tenets of Dr. King’s philosophy of nonviolence described in his first book, Stride Toward Freedom. The six principles include:

1. PRINCIPLE ONE: Nonviolence is a way of life for courageous people.
   It is active nonviolent resistance to evil. 
   It is aggressive spiritually, mentally and emotionally.  
2. PRINCIPLE TWO: Nonviolence seeks to win friendship and understanding.
   The end result of nonviolence is redemption and reconciliation. 
   The purpose of nonviolence is the creation of the Beloved Community.                                                                                                        
3. PRINCIPLE THREE: Nonviolence seeks to defeat injustice not people.
   Nonviolence recognizes that evildoers are also victims and are not evil people. 
   The nonviolent resister seeks to defeat evil not people.
4. PRINCIPLE FOUR: Nonviolence holds that suffering can educate and transform.
   Nonviolence accepts suffering without retaliation. 
   Unearned suffering is redemptive and has tremendous educational and transforming possibilities.    
5. PRINCIPLE FIVE: Nonviolence chooses love instead of hate.
   Nonviolence resists violence of the spirit as well as the body.           
   Nonviolent love is spontaneous, unmotivated, unselfish and creative.  
6. PRINCIPLE SIX: Nonviolence believes that the universe is on the side of justice.
   The nonviolent resister has deep faith that justice will eventually win. 
   Nonviolence believes that God is a God of justice.    

___________________ 

We've got a hell of a lot to do.  Here is some guidance:

SIX STEPS OF NONVIOLENT SOCIAL CHANGE

The Six Steps for Nonviolent Social Change are based on Dr. King's nonviolent campaigns and teachings that emphasize love in action. Dr. King's philosophy of nonviolence, as reviewed in the Six Principles of Nonviolence, guide these steps for social and interpersonal change.

1. INFORMATION GATHERING:To understand and articulate an issue, problem or injustice facing a person, community, or institution you must do research. You must investigate and gather all vital information from all sides of the argument or issue so as to increase your understanding of the problem. You must become an expert on your opponent's position. 
2. EDUCATION:It is essential to inform others, including your opposition, about your issue. This minimizes misunderstandings and gains you support and sympathy. 
3. PERSONAL COMMITMENT:Daily check and affirm your faith in the philosophy and methods of nonviolence. Eliminate hidden motives and prepare yourself to accept suffering, if necessary, in your work for justice.
4. DISCUSSION/NEGOTIATION:Using grace, humor and intelligence, confront the other party with a list of injustices and a plan for addressing and resolving these injustices. Look for what is positive in every action and statement the opposition makes. Do not seek to humiliate the opponent but to call forth the good in the opponent. 
5. DIRECT ACTION: These are actions taken when the opponent is unwilling to enter into, or remain in, discussion/negotiation. These actions impose a "creative tension" into the conflict, supplying moral pressure on your opponent to work with you in resolving the injustice. 
6. RECONCILIATION:Nonviolence seeks friendship and understanding with the opponent. Nonviolence does not seek to defeat the opponent. Nonviolence is directed against evil systems, forces, oppressive policies, unjust acts, but not against persons. Through reasoned compromise, both sides resolve the injustice with a plan of action. Each act of reconciliation is one step close to the 'Beloved Community.' 

Based on Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "Letter from Birmingham Jail" in Why We Can't Wait, Penguin Books, 1963.

The 4004th Post

I think today is International Astronomy Day or something, and yesterday I went downtown with three friends to visit the Mirrored Infinity Room at the Broad. You could go in, only two at a time, for only 45 seconds. Gazillions of lights hung over water like stars.You stood on a platform and looked at your reflection in the many mirrors. It was cool, but we agreed that the pictures were actually better than the experience. There just wasn't enough time to really feel the magic. When I walked out, I remarked that it was what I imagined death to be -- some kind of immediate and quick merging with the stars. At least that's what I hope it'll be.

So, this is my 4004th post. How weird is that? I wish I had someone who would go through all of them and pull out the significant ones, if any. I know the key to the organization of my book is somewhere in there, but the task seems formidable. Anyone?

Anyone?

Sophie continues to recover from her oral surgery on Tuesday. She had minimal swelling and no ice was used. I think it was the CBD. It's a powerful anti-inflammatory. I'm feeling a bit drained from the experience, but it's not about me, is it? Speaking of, I got a dress-down from someone on Facebook. I had objected to her use of the word "retarded" in her rant against Elizabeth Warren detractors. While I agreed with her rant, I was bummed that she'd used the word "retarded" and said so. She defended it. I wrote her a private message explaining why it's so awful. She wrote me back and was very angry with me. She said a lot of things that I've been thinking about, some true and others just plain vituperative.

These things drain me, too, but once you're drained you're empty and can find things to fill you back up.

I can't get this poem by W.S. Merwin out of my head today:

I Live Up Here

I live up here

And a little bit to the left

And I go down only

For the accidents and then

Never a moment too soon

Just the same it's a life it's plenty

The stairs the petals she loves me

Every time

Nothing has changed

Oh down there down there

Every time

The glass knights lie by their gloves of blood

In the pans of the scales the helmets

Brim over with water

It's perfectly fair

The pavements are dealt out the dice

Every moment arrive somewhere

You can hear the hearses getting lost in lungs

Their bells stalling

And then silence comes with the plate and I

Give what I can

Feeling It's worth it

For I see

What my votes the mice are accomplishing

And I know I'm free

This is how I live

Up here and simply

Others do otherwise

Maybe

I've read it about ten times today and gotten something new out of it each time. 

Disney Hall, seen from The Broad

I can't stop listening to this old song:

4,004 posts. 

Art, poetry, music. 

This is how I live. Up here and simply. Just give me one thing that I can hold onto. Others do otherwise maybe.

Fear, Carry and Conceal

Tucson, Arizona, 2011; photograph by Paolo Pellegrin
via The New York Review of Books

I have several friends, particularly in the medical marijuana community, who are ardent Christians and political conservatives or libertarians. Their beliefs in many regards are antithetical to my own, despite the fact that we share much in common, namely our children with seizure disorders. A couple of years ago, I had to disengage from one member of this community when he derided the anguished cries of the father of the UCSB shooter for stricter gun laws. This person then derided me, called me a coward and declared that it was people like himself that had to protect lazy people like me. It's too easy, I think, to call a person like this insane or stupid or even to feel scared as shit that they're carrying guns around.

Lately, I've noticed on Facebook that a number of these people -- my friends -- are posting quite exuberantly about gun shopping, about applying for gun licenses and carry and conceal permits. The comments that follow these status updates are enthusiastic, even down to the emoticons of guns and happy faces. Their reasoning is generally along the lines of protection, that carrying a gun will protect them and their family. The other day, I sat on my front lawn with Sophie and a guy who was going to do a little work on my house. He, too, is an ardent gun enthusiast and spoke openly about the need to protect oneself from bad people, to arm oneself and learn to shoot well, in the event of a home invasion or a threat to my children or myself.

I might just be a dumb-ass, but I am not afraid.

I really don't understand what everyone is so afraid of, why they think concealing a sophisticated piece of killing technology is nifty and what sort of statistics they've seen that I haven't regarding defensive gun use in the home or out at the movie theater or in a grocery store or child's school.

To be frank, the only caveat to my lack of fear is -- well -- you. You with your glib photos of guns, your cocky aims to protect yourself and your children from dark forces, your conceal and carry ardency, your deep cynicism and paradoxical blind faith in -- what? In what lies your faith? Please enlighten me.


I've been mulling these things the last few days, inarticulate and struggling to understand, repelled and repulsed and uncomfortable. I didn't want to resort to sarcasm, to scorn or contempt -- I like these people, feel bonded to them, even devoted. Yet, distance. My brain's wrappings -- they're undone. I don't understand. In one of those amazing instances of synchronicity, tonight I read the brilliant Marilynn Robinson's long essay on faith and guns and fear in The New York Review of Books.  I hope that it will provoke some response, that I will. I'm not afraid and have nothing to carry or conceal.

Surfing Around With Admins, Internecine Wars, Opioids and Arthritis

Given that it's nearly 11:00 Pacific Time, and most of you are already in bed and might be reading this tomorrow morning, let's just surf around tonight.

First of all, did you know that the FDA recently approved the use of Oxycontin for patients aged 11 to 16? Unless you've been living under a rock, and that's perfectly acceptable given what's going on in this crazy old world, oxycontin is a long-release painkiller that acts upon the brain like heroin. Here's the statement, reported by NBC news:

Dr. Sharon Hertz, director of new anesthesia, analgesia and addiction products for the FDA, said studies by Purdue Pharma of Stamford, Connecticut, which manufactures the drug, "supported a new pediatric indication for OxyContin in patients 11 to 16 years old and provided prescribers with helpful information about the use of OxyContin in pediatric patients.

Cue Mrs. Braddock's laugh.


Well, you know where this is going, right? I'm not going to put down anyone who wants to alleviate the suffering of a child in pain, but reeeeeeeeely? Raaaaaaaaaaahly?

As you know, my tiny little mother mind™ has been working overtime with countless other minds, far greater than my own, trying to lobby and persuade The Powers That Be that the efficacy of Charlotte's Web, of cannabis, of medical marijuana, etc. is far stronger than anecdote and certainly not attributable to the placebo effect, that it's a plant that's been used for thousands of years, that there are studies -- oh you know what I'm saying.  But hey, what do we know? What do they know?

Yesterday, I visited a prominent orthopedist in Beverly Hills, a young and handsome doctor who probably replaces the knees, shoulders and various body parts of a plethora of celebrities given the location of his office. Last week I developed a bum knee overnight, was driven, quite literally, nearly to my knees one afternoon with a stabbing, horrific pain, a sort of grim reminder that yes, Elizabeth, you are turning 52 years old on August 27th and have taken for granted your solid southern Italian peasant ancestry and were over-confident that these strong genes were somehow going to protect you from the vagaries of age. To make a long story short, my right knee has a touch of The Arthritis, but not enough to warrant any sort of treatment, which given that it'd be one of those gigantic steroid shots that I understand work but that actually spark up the primitive part of my brain that recalls injecting high dosage ones into my daughter's baby legs two decades ago -- I declined. I did ask the good doctor, though, about cannabis and its anti-inflammatory effects and if he'd heard about any of that. He gave a short, impatient laugh, waxed on a bit about how the claims that it cures everything! couldn't be taken seriously and that there wasn't any research, yadda, yadda, yadda.

OK.

The weird thing is that this headline:

FDA Approves OxyContin for Children as Young as 11

(read the whole article here) just doesn't surprise many of us and turns our already cynical and tiny little mother minds™ into tiny, little obdurate bricks. Show me the studies -- double-blind, placebo controlled, long-term studies of children.

Let's catch another wave, shall we?

Back on the ranch -- the marijuana ranch, that is -- I got into a little sparring with the self-described admins of a group on Facebook called Pediatric Cannabis Therapy. These admins (and really, why do we have to shorten the word adminstrators to admins?) decided that discussions about Charlotte's Web Hemp Oil (CWHO) and the Realm of Caring (ROC) are no longer allowed. I wish I could quote the rest of the message that they posted, but that wouldn't be ethical for a closed Facebook group. Suffice it to say that it was riddled with not just grammatical errors (which, admittedly, drive this tiny, little mother mind™ batty) but vindictive statements and lies pitting advocates of CBD legislation against those who hope for whole plant legislation. First of all, these two groups need not be mutually exclusive, but according to Pediatric Cannabis Therapy's new rules, they are. The amount of work that Paige Figi, the Stanley Brothers, Heather Barnes Jackson and a virtual army of volunteers in nearly every single state in this country has done in a a very short amount of time -- to help sick children get access to medicine -- is nothing short of astounding and admirable. CBD-only laws are not perfect ones, and most of us believe that they are but tiny steps toward a larger awareness of this plant's many benefits. It's been more than 80 years since marijuana was basically forced underground for political and economic reasons, and during the last sixteen months, enormous progress has been made by pretty desperate women and men whose children's lives are at stake.That being said,  members of the Pediatric Cannabis Therapy group were warned not to discuss Charlotte's Web by name or they'd be asked to leave the group. Insults flew for a bit and while I dropped in here and there (you know, surfing the waves, trying to stay cool, look cool), I finally unjoined the group. The crazy talk has happened before, and I just can't be bothered with it anymore. While perhaps boring to those of you who have no interest in The Marijuana Wars, today I wanted to suggest that those of you who do have an interest should probably avoid the Pediatric Cannabis Therapy Group for anything but the lowest form of entertainment -- a sort of Monty Pythonesque Office of Arguments:



I will say that many hundreds of decent people exchange valuable information there in spite of those pesky admins destroying the synergy (another ridiculous 21st century word that they didn't use but that bugs me so much I thought I'd throw it in there with the dirty bathwater), so if you decide to stay in the group or choose to join the group, I advise you to steer clear of The Admin Who Is Not a Beach Boy or certainly don't talk directly about The Product That Cannot Be Named.





After that shredding, I'm prone out.

Cowabunga!

Hedgebrook, Day Eighteen

I haven't seen an owl yet, but I've been keeping company with a tree just outside the window over the sink in my cottage. I've been keeping company with a lot of trees, actually, in hopes of seeing an owl, but this tree, in particular, has drawn my attention enough over the last two weeks that its inhabitant now stares, implacably, back at me.

Do you see the face? Initially, I thought it was the Virgin Mary, but then I realized that it was just Ezra Pound with a Virgin Mary drape around him.

It occurred to me that the prolonged solitude, the delving into the deepest parts of my interior, and the wrestling with narrative were fine-tuning my imagination enough that the lines separating that interior with the outside world, even reality, were a bit blurry. But Facebook, in addition to making birthdays absolutely over-the-top and its ability to sign you up for various choirs that sing one long and beautiful, if boring note, also confirms your sanity. It also confirms that I have a rocking group of friends. At last check there were over thirty comments in response to my posting that photo, a hilarious list whose variety suggests the face to be a kind of Rorschash blot.

Tell me who you see. Leave a comment here if you haven't already on Facebook.

On Condescension and Mama Bears

via USA Today***

The National Geographic article has re-appeared. Evidently, there were technical difficulties, but they seem to be resolved. No sooner had it gone back up than the conflict arose, again, and, again, I am drawn into it like the proverbial fly to shit. Excuse my French. Someone posted a link to the article and provoked a stream of comments on her Facebook page, many grateful for the perspective and nuance of the article and my experience, but many filled with the sort of condescension and patronisation that is particularly irksome. Here's one comment:

I hear you, I am just stating that if the anti-vaxxer were placing my children at risk, I would be angry and unkind and would not care. However, if I were discussing vaccination with an anti-vaxxer in a venue that was not placing my children at risk, I would be civil--and would hope others would be as well. 

The woman who posted it called herself a mama bear because that's how much she cares for her children (as opposed to someone like myself who couldn't give a shit). The parenthetical phrase is mine, by the way.

Let's get something straight. I am the first person in the universe to claim that one of my many faults is a tendency toward  -- or let's face it -- outright condescension, and while it's often an unconscious tendency, when I'm called on it, I'll agree and apologize. I am always trying to do better. I need to do better. Given that it's a fault of mine, I also wonder if I'm particularly sensitive to it when it's directed at me -- particularly when it comes to this vaccination issue. I've had a lot of well-meaning people post the link to the National Geographic article with the following attachment:

I'm completely pro-vaccination, but...

or

I've vaccinated all of my children and believe everyone should vaccinate their children, but...

or

You're exactly the reason why everyone should be vaccinated, so we can protect your kids!**

and

I'm vaccinating my children so that you don't have to vaccinate yours. (One woman who repeatedly commented on the National Geographic site, insisted that I thank her for providing my children with protection, i.e. the arguable herd immunity theory).

The buts are sometimes caveats that well-meaning people include so that we understand that though they're being "open-minded" and appreciate my story and perspective, they also want others to know that it's implicitly wrong. Sometimes, the but is used as a protective device because they don't want the usual vitriol heaped upon them. I get that. I've used it myself.

Here's the thing. I'm a mama bear, too. I'm sick to death of patronisation and condescension. I'll be damned if I'll let a scientist, a doctor, a mother, or a government entity patronize or condescend to me. This sinking feeling, the jittery, nervous thing I've got going whenever I even visit this issue which is a lot, lately? It's the feeling of being unheard, of being truly unheard in the face of money and business and the unknowable. It's the feeling of being powerless and ineffective.  It's a mama bear falling out of a tree.

*I've used the image before, and the short piece that it inspired was published online. You can read and listen to it here.

** Read this article by a woman who contacted me today. Read her credentials and look at her research.. Don't Vaccinate to Protect My Cancer Kid

Something Wet

The last few days, if not weeks, have taken me off track.  Getting off track means going back and forth on Facebook or through email about this measles hysteria. Getting off track means taking seriously the threats and bullying remarks. Getting off track means listening to anything but my own heart and knowledge gained from experience.  Getting off track means being interviewed by the mainstream press about this issue. I declined. Getting off track means taking myself too seriously.

Getting on track means writing both my story and a bit of fiction. It means writing in general, not responding or reacting. It also means caregiving -- lots and lots of caregiving -- to Sophie, to Henry and to Oliver. It means making money. I have two jobs -- contracts for ghostwriting a non-fiction book and for an advocacy project. I've got my Books & Bakes salon to run with two dates coming up -- February 13th and February 27th. I have to arrange all the logistics for my three-week Hedgebrook writing residency in late June -- a task that boggles the mind even more than the thought of taking my writing seriously enough to deserve such an honor.

Getting on track means wondering whether Bob Dylan's new album of Frank Sinatra covers is awesome or just really, really weird.

Getting on track means reading.

This:

A Recovered Memory of Water

Sometimes when the mermaid's daughter
is in the bathroom
cleaning her teeth with a thick brush
and baking soda
she has the sense the room is filling
with water.

It starts at her feet and ankles
and slides further and further up
over her thighs and hips and waist.
In no time
it's up to her oxters.
She bends down into it to pick up
handtowels and washcloths and all such things
as are sodden with it.
They all look like seaweed --
like those long strands of kelp that used to be called
'mermaid-hair' or 'foxtail'.
Just as suddenly the water recedes
and in no time
the room's completely dry again.

A terrible sense of stress
is part and parcel of these emotions.
At the end of the day she has nothing else
to compare it to.
She doesn't have the vocabulary for any of it.
At her weekly therapy session
she has more than enough to be going with
just to describe this strange phenomenon
and to express it properly
to the psychiatrist.

She doesn't have the terminology
or any of the points of reference
or any word at all that would give the slightest suggestion
as to what water might be.
'A transparent liquid,' she says, doing as best she can.
'Right,' says the therapist, 'keep going.'
He coaxes and cajoles her towards word-making.
She has another run at it.
'A thin flow,' she calls it,
casting about gingerly in the midst of words.
'A shiny film. Dripping stuff. Something wet.'

Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill, from The Fifty Minute Mermaid
translated by Paul Muldoon