100 Day Challenge #83: Please Don't Bring Me Flowers (continued from #74)

Flora had to wipe the steam off the window as she peered down into the street. She checked her watch again, curled her hair around her fingers and patted the backpack on the window seat beside her that contained the books she planned to return to the town library. They weren’t really due yet, but he wouldn’t know that. She had taken her meds, causing terrible dry mouth, which she did her best not to fixate on. In the deep pockets of her down jacket she fingered an epi-pen and her N95 masks. Any minute now the caregiver would drive his little beat-up car into the driveway across the street, giving her just enough time to get out of the house and onto the sidewalk before Jake came out the front door for his walk to school. 

Eight o’clock rolled around, but the little car had not arrived. Ten minutes later, the driveway was still empty, and no one had come out of the house. Flora started pacing.

After five more minutes, she crossed her arms angrily, her head leaned against the window. She took three deep breaths counting to seven on the exhales to calm herself, because she had to decide what to do. And no good decisions were made in anger. 

“Okay, what’s it going to be, Flora?” 

She resumed her march across the room. Thinking out loud had always helped her make choice. She could focus on problems better when they weren’t jammed in with other thoughts and competing for space in her head. 

“I could wait ‘til tomorrow. But I took all those meds. I worked up the courage, and it might not come back tomorrow. Maybe I can get it back. But what if I can’t? I could knock on his door. Why? Why am I knocking? Um, to make sure everything’s okay. I didn’t see him come out. But that might imply I’m spying on him. That’s kinda creepy. I could bring him something. Yeah. But what? Why? What does he need? Again, it implies I know he’s home. Maybe that’s not so bad. But maybe it is.” 

She sat down heavily on the bench.

“You’re overthinking this.” 

After a few more breaths, she rose quickly.

“No more thinking. Just do it, Flora. Carpe Diem.”

With that, she made her way to the kitchen. From the cupboard, she removed boxes of Girl Scout cookies her mother bought from the neighborhood girls at a stand the day before. She spilled out a few from each box, arranging them on a paper plate as quickly as she could, careful not to inhale when she added the Thin Mints. 

With plastic wrap over the top, her backpack on, double-N-95s on her face, she headed out the front door. 

Nobody answered when she rang the doorbell. Her hands shook as she made herself ring it a second time. Fast footsteps approached inside. She waved at the peephole before multiple locks clicked open, and Jake appeared.

“Flora?”

“Hey, I, um, brought you cookies. Girl Scout. Not homemade. Obviously. I was on my way to the library, and I didn’t see the caretaker’s car, so I thought, well, maybe you were home and um, hungry? I mean I didn’t know for sure. Just a hunch.”

She wanted to crawl into a hole. Could she have sounded lamer? But Jake smiled. 

“Thanks.” 

He stepped outside, closing the door.

“She’s sleeping.” 

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. It was kind of a rough morning, but she took her meds. It’s good now.”

“Your mom?”

He nodded, looking away.

“Does it, does it happen often that the caretaker doesn’t show?” 

He shrugged. “Depends. Eugene’s been pretty reliable. He called this morning sick. We’ve had some in the past though that, well, I missed a lot of school.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, like I said, you didn’t wake her.”

“No, I’m sorry that your mom is sick. I’m sorry you have to deal with this.”

He looked her in the eyes this time. His were so blue, almost translucent like water. 

“Thanks. I’m sorry that you have to deal with smells and allergies and stuff. It seems really, really hard.”

“Yeah, it is. I won’t lie. Your situation seems really, really hard too.”

“Yeah,” he said.

There was an awkward moment before he took a deep breath as if deciding something. 

“My mom.” He looked into the trees again. “She has schizophrenia. The onset came when I was born.”

Flora wanted to hug him. Badly. Just fling the cookies onto the neatly mowed lawn and hold him. It was an entirely new feeling. Hugging wasn’t exactly her thing, closeness to others revealing body odor and perfumed deodorants and smelly earwax.

There was another moment of silence before Flora said, “It’s not fair, Jake.”

Their eyes met again, and Flora experienced a melting sensation as if her entire body was made of chocolate warming under sunlight. She held out the plate. And taking them, Jake DiMeola smiled. She’d rarely seen him smile, she realized, another reason he’d always been such a sought-after mystery by the girls. His cheeks turned pink. His eyes brightened.

“You okay to walk to the library?”

It was her turn to shrug. “I’m currently under the influence of almost every allergy medicine, prescribed and over-the-counter, known to man. I can get to the library. I just might fall asleep over my books. And it’s like a parking meter. My time will run out.”

“And you’ll be like Cinderella finding a pumpkin instead of a carriage.”

“And sneezing at it.”

Jake laughed, and it was one of the best things Flora had ever heard. She barely remembered saying good-bye as she dashed down the sidewalk, heart floating, towards the library thinking how it could become an addiction, trying to bring on that laughter. 

Photo by Inga Shcheglova on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #82: Don't Mind the Gap

One of the tricky things about writing, or about any art form, is that in order for it to mean the most, to be the most genuine, you have to create it for yourself. And then you share this personal thing with others. 

It’s a place of vulnerability. 

This can be challenging if you’ve been brought up to please others, used to living a life in which it feels crucial to appear a certain nebulous “right” way rather than as yourself. You can lose track of what “yourself” means, who “yourself” is. 

That’s me, I’m afraid. Much less so than in the past. But evidently still me, now and then. I just went through an intense week of Not Enough, of loss of self. And thus, the gap since my last post in my 100 Day Challenge. 

And the only way I could find my way back was to write about it. As honestly as I can.

I’ve worked hard for many years to identify, name and let go of unexamined beliefs and habits of thought from childhood that have gotten in my way of knowing and loving myself. There’s been a lot to unravel. I use the term “worked hard” purposefully. I sometimes oppose this idiom (“He’s such a hard worker” “The rewards of hard work”), since working diligently at something doesn’t always have to feel hard, and sometimes I think we need it to feel hard in order to give it value. Why can’t work be pleasurable? 

But in the case of making internal changes through therapy and self-examination and developing new practices, well that is often hard. Rewarding and great and difficult and uncomfortable all at once.

So, what was this “right” way of being for me? Well, it depended on the context and who I was with. But in general, it meant being cheerful, friendly and agreeable. 

The only way I was accepted as a child—I came to believe—was to appear cheerful, friendly and agreeable ALL of the time, and of course nobody is cheerful, friendly and agreeable all of the time. But I tried, so much so that I internalized that cheerfulness. It became my story. Look at me; I’m a cheerful, bubbly person worth loving! 

I wore a smile. ALL the time. My cheekbones often hurt at the end of the day. Once when I was teaching high school at 25 years old, a student said to me, “Ms. Parker, we can’t tell when you’re angry. You’re always smiling.”

Anytime I felt sad, angry, disappointed, anxious, frustrated—anything but happy and cheerful—I thought something was wrong with me. I couldn’t name the emotion. I had no practice in identifying those “other” feelings while I had a lot of practice in denying them, mentally blacking them out with felt-tipped markers. 

As a result, during my youth through early adulthood—okay honesty, into my 40s—I felt crazy. I came to understand that this came mostly from not being able to feel truthfully and to feel without judgment. It was fascinating, once I became aware of it, how at times I would get “fuzzy-headed” in order to not think or feel. My brain looked like a Peanuts comic strip teacher voice, just a cloud of scribbles. Once I became aware of this habit, however, it became an important cue. Aha! What am I actually feeling right now?

It’s difficult to trust yourself when you can’t even be honest with yourself about your feelings and when you’re living in constant judgment of those feelings. Cheerfulness=good. Anger=bad. Agree=good. Disagree with loved ones=bad. Thus, you’re bad a great deal of the time. What horrible requirements to put upon oneself! Those expectations may have originally come from family when I was a kid, but most likely, they don’t even expect quite that much of me! Maybe they never did. But I was a child, egoistical by nature, as you’re supposed to be for survival at that age, and that’s how I interpreted my situation. I received positive feedback from acting on these beliefs. And then I just kept them going, assuming everyone else in my life would have similar expectations. Not consciously, of course. Synapsis that fire together wire together. 

Because I had to be agreeable, I had to be careful not to be contrary. I couldn’t want different things, or rather, I could want all kinds of things—that I couldn’t have. And I had to accept and adjust to all kinds of things I didn’t want. I had a difficult time—and still do sometimes—saying no. It sucks to admit that this is still an issue.

There’s incredible self-power in the word NO. Please don’t ever shame a three-year old for saying it. And they will probably say it a lot! It’s just a healthy early step into autonomy, into setting boundaries, into feeling a sense of control over one’s life. Sure, they might still need to go to bed or get dressed or clean up. Just find another way than shaming them or telling them—through actions or words—that they are bad, that saying no is wrong. Maybe say, “Okay, you don’t have to clean up. Let’s play a game. Who can get the most toys in that bin in the shortest amount of time. Ready? Go!” I’m sure there’s great strategies online.

I’m not entirely sure of the trigger for my recent loss of self. I am juggling too many projects for work. And because my work is with older people looking mortality in the face, there’s a real time pressure, and I feel unprofessional elongating timeframes. That goes right to shame. Maybe this is just too abundant right now. My father-in-law, who accepted me and supported me unconditionally, died. There are unexpectedly a lot of parenting duties with teenagers. It makes sense now, but not while looking ahead. They are applying for colleges, have to do service hours, have bus passes and lunch accounts that need refilling and payments that must be made and school projects of their own that could use some proofreading. They need new shoes. They have their own struggles. There are family logistics galore. 

It’s also the holidays. And when I can fully step into holiday traditions, gift giving and buying and decorating and cookie making and the lot, I absolutely love it. I always just want to be more domestic this time of year, clean house while playing Christmas songs on Alexa. 

And I put this weird constant pressure on myself about earning money. Yes, it is an actual need for the family, but there’s this annoying psychological aspect of it for me as well. Money-making is tied to self-worth and manipulation and all kinds of things. It’s tricky. And though I’ve worked on putting this puzzle together over the years, there are a few missing pieces still. More to be examined. What is success? For me, not others? Does money have to be a part of it? Am I feeling unworthy of the kind of earnings I want and feel capable of?

And when it comes to my 100 Day Challenge, I became aware of an audience. That’s what I want. It’s great! But I started thinking more about the audience than me when looking at what to write next. Most of my blogs have taken hours to write instead of the 20 to 30 minutes I intended. And I want to make room for that, but didn’t think I had “the right,” not in my “busy schedule.” Yeah, a few questions to answer!

But whatever! I’ll work on answering them. In the meantime, It feels good to be writing again!

Brene Brown—bless her!—says that “Perfectionism is a form of shame.” So, I’m putting my imperfect self out there. I didn’t do my 100 Day Challenge in 100 days. I’m not sure I’ll make it in 120 days. But I will write 100 posts. And hopefully care about all of them. I know it’s “about the process.” It’s just that the process is also fraught with imperfection and questions and emotions. But maybe that’s what it’s all about.

It does feel awfully good to be kind to myself again. I recommend it.

Photo by Dayne Topkin on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #81: The Killer Smog of London, 1952

It was on this day in history, December 4, 1952, the pea soup fog over the city of London turned deadly. 

I listen to This Day in History almost every day on my Echo (Alexa) and often find an event that I wish to know more about. A killer fog 69 years ago definitely caught my imagination. Here’s the story:

Smog in London was nothing new in 1952. London had suffered from poor air quality since the 13th century, shortening a lot of lives. It was often called fog, but almost always had involved particles in the air from centuries of coal-burning combined with weather conditions common to the British Isles.

From The Illustrated London News. Copyright, The British Library Board

Dickens wrote about it eloquently in his novel Bleak House.

A London Fog. From The Illustrated London News, Saturday 22nd December 1849. Copyright, The British Library Board

“….Fog everywhere…Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.”

The Foggy River

Jack the Ripper was said to have stocked his victims shrouded in thick fog. This however is a myth. It actually wasn’t that foggy on the nights of his murders in August through November 1888.

It was very foggy (smoggy) earlier in the year. On Thursday January 12, 1888, according to the Daily News, the intense smog-fog in London caused “…Several serious accidents, some of them resulting in loss of life…”

But that Thursday in 1952 began the worst air pollution event in the history of the United Kingdom. 

A high-pressure air mass stalled over the Thames River Valley. Then exceedingly cold air arrived suddenly from the west. This combination trapped the air over London in place. And what was that air like?

Battersea_Power_Station,_1934_with_only_two_chimneys_(Our_Generation,_1938), Wikipedia

Because it was so bleeding cold, people were burning extra coal in their furnaces. This wasn’t quality coal either. The better-quality "hard" coals (such as anthracite) mined and collected in the UK were being exported to pay off World War II debts. The citizens of London were stuck with post-war domestic coal, which tended to be a low-grade, sulphurous variety (similar to lignite). It increased the amount of sulphur dioxide in the smoke. 

The same stuff was being pumped out of smokestacks at numerous coal-fired power stations in the Greater London area, including Fulham, Battersea, Bankside, Greenwich and Kingston upon Thames. The Battersea factory was known to be the worst.

You had the smoke, soot and sulfur dioxide from the power stations, along with other industries, along with car fumes (Car ownership was on the rise), along with increased consumer usage. And that heavy smog couldn’t go anywhere, held in place as if a giant dome was cupped over the city.

It was a perfect smog storm.

London fog, 1952 (Britannica.com)

By the morning of December 5, there was a visible pall cast over hundreds of square miles.

The Great Smog of 1952, as it became known, was so thick and dense by December 7 that there was virtually no sunlight. Visibility was reduced to one meter (just over three feet) in the daytime. Pedestrians had to shuffle forward feeling for obstacles and curbs. 

Still, there was no panic. London was infamous for its “fog.” And post-war Brits, in general, were used to surviving tough times and minimizing complaints. The old “Keep Calm and Carry On” mentality.

But conditions only got worse.

Eventually, all transportation in the region came to a halt, but not before several rail accidents, including a collision between two trains near London Bridge. 

A couple walks the streets of London in November 1953; nearly a year after the Great Smog, masks were still necessary (Credit- Monty Fresco/Topical Press Agency/Getty Images)

Visibility was even worse at night. Street lamps at the time were fitted with incandescent light bulbs, which gave no penetrating light onto the pavement for pedestrians to see their feet or even a lamp post. Fog-penetrating fluorescent lamps did not become widely available until later in the 1950s.

Then the worst effect of the smog started to become apparent: respiratory distress. That smog had nowhere to go except into the lungs of Londoners. Reports came in of humans and animals having difficulty breathing. Some vomited phlegm. One of the first noted victims was a prize cow that suffocated on December 5. 

Those who had the means and insight purchased "Smog masks" from chemists until supplies ran out. But most people didn’t have them. 

That weekend, thousands of people died in their sleep.

It is estimated that between December 4 and December 8, the smog killed anywhere from 4,000 to as many as 12,000 people. Most of the victims were very young or elderly or folks with pre-existing respiratory problems. Some 25,000 more people claimed sickness benefits in London during that period.

Finally on December 9, the smog blew away. 

In the aftermath, the British government gave more attention to environmental research, government regulation around pollution, and public awareness of the relationship between air quality and health. Parliament passed the Clean Air Act 1956, which tried to move the country towards “smokeless fuels.” 

Despite these measures, a similar smog ten years later killed approximately 100 Londoners.

There was another Clean Air Act passed in 1968. Both were consolidated into a new Clean Air Act in 1993. But air quality continued to be an issue in the highly populated island city. Reports estimate that up through 2015, more than 9,000 people in the British capital were dying prematurely each year due to dirty air. 

Air pollution obscures the City of London skyline, as seen from Primrose Hill in the north of the capital. Photograph- Toby Melville/Reuters2020

Since then, however, there is good news for air-breathers in London. Pollution has plunged with a 94% reduction in the number of people living in areas with illegal levels of nitrogen dioxide. The number of schools in such areas has fallen by 97%, from 455 in 2016 to 14 in 2019.

Many credit London’s Mayor Sadiq Khan. His administration instigated restrictions on “dirty vehicles,” not allowing them to enter the city center. The old diesel double-deckers were replaced with low-emission buses on the most-polluted routes. They stopped licensing diesel taxis and extended the amount of protected space for cycling, among other new initiatives. 

It appears to still be a work in progress, but you can breathe a little easier in London these days—if you don’t count the global pandemic, that is. -Sigh- 

A fog blanketed London in December 1952, killing as many as 12,000 people and puzzling researchers for decades. Texas A&M researchers believe they have solved the mystery. Photo credit- © Bikeworldtravel / Fotolia

 ***

By the way, if you are a fan of Netflix’s show The Crown, you know that the Great Smog is a major event in season 1, episode 4. “Careful out there. It’s a real pea-souper!”

If you are a Dr. Who fan, the Great Smog is the setting for the audio play The Creeping Death (2019) starting David Tennant as the tenth Doctor.

The Great Smog of 1952 was creepy, alright! (And not the only one like it on our planet.)

What if that happened now, to you, where you live? Hmmm. Good fodder for a story!

Photo by Visuals Of Theodor on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #80: Challenging Some Ethnocentricity (With a Little Sunshine)

I always appreciate experiences that test my judgment of others, unravel stereotypes, and check my unexamined biases. Such an opportunity came in the week before Thanksgiving during a business trip to Miami Beach.

It was an unusual and special trip for my husband and me in several ways. For one, it was the longest we had ever been away from our kids, at least when we were the ones going away. They’d been to weeklong sleepaway camps while we stayed home and worked. But this time, we were on the beach while they were in school. Very new! Also, our teenagers were old enough and responsible enough to stay home alone. Though it pulled at my invisible but always present umbilical cord, it was kind of cool for all of us. 

In Little Havana

It also turned out that with my husband the client and guest speaker at the conference, we were wined and dined in pretty high style. Our hosts had reserved for us a junior suite with a balcony and an ocean view. They took us to remarkable dinners at iconic restaurants with white tablecloths. At Joe’s Stone Crab, all the waiters wore tuxedos. Breakfasts buffets at the hotel were included, as was a fabulous culinary tour of Little Havana. I fell in love with that neighborhood!

The host group at the conference were from just about every state in the United States, and we met many smart, down-to-earth, fun, caring people.

The experience shed light and perspective on my own ethnocentricity.

The Greek word ethnos means "nation" or "people." 

The term ethnocentricity originated by William Sumner (October 30, 1840 – April 12, 1910), a classical liberal American social scientist, refers to a belief that your culture or ethnic group is superior to another's.

Ethnocentric individuals are biased in that they draw conclusions about other cultural groups based on their own cultural values, norms, and traditions. Your own nation or group is the cultural center of the world. Ethnocentric individuals use their own ethnic groups as the standard by which they judge other cultures.

All cultural groups have some degree of ethnocentricity, as it is necessary for the group to exist. This is because ethnocentricity promotes cohesion in groups, community pride, and group identification. 

In the Art Deco area of Miami Beach. This is where the scenes from the movie Birdcage were filmed.

On the other hand, ethnocentricity can prevent individuals from truly understanding other cultures. We make incorrect assumptions about others. Ethnocentricity can contribute to racism, stereotypes, and prejudice. 

Especially in recent times with the divide of our nation, there has been a more than normal amount of viewing particular types or groups of people as “other.” 

It was thus refreshing, humbling and, quite frankly, a great relief to meet people I really liked from Alabama, Montana, Indiana, Ohio, Tennessee, Texas, Nevada, Florida and other states as well. And every once in a while, someone would reveal their ethnocentric view of Californians and particularly our wonderful little city with the bad reputation, Oakland. 

We found a wide variety of local cultures in Miami too, from Little Havana to the Art Deco area of Miami Beach to Edgewater and Brickell neighborhoods.

View from Edgewater Neighborhood of Miami

Our host group represented law firms, and it was equally refreshing when, over one dinner, the conversation turned to politics, and though there were different allegiances and points-of-view, nobody got mean or interrupted each other. Our tablemates listened to each other and spoke with some passion and persuasion about their beliefs, but no one was belittled. It was disagreement with respect. It was awesome! And we all continued to have a good time together even afterwards. 

I came home jubilant about all this, reminded that there are good people everywhere. And a heck of a lot more well-meaning people than mean people in this world. It was, as I said, refreshing.

And the hot tubbing and beach time weren’t bad either!

100 Day Challenge #79: All About Turkeys PART II

Even though it’s a few days after Thanksgiving—why not! Let’s still talk turkeys! 

How many turkeys are sold for Thanksgiving? Versus the rest of the year?

A domesticated turkey. Photo by Greg Lippert on Unsplash

According to the University of Illinois and the US Poultry and Egg Association, 46 million turkeys are eaten each Thanksgiving. That's equal to less than the entire human population of Spain.

The average commercial turkey weighs about 30 pounds, which means Americans are eating nearly 1.4 billion pounds of turkey during the holiday.

Overall in one year, Americans ate approximately 219 million turkeys, at least in 2011. In 2012, the average American ate 16 pounds of turkey. It’s probably more now, with 22 million turkeys consumed on Christmas and 19 million on Easter. 

Turkey consumption has increased 104% since 1970 with turkey production increasing nearly 110%.

Not everybody in the US eats turkey on Thanksgiving. Only about 88% of Americans surveyed by the National Turkey Federation said they do.

When was the first turkey pardoned by a US president?

President John F. Kennedy pardoned a turkey on November 19, 1963, stating "Let's Keep him going."-John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum/NARA

It is often stated that President Lincoln's 1863 clemency to a turkey recorded in an 1865 dispatch by White House reporter Noah Brooks was the origin for the pardoning ceremony.

According to WhiteHouseHistory.org, although Presidents John F. Kennedy and Ronald Reagan, along with First Ladies Thelma “Pat” Nixon and Rosalynn Carter, pardoned Thanksgiving turkeys, the modern turkey pardon did not become an annual tradition until the George H.W. Bush administration.

Each president since then has been presented with a live domestic turkey by the National Turkey Federation (NTF), usually males of the Broad Breasted White variety. It is a tradition that the turkeys be picked from the chairperson of the NTF's home state, occasionally from the chair's own farm.

When President John F. Kennedy spontaneously spared a turkey on November 19, 1963, it was just three days before his assassination. The turkeys were often sent to petting zoos, and public ceremonies were not always held up until the annual tradition began.

From 2005 to 2009, the pardoned turkeys were sent to either the Disneyland Resort in California or the Walt Disney World Resort in Florida, where they served as the honorary grand marshals of Disney's Thanksgiving Day Parade. In 2010, 2011 and 2012, the turkeys were sent to live at Mount Vernon, the estate and home of George Washington.

The birds often have a back-up, in case the chosen turkey falls sick or gets injured before the ceremony. Or has stage fright, I suppose.

The pardoned turkeys have been named Charlie, Woody, Harry, Jerry, Liberty, Freedom, Katie—the first female turkey pardoned—Zach, Stars, Stripes, Biscuits, Gravy, Marshmallow, Yam, Flier and Fryer, May and Flower, Pumpkin and Pecan, Courage, Apple, Cider, Liberty (again), Peace, Cobbler, Gobbler, Popcorn, Caramel, Cheese, Mac, Abe, Honest, Tater, Tot, Drumstick, Wishbone, Peas, Carrots, Butter, Bread, Corn, Cob, Peanut Butter and Jelly. 

Though most died of natural causes, very few lived more over two years. A wild turkey—in comparison—generally lives three to five years.

What is the origin of the term “turkey” as a derogatory label?

The turkey was considered a noble bird, and in 19th-century North America the term “turkey” was often used figuratively in colloquial expressions that were generally positive.

For instance, to “talk turkey,” an expression first recorded in 1824, meant to speak openly or frankly. It supposedly comes from an old tale or joke about a Yankee attempting to swindle an Indian in dividing up a turkey and a buzzard as food.

The more negative figurative use of the word turkey could be heard a bit in the late 19th century. The turkey’s slow and ungainly flight made “turkey shoot” a metaphor for a very easily accomplished task or a very lopsided contest, “to walk turkey” meant to strut or swagger, and “gobbledygook,” meaning “pretentious nonsense,” is an imitation of a turkey’s “gobbling” call.

The pejorative use of “turkey” really took hold in the 1920s when “turkey” was used as slang for an inferior theatrical or movie production, a flop. Vanity Fair magazine in 1927 defined “A turkey” as a third-rate production.

The term was then used to describe other things. In James M. Cain’s novel Mildred Pierce (1943), the narrator tells the reader: “The beach … was studded with rocks and was therefore unsuitable to swimming. For all ordinary purposes it was simply a turkey.”

It was in the early 1950s that “turkey” became a slang word for a stupid or inept person.

When you called someone a jive turkey, you were saying they were unreliable, made exaggerations or empty promises, or is dishonest. The phrase is most associated with 1970s culture.

Why is turkey the preferred meat of sandwiches?

According to a worker in the industry on Reddit.com, “Turkey is a lower cost protein to make than chicken (by a small margin...but feed inputs are roughly 70% of the cost of poultry and turkeys are more efficient feed converters. Every little bit counts here). On top of this turkey is incredibly seasonal. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and to a lesser extent Easter are when turkey producers make their money and spend the rest of the year trying not to lose it.” So, the scheme of making turkey a popular lunchmeat works in their favor. 

From a consumer point of view, turkey is a leaner meat than pastrami and ham, and it has a mild flavor.

Can a turkey ever be tamed and trained?

A boy and his turkey. Photo by Library of Congress on Unsplash

According to turkey pet owners, domesticated turkeys can make excellent pets. They can create long-lasting social bonds with each other and with humans, following them around. The birds love to be stroked, petted and cuddled. They will remember your face and if they like you, they will come up to you to greet you.

Some say they are capable of a wide range of emotional attachments. Many owners claim that their turkey acts more like a dog than their dogs do.

And you can train a turkey to “come” for food by saying the same thing in the same way every time you greet them and feed them.

Wild turkeys are less likely to be trained and tamed.

Here are a few additional fun turkey facts:

• Turkeys can see movement almost 100 yards away, but they do not see well at night.

• While male turkeys gobble, hens do not. They make a clicking noise.

• Gobbling turkeys can be heard a mile away on a quiet day.

• A 16-week-old turkey is called a fryer. A 5 to 7-month-old turkey is called a young roaster and a yearling is a year old. Any turkey 15 months or older is called mature.

• The ballroom dance called the "Turkey Trot" was named for the short, jerky steps that turkeys take.

• Turkeys do not really have ears like ours, but they have very good hearing.

• Turkeys can see in color.

•  While turkeys can fly up to 55 mph, they can run 20 mph.

• Commercially raised turkeys cannot fly, only wild turkeys.

• Turkeys will have 3,500 feathers at maturity.

Now, that’s a lot of turkey!

A wild turkey tom. Photo by Meelika Marzzarella on Unsplash

Photo by Oleksandr Koval on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #78: All About Turkeys!

Please excuse my absence for this past week. I was in Miami, the subject of some posts yet to come!

In the meantime, a very happy Thanksgiving to everyone who celebrates it. Feeling much gratitude. I hope you are too!

Meleagris_gallopavo_displaying_at_Deer_Island_Open_Space_Preserve, Wikipedia

All About Turkeys

In honor of Thanksgiving, the subject for the day is—TURKEYS!

 A whole bunch of questions came to mind when I thought about researching and writing about turkeys (The power is often in the question!).

• Is the turkey native only to the United States?

• What habits and features are unique to a turkey?

• When did Thanksgiving became a national holiday?

•  Is it true that turkey was served at the pilgrim dinner?

• Is it true that Benjamin Franklin wanted to make the turkey our national bird?

Here are the answers to these questions. I found it fascinating and sometimes surprising.

Is the turkey native only to the United States?

 Yes, pretty close! The turkey (Meleagris) is native only to North America. 

There are two surviving turkey species today: the wild turkey (Meleagris gallopavo) of eastern and central North America and the Near Threatened ocellated turkey (Meleagris ocellata) of the Yucatán Peninsula in Mexico. 

ocellated turkey (Meleagris ocellata) of the Yucatán Peninsula (Wikipedia)

The ocellated turkey is rather stunning compared to its northern brethren. The feathers on the male are a mixture of bronze and green iridescent turquoise. They both have those crazy facial features (stay tuned for the scoop on that!)

There were more types of wild turkeys in the past. We know this because their strong bones fossilized well. In the La Brea tar pits in Los Angeles, scientists found many bones of the now extinct California turkey, Meleagris californica. The California variety used to be abundant and was around for a long time, dating back 11 million years. Evidence suggests it went extinct about 12,000 years ago either due to climate change as the glaciers shrank, or overhunting by Native Americans, or both.

The Wild Turkey exists in all 48 contiguous states and small portions of Mexico and Canada. But this bird, the origin of our domesticated turkeys, almost went extinct in the 1930s, when it had been eradicated from 18 states and was found only in areas that were essentially inaccessible to hunters. The population had been reduced to only two percent of its original—from 10 million to 200,000. Yikes! The return to 6,500,000 turkeys today illustrates a successful wildlife management program. We have wild turkeys in our neighborhood. Sometimes, a small rafter of them will walk slowly across the road glaring at your waiting car. I like having them around.

Domesticated turkeys—the kind we eat—are the same species as wild turkeys but have been bred to have different characteristics than their wild kin. The feathers on an eating bird are white, an intentional change, since white pin feathers are less noticeable on the carcass. While wild turkeys have acute eyesight and the ability to move at speeds of 55 mph while in flight. Domestic birds are slow, fairly farsighted, and haven’t got forest smarts, for obvious reasons. You often hear the phrase, “dumb as a turkey.” That’s referring to the domesticated bird and not the wild one. It’s illegal to release pen-raised turkeys into the wild. They could introduce disease and could contaminate the wild turkey gene pool.

What habits and features are unique to a turkey?

The Latin species name gallopāvō means "chicken peacock,” and male turkeys, like peacocks, can look quite handsome when they strut, but they’ve got a face that only a mother and another turkey could love! All species of turkeys have the same funky features around the head and neck. They have great names like the caruncles, the snood, the wattle, the dewlap, and the beard.

Anatomical structures on the head and throat of a domestic turkey. 1. caruncles, 2. snood, 3. wattle (dewlap), 4. major caruncle, 5. beard (Wikipedia)

The snood is an erectile, fleshy protuberance on the forehead of turkeys extending over their beaks. When male turkeys strut to get a mate, the snood becomes redder, engorging with blood, and elongates several centimeters. Its size depends on the turkey's sex life, health, and mood. It would be a compliment to call a turkey snoody (snooty).

The snood is one of several caruncles, the categorical name for all the small, fleshy excrescences on a turkey’s face and neck. And they are particularly bumpy!

The wattle is that long, hanging caruncle that flops around on a turkey’s neck. Evidently, female turkeys are turned on by a walloping wattle. On a turkey, since there is generally only one wattle (roosters have two), it is also known as a dewlap. Where my imagination goes with that is picturing a line of strutting male turkeys singing doo-wop—or, in their case, dewlap.

A turkey’s beard

A Wild Turkey's beard is a tuft that looks a bit like a miniature horsetail dangling from its breast. A little different than that of retired SF Giants’ pitcher Brian Wilson’s! It is a cluster of stiff filaments that look hair-like but are actually feather-like structures called mesofiloplumes. Year-old males have beards up to about five inches long, while toms three or more years old can have beards that are ten inches or longer. It’s not clear if turkey beards have a purpose, but they are important to scientists in understanding how feathers evolved from dinosaur skin and scales.

Here are some fun facts about turkey behavior:

Turkeys can fly, but not far. They usually fly from tree to tree or from the ground to perch on a limb. Since they can move up to 55 MPH, wild turkeys generally move a mile or two in one day.

Just like humans, turkeys talk to communicate. Their vocabulary, according to the National Wild Turkey Federation, consists of 28 distinct calls. Each sound has a general meaning and can be used for different situations. Male turkeys are notorious for their iconic gobble, which unlike other calls, is given with a fixed intensity. (Gobble is one of my favorite onomatopoeias!) Check out the turkey sounds!

Turkeys roost in trees to avoid ground predators.

Turkeys like dust baths and generally take them as a flock. It keeps their feathers from becoming greasy or matted. They find a good patch of dusty dirt, flap frantically to spread dust over their entire bodies, then they suntan and preen. Sunning regulates their body temperatures, dislodges feather parasites and relaxes them. It’s like a turkey spa.

When did Thanksgiving became a national holiday?

In the US, pretty much everybody knows that our contemporary Thanksgiving holiday is based loosely off a harvest festival shared by 53 pilgrims and 90 Wampanoag Native Americans at Plymouth Colony, Massachusetts, in 1621. We all made those hand turkey crafts in elementary school, our thumb becoming the head of the turkey, and sometimes pilgrim hats, right?

It was said that the festival was held in gratitude for the bounty of the season. (I love the gratitude part of this holiday!)

But like most origin stories, the evolution of our current overeating fest is complex.

The accounts of that first Thanksgiving are sketchy at best. The best account is in a letter from English settler Edward Winslow that never mentions the word “Thanksgiving,” but tells of a weeklong harvest celebration that included a three-day celebration with King Massasoit and 90 Wampanoag men “so we might after a more special manner rejoice together.”

Florida has a 16th century Thanksgiving pre-dating the national one, believe it or not. In 1565, nearly 60 years before Plymouth, a Spanish fleet came ashore and planted a cross in the sandy beach to christen the new settlement of St. Augustine. To celebrate the arrival and give thanks for God’s providence, the 800 Spanish settlers shared a festive meal with the native Timucuan people. Who knew?!

President Washington’s Thanksgiving Proclamation

Thanksgiving (based on the Plymouth legend) became an annual custom throughout New England in the 17th century for a lot of folks, but not all, and it wasn’t official until in 1777 when the Continental Congress declared the first national American Thanksgiving following the Patriot victory at Saratoga. It was a turning point in the war. December 18 was a national day "for solemn Thanksgiving and praise"; it was the nation's first official observance of a holiday with that name.

President George Washington declared another Thanksgiving, again having nothing to do with pilgrims. In 1789, Washington became the first president to proclaim a Thanksgiving holiday, when, at the request of Congress, he proclaimed November 26, a Thursday, as a day of national thanksgiving to recognize the role of providence in creating the new United States and the new federal Constitution.

Sarah Hale

It was President Abraham Lincoln that declared Thanksgiving—based on the Plymouth festival—a national celebration in 1863. A woman named Sarah Josepha Hale convinced him that a nationally celebrated Thanksgiving holiday would unite the country in the aftermath of the Civil War. Sarah was a writer, activist, and an influential editor. Among other works, she wrote the nursery rhyme Mary Had a Little Lamb.

After that, folks celebrated Thanksgiving annually on or around the last Thursday in November, however, President Franklin D. Roosevelt broke with tradition in 1939, declaring November 23, the next to last Thursday that year, as Thanksgiving Day. Some people were pissed off and refused to honor Roosevelt’s declaration. For the next two years, Roosevelt repeated the unpopular proclamation. Until November 26, 1941, when he admitted his mistake and signed a bill into law officially making the fourth Thursday in November the national holiday of Thanksgiving Day.

 Is it true that turkey was served at the pilgrim dinner?

Probably not!

What?!

According to research by Catherine Lamb, a writer for Food52 (and confirmed elsewhere), there are only two surviving documents that reference the original Thanksgiving harvest meal. They describe a feast of freshly killed deer, assorted wildfowl, a bounty of cod and bass, and flint, a native variety of corn harvested by the Native Americans, which was eaten as corn bread and porridge.

That wildfowl could’ve been turkey but was more likely duck or goose. 

Other foods NOT served were: 

Mashed potatoes—White potatoes had not yet crossed over from South America.

Gravy—Colonists didn’t yet have mills to produce flour.

Sweet Potatoes—Tuberous roots had not yet been introduced from the Caribbean.

Pumpkin pie—There was no sugar to make pie, however, pumpkins might’ve been around.

Natives Americans loved their cranberries though, both as a food staple and to create red dye. They weren’t sweeted though!

Is it true that Benjamin Franklin wanted to make the turkey our national bird?

NO, it’s a myth.

If you’ve never heard the story, here’s the gist of it:

Popular lore suggests Franklin wanted the wild turkey rather than the bald eagle—both animals native to North America—to be named the national bird of the United States. (Smithsonianmag.com)

I became acquainted with this story when I was ten years old at my first (and very memorable) introduction to musical theatre, a production of 1776. In the song “The Egg,” Jefferson, Adams and Franklin argue whether the national bird should be the eagle (Adams), the dove (Jefferson) or the turkey (Franklin). I was absolutely tickled by the idea.

But the Franklin Institute (a Philadelphia-based science museum and education center), says the story is a myth. 

According to the Institute’s research, Franklin simply criticized the Great Seal’s original eagle design for too closely resembling a turkey, which he called “a much more respectable Bird...a little vain & silly, [but] a Bird of Courage.”

I’ll answer these questions in tomorrow’s post:

How many turkeys are sold for Thanksgiving? Versus the rest of the year?

When was the first turkey pardoned by a US president?

What is the origin of the term “turkey” as a derogatory label?

Why is turkey the preferred meet of sandwiches?

Can a turkey ever be tamed?

100 Day Challenge #77: Six Ways to Use PokémonGo! as a Learning Tool

This was written in 2017 when our kids were younger: ten and twelve years old. I hope to edit and update this, but have to get something posted for today! So, here it is!

One morning, I was walking back home after dropping off my son to his elementary school. Another mom, walking to her car, stopped me to ask a question. We chatted for a couple minutes before she glanced down at the cell phone in my hand.

“Oh my God, are you playing Pokémon Go?”

Yes, without my children, I was playing Pokémon Go. Our whole family loved the game, although Niantic, the makers of the game, almost lost us in their long delay before releasing generation two with 80 new Pokémon. Before that, however, we’d go out as a family catching Pokémon and collecting Poke balls at Poke stops all over town. We found ourselves doing a lot more walking together as a family. 

With the new release, we were back at it. My husband achieved the highest level with his workplace at the time being in Jack London Square surrounded by Poke stops. 

When the game first came out, I knew several parents who wouldn’t let their kids play. They had heard the horrific news reports of people playing the game and walking off cliffs or into traffic. One friend actually knew someone who was hit and killed by a car in which the driver was playing Pokémon Go. This was very unfortunate for an otherwise well-designed and clever game. Right away, Niantic added a warning at the beginning of the game to not play and drive and a restriction to help the cause. Over a certain speed, you cannot play. 

Still, people will sometimes be thoughtless. It’s the flipside of human nature, what keeps proving Darwin correct.

However, used wisely, Pokémon Go is not only a fun (albeit addictive) game to play with the family, it offers opportunities for some great learning. Here are six ideas for using Pokémon Go as a learning tool:

1.     Research Pokémon’s real-life equivalents. Did you know Pikachu is based on a real-life animal called a pika, a small, very cute mammal that lives in the mountainous areas of Asia and America? Stay tuned for a Blog post on more!

2.     Watch the Pokémon cartoon together. It models great ethics: perseverance, healthy competition, the value of education and practice, friendship, care of animals and the environment, fair play, and being an individual, exploring and finding your own strengths. The show’s style is hilarious, and we found it surprisingly entertaining.

3.     Play Pokémon Go together and talk about the landmarks at each Poke stop. Poke stops may be monuments, civic buildings, churches and other public spaces. We did this around Lake Merritt and in one very fun afternoon took in the bonsai garden, the Rotary Nature Center, lawn bowling, the Edoff Memorial bandstand, Fairyland, the Kaiser Building, the 18th Street Pier and more. And caught about forty Pokémon in the process! 

4.     Use Pokémon Go as a motivation to get some exercise and walk someplace familiar or new. Just walking into town together on Pokémon Go expeditions, we often have great conversations about our lives. 

5.     Ask your kids how they think Pokémon Go works. This is an opportunity to talk about design, technology, coding, GPS and global tracking, marketing, supply and demand, product development, human psychology, and more. 

6.     Playing Pokémon Go with the family provides a golden opportunity for teaching social technology etiquette. This is something we all talked a lot about when cell phones first came out, but the conversation has gone to the wayside a bit. I think it’s an important, ongoing discussion as our technological advances move at lighting speed in the 21st Century. Three of our rules are: 

1.     Always be aware of your surroundings even when using a device

2.     Always look up while crossing the street

3.     Never be on a device at a checkout stand or while interacting with another person who isn’t playing the game. Be polite instead. 

What are your etiquette rules around technology?

100 Day Challenge #76: Word Nerd!

I am a self-proclaimed Word Nerd.

Seriously. I love language. I have had hour-long discussions about comma usage. And found it thoroughly entertaining. Sick, huh? You can have an endless debate about Oxford versus Chicago Manual comma usage. It can get heated. Sometimes you have to agree to disagree about that comma after the conjunction in a list. But you don’t need it. Just saying.

If I had to create a Word Nerd dating profile, it might look like this:

Word Nerd seeking impetuous sensual entanglement with fellow Language Lover.

Love language? Find syntax scintillating? Alliteration alluring? Find the rhythm and the rhyme of a poem sublime? Do you love the way “iambic pentameter” trips on your tongue? Is the best part of drinking wine creating a metaphorical description of its flavor? (A waft of aged oak barrel, a pinch of pepper, a hint of grapefruit with a pear and butter finish. Oh yeah!)

If so, call me for some word play, Baby, a linguistical link-up and lights on, hello-to-dawn conversatiON.

About Me:

Favorite punctuation mark: em dash

Favorite part-of-speech: gerund phrase

Grammar rule I ove to break: And that would be starting sentences with a conjunction.

Favorite figurative speech: oxymorons and a metaphor so good, it makes you tingle and coo

Favorite story structure: bildungsroman

Favorite phone apps: Wordscape and translation apps

Favorite website: Thesaurus.com

Favorite genre: Character-driven fiction

Favorite board game: Scrabble, of course

Given this unadulterated love affair with language, I thought I would focus today on one of my favorite figurative language tools: the oxymoron. 

An oxymoron is a figure of speech, usually a two-word phrase in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction.

I like them because they make you think. You start to realize that in the lives of humans, contradictions often aren’t contradictions at all. We’re just that complex. So, a lot of oxymorons exist in our everyday language or can be used as accurate descriptors of our feelings.

Here are some fun examples of oxymorons:

Jumbo shrimp

Act natural

Alone together

Bad luck

Less is more

Seriously funny

Plastic glasses

Original copy

Awfully good

Bittersweet

Definite possibility

Exact estimate

Only choice

Civil war

Growing smaller

Friendly fire

Freezer burn

Old news

Deafening silence

Militant pacifist

Unbiased opinion

Weapons of peace

Random order

True fiction

Virtual reality

Working vacation

I love them! Pure wordplay. And the “short and long of it” is that the list goes on!

The term oxymoron is believed to come from ancient Greek—oxý(s) meaning “sharp,” and mōrós meaning “dull.” Others sources say "oxy" means "sharp, as in acute," and "moros" means "dumb or foolish." Either way, the word oxymoron actually is an oxymoron! 

Often a comedian will use faux oxymorons for satire or sarcasm. These are sometimes called "rhetorical oxymorons." They aren't technically opposites but create a satirical comment about some aspect of life. Examples are: Military intelligence. Airline food.

George Carlin has a famous routine about oxymorons recorded on his album Toledo Window Box.

You can find oxymorons in pop culture 

“Alone Together” is a song by Fall Out Boy.

Definitely, Maybe is a 2008 film.

Night of the Living Dead. You’ve probably heard of that one. A 1968 film.

There’s “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel

And the song lyrics in John Legend’s hit song “All of Me” (year?): “All your perfect imperfections” 

Here are a few oxymora (yes, that’s the plural) spoken by famous people:

William Shakespeare: "Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!" Romeo and Juliet (one of MANY by the Bard)

Clara Barton: “I distinctly remember forgetting that.”

Dolly Parton: “You’d be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap.”

Isaac Bashevis Singer: “We must believe in free will. We have no choice.”

Mark Twain: “It usually takes more than three weeks to prepare a good impromptu speech.”

Now, I’m not the kind of Word Nerd that will correct someone’s grammar. Far be it! I love authentic voice in writing: word choices and syntax that are distinct for the narrator or character, that reflect how people really talk. When viewed from a standpoint of anthropological linguistics (Yes, there is such a field of study), you might be able to sleuth out the places a speaker has lived, their age, whether they tend towards extrovert or introvert, their gender identity and all kinds of other cultural influences on their language. It’s exciting.

 Playing with language is fun as well as powerful. What’s your favorite type of figurative language?

Photo by Timon Studler on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #75: Teletubbies: Adult-Strange and Toddler-Wonderful!

Tinky-Winky! Dipsea! Laa-Laa! Po!

The first time my husband and I saw Teletubbies was at the home of our friends who were new parents, and we thought they were nuts!

They had two small children, the oldest one not quite three years old. Most of our peers had children before we did, since we didn’t procreate until my biological clock was a time bomb. So, children’s broadcasting—beyond what we watched as kids and I watched while babysitting in the 1980s and 90s—was unfamiliar territory.

We settled in with our coffee while their children sat rapt on the floor watching these brightly colored, terrycloth humanoid creatures with antennae and TVs for bellies walk around manicured-green hillsides doing a lot of NOTHING.

Back in our car, it was all my husband and I could talk about. How mundane and weird that program was, how we felt we had lost brain cells just watching it, and how we would NEVER ever show that to OUR kids.

Fast-forward to 2006 when we had an almost three-year-old and a one-year-old of our own, toy cars and trains and blocks and stuffed animals all over the living room, and there we were, watching Teletubbies together, laughing out loud and mesmerized. Suddenly, with toddlers and preschoolers in the house, the show made sense. 

King Pleasure and The Biscuit Boys performing on Teletubbies

We all grinned as Dipsea chased after Noo-Noo the vacuum cleaner. We sat entranced as Po interacted with bunnies and Tinky-Winky pulled a hat out of his magic red handbag. And we sang along to “The Grand Old Duke of York” (performed by King Pleasure and The Biscuit Boys) during one of the television adventure segments. We sang that for years!

We appreciated that Tinky Winky was non-binary—at least that was our interpretation. The character carried around his purse but had the deepest voice of all the Teletubbies. We were trying to raise our boys without gender stereotyping, a very difficult thing to do in this society. A common phrase in our house when painting or choosing clothes was, “There are no boy colors and girl colors, just colors.” One Christmas, we bought them baby carriages. They proceeded to wheel them around at top speed and smash them into one another. They were broken by the end of January. But that was fine.

When we heard that Jerry Falwell had attacked the Teletubbies show, accusing Tinky Winky of being a covert homosexual figure, we liked the program all the more. Of course, the purple terrycloth character was a wildly popular adult Halloween costume that year.

Costumes for MardiGras in Marigny, 1999 (Wikipedia)

I guess our acceptance, our unexpected enthusiasm for the Teletubbies illustrates how much the center of your universe changes when you have children. The show was not made to entertain adults. It was made for babies whose world at that age consists mostly of their home and perhaps the local park and glances of the world from their parents’ arms. Their view is from the two-foot level and mostly in terms of their own senses. They need reliable routines and they do things over and over, being natural scientists.

I found this plot synopsis of the show online, which sums it up:

The four colorful Teletubbies coo and play in idyllic Teletubbyland. They repeat fun, infant-pleasing activities such as rolling on the ground, laughing, running about, and watching real children on the televisions on their bellies. Mysterious pinwheels and telephones rise out of the meadow to loosely direct the day's activities. The Sun, featuring a baby's face, comments on the proceedings with baby noises, and it rises and sets to begin and end the show.

The original show ran from 1997 to 2001. It was released in March and by August had two-million viewers in the UK. Teletubbies has been aired in over 120 countries in 45 different languages. It aired on PBS Kids, where we watched it, from April 1998 to August 2008. It received a reboot in 2014 to 2018 and is now owned by WildBrain, a billion-dollar children’s entertainment mega-company that has been slowly acquiring all kinds of timeless classics, including The Peanuts, Yo Gabba Gabba and Cailou. The newer version of the Tubbies has that glossed over, brightly animated, fast-paced, generic look of so much children’s broadcasting. WildBrain is traded on the Toronto Stock Exchange, which means their shows no longer belong to children. They belong to investors.

I do like WildBrain’s sense of humor on their website when they talk about the whereabout of the Teletubbies and “Where they are now,” like children actors. It’s in anticipation of yet another reboot in 2022:

Since we last saw the Teletubbies, Tinky Winky relocated to Paris to focus on fashion, Laa-Laa has made a name for herself as a DJ in Ibiza, graffiti artist Dipsy has been enjoying Banksy-esque anonymity and record-breaking artwork sales, and Po has been living a life of enlightenment on a yoga retreat in Thailand.

That sounds about right. Only, this is for parents and has nothing to do with children.

The “new” Teletubbies. Wildbrain.com

Like a Brady Bunch reunion, WildBrain says, “They have now come back together ahead of their 25th anniversary in 2022 to drop a brand-new album and music videos.”

I prefer the original Teletubbies, which had a “home-made” feel to the set representing the inside of their earth dome house. The fuzzy-costumed actors ran around on real grass with real animals on location on a farm in Wimpstone, Warwickshire, England (The site of the dome is now a pond). Now it’s filmed in a studio. The camera shots are shorter, five seconds in length and there is movement in every shot. In the original production, the camera remained on the rising sun with a baby’s face for a full 24 seconds. In the 2014 version, even the background patterns flash and are constantly moving behind the characters. It is frenetic and two-dimensional.

My preference in children’s broadcasting are the simpler and calmer and more real choices, like in Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood and the original Sesame Street. The shots were long, you could see the construction of the sets, and there was a feeling of coming home, of belonging, of familiarity in the design of the productions. It’s what I love about Oakland’s Fairyland too. It’s magical without feeling artificial. It’s not glossed over and flawless like a Photoshopped portrait. It’s approachable.

Children’s television production companies—if not nonprofits—have to stay in business, be profitable. I understand that. I understand the appeal of kids and parents to have stuffed Teletubby dolls and an album of Teletubby dance music and Teletubby placemats and plates and puzzles and whatnot. But something is lost when entertainment for children is monetized. I don’t know. Innocence? A true focus on the children and what is best for them, based on our best understanding of child development and the kids that we know? Love and caring? Individualism? I mean, doesn’t this turn children into consumers? That’s not nurturing.

Our children are now teenagers, and watching the original Teletubbies again to write this, with the baby-faced sun slowly rising on the screen and the characters giggling and running around doing not much of anything, I admit I once again felt my brain melting. 

But this wasn’t created for me. Those strange characters are doing things that preschoolers and toddlers like to do, roll around on the ground, run down a hill, dance and fall, learn a new word, hear their own voices, imagine, and be absolutely fascinated with a musical nursery rhyme or a whirling vacuum cleaner. And I like it that way.

The Teletubbies’ main characters. From left to right- Dipsy, Laa-Laa, Po, and Tinky Winky. (PBS)

100 Day Challenge #74 (continued from #56): Please Don't Bring Me Flowers!

“Flora!” 

Her dad pulled her into his arms for a tight hug. This was unusual, to say the least. With her backpack in one hand, her cell phone in the other, she stood stiffly in his lengthy embrace.

“Hi Dad. Good to see you too.”

“Come in, come in,” he ushered with a flourish and a little bow.

Dropping her things onto the couch, she looked around. New lamps with turquoise and blue bases in a leaf pattern sat on the side tables and matching pillows adorned the couch. The apartment was remarkably cleaner than the last time she had been there. That was two months ago when the strong odors of Grandma Advika’s curry, her dad’s cologne and a myriad of other smells in the dirty flat were just too much for her. She stayed for all of an hour, most of the time spent in the bathroom sneezing and throwing up, waiting for her various meds to kick in and for her mother to pick her up, while her father paced in the hallway pendulum-swinging between apologies and irritation. 

“Well, what do you think? Is it passable?” He asked her now. “I got three high-tech air purifiers. The others are in the kitchen and your room.” 

Flora walked closer to the wall just beyond the couch to examine a painting that hadn’t been there before. It was very colorful, depicting an elephant, distinctly feminine, with four arms holding flowers and food and sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket. The ornate blanket was on a hillside of grass with forest in the background and a sun in the sky, shooting out pink and blue rays of light. The elephant was joined by a little mouse, also holding a nut or pellet of food. 

“Ganesha,” said Flora, “Patron of the arts and sciences and the god of intellect and wisdom.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said her father.

“It’s good. Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, well, as a matter of fact—”

There was a fumbling of a key in the front door. Flora and her father turned to see a young Indian woman entering. She was beautiful, her dark hair framing her oval face. She held a grocery bag.

“Hi. I got the bread, Sai. You must be Flora.” 

The woman’s smile lit up her face.

“I’m Geetha,” she said.

“Hi.” 

Flora looked at father questioningly. He wore a broad, almost mischievous smile.

“Geetha is the artist who painted that Ganesha. She’s also—my fiancé.”

“Your what?”

“I’m early, aren’t I?” Geetha grimaced looking at Flora’s father.

“It’s okay,” he said, “I wanted to tell you before she got here, Flora, but it doesn’t matter. I—it’s important to me that the two of you get to know one another. Do you want to unpack or settle in. I’m just finishing up dinner. I thought the three of us could eat together. It’s almost ready.”

Dinner was surreal. Her dad had done well. It was all food she could eat, chicken and steamed vegetables and the French bread Geetha had brought. Her father complimented Flora on her appearance, her grades, her way with words. He laughed and joked. His eyes danced, especially looking at Geetha. She hadn’t seen him this way since—she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him this happy. 

Geetha was a doctor of dermatology, having recently transferred to the hospital where Flora’s dad was an administrator. In her spare time, evidently, Geetha painted, did yoga and Pilates, was training for a half-marathon and was learning to play the sitar. Like Sai, she had been born in the U.S. to Indian immigrants who instilled their culture, while she took on the way of American society around her. 

“I was a misfit for a long time,” she told Flora, “but then I realized I could be a part of both worlds and create my own. Sai has had similar experiences.”

“That’s right,” he said.

They beamed at one another. 

Flora fidgeted uncomfortably. She tried not to but kept thinking about her mother. Had he ever looked at her that way? 

“Tell us about you, Flora,” said Geetha, “What are you into these days?”

She didn’t know what to say. It certainly wasn’t going to be, “Oh, the boy across the street.” 

“Flora has read probably every book in the local library since she’s stuck inside most of the time. Best read sixteen-year-old you’ll ever meet.”

“I’m researching for new remedies,” she told them, “something new or something we missed, so I can spend more time outside.” 

“Really?” Her dad said.

“Have you discovered anything yet?” Geetha asked.

“No. Not yet. I’ve tried most leukotrienes, but maybe new ones are being developed. I’ve done some immunotherapy. But there’s got to be some I haven’t tried. I don’t know about the smell issue.”

“Hmm,” said Geetha, “I’ll ask around to my colleagues. What’s your main motivation? To spend more time in nature? Or with people?”

Flora didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know this woman. So, she said nothing. 

“You know, I’m pretty tired. I thought I might hit the hay early. It was a nice dinner, Dad. Thank you.” 

She retreated to her room, took a shower to wash off the newness of it all, and—though she didn’t intend to—she did fall asleep early still trying to make sense of the day.

The next day, Geetha had to work at the hospitable. Flora was relieved. She and her dad put together a puzzle with a colorful depiction of a cityscape while watching Netflix and AppleTV. They read quietly together. He asked her about her studies, her opinions on recent events, but nothing personal. That’s the way it had always been. But today she became aware of it and wasn’t sure if she wanted him to ask more or not.

In the afternoon, they went down to the apartment complex’s pool. Flora had to be careful not to breathe through her nose on the way and was congested by the time they were back in the apartment, mostly on account of an acacia tree in the courtyard. But she liked being in the water, where there were no smells, especially in a saltwater pools like this one with a low chlorine level. This was something she could do more of. She swam laps, dipping under the water, until her limbs were limp and skin wrinkled. 

That evening Geetha joined them for dinner again. 

“I’m sorry about the bland food,” said Flora.

“It’s fine,” said Geetha, “it’s good, hearty food. Sai and I can go spicy other nights. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.”

Flora’s mouth dropped open, and Geetha realized what she had just said, who she said it to. 

“I didn’t mean, I know you miss out on a lot. And it’s not fair. I didn’t mean to—”

Flora dabbed her mouth with her napkin and got up.

“It’s fine. I have some homework I need to do. I think I’ll just go to my room.”

She lay on her bed for a while. She knew she was being harder on Geetha than she needed to be. She couldn’t help it though. Geetha was seeking her approval, but Flora felt like punishing someone, anyone.

“I can’t do an entire life like this,” she said quietly to the ceiling. “I want flavor and half-marathons and yeah, time in nature. God, just to be able to go outside my house without migraines and my eyes frigging swelling shut. I want to learn more about Jake.” 

She let herself fall into self-pity until she fell asleep.

The next morning, waiting for her mother to pick her up, she paced in the living room, stopping to stare at the Ganesha painting. It really was a work of art, like you’d see in a museum. This bothered Flora. She didn’t want Geetha to be good at too many things. 

“I like Ganesha,” said Geetha behind her. 

Flora jumped. 

“Oh, you scared me.”

“Sorry.”

Geetha came and stood beside her. She was wearing an oversized robe, her hair disheveled. She still looked beautiful though. Damn it. Flora took a deep breath.

“It’s a really good painting,” she said.

“Thanks.” 

Side-by-side, they looked at the elephant god for a few moments.

“You know,” said Geetha, “Ganesha is also known as the remover of obstacles. He’s thought to bring good luck.”

Flora valued kindness too much. She needed to apologize, but what came out of her mouth surprised her.

“There’s this boy. Across the street from my mom’s house. He—sees me, I think. When no one else has, I mean, no one my age. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, I just want to be able to spend time with him.”

Geetha nods. 

“See the mouse with Ganesha?” She pointed at the painting. “Some say he represents desire. Early Hindus sometimes saw him as destructive. He was depicted as a rat, like those that caused the plague and sickness and death before we had medicine. I don’t see him that way. Desire isn’t destructive. It’s natural. I see him as more of a companion for the elephant. They help each other. ‘Cause we’re never alone, even though we feel like we are a lot of times. The mouse, for example, can take paths the elephant can’t, in small, unexplored places. I think sometimes to remove obstacles means taking new paths that no one else has taken. It can just be hard to see them sometimes. And scary to crawl through an unknown space.”

“Hmm.” Flora took in the painting a moment longer before turning to Geetha. 

“This, you—are going to take some getting used to. But,” she grinned, “it’s nice to see my dad happy.”

Geetha smiled back. She handed Flora a postcard from her pocket. It was a print of Ganesha and the mouse.

“For luck,” said Geetha.

In Flora’s other hand, her phone vibrates with a text message. Her mother is outside.

Photo by Sergey Shmidt on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #73: The PMS Center

I wrote this and shared it with a few friends back in 2015. Here it is newly edited!

We need to establish centers, very special places, where women can go when hormones flare, firing up our emotions, clouding or sharpening our minds, and turning us into philosophical weeping rainstorms or quick-to-anger tornadoes. Understood to the world as the PMS Center, every town, big and small should have one, a hallowed ground for women to be themselves and honor this most natural phenomenon. The PMS acronym—triggering positive connotations instead of the old insults and status-lowering jokes—could stand for a number of things: 

• Peaceful Menstrual Sanctuary

• Positive Manor of Serenity

• Personal Magnification Shrine

• Palace of Marvelous Solitude

In this Center, an architecturally rich building surrounded by abundant, meandering gardens, women can enjoy the company of a supportive and sympathetic community or be on their own in comfort, resting and reflecting and making the most of this week of internal transition. 

Community activities include non-stop chatting sessions, using as much foul language as required, with no one calling it complaining or blabbering—the word “bitch” is not allowed to be applied to any woman in the center—meditation rooms, live comedy (with absolutely no jokes about women-drivers), and a variety of dance parties including disco with the girls and salsa and swing-dancing with Sanctuary-sanctioned partners with manners and good hygiene. 

There are art rooms where women can make jewelry, pottery, paintings, and crafts of all kinds. There are exercise programs in the gym with no pressure whatsoever to participate or look a certain way, and outside there is hiking, gardening, yoga, and the special archery range, where women can personalize their targets. And of course, there is a business center for women who prefer to just get on with it but in comfortable clothes with ample support. 

An add-on service: You can hire the PMS legal negotiation staff to represent you in increasing your earnings so they are equal to men doing the same job. Unfortunately, this is still not guaranteed. You would think it would be by now, wouldn’t you?

Very popular are the Sanctuary Destruction Room ™, where women can throw dirty dishes against a brick wall instead of forever washing them, and the Sanctuary Shopping Mall. Women receive Sanctuary Cents ™ at the door to spend on whatever you want and value. The “Mall” contains lots of donated new and vintage clothing, shoes, high thread-count sheets, beauty supplies, more shoes, jewelry, cool gadgets, books, fun knickknacks, home décor, you name it. There are always 75% off racks! It is designed for ultimate satisfaction.

In the private quarters, as well as on the grounds, women can be themselves, dress how they like, think their own thoughts, and scribble over the photos of people that really bug them using permanent markers, if they so choose. 

All rooms are filled with pillows, good books, music, candles, flowers, and fireplaces. They are beautifully decorated, completely Feng Shui, and you can redecorate them while there, the way we’d like our own homes to look if it wasn’t for budgets, lack of time, children, spouses, and the need for sleep. 

There is an indoor spa and outdoor hot tubs, Jacuzzis for quiet time with a glass of wine, and others where chatting can continue uninterrupted.

Facials, pedicures, manicures, and massages are always available, as are therapy sessions with really good therapists! There is always someone to listen to you at the PMS Center. 

Feeling like withdrawing socially? No problem! Crying uncontrollably? Feeling tense or depressed? Can’t concentrate? Tired and tender? We understand. This is just part of the natural process. Your feelings and experiences will be validated.

No woman has to clean up after themselves or others at the Sanctuary. Women can order ANYTHING they want from the Sanctuary kitchen, eating in the fabulous restaurant on white tablecloths with candlelight, in the more casual ivy-walled courtyard or anywhere in the Center. On hand for self-service in the kitchen are 100 flavors of ice cream, as much freshly prepared sushi as one can eat, and 232 different types of chocolate.

Of course, there are margaritas available too, 24/7. However, we realize alcohol intolerance can be part of the experience for some women, so we have many delicious non-alcoholic alternatives.

Women have access to a wide variety of movie and television entertainment, including feel-good movies and classic tearjerkers, including My Big, Fat Greek Wedding, Pretty Woman, Sleepless in Seattle, Kissing Jessica Stein, Amélie, Notting Hill, and When Harry Met Sally.

In the Sanctuary, if you are in pain, have headaches, uncomfortable bloating, an acne flare-up, constipation, we will help you to get through it. Women are never “just tolerated.” They are never told they are “overreacting.” They aren’t told they are imagining things or to push through it or that perhaps they’ve just been under a lot of stress lately. These attitudes are not permitted on the grounds.

No, in the Sanctuary, a women’s menstrual cycle is treated for what it is: an incredibly important time when a woman’s body is working its ass off!! 

At the Sanctuary we are renaming PMS (premenstrual syndrome), because it is not a syndrome, implying it is an ailment or a malady and that what a woman is going through is negative. Far from it! We know that every month, women’s bodies go through the preliminary steps of PREGNANCY, whether it’s carried through or not! Think about it. Creating an egg and an internal nest inside you, where that egg could be fertilized and start growing very rapidly into a human fetus, that draws a lot of resources from a woman’s body and mind! A menstrual cycle is the result of a hormonal dance between the pituitary gland in the brain and the ovaries.

The Women in Balance Institute reminds us of this fact:

Periods impact half of the world’s population twelve times a year for four decades of their lives – that’s approximately 2,400 days of bleeding and that doesn’t count the things we experience during the rest of our cycles – and yet we can still be reluctant to talk about them.

What happens in that week that the medical community has termed PMS? 

Okay, so earlier in the month, estrogen and progesterone levels have risen. After the ovulation time—and with no fertilization—those lovely hormones steadily decrease, which can cause a decrease of serotonin, a brain chemical (neurotransmitter) that stabilizes mood, feelings of well-being and happiness. With estrogen low, the testosterone in our bodies has more influence. High testosterone can cause acne, aggressiveness, headaches, increased appetite, mood swings, insomnia, swelling and unexplained weight gain. So, you have this combo of less serotonin and more testosterone influence. Boom! 

And your body has to clean up the nest, flush it all out, get rid of that unfertilized egg to make room for another. It’s like having an entire cleaning crew inside your uterus.

At the Center, we also provide healthy alternatives for bleeding to make you more comfortable (cups, underwear, pads, cloths, warm baths). You do not have to hide the fact that it is happening. Everyone’s doing it. Your body has to.

At the PMS Center, we do not tolerate body shaming! And we help you learn to appreciate and love your bleeding, bloating, moody, constantly changing, beautiful female body.

Everyone at the Sanctuary understands that this time of the month is SACRED, absolutely sacred! A PMS-ing woman is going through a lot. She can also be her most insightful, creative, honest, intuitive self during this highly charged time of month. It’s an opportunity! It’s a treasure! It’s as real as it gets!

And it may require a lot of naps. And definitely some shopping.

Petition your town for a PMS Center today!

Photo by Amy Treasure on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #72: The Family Creating Together (Crafts AND Memories!)

No family dynamic is ever perfect.

As parents, we bring our childhood family histories—whatever they are—to the game of parenting, doing with those experiences what we will, recreating them, working in opposition to them, unknowingly or knowingly doing a bit of both. Every relationship and group relationship have their own rhythms and patterns that change over time as we change, as the world around us changes. As our children grow, they’re continually moving on to the next phase of life just when we feel like we’ve finally figured out the last phase. Parenting is rewarding, especially discovering the depth of unconditional love we’re capable of. It’s humbling and amazing. But parenting is challenging as all heck too!

In the midst of these challenges, most loving families create at least a few routines and traditions that everyone in the family—despite their different perspectives—loves. Or at least appreciates. Experiences that bring the family together to achieve a common goal or in mutual celebration or just to spend time together. Paying attention to and spending time with our children—even when they are teenagers and young adults—goes a long way!

One of those traditions for our family is our annual holiday gift-making. Every year, in anticipation of Christmas and Chanukah, we make something to give to our extended family and friends. We create something together as a family. 

This tradition has been very successful for the four of us, so I thought it worth sharing. 

This is generally what we do:

1.     I research possible craft gifts and put them in a Word doc with links to their descriptions

2.     The family chooses one

3.     We order online or go out and acquire needed supplies

4.     The parents try making the craft

5.     We make a list of recipients (number of creations necessary)

6.     We pick a date, turn on tunes, and get creating as a family

7.     The kids—and sometimes the parents—hand out the gifts to appreciative (sometimes even impressed) friends and family

Here’s the details:

We start with the spirit of limited-choice-decision-making—something that works very well, I find, to help children learn to make decisions and actually works pretty darn well for adults too. I research online and choose a number of possible craft items. I look for ones that I think would be fun, within our capability (not too complex)—both for the kids, appropriate for their ages, and us!—something that might create a new experience or skill for all of us, and hopefully will be of some value or use to recipients. 

Here’s a few examples:

When the kids were really little, we made homemade wrapping paper. We rolled out butcher paper on the kitchen floor, let the boys dip their feet in water-based paint and walk all over it (They used handprints too). It was super fun! And the wrapping paper looked awesome!

We made message stones (bearing designs and words like LOVE, GIVE, PEACE, etc.). Other gifts included reindeer ornaments made out of popsicle sticks, plates of cookies in fancy wrapping, and, one year, pesto and red sauce in jars with decorated labels and lids. 

We moved up to making candles in collected seashells adhered to found driftwood and planks. A family favorite was the message ornaments made with Scrabble letters and holders. 

With wood burning kits, we made lovely ornaments with etched snowflakes and other designs on cut rounds of a birch branch. The kids got to help cut the rounds too with a power saw.

We made personalized keychains out of beads and silver letter cubes one year.
The coasters we made from old tiles bearing lacquered family photos were very well received. And most recently, we created really cool starburst mirrors with hot glued, silver-sprayed skewers splaying out from the mirrors like rays. 

This year—spoiler alert—it’s going to be a cookbook, a collection of recipes created by the kids and us during the Shelter-In of 2020-21 and this past year. Our teenagers did a lot of the cooking, something we had always wanted them to do so they would feel comfortable and empowered in the kitchen. We’re all adding our own descriptions and messages for each recipe and a little other content in-between.  

Those are some examples. All these things had been made and shared by others. We just followed directions and added our own details, flairs and flourishes to make them our own.

Step two: Once I have a list of possible projects, my husband and I pare it down to maybe half a dozen and present these ideas to the kids. We talk about them, choose favorites, debate and decide on one for that year. 

If there are found objects involved—like rocks—we go together to acquire them. Or if we’re buying interesting supplies we might shop together. Otherwise, I purchase anything we need online. Utilitarian.

This next step is uber-important! We parents try making the said gift before having the kids do it. When we didn’t do this, it didn’t go so well. By making a model, we find out what might be challenging, how to prep the space for whatever mess we’re going to make, what additional supplies we might need, and how long the crafts take to make. We can set expectations for the time and patience involved. And we better understand the instructions, so we can facilitate the process. It’s also really helpful to have a model or two of the finished product. 

On the appointed day, the table prepped, we gather and create, usually with music on in the background, holiday music or we all take turns choosing songs on the Alexa. Or both. It’s a great way to find out what music your kids are into.

And we converse, quite naturally, while tinkering away. I’ve always found that work parties are the best parties. With friends and acquaintances too. While creating, we create shared memories. 

Even as they got older, and spending time with us meant NOT spending time with their friends, the boys enjoyed the experience. And it is with some pride that they hand out the finished products during the holidays.

We always keep a sample of the crafts for ourselves. When our home-made ornaments come out at Christmas or the coasters come out of the drawer, one of our sons might point to them. “Remember when we made these?” And we share the experience again through our memories. 

It’s pretty cool!

Postscript 

Shameless self-promotion: One of the missions of my book, Camping Activity Book for Families: The Kid-Tested Guide to Fun in the Outdoors is to bring families together to get to know and appreciate and enjoy each other, to explore, learn, create and wonder together. Watch for the second edition in summer 2022!

100 Day Challenge #71: You Are HUMAN

You Are Human

You avoid loneliness but seek solitude

You desire to belong but as uniquely you

You feel one thing and think another,

Psychological and logical often at arms.

You want to learn but not be taught

You value spontaneity but need predictability

You influence others and are susceptible to their whims

You judge—sometimes—but don’t wish to be judged

You need control but know you must let go

You hear mixed messages: The strong shall win. The meek shall inherit the earth.

With all you know, you know so little.

You sit in silence, demanding better communication

You laugh at people’s foibles but certainly not at your own

You complain about those traits in others you would like to change in you

You crave love but sometimes cannot love yourself

You can be kind, so kind and lash out, mean.

You can see beauty and feel ugly.

You know you have the capacity to create and destroy, and this makes you uncomfortable.

You mostly hope. Mostly.

You are HUMAN.

100 Day Challenge #70: The Return of...the Mullet!

The other day, I heard my seventeen-year-old son say a phrase I never thought I’d hear: The mullet’s back in style. And he was going to grow one.

I couldn’t believe this, especially after the traumatic parenting moment when he was in third grade and I accidentally gave him a mullet. Parenting aint’ for sissies!

When the “incident” happened, I wasn’t “properly” qualified to cut his hair in the first place, but had been doing it for a long time, because he refused to go to a salon or a barbershop. His first haircut at a salon when he was two years old went okay. He was cautious, suspicious, but allowed the new experience.

The second time, he would have none of it. We’d gone to a salon for kids to make the experience friendlier, try to give it a “fun factor.” They had snacks, and my son had his choice of sitting in a car, a motorcycle or on an elephant, all plastic moldings around the salon chairs. The answer was a resounding get-me-out-of-here NO! He headed towards the door.

I tried comforting, cajoling, waiting, bribing, sweet-talking, reasoning, forcing. Nothing worked. Sweating—with his baby brother fidgeting in a BABYBJÖRN on my chest—we finally just left. 

His hair grew. 

So, I bought barber scissors and became my children’s stylist. When money was tight and my husband’s regular hair-cutter moved away, I became his barber too. I had never cut hair before in my life! Except just before a high school junior prom when I decided to trim my bangs and, with my forehead crinkled, cut them into a short fringe that looked like the edge of pillow or like legs on a millipede or like I’d burned off the edges by mistake. It was bad, like a teenage horror movie—screams, tears, and no way out. Luckily, the dance was at the rival high school and not my own.

And with that experience behind me, suddenly I had to cut other people’s hair!

But I’m a good monkey. I did my best to imitate the way my stylist layered my hair. The family developed a routine. The “customer” got to choose the show on television of their choice and with a towel on the living room floor below a chair and another towel draped around them, I went at it. 

Most of the cuts came out okay. Not perfect, but cute and passable. When my younger son wanted a buzzcut, I bought electric clippers and learned how to use them by trial and error. The three-quarter inch attachment was much better by far than the almost bald third-of-an-inch attachment. It was like a trust exercise. And sometimes I couldn’t believe they were trusting me! Lots of deep breaths and silent self-belief chants took place while on the television screen on the other side of the room Candace sang “Squirrels in my pants” on Phineas and Ferb.

Then came THE MULLET.

Tim_Lincecum. Wikisports

My son had chosen his TV show—it might have been a Myth Busters—sat in the chair, and I started trimming the hair over his forehead. He has gorgeous straight brown hair, and it had gotten long. I always asked the family ahead of time if they wanted any special kind of cut—hoping they would say no. Maybe it was because he was absorbed in his show or he just hadn’t thought of it. I was well into the trimming and layering in the front when he declared, “I want hair like Tim Lincecum.”

Tim Lincecum in 2009, wikimedia. cc

“The pitcher for the Giants?” I asked, already despairing as I pulled out my phone to look at photos of the baseball superstar (this was in around 2013). In most photos, Lincecum was, of course, wearing a baseball cap, but in almost every photo, very visible behind his ears and falling onto his neck and shoulders was his long locks. I looked at my son’s hair, already cut short in front. 

“Um, I’ve already started cutting, but I’ll try.”

I left the back long at his request. 

That evening when my husband saw our son, he pulled me aside laughing. “You gave him a mullet.”

I looked at our boy. It was true. I had just given him the most grossly out-of-fashion haircut a young man could have at the time. I was mortified. 

Mullets in 2013 were taboo, an embarrassment, associated with a stereotype of “backwater ignorance” and cheesy 80s television B-actors. 

If our son wore a hat like Lincecum, it might’ve looked okay, but he never wore hats, refused to. As a baby, I had dressed him in hats all the time, for fashion, sun or to keep him warm. I love hats. But when he was not yet one-year old, his aunt thought it would be funny to teach him how to take his own hat off his head. Except in the snow and at baseball games, he didn’t wear another one for almost sixteen years. (When she had a son of her own, she apologized profusely. It’s funny family lore now.)

The next day when my son went to school, a couple other parent-friends teased me as well, but luckily his third-grade buddies knew nothing of these social judgments. And it didn’t take long for his hair to grow. Thank god.

Zendaya with a great mullet

But time ticks on. The style referred to as “the haircut that's business up front and a party in the back” is in style once again, with a millennial flair. Zendaya, Scarlett Johansson, Taraji Henson, Rihanna, and Dolly Parton have all recently donned a modified mullet. The trend has a positive association once again.

The mullet is actually nothing new. According to Alan Henderson, author of the book Mullet Madness!, the “neck blanket” goes way back to Neolithic times. It’s a highly functional way to keep hair, if you think about it, providing warmth in the back and visibility in the front. Ancient Greeks and Romans rocked the mullet, evidenced by statues from the day. In the 16th century, Hittite warriors sported them, along with the Assyrians and the Egyptians. Native Americans wore mullet mohawks long before punk rockers. Benjamin Franklin felt pretty groovy, wearing his “skullet,” bald on top and long in the back, while moon bathing and harnessing the power of lightning. (There’s a great brief history of the mullet by Oliver Lunn on Dazed Beauty.)

David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust look

Fast-forward to the 1960s, and the “Alabama Waterfall” hit pop culture with the look of David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust character. 

In the late 1970s and 1980s, the mullet became a common cut, especially iconic on Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. I had a dreadful lion-mane mullet for a while in 1985, a cut I got while living in London. 

Being the frequent style of hockey players, the style earned the nickname “Hockey Hair.” It’s also been called the “Tennessee Tophat,” the “Achy-breaky-bad-mistakey,” and the “Soccer rocker.” Others refer to the mullet as “The MacGuyver” and “The Billy-Ray,” for obvious reasons. (Billy’s daughter Miley took on the cut and made it her own in this decade.) The Beastie Boys’ 1994 classic Mullet Head kept the style popular in the early 1990s. 

Macgyver. Wikipedia

Then came the bust years when the mullet became the topic of comedy and ridicule, as in this routine by Jim Gaffigan in 2014. 

The same thing happened to disco. Wildly fun and popular in the late 1970s and early ’80s, it was viewed as a joke for nearly 30 years, until it came back into musical style, the Disco Pop Revival or “Modern Disco.” It’s like classic and Neo-classic architecture. Same style, only with different tools, materials, flair and time period.

Trends are like this. Bellbottoms and headbands, legwarmers and saddle shoes, denim jackets and bucket hats, high-waisted jeans, tight jeans, baggy jeans. They all had their unacceptable years and then, viewed with nostalgia, were seen again 20 to 30 years later. There’s generational changes and the influence of designers taking inspiration from styles their parents wore, among other factors. We like to romanticize the past, us humans.

The harsh criticism of styles perhaps has to do with the natural rebellion of youth, which is a step towards independence. There’s also peer pressure, that precarious dance we humans do on the edge of conformity to belong and differentiating as individuals. I’d like to believe, with the advent of social media, there is more freedom for individual style and expression today than in the past. But the social and sociological pressures of us humans is pretty much the same. So that same social media can also add to the pressure to “keep up with the Joneses” with the influences of Tik-Tok, Instagram, Snapchat and memes. And we humans still have the same tendency to pre-judge, categorizing experiences and people being a survival tool that can easily go too far, becoming stereotyping and prejudice, scapegoating even. Our tendencies require awareness and examination so they don’t get the better of us, so that kindness (towards ourselves and others) can prevail.

So I think it’s safe to say: Beware the criticism of a good trend! Because chances are, even if it seems unlikely, it’s coming back at some point. Like the mullet, a.k.a. the Camaro Cut, the Ape Drape, the Beaver Paddle. All it takes is influential people to wear it with confidence.

Of course, some hair stylists will tell you that the mullet never actually went out of style. “Mullets are the best. Super versatile. (They give) a lot of movement with a little length still attached. They never really went out!" said Dante Pronio, master stylist at Mizu New York salon, who added that he still creates them under the pseudonym of a "tri-level" cut. (Today.com)

I personally like that the mullet is back in popular favor. It helps me rid the negative connotations I had associated with it. It reminds me to reserve my own judgment. 

But I’m still not getting one. It would NOT be flattering on me.

100 Day Challenge #69: The Death Chamber at San Quentin (and the End of Our Tour)—Continued from Challenge #64

As we left the cafeteria, we had to say good-bye to our new acquaintances, the inmates who had told us their stories, escorted us through the yard and shown us their tiny cells with their few belongings. They couldn’t go where we were headed next, nor did they want to. Our final stop on the tour of San Quentin was the death chamber.

Sam took us around the side of the cell block that housed most of the death row inmates, those not in the Adjustment Center. There were about 700 of them. 

I had been scared to see this part of the prison even before we arrived at San Quentin. My stomach hurt in anticipation of seeing a place where human beings could legally and systematically kill other human beings.

It turned out that there were two death chambers. Sam took us to see the oldest one first. Contained in a room with dark green linoleum floors and walls painted a peach color was a sealable contraption that looked like some sort of 1950s-movie deep-sea submersible. Adding to this impression was its paint color, a light aqua green and the captain’s wheel on the thick metal door used to lock it. Inside were two angular, blocky chairs with straps on the arms. On all sides of the chamber were thick-glassed windows. Opposite the door, chairs were arranged in a semi-circle facing the windows. 

This had originally been the gas chamber, which is why the walls, windows and door were so solid. It had been built in 1937 when the California State Legislature replaced hanging as the method of capital punishment with lethal gas. Up until 1967, 194 people—including four women—were executed by gas at San Quentin. It was last used to asphyxiate an individual on August 24, 1993. 

According to the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR), court decisions in 1967—when the ethics of the death penalty were being questioned in earnest—halted execution in California for 25 years. Although the death penalty was reinstated in 1978, executions did not resume in California until April 21, 1992. But they did resume. Why the 1990s I found myself asking?

When the use of cyanide gas was ruled cruel and unusual punishment, the penal system turned to lethal injection. The clunky chairs were replaced with a padded gurney upon which the condemned man would lie down. 

San_Quentin_Gas_Chamber, CDCR and Wikimedia

The last two executions in that awful, tiny room were of Stanley “Tookie” Williams in 2005 and Clarence Ray Allen in 2006. Allen was 76 years old, the second-oldest inmate ever to be officially executed in the United States. Many people questioned at the time: what was the point of executing an old man?

Courtesy of the CDCR

Tookie Williams, though convicted of murder of four people, always maintained his innocence for that particular crime. He was the co-founder and an early leader of the Crips street gang in Los Angeles. Tookie claimed he originally organized the Crips not with the intention of eliminating other gangs, but “to create a force powerful enough to protect local black people from racism, corruption and brutality at the hands of the police.” Indeed, the name Crips stood for “Community Revolution in Progress.” He tried to unite all the territorial gangs in LA, but those gangs that resisted losing their independence formed their own unity, the Bloods. 

Perhaps not knowing any other way, the leaders of the rival gangs used force and violence to try to create fear in each other and in the innocent people that lived around them. The violence escalated when the use of drugs became commonplace. 

In prison, Tookie—with a co-author—wrote numerous books, most of them for young people, and became an advocate for ending gang warfare in the lives of inner-city children. He recorded a heart-felt plea for peace shown at the Crips-Blood Summit in 2000. He started the Internet Project for Street Peace, which arranged for at-risk youths in California and South Africa to communicate with each other via email and online chat groups. 

As a result, Williams was nominated six times for the Nobel Peace Prize and received the President’s Call to Service Award in 2005.

He was up for a Nobel and execution at the same time.

At his funeral, a tape recorder played the last words of Williams to mourners.

“The war within me is over. I battled my demons and I was triumphant. Teach them how to avoid our destructive footsteps. Teach them to strive for higher education. Teach them to promote peace and teach them to focus on rebuilding the neighborhoods that you, others, and I helped to destroy.”

Tookie’s son, a father, home-owner, and reformed gang member working in social services, and rapper Snoop Dog both spoke at the service.

Why isn’t the redemption and rehabilitation of inmates more of a consideration? In their parole and release? In their sentencing?

Tookie openly admitted to a lot of heinous behavior. But while the evidence around the four murders is murky, there is a lot of evidence of the regret, evolved moral stance, education and rehabilitation he experienced while he served at San Quentin—including nine books.

The windowless Lethal Injection Facility, connected to the cell block housing death row inmates

CAD Model for San Quentin Lethal Injection from The Avery Review

From the gas chamber, Sam took us next door into a non-descript and windowless white building that contained another death chamber. This was the Lethal Injection Facility. It was sterile white except for the padded gurney—in that awful aqua green color—with numerous straps and buckles. It had been moved here from the old death chamber. On either side of the gurney, were surgical procedure tables and trays. There was a long picture window separating us from this scene. We were in the area reserved for the media. To both the right and left of the procedure room were smaller windows and viewing rooms, for the victim’s family on the left; for the condemned man’s family on the right. They could each look past the execution and see each other. 

The Lethal Injection Room, CDCR and Wikimedia

Behind the room was the “control center” where the execution team could create the lethal cocktail. The center had four phones each with direct lines to the governor’s office, the state Supreme Court, the attorney general and the warden.

“The phones are connected to all those entities to make sure the inmates’ legal rights are upheld,” Sam said.

But this facility, completed in 2008 and costing $835,000, had never been used. 

In 2006, United States District Judge Fogel put a moratorium on executions in California and ordered prison officials to improve procedures for administering lethal injections. Evidence showed that inexperienced, untrained prison staff were carrying out the executions in crowded, poorly lit settings, making the system “broken.” This room was built in response. 

When it was to be used for the first time in 2010, Fogel ordered a stay on the execution. He wrote in a 2011 editorial in the New York Times: 

“For legislators in state capitols considering whether to abolish the [death] penalty... this case... has documented how lethal injection can be cruel and unusual punishment when unprofessionally administered and how the culture of prisons breeds that shoddy approach. It is one more reason to reject the death penalty as a barbaric punishment.”

When we were in San Quentin in 2015, there was a chance that the moratorium would be lifted and executions resumed. 

Four years after my visit to San Quentin, in 2019, Governor Gavin Newsom ordered a moratorium on the state's death penalty. Within hours, a sign was posted on the heavy metal door to the death chamber that read: “Gas Chamber CLOSED per Executive Order 11-09-19.” 

On March 13th, prison inmate volunteers and CDCR representatives helped to dismantle both the gas and lethal injection execution chambers. I can only imagine what that must have felt like for the inmates.

I, for one, was happy to hear this. I get the emotions behind the death penalty, the passion for revenge. I can imagine—though I don’t wish to—the desire for payment of the person’s life who takes the life of someone you love. The bereaved seek closure. I would never invalidate those feelings ever. But grief doesn’t go away. It just changes form and intensity over the years. 

This is a sensitive topic, I know, because it is an emotional one. So I will only speak for myself. I highly value education and forgiveness. I know sitting in judgment of others is not good for me. It makes me unhappy. What I seek from criminals is remorse, comprehension of their action’s consequences, self-responsibility, education, a genuine and lasting change of moral character. I would want the ultimate serving for a crime to be in the form of service to others, to the community, to humanity. 

A very difficult question is how to treat mentally-ill criminals incapable of change because of the make-up of their brains, those that suffer, for example, from sociopathy and psychopathy? That’s a whole other topic: our lack of systems and support and facilities to help the mentally ill and their families. 

There was so much to think about and feel as we left the death chambers. We were all overwhelmed I think. 

Sam escorted us back to the menacing, guarded entrance to the prison. We thanked him profusely and, after being padded down for contraband, stepped out into the sunlight with the sparkling bay right in front of us, seagulls staring at us from the rocks along the shore. We walked through the parking lot to our cars, these machines that we owned that could take us anywhere we wanted to go. We could barely speak, exhausted after an intense four hours and with so much to digest.

I thought of the men we met inside who had achieved high school and college diplomas in prison and would hopefully someday be released. How would they survive, given $200 and little else upon their release? Would the volunteers and nonprofits—like BOSS—provide enough support as they transition to life on the outside? With their records, would they be able to get and keep jobs and homes? To find love?

Since our tour in 2015, thousands of California inmates have been released. San Quentin, with over 4,000 men when we were there, now has a population of around 2,000. Have Clay and Wall Street and the others been released? I wonder how they are doing.

San Quentin isn’t just a guarded wall around predators. There were some men inside, I’m sure, that—for one reason or another—hadn’t or couldn’t reform. But the vast majority of inmates in San Quentin were people who had made terrible mistakes, mostly when they were young. They were human beings.

The state decided pre-Covid that it was time to close down at least two of the prisons in California as an effort to stop the wide and inequitable incarceration in the state. The 67-year-old Deuel Vocational Institution in Tracy was the first to close. San Quentin is on the short list for the next closure. With all the volunteer services provided in San Quentin because of its location in the Bay Area and near so many universities and resources, many people think this is unwise, that another prison would be a better choice. I can’t help but wonder—in this strange and corporate-driven day and age, with the widening gap between rich and poor—how much of a factor will the incredible value of this waterside property be in the final decision. We’ll see what happens.

I don’t want it to sound cliché saying that my day in San Quentin was life-changing. But it was. It truly was.

The day after the tour, and for weeks after, the colors of the leaves in the trees and flowers were technicolor bright. I took walks, breathing in the air and considering freedom, how precious it is. I don’t think I can ever take it for granted again. I looked around in wonder at our home, our children, our cat, all our possessions. I felt wonder that I could contemplate, “What should I do next today?” 

All of these things are amazing treasures. Space. Choices. Love. Freedom.

Photo by the CDCR

Freedom. Photo by Rowan Heuvel on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #68: Fierce Mama Bear (or Mama Lion)

Anyone who is a mom knows about becoming Mama Bear. (I usually say Mama Lion but I’ll go with the more standard animal terminology.)

Mama Bear appears when we feel our child is threatened or treated unfairly. And she is fierce!

The first time it ever happened to me was actually before my son was born. I was 20 weeks pregnant and, as an important personal choice for us, my husband and I opted to do a genetics test on the fetus to make sure everything was okay, all normal chromosomes in place. I was nearly 40 years old with one miscarriage behind me. It was recommended at my age and just made sense.

The very experienced doctor overseeing the test explained the process, an extraction of just a little of the fluid in the placenta. With an ultrasound showing everything going on inside my uterus, he inserted into my belly the longest needle I had ever seen. 

Like turning on a switch, I was suddenly on high alert, ready to defend, at war. I could’ve scratched his eyes out with a blood-curdling scream.

Instead, I looked away, gripped my husband’s hand tightly and took deep breaths to fight off the feeling. 

When the procedure was completed—which was within seconds—tears came in steady streams, uncontrollable. My strong reaction startled me. The trippiest part was how absolutely instinctual it was. It wasn’t a conscious thought but involuntary, the need to protect my child. The doctor did an excellent job, and I felt like I wasn’t doing mine, letting that needle come so close to my son. Even though it was by my choice.

I became Mama Bear, ferocious and willing to do anything to protect my young.

Adrenaline surged for a long time afterwards. 

I’ve had a number of Mama Bear moments since then.

Mama Bear came to light just the other day in reacting to a high school teacher who was giving students all zeroes on essays if they didn’t cite sources in the correct MLA format. My son told us about it with frustration at dinner. The content of the essay wasn’t even considered. Students were given only minimal feedback. 

But what I took issue with the most was the lack of teacher-facilitated exercises before the essay that would have given students a chance to fail and correct themselves and learn. 

In this particular Mama Bear moment, despite the high emotion, I kept my claws to myself. I didn’t talk to the teacher right away. My husband and I knew the first step was our son advocating for himself, which he did, resulting in the opportunity to fix the citing issues and raise his grade, still only to a 75% from a zero for most of his classmates, but a reasonable success. 

Mama Bear is still keeping her eyes open though. Grrr.

There’s a neurological reason for the Mama Bear phenomenon. Usually when an animal senses danger, it’s gone, out-of-there, see ya’. Flight. Or it freezes like a deer does. But not when offspring are threatened. Man, then, that deer might get all up in your face. Parents’ defend their young, could even kill to protect them.

Neuroscientists from the Champalimaud Centre for the Unknown, in Lisbon, Portugal, discovered in 2017 that this radical change in parents’ behavior (from self-defense to defending their young) depends on the action of oxytocin—sometimes called the “love hormone”—on the neurons of the amygdala, the part of the brain known for its crucial role in the processing of emotional reactions. 

The amygdala is where fight or flight instincts happen. When triggered by fear, anger, anxiety or aggression, it releases stress hormones that prepare the body to fight the threat or flee from the danger. 

Oxytocin has many functions, among them is bonding, between mothers and their young, and within couples. 

You combine the love hormone with the stress hormone, that’s Mama Bear, right there. Or Mama Lion!

Photo by Daniel Cabanas on Unsplash

Photo by Simon Hurry on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #67: Reflecting on the Challenge of 100 Days of Writing

Now that I’m about two-thirds through this 100-Day Challenge, I thought I’d take a day to reflect on what I’ve been learning, what the process has been like, questions I still have—about writing and creativity, habits and sharing, about priorities and seemingly opposing, taffy-pulling forces of human nature in this practice, and about myself. 

I don’t know how many people are reading this blog, but if you’re keeping track daily, you’ve probably noticed that, well, the posts are almost-daily. Yeah, I’ve missed a few days. Including yesterday. And almost today. 

At this point it’s the 100-Day Challenge in about 106 days. Think of it as like the fifth sequel to 101 Dalmatians, when the dogs—I don’t know—adopt black and white spotted cats, squirrels and hamsters and tour the globe like four-legged Globetrotters managed by Cruella de Vil. 

Or something like that.

I keep thinking that I can catch up, do two challenges in one day a couple times. It hasn’t happened yet.

Some of the No-Blog days are due to impacted work days, when I get a great start on editing, researching, crafting and designing Stories to Last projects for my clients, and by the time I look up again, my neck sore, my brain feels too fried to string together more words or decide on a topic—even though I’ve got a long list—and I have to let the day pass. Or the day passes, and I just plain forget. (“Oh crap, I forgot to do my 100-Day Challenge yesterday!”)

Some of the gap days occurred on days crowded with just a lot of life, like yesterday: a rare sleep in, coffee with old friends, a loud argument amongst fellow family members, processing that family argument, then peaceful family pumpkin-carving, house cleaning, exercising the dog, a bunch of various life chores, improvising on a new recipe for dinner, taking photos of our sons impatient to get out the door in their Halloween costumes with their buddies, the giddy anticipation of our whoppin’ two trick-or-treaters. And finally, just giving in and cuddled on the couch with my hubby to watch Ted Lasso reruns.

Sometimes there’s just too much going on inside my head, that internal world buzzing on recent events, ambiguous feelings, problems to solve, just trying to figure stuff out.

Those are gap days.

Therein lies a conflict that’s not really a conflict. In this 100-Day Challenge I’m working on consistency. But it has to be with flexibility. Because that’s life. At any point in it. I happen to be in the “book-end years,” children on one end, aging parents on the other. And working full-time in between, the years with our teenagers precious and few before they’re out the door to college and fully independent (I loved what Michelle Obama says in her book, Becoming, that her mother told her, “I wasn't raising children. I was raising adults.” Yes!) 

Consistency is important because, among other things, it creates reliability, which in turn creates trust. And I have to trust myself. I spent way too long not trusting myself. In the past, I compromised self-care for doing what I thought others wanted me to do, you know that non-existent “right thing.” Even making little decisions could be excruciatingly difficult, sometimes even painful. But trusting myself, man, that feels good! Consistency is also a great ingredient in raising adults. If you think about it, even if your childless, we’re all raising adults: ourselves.

But flexibility is equally important. Because, bugger it all, I’m not perfect. I’m not always consistent. Whether unexpected events get in the way or I just make a different decision, sometimes the day goes in different directions than planned. There’s a great deal in life we can’t control. And we’re also emotional beings which creates layers of complexity in our existence. 

The lack of flexibility is rigidity, which often leads to judgment. Of others and ourselves. And in judgment-mode, sound, authentic writing is freakin’ impossible. It’s also mean to judge ourselves. I was never intentionally mean to others, but oh boy, I’ve been ruthlessly mean to myself. Been there; done that! I’m tired of it. No more. I’d rather be forgiving. Loving. 

What a relief!

So, consistency and flexibility have to live side-by-side, pretzeled together, embracing. 

Photo by Joyce McCown on Unsplash

In some of the best moments of writing, you get that great feeling that you’re “only the messenger.” The topic at hand—whatever it is—suddenly presents itself with requirements, if you’re really going to get at the nucleus of it. And your job is just to follow it to the end. 

Twenty minutes of writing can easily turn into three hours when the topic deserves depth, of reflection and research-based evidence. 

It’s actually a thrill when the subject or theme becomes the master dictating the language, the form, the metaphors, the tone, the phrasing. Even the syntax. You are but a grateful vessel, dispensing the words necessary to express some sort of truth. Some people call it “the muse.” Whatever you want to call it, it’s a cool feeling!

You have to deal with the consequences of the unexpected three hours though! And that can suck. Sometimes being responsible only feels good after the work is done. But ultimately, it’s good for the soul.

I’ve also learned something about sharing my writing. Although I can feel shy socially (I hide it pretty well with the training of social graces—and genuine appreciation for my community), I’ve always performed: acting, singing, speaking. I like connecting with an audience. 

But I finally get it. My writing—or any creative art for that matter—has to be for me first. It has to be something I want to explore, express, celebrate, reveal. Rather than for the sake of pleasing others. I’m finding if I go with what I want to say and share, my pieces are of more value to others. I’m closer to the truth. It’s real. And I think that is something we all crave. Plus, I’m having a damn good time. And that’s contagious. On stage and even on paper! 

I do feel more vulnerable. I’m sharing stories I’ve never shared before. Brené Brown would be proud of me! 

But strangely, sharing the revealing stuff, the tough stuff makes me feel like I’m standing in sturdier shoes. It’s ironic, since the misconception of vulnerability is that it shows weakness. 

I’m finding Brené’s right. Vulnerability is actually a place of personal power. It breaks the dam, releasing all kind of cool ideas and possibilities. And it’s damn exciting too. “The truth shall set us free.”

Photo by Lacie Slezak on Unsplash

There’s also WIDE WORLD OF SPORTS moments in this 100 Day Challenge: “The thrill of victory and agony of defeat.” Sometimes I can think through a piece and the writing comes out smooth as melted chocolate in a fountain.  Other times, I start on one topic, abandon it for another, look at my expanding list of topics despairing that not one bullet point is calling to me, get distracted by emails, walk around. And either eventually get there. Or have one of those gap days in my 100 days making the math all wrong.

Still, it’s adding up for me. I’m learning a lot. I’m practicing. I’m really glad I’m doing this.

Photo by Milan Ivanovic on Unsplash

100 day Challenge #66: Floating DOWN Stream

The most lost and depressed year of my life came after one of the best year’s of my life, the year I returned to UC Davis after my junior year abroad in London. That return year, I was lower than a ditch in Death Valley.

My year at the University of London was amazing. And still means the world to me. I experienced and saw so much. I grew in world view, capability and a bit in confidence. 

My childhood was sheltered and suburban, my role the “good girl,” who only ventured from home an hour and a half to go to college. I generally felt—confined.

But I was deeply curious.

In London, I navigated the Continent by Eurail with a rucksack during the winter holidays and hiked from hostel to hostel, village to village (pub to pub) in England’s Lake District while the daffodils bloomed. I saw Alan Rickman play Jacques in As You Like It at the Royal Shakespeare Festival in Stratford-Upon-Avon, before he was a film star. He was tremendous! I went to museums galore, to castles, cathedrals and historical and architectural sites that were often ten times older than those in the U.S.

I performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in Scotland (in The Interview, an absurdist play by Octave Mirbeau) while 100 bagpipers gathered in the park below the castle. I served as assistant director for a production of Twelfth Night, sung cabaret, and helped to direct and edit a three-camera studio shoot of Endgame by Samuel Beckett. 

I studied a bunch of subjects that I wanted to study, including American Literature, fascinating from the British perspective, read a ton—especially plays—saw one or two stage production almost every week plus a bunch of concerts. I held jobs, made friends, and had an expat British boyfriend for part of the year.

I became the “tea mother” among my friends, serving chocolate digestive biscuits and black tea in my dorm room in the late afternoons and on Saturday nights after the pubs closed—stopping for kebabs on the way home. 

I journaled and observed people. 

I enjoyed life far away from my childhood . Very much.

The year was not without loneliness. And trouble (with men, mostly). And unconscious self-judgment and other internal baggage that I brought along for the ride. I had a long way to go to be “fully-formed.” But it was still one of the greatest years of my life. A sea change took place.

But when I returned home, I was expected to return to the “show already in progress,” resume my life as it had been, as if these changes and new perspectives and experiences had never happened.

People asked, “How was your trip?” 

Trip?! It was so much more than that. But when I tried to explain what the year meant to me, how my world had expanded, doors opened, it felt like no one was listening.

In one conversation, my father even said, “London ruined you.” 

He doesn’t remember it. And being who I was at the time, I never protested or argued or asked him what he meant. Instead, I let the phrase rattle around in my head for decades. 

Photo by Erika Fletcher on Unsplash

I wanted to continue to explore the world. Since one of my goals was to become fluent in a second language, I applied for and received a partial scholarship to a program in Mexico. My parents didn’t want me to go and wouldn’t fund the remainder. They wanted me to finish college. It was understandable. Perhaps they thought I wouldn’t, but I very much wanted my degree! With my “good girl” syndrome, I didn’t try to persuade them. I didn’t even think to take out a student loan and go anyway (It wasn’t very expensive). I was 21 years old. 

So, I went back to UC Davis to finish up my English degree. Most of my friends in the Drama Department, undergrads older than me and MFA students, had graduated and moved on. I arranged while still in London to rent a room in a house owned by professors (and parents of a dear friend/prior boyfriend) that was occupied by all theatre people. I had the smallest room in the house. The only bed I had was an old vinyl fold-out couch of my parents. It didn’t fold out all the way in the room. My two other roommates were both men, one an MFA student, a good guy and a good actor. The other roommate was an undergrad who I didn’t care for and was the living embodiment of Pig Pen. He kept his dirty clothes in a shopping cart in his room, and the smell that emanated from his domain could make your eyes water.

And then I tried. I smiled, went to classes, auditioned for plays. But underlying everything was a mild, heart-dimming depression. 

I felt so stuck and unhappy. 

Even though I had navigated myself around Europe, I did not know how to captain my own life. I mentioned this in a previous post, I believe. The metaphor of how I lived my life (up until I was a 31 years old) was floating down a river unable to swim, the current just taking me. I didn’t know how to take control of my life or how to take care of myself. I was thus prone to being a victim. It wasn’t pretty, and now, looking back, I feel so sad for that girl.

One night during that first semester, I was working, selling tickets in the glass booth of the local movie theatre—a fish in a spotlighted bowl—and the sadness and frustration inside were just too much. I started crying. A fellow walking by happened to see. 

I was so lost. He spoke sympathetic words. I was sick and yearning for anything of that sort. I let him befriend me. His name was Yule. 

After I got off work, I went with him to the Blue Mango, a little hippie cafe in town that I had never been to before. He sat down at an out-of-tune upright piano and improvised a haunting piece of music. 

In the weeks that followed, I went to San Francisco with him and busked on the street, singing for money. I compromised myself sexually with him. I let him borrow my car, and he broke it. I had to borrow money from my dad for repairs. 

He had been an Aggie, he told me, and had left a week before graduation, so he wouldn’t have to pay back student loans. He told me he knew more about me than I did about myself. He wondered out loud to me about the systems of life being rigged, about possibly being a messiah. 

I was that depressed.

One day, I drove him to visit his mother in Vallejo. She lived in a sketchy neighborhood in a small Spanish-style with the only tended front garden on the street. Yule said that people in the hood knew to respect her. While he took my car to take her grocery shopping, I sat on the front porch and watched as African-American children sold drugs to young men in red sports cars. An older white woman waddled out of her house to collect the money from the kids. I had never seen anything like it before. 

Finally, after a couple of months, I woke up. A friend of Yule’s helped me get my treasured Gibson guitar back from him, and I escaped. 

Depression can make you do the illogical. 

I went on that year to flunk a class for the first time. It was Irish-Anglo literature, and I read everything in the class and wrote all the papers and loved the work. And then didn’t show up to the final. 

I slept around a bit, something I had never done before. Then I rebounded with a younger guy, a damaged type, appealing to my Florence Nightengale tendencies at the time. It was a horrible relationship that I nursed for too long, even sharing an apartment with him. 

There were more moments of poor judgment, of lowering my status, allowing verbal abuse, of self-sacrifice, of floating down that river. 

I survived the year and, after one more quarter of classes to complete requirements, I started my teaching credential program while working at a preschool. I stayed busy, found things to enjoy, resigned myself to what was at hand, as I was in the habit of doing. I didn’t feel fulfilled nor in control, but I didn’t feel so depressed anymore. 

It used to be really painful to recall this stuff. And I didn’t dare share these experiences with others. But I have worked very hard over the years to forgive myself, the girl I was then, and let go of the shame accumulated during that year—and before and beyond. It’s okay. I was depressed. I didn’t know any better. There was a context to it all. I’m just glad I’m no longer that girl. I have so much sympathy for her now. And love. 

The only bright spot during that horrible year was my time on stage. I landed some great roles and performed well. In character, I was free for a while. I had blocking to follow, lines to say, and with that reliable structure and an appreciative audience watching for an or two under the dusty stage lights, I was safe and oddly in control. I didn’t have to just follow the current down stream. 

Photo by Martin Sanchez on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #65: Subculture Fun!

Subcultures are fascinating. And there are so many of them. 

I became brightly aware of the phenomena of subcultures when I got into motorcycles. I had a Kawasaki EX500 in the 1990s. Riding on any road or highway, other bikers passing in the other direction would lift a palm from their handlebars in greeting. Except Harley Davidson riders, of course. They had their own subculture, looking down on us cats riding “rice burners.” 

But that’s okay. It was a great feeling, those waves on the highway. I was part of the club, having something in common with all these people I didn’t know. 

I found myself in another subculture when I rescued a puppy from Redwood Regional Park: the Dog People club. That poor pup, white with patchwork colors, looking part-beagle, part-chihuahua, was dirty and flea-infested but very sweet-natured. I named him Sequoia, took him back to my apartment—stopping for flea bath and dog food on the way—and cleaned him up. I’d always wanted a dog. I love dogs.

But my apartment complex did not allow them. I had just started dating my future husband, and we were traveling, falling in love. This canine companionship would be temporary. But until I found a nice family to adopt him two weeks later, I was in the Canine Club, rockin’ with rover, parlayin’ with the pooches. 

On the second day that Sequoia was with me, an acquaintance called me for a dog walk. The next day, another canine companion called me. A few days later, another. None of them had ever invited me on a walk before. On the trail, other people with dogs smiled, made eye-contact, recognized me as one of their own.

I was in a subculture in college at UC Davis. On the late 80s campus, dominated by business and science majors, I found my home in the Drama Department. I performed in a play or a theatre project almost every quarter, including a crazy ensemble musical in which we stripped down to long underwear, and Cloud 9 by Caryl Churchill in which I faked an orgasm on stage and did fourteen costume changes, and a new work by an MFA playwright in which I died a dozen times. There were always people hanging out in the green room. There were lots of shoulder massages and cast parties. The dark wings of the theatres, the crowded prop and costume rooms, the construction area, smelling of pine sawdust and wood glue, was all other-worldly. We called all our professors by their first names. They often appeared in productions with us. We partied with them. 

After shows, Professor Everard DeHarnecourt invited everyone to his house for hot tub parties (no clothing allowed in the tub). Everard had been a professional tennis player until stepping near a landmine while in the German Army in World War II. One of his legs was stiff (and it was rumored that another part of him couldn’t get stiff at all). He taught film history and as an author defining pornography, was sometimes called into courtrooms as an expert on the subject. 

Perhaps nowhere have I appreciated subcultures more than at Burning Man. 

There are three things I love about Burning Man: 

Photo by Peter Fitzpatrick on Unsplash

1.     The gift economy. Only two things are sold at Burning Man: ice and coffee at the Black Rock café. Everything else is given away. In the Birthday Tent, it was everyone’s birthday. Everyone was given a small cake, a present and serenaded with the birthday song. At the Black Rock Boutique, I picked out a cool black vest, put it on and walked out with a “Thank you!” There were gifts of food, drinks, entertainment and art. And trampolines. Everywhere! (I attended three years: 2001 to 2003, five months pregnant the last time, which landed me a lot of TLC—foot massages, Baby!) At Burning Man, it was such a relief to take a break from capitalistic and commercial culture!

Burners. peter-fitzpatrick-kKM_C2-FsMk-unsplash

2.     The creativity. The art installations—a giant chandelier you could climb on, a pillowed pink vagina inviting you to cozy up inside, a ladybug art car, any art car, the circle of speakers buried way out on the playa playing music in mesmerizing surround-sound—they were just there to be enjoyed by all, unsigned, expressions of the artists and makers. Of the human experience.

3.     The subcultures.

At Burning Man, subcultures existed side-by-side without judgment. It was so refreshing!

The S&M tent wasn’t far from the neon Dr. Seuss forest, which wasn’t far from the Mad Max dome, which neighbored a 70-foot teeter-totter. People were dressed—or undressed—in every manner of clothing. There were all-night ravers and families with small children. 

A scene from Burning Man. Photo by Bry Ulrick on Unsplash

Burning Man itself is a counterculture, “fostering community through interaction, curiosity, and cooperation.”

Our society has so many subcultures: Trekkies, hikers, mountain-climbers, swing dancers, Magic gamers, gardeners, karaoke singers, car enthusiasts (with many sub-groups passionate about one brand or type). There are foodies and wine-aficionados, opera lovers, house party-goers, fire-eaters, accountants. You name it!

People create subcultures out of their passions and interests, their fashions, habits, self-identities or experiences. They could be fans of a specific band or musician. Readers of a certain comic book. They can be people who love all things Italian. They can be Burners (anyone who has ever been to Burning Man).

It can also be people that follow a specific politician or believe in unproven conspiracy theories.

Belonging is a powerful force in human nature. 

“Belonging is defined as a unique and subjective experience that relates to a yearning for connection with others, the need for positive regard and the desire for interpersonal connection (Rogers, 1951).” 

A psychological theory, “the need to belong,” proposes that people’s sense of social belonging, a feeling of good relationships with others, is a fundamental human need, as important to human health and happiness as having food, water, and shelter. I think we know this, feel this intuitively. 

As adults, we have some control over this, some freedom of movement in society to find like-minded people with whom we can feel we belong. But what about children and teenagers, who have less control when it comes to their families, schools and peers? 

You know those cliques in high school? Yeah, the stereotypes: the geeks, the stoners, the leaders, the jocks, the partiers…Breakfast Club. They exist to serve a deep psychological need at our most sensitive and vulnerable time of life when it comes to social belonging.

An art installation at Burning Man. Belonging. Photo by Manny Becerra on Unsplash

It’s biological. Neural imaging shows that the brain in adolescence develops and matures—or not—specifically in regions involved in complex social processes. So, experiencing rejection or ostracism in childhood and adolescence can be way-damaging. Australian Psychologist Dr. Kelly-Ann Allen, in a piece for the Australian Psychological Society, says “Peer groups and the need to belong become important for social identity, transition into adulthood, psychosocial adjustment, along with coping-skills and resilience.”

It’s no wonder that teens without this kind of social support get jumped into gangs.

Going back to the idea that “neurons that fire together wire together,” if you don’t get a chance to belong anywhere, that feeling that you don’t belong can become habitual, a default belief. But it’s a perception based on previous experience and isn’t necessarily true. It doesn’t have to remain a belief or a way of living. Of course, changing negative patterns takes work and practice and is damn hard. A little easier with help. Either way, it’s worth it!

The phenomenon of subcultures only starts to get dangerous, in my mind, when they are driven by a sense of superiority to and judgment of other subcultures or when they lead to subjugation or violence, either to others or themselves. Those subcultures are out there too, of course, like gangs, extreme religions and cults.

The point is, we all need to belong. 

And there is nothing wrong with being part of a purple dragon, marshmallow-popping, unicycle-loving subculture if that’s what you’re into! 

As long as your awesome group isn’t violent and understands that the pink bunny, taco-crunching, robot-dancing group next door, well, they’re having a good time too, providing fellow human beings what they need to survive.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #64: Sleeping and Eating in San Quentin (Continued from #59)

Sam and our tour guide inmates led us to the “housing units” beyond the exercise yard. Other than the maximum-security Adjustment Center, housing in San Quentin consists of four large cell blocks, West, South, North, and East Block. I can’t remember which we entered, but it was where Clay “lived.” 

Map of San Quentin Prison

Before touring San Quentin, I had been inside two other prisons. Seeing Alcatraz as a tourist reinforced the movie stereotype of dank cement cells with bars. In the early 80s while in high school, I visited Santa Rita Prison in Dublin. I accompanied a high school acquaintance whose sister worked there as a guard. He offered to take a bunch of us. I was the only person who eagerly said yes, curious about this “other world.” At that time, Santa Rita was fairly small—though overcrowded—and housed mostly women. If I’m remembering correctly, it was high-security for women, and Squeaky Fromme was there. I only saw one small part of the facility, a housing unit. It was fairly clean and looked nothing like Alcatraz. My memory is a little vague now, but I remember being in a central indoor area of a single story-building, shaped like a dodecagon. On each of the sides were cells behind regular-looking doors, only they were very solid with a narrow, small, thick glass window, the size of an arrowslit (balistraria) in an old castle. (Soon after my visit, Santa Rita was expanded to become one of the largest prisons in California, became co-ed—although it might’ve been already—and conditions, according to online reports, are questionable.)

I didn’t know what to expect at San Quentin. 

We entered the block. It was immediately depressing. 

And more like Alcatraz.

From a good article by an inmate that appears on MtTamCollege.org, originally published in Slate magazine.

Rising up to the ceiling was five stories of wall-to-wall cells. Each floor had a railed walkway along the cells. The entrance to each cell was thick mesh wire and bars. They were cages. It reminded me of the chinchilla cages that I cleaned for a breeder when I was fourteen. Only there were men inside of these. It was stuffy and stale inside the block, the air cool but not well-ventilated.

A guard opened a cell on the first level, Clay’s cell that he shared with another inmate. Clay was a big guy, six-foot-three or so. His cell was tiny. All of the cells in the blocks are only four and a half feet wide by ten feet, eight inches long, not much bigger than many closets.

San quentin cell, image from The Monthly archives

There were two bunkbeds against the wall, a sink and a toilet in the back. Above the toilet were shelves with the men’s personal items, deodorant and soap, books, spices and coffee creamer, medicines, paper and pens. Clothes hung on the wall opposite the beds. They utilized the space in front of the bars beside the door too, with a small TV and small shelves with more clothes and personal possessions. Clay had many pictures and photographs on the wall by his bunk. He had occupied this cell for a while and, like our homes, it had an accumulation of things. His cellmate changed now and then, so most of the items we saw inside were Clay’s.

He welcomed us to step inside his “home.” 

My breath felt short, the confinement compressive. Two people couldn’t walk from one side of the cell to the other at the same time. 

I was very aware that the men here had broken the law in some way. Some had even killed. But at the same time, this constriction, this caged existence didn’t feel right for any human being. And a lot of these guys had been living like this now for twenty, thirty years or more. 

I wanted to get out of that place.

What a fortune there is in freedom!

The prisoners' dining room at San Quentin State Prison, Marin County, California, circa 1915

Back outside, we entered an adjacent building, the South Dining Hall. There were two eating areas: The South and North Dining Halls. 

Instead of the long tables you see in Shawshank Redemption (which is what San Quentin’s dining looked like back in the early 20th century), the room was crowded with four-top, pre-fab tables you might see at a school, with attached little round seats.

San Quentin cafeteria as we saw it. Peter DaSilva for The New York Times

The inmates told us how it got pretty old sometimes eating the same food over and over. For daily fruit, they usually received an apple. When they got a shipment of peaches a few months back, it was a celebration. Clay said he hadn’t tasted anything as good as that peach. The inmates put in requests for certain food items, but they didn’t always come.

There was an intricate mural covering one entire wall of the cafeteria. It was twelve feet high by 100 feet long all in muted sepia tones. It depicted California’s history and popular culture in the first half of the 20th century. A drawing of an Indian village and the Franciscan missionary Junípero Serra was not far from a caricature of Groucho Marx. It was a fascinating hodgepodge of covered wagons and rodeos, football games and flamenco dancers. There was an oil well gushing from a huge human arm and hog carcasses dangling from the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge.

The style and subject of the mural changed from one end of the room to the other, starting off somewhat utilitarian, WPA-mural-style on one end and becoming dreamlike and expressionistic on the other. 

The artist was Alfredo Santos. He arrived at San Quentin in 1951 at the age of 24, having received a sentence of four years for heroin possession. Alfredo had taken art in high school until he was expelled from 10th grade for striking a teacher. 

According to a 2007 New York Times article, he read books voraciously once in prison and starting drawing portraits of other inmates and of their family members from photos. They paid him in cigarettes. 

“San Quentin is where I became an artist,” said Alfredo.

In 1953, he submitted the winning sketch in a competition among the inmates to paint this mural. According to the article and what Sam explained to us, “After inexplicably being denied the use of other colors, he began to apply thinned, raw sienna oil paint directly to plaster. Before long the warden ordered Mr. Santos to paint all three double-sided walls in the dining area.”

He painted the mural over two years at night under guard with two other inmates who took care of the scaffolding.  

“Sometimes I painted for a couple of hours, and sometimes I kept at it until sunrise,” he said. “They let me go at my own pace.”

Alfredo rushed to finish the mural at the end before his parole.

After his release, he worked as a caricaturist at Disneyland before opening up his own studio and gallery in San Diego. He fled to Mexico after being arrested for possession of marijuana and worked as an artist and studio owner there for another ten years. From 1967 until 1987, he ran a popular gallery and bohemian gathering spot in Fleischmanns, N.Y., up in the Catskills, then moved back to San Diego. 

In researching for this story, I learned that he passed away the same year we toured San Quentin, 2015.

Sam and the inmates seemed proud of the mural. Alfredo had created it—in part—to entertain the men. They appreciated it. It also was further evidence of the humanity and potential inside the prison. I felt it too. It was inspiring.

We were well into hour-four inside the prison, and I was emotionally exhausted. But, we had one more stop on the San Quentin tour after that. The death chamber. 

Photo by Martin Adams on Unsplash