Hallway to Nowhere

Category: personal

  • “Thoughts And Prayers” Won’t Get The Laundry Done-How To Truly Help Someone Who Is Ill

    “Thoughts And Prayers” Won’t Get The Laundry Done-How To Truly Help Someone Who Is Ill

    As those of you who are friends with me IRL or on social media know, I have been very ill recently. First I caught a nasty strain of the flu (diagnosed at the Urgent Care Center) which later developed into atypical pneumonia, acute bronchitis, PLUS the original flu virus. The ER doc also mumbled something about some possible other unspecified viruses, like these weren’t enough, and sent me home with more meds than I could shake a stick at, strict instructions to REST, REST, REST, drink plenty of fluids, and to follow up with my internist. I’m not venturing out anywhere, since I’d have to don a plague mask, carry a bell, and spread the deadly virus wherever I went, thereby being a real buzzkill at any gathering.

    I posted about being so ill on my social media. AAAAANNNDD got the expected “thought and prayers” responses from most BUT from a few people got responses that made a BIG difference in the last week. THEY said things like: DO YOU NEED ME TO DO LAUNDRY? DO YOU NEED ME TO GO TO THE GROCERY STORE? DO YOU NEED ME TO PICK UP MEDS? DO YOU NEED A RIDE TO THE DOCTOR? DO YOU NEED ME TO COOK YOU SOUP? Are you seeing a pattern here?

    Now, don’t get me wrong. “Thoughts and prayers” are appreciated. Some of those posting might have actually prayed….a couple were professionals at that, lol, and who knows? I might even be on a church prayer list somewhere! But the point I’m trying to make here is that if you know someone who is truly ill, and you truly wish to do something for them, offer  more than “thoughts and prayers”. Even if it is something so simple as a post containing the latest research that shows that Sambucol is effective as Tamiflu against the flu. That has some content. Or perhaps a humorous post about the flu. These will suffice, should you not be in a position to make a concrete offer of aid, like doing laundry (if the person has no washer and dryer, for instance) or going to the grocery, or making a meal, or whatever. But just saying “thoughts and prayers,” while it SOUNDS nice on FB, is essentially vacuous and meaningless. I’m sorry if this sounds harsh and ungrateful. But in this day and age, after the beating that words have taken from DJT and company, I want to let people know that words matter and actions speak loudly. Covfefe, indeed.

  • Trump and Tears: My Own Personal “Trump Effect”

    When Trump (#NotMyPresident) was elected, I cried. They were NOT tears of joy, believe you me. Little did I know that those tears were merely a bitter, bitter presage of the many tears to follow. From having a President who never reduced me to crying or incoherency, save for a tear here and there of pride in him as he represented us so well on the world stage or lit the WH in rainbow colors when Marriage Equality finally became law of the land, I now have a POTUS who with depressing regularity brings me to fits of actual crying. (And I STILL can’t listen to Le Tigre’s “I’m With Her” w/o breaking down.) His tweets can make me gnash my teeth, to the point that my dentist is concerned. And don’t even get me started on what my psychiatrist thinks, lol. I pointed out that NO-ONE makes meds strong enough to deal with a Trump presidency. He laughed and suggested perhaps I should start a support group. He was joking. But I’m seriously considering it. People (like me) who are now marginalized by Spanky and his gang can use all the help they can get.

    When I heard Trump’s latest, the “shithole countries” remark, I cried yet again. Let me say that before Trump, that last time I had cried was when my last beloved guinea pig died…over TEN years ago. I don’t cry easily. I deal with things and go on. But this man….Here’s why I cried at the “shithole countries” remark:

    First, from just the continuing SHOCK that a sitting PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA would make such a remark. Two, the contrast was immediate to his predecessor. Obama had great empathy and compassion. I highly doubt Trump  ever even tweeted the word “empathy,” let alone experienced it. And I won’t even go into the matters of style and class. Utterly no comparision possible there. Three, I felt such despair at the complete callousness that this displayed towards those from these countries.

    I really endeavor not to hate anyone. I think it a waste of time and energy. But Trump is making me rethink this policy. I’m begining to hate him personally, viscerally, and with vituperation. I dislike what he’s doing to the country but I dislike what he’s doing to me as a person. I’m now: angry; anxious; fearful; tearful; and depressed. MAGA, indeed! Snort!

  • Bullying-My Story

    I read heart-breaking stories about young children who have killed themselves because of bullying. The First Lady has (supposedly) taken up cyber-bullying and other forms of bullying as her personal cause. Friends have reported that their children are being subjected to various degrees of bullying for being different, i.e. they are not white/straight/gender-conforming. This has led me to reflect on the instances of bullying in my past, when I was in secondary school. (Yes, I was bullied. Big surprise.)

    The first instance that really comes to mind was during the first day of elementary school. Let me first say that elementary school itself was a HUGE shock to me. This was the first time I had been around other CHILDREN and indeed it was the first time I was treated as a child. Hithertofore I had spent my time around adults and pretty much been treated like a very small intelligent being. Here I was handed CHILDREN’S books, which I regarded as an insult, and I found children to be totally alien.

    Getting back to recess and the topic at hand. We went out for recess and the teacher instructed us to skip. I looked at her blankly and inquired,”Skip what?” She had to show me how to skip, which I found most humiliating, and the other children laughed at me. That set the tone for the rest of the my life in elementary school, vis a vis the other children. My glasses were regularly knocked off my head or stolen; my books were shoved out of my arms; recess was just a nightmare. The teachers didn’t make this any better by their obvious preference for me, once they had discovered my academic prowess. Praising a child in class to the detriment of their peers does not endear them to their classmates.

    Gym class was its own special brand of torture. IT was taught by a misogynistic coach who allowed us divide up into teams that pitted the boys against the girls. The girls got battered, and some girls got battered more than others. Finally I had had enough. I brought a book to class one day, sat myself under a tree in the yard, and announced that I wasn’t playing with the others. The coach yelled at  me to get back in the game (kick ball, an esp. hated game for me.) I refused. He sent me to the principal’s office. I went and explained to the principal that I was tired of getting: shoved, hit, knocked to ground, trampled on, etc. So I was opting out. He said that I couldn’t do that. I replied that I was. He said that I would get an F. I said, “Fine.” He then said, “I think I’m going to have to call your parents….” I said, “Fine.” So my parents came, heard what was ensuing, and backed me up! They told the principal that if I chose not to participate in activity that was causing me to get knocked about, that was totally acceptable and reasonable behavior and that they supported me. The principal reiterated his threat of an F for the semester. My parents told him, “Fine.” So I sat out of gym the rest of that semester with my book. And incidently I never had to take another gym class the rest of my elementary school career. I was excused for “health” reasons by order of the principal. (More likely by reason of my parents theatened to make an issue of the coach.)

    The other bullying that took place didn’t have such a good resolution. It was during Junior High. I was a Band Geek and played trombone. I rode the bus and was always burdened down with a trombone and a heavy knapsack of books. Being a small nerdy girl with glasses with a reputation for being smart can make you a target. There were some really BIG (or so they seemed to me at the time) girls who rode the same bus as I did who decided that I was the perfect prey. Day after day they assaulted me: they pushed me to the ground, knocked over my trombone case, threw my books around, called me names….I couldn’t fight back physically; I was outnumbered, plus I didn’t know how to fight AND we were on school property and I didn’t want to get caught fighting. So I fought back using the only method at my means: my vocabulary. I called those girls names I’m sure they would have surely beaten me up for, had they known what I was saying. But they simply had no idea that they were being maligned. I even cursed them out in Latin…and Latin has some truly amazing curses. (Perite and vacca stulta were two favorites.)

    Looking back on this I find myself wondering where the bus driver or a teacher or SOMEBODY, some adult, was. But back then bullying wasn’t really on anyone’s radar. I certainly didn’t tell anyone about it. It just didn’t occur to me. You didn’t talk to adults about stuff like this. I pretty sure that if I had thought about it, I would have concluded that talking to a teacher would have only made matters WORSE, not better. This was not like elementary school, where your parents could intervene and make a difference. This was Junior High, and your peers ruled. For a teacher or other adult to be seen trying step in your behalf would be infinitely a terrible mistake. Whatever was going on would increase full force. Shudder.

    And this is part of the reason why I left for college at age 16.

  • I Was Assaulted As An Undergrad (No Catchy Title)

    This is my Harvey Weinstein story. I’ve never revealed this before. When I was in my first semester of college, a very young undergrad (age 16), I was sexually assaulted by a professor. Not only was he much older that I, married, he was also an administrator.  He was not a prof in any of my classes but did run one of the programs in which I was enrolled. We had met at a party for the Honors College that I attended. (Just in case you are wondering, there was no alcohol or drugs at this gathering. ) We talked about literature. He mentioned that he lived not far from my apartment, and asked if I was interested in babysitting his son. I said that I would like to meet his son first, as he had indicated he had some  disabilities, and I wanted to be sure I could physically cope with whatever was necessary. We agreed on a time to meet in the afternoon the next day.

    I walked to his house. Now keep in mind that this was in the mid-70s so pre-cell phone and pre-PC. I really had no way to vet this guy other than to ask around and I had no reason to think I needed to do that. I mean, he was a person I would assume I should trust- an admin and a respected prof. So I blithely went off alone and didn’t mention to anyone where I was going. After all, I expected that his wife and son would be there. What was to worry about?

    I should have worried. I arrived there to find him alone. He said his wife and son would be home soon. I thought, “Okay”. He took me into his study…how cheesy, right? We went in there and he pulled out a book to hand to me. He dropped it. I leaned to pick it up, the next thing I know, I’m on the floor with him on top of me…thinking WTF??? He’s a big guy and I’m not. He’s trying to kiss me; I’m turning away, and saying NONONONO. He keeps saying, “You came here, you came here, you came here….” Inside my head is the words NOT FOR THIS NEVER FOR THIS and he’s unzipping his pants but then the we hear a noise outside. His wife and son had returned. I’ve been saved. He whispers, “You wanted this this, you know.”

    The next day I found a gift-wrapped copy of the Necronomicon had been delivered to my apartment, along with a note that said that he and his wife had an arrangement. If I tried to tell anyone what happened, she would say that I had seduced her husband. I was shaking as  I read the note.  I didn’t tell anyone. I just unenrolled from anything having to do with him, avoided him on campus, and made sure to tell my friends to do the same.

    Looking back, I’m can see now that he was a predator plain and simple. I’m sure I was not the first student he had pulled that babysitting routine with and unfortunately, because I did not tell anyone, I was not the last. Why didn’t I tell? Because I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I was a  very young student. He was a reputable venerable professor in a postion of power and privilege.  And I feared losing my early admission and having to return to high school.  And I didn’t want to be seen as a victim. And I was ashamed… it gets turned around into, “that I allowed this to happen to me.”

     

  • Why I Resist

    Why I Resist

    Recently I’ve been asked why I fight the battles I do-against hatred, bigotry, separation of church and state, and Trump (#NotMyPrez) &Co. Friends worry about my safety. I’ve been pondering this. Here is my reply:

    A little of my history. I was a child during the 60s. I saw first-hand that people CAN make a difference, should they choose to do so. I heard the stirring words of Martin Luther King and saw the dismantling of the Jim Crow South (to some effect). I watched the anti-war protests, met some who protested, and saw the U.S. end its participation in the Vietnam War. My father was involved in local politics (Democratic Party) and I often attended rallies and other events at his side. I witnessed the Klan holding a march in full regalia. I heard stories from relatives about the horrors of Nazi Germany AND the pogroms in Russia, and studied this in-depth as an undergrad. Over and over again I heard the stirring words, “Silence=Death”, “Never Again”, and the words of Edmund Burke,” The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.” And the words of Hillel from which the name of this blog is taken: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am not for others, who am I? And if not now, when?”

    So, the recent debacle of a presidential election and the ensuing presidency of Trump made me become even more committed to action. It was MY generation that brought the country to this point and MY generation that elected this man. I feel a deep sense of shame and responsibilty. Though I did not vote for him, nonetheless he was elected. Thankfully, millennials now outnumber boomers. But I firmly believe that that those of us who are older need to strive to all that we can to help those who will inherit the chaotic disarranged morass that this country has become.

    On a personal, individual, and local level, another quote keeps coming to mind. It is one from Gandhi: “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” I do not believe that I can change the world, nor do I have the hubris to wish to do such a vast undertaking. What I CAN do, however, is by my example and actions try to make the community in which I dwell a better place. My openness about who I am and what I espouse has been a carefully calculated campaign to let people here see someone is not of their tribe, who is all the things they hear demonized on Fox and other places, who yet is also a kind and compassionate person. I want them to think when they hear heinous  words about atheists, Jews, LGBTQ folk, or progressives, “They’re talking about Kel,” a person who helps people with their groceries, pays their transit fare, inquires about them and their familes and not some anonymous stranger. I hope that by giving them a face to put on all of these things it will make it harder for them to give accedence to hate.

    In addition, I have the capability and will to fight against the wrongs I encounter. I can and will go after the creep of religion that is discriminatory against anyone who is not a (conservative) Christian here and that violates the 1st Amendment. I will make regular frequent calls to my Congress Representative and Senators on behalf of heathcare, immigrants, the LGBTQ community, the influence of big money in politics. I will sign petitions and disseminate pertinent information on social media. I will continue to push back against actual “fake news” and push for evidence-based journalism, science and policies. And most importantly I will show up as a citizen and witness-participant at local organizations and events that foster these same things. I VOTE!

    These things may indeed make it more difficult for me as an individual. Certainly in the short term during the reign of 45 and perhaps even long-term. I’ve encountered opprobrium and invective, more so after the election. But despite that, I hope that my actions will make it easier for others in the future. I fight so that my community will be better. I fight b/c I have faith in the ability of humans to change. I fight b/c it is the right thing to do.

    Thanks to all who read this. I close with a song that I’ve been listening to more and more often.

  • Put Down Your Cell Phone-A Creeper Trail Rant

    Put Down Your Cell Phone-A Creeper Trail Rant

    RANT WARNING!

    Every morning my dog and I take a long walk on the Creeper Trail. The Creeper is one of the many things I love about Abingdon. It’s a great place to walk and enjoy the beauty of our gorgeous area. We generally go early before 8AM to avoid others and before the heat of the day becomes oppressive. At that time of the morning traffic is usually light on the trail and to and from the trail. (I live less than a block from the trail entrance so we walk.)

    This morning I counted FOUR people on their cell phones! I wanted to say, “You’re on the Creeper! Put your phone away!” For one thing, it is DANGEROUS. We get bikers on the trail frequently. I’m sorry to say that most I’ve encountered do NOT signal when passing, though trail rules (clearly posted at the head of the trail) state that they must do so. I’ve almost been hit several times though no fault of my own. My dog and I walk well to the right; she is on a VERY close lead (not a free-ranging retractable lead like some dogs I’ve encountered); I try to be alert to my surroundings. But bikers are quiet and sometimes going extremely fast. If you don’t hear them, then you get no warning. So a walker paying attention to his phone in the middle of trail (and it is narrow in places) could be toast.

    For another thing, and this is purely a personal opinion, YOU ARE ON THE CREEPER, for fuck’s sake. If you want just a place to get your exercise, there is a macadamized track at the Coome’s Center. Put the phone away for the duration of your walk. Take time to disengage. Look at the trees, fields, and squirrels. Smell the different aromas of the trail (this morning was distinctly musky). Greet your fellow trail denizens. BREATHE……and remember that there is a life beyond the electronic world. (And I say that despite my love of the internet.)

  • Where Are You From?-A Southern Question

    Where Are You From?-A Southern Question

    Since the removal of the Confederate statues in NOLA continues to be in the news, the South is on everyone’s radar. Something happened at work that really caught my attention, juxtaposed as it were with the business with issues of  the statues,  history, race, and Southern identity in general.  I had overheard a conversation between a colleague of mine ( a person born in the South and very much a Southerner) and a person who had moved here from the Northeast. She was aking him why people in the South always ask the question, “Where are you from?” She said that she never got that question in other parts of the country. I’ve lived in other places (the midwest, greater NYC) and she is indeed correct. When I lived and worked in those places, no-one ever inquired as to my origins unless my accent slipped out. (I don’t have much of a Mississippi accent. My mother went to extreme lengths to ensure that I spoke with a neutral accent, not the mush-mouth that my more upstate cousins had.)

    I ‘ve been thinking about that question. WHY do we here in the South ask that question? And it is usually the second thing that follows hello, the first being an inquiry as to whether you want a glass of sweet tea.  I discussed it with a friend of mine who was not from the South originally but who lived in Louisiana for a long time.  I proposed that we do it as a tribal thing, to find out who your people are, because we might be related. (A deceased friend once half-jokingly claimed that everyone in the South was related to everyone else.) My friend retorted that it might be a tribal thing but to see if you are one of us or not, to establish bona fides, i.e. are you a Southerner?

    That lead to the reflection that the South is the only region of the US that has an unique geographical identity.  I’m hardly the first nor the last person to make this claim.  It has a hold on me as an individual, like it or not. I am a Southerner, though I like to describe myself as reconstructed Southerner. I’ve hated this fact, tried to escape it geographically by moving to NYC, and finally made my peace with it. I grew up in Mississppi, lived and worked in the heart of the Deep South (the Mississippi Delta), and have known and loved Southerners. I’ve hated some of them, too. But in my maturity I recognize that I can’t erase the fact that I was born and bred in the deepest South, though I don’t have to the subscribe to the “Never Forget” attitude many take in regard to the Civil War and to the not-so-subtle racism that still lingers in those who wish to bring back Jim Crow laws and worse. I actively attempt to overcome my white privilege by educating myself. I read as much as I can, watch podcasts, docs, movies, and series that will help me get over myself. I will never know what it means to be an African American or any other minority (except Jewish, of course) in the South but perhaps I can intellectually understand and notintentionally be such a jerk.

    I’m listening to the The Dead South, btw.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • The Mirroring Effect Of Twin Peaks

    The Mirroring Effect Of Twin Peaks

    I decided to flee from the harrowing political landscape into the welcoming embrace of Netflix. I found, much to my delight, that Twin Peaks has released a SECOND season and thought that this would be just the thing thing to take my mind off possibly losing my healthcare, my immigrant friends, and that pesky nagging thing….not being bombed by anyone with nuclear capabilities lately b/c our prez went eyeball to hairy eyeball with the OTHER madman currently ruling a nation.  I was a Twin Peaks fan(atic) when it arrived on television back in the day.  It was the the first and only thing I was remotely cultish about, unless you count the fling I had with Rocky Horror Picture Show in my misbegotten youth. And it turned me on to David Lynch in a huge way! Not only did I follow Twin Peaks with rabid devotion, but I made a point of finding every movie and television show he did afterwards and watching those, also. Even the children’s films. But I digress.

    I decided to watch the first season again, from love and b/c it’s been a number of years since I’ve watched it and I wanted to make sure the story was fresh in my mind for Season 2. Twin Peaks Season 1 was odd enough in itself, even without the eerie sound-track playing in the background. I tried watching it with subtitles and-yep! Still weird AF. But I turned the sound back on and proceeded to settle in to reacquaint myself with Twin Peaks and its inhabitants.

    Then the mirroring effect kicked in. I found myself watching myself watch Twin Peaks in my memory on television. But I was also watching Twins Peaks on my computer. This felt rather strange, almost trippy (from what I can gather from friends’ descriptions), but I couldn’t make it go away! This occurred only for Season 1. I haven’t gotten to any episode of Season 2 yet. I’m going to try and go with this, as watching Twin Peaks the FIRST time around messed with my mind. So why shouldn’t the second? I’ve come to expect bizarreness to ensue when I watch David Lynch. I wonder what will happen when I get to Season 2? And I wonder what it would be like to watch Twin Peaks while drinking ayahuasca? Not that I’ll ever know, mind you, since I’m unlikely to encounter a trained shaman where I live. And were I to do so, I doubt he/she/whatever would consider watching Twin Peaks to be something to do under the effects of the tea. But you never know…..

     

  • The Kindness Of Strangers

    The Kindness Of Strangers

    I’m struggling with a herniated disc right now. I was at our local representative Evil Empire (AKA Walmart) to pick up some Dream Bones and Community Coffee, those being the only two items that I can’t get anywhere else in town. I come out of the store to see the bus leaving the lot. I must have looked visibly distressed, b/c this man passing by stopped and asked what was wrong. Now, after traipsing from one end of Wally-world to the other, I was already in pain and the prospect of waiting for another to catch the bus was daunting. But I didn’t tell him anything other than I had missed the bus, darn it. He sympathized and walked to his truck. Then he came in a few minutes and inquired where I lived. When I told him, he offered me a ride home.

    Now, I’m not normally in the habit of acepting rides from strangers, especially at Walmart. I covertly checked his groceries-no beer was evident, just food-and checked my internal warning system, admittedly not the best thing, but gut instinct will at least say, “hey, don’t go there”. Everything seemed normal. I said, “Thanks, that is very kind of you.” and followed him to his truck. He put my groceries in his truck and we proceeded to drive off.

    On the way he told me about his daughter who was around my age who had just finished going back to school to get her degree in education. I told him about my newly discovered back woes and some stories from the library. We both agreed that Abingdon is a fine place to live. He said  that if I’ve been in Appalachia since my 30s, I should just go ahead and now start saying that I’m from here. When we finally got to my place, he said it had been nice to meet me, I thanked him for the ride, and we parted most amicably. No creepy Deliverance music ever made an appearance.

  • The Kindness Of Strangers

    The Kindness Of Strangers

    I’m struggling with a herniated disc right now. I was at our local representative Evil Empire (AKA Walmart) to pick up some Dream Bones and Community Coffee, those being the only two items that I can’t get anywhere else in town. I come out of the store to see the bus leaving the lot. I must have looked visibly distressed, b/c this man passing by stopped and asked what was wrong. Now, after traipsing from one end of Wally-world to the other, I was already in pain and the prospect of waiting for another to catch the bus was daunting. But I didn’t tell him anything other than I had missed the bus, darn it. He sympathized and walked to his truck. Then he came in a few minutes and inquired where I lived. When I told him, he offered me a ride home.

    Now, I’m not normally in the habit of acepting rides from strangers, especially at Walmart. I covertly checked his groceries-no beer was evident, just food-and checked my internal warning system, admittedly not the best thing, but gut instinct will at least say, “hey, don’t go there”. Everything seemed normal. I said, “Thanks, that is very kind of you.” and followed him to his truck. He put my groceries in his truck and we proceeded to drive off.

    On the way he told me about his daughter who was around my age who had just finished going back to school to get her degree in education. I told him about my newly discovered back woes and some stories from the library. We both agreed that Abingdon is a fine place to live. He said  that if I’ve been in Appalachia since my 30s, I should just go ahead and now start saying that I’m from here. When we finally got to my place, he said it had been nice to meet me, I thanked him for the ride, and we parted most amicably. No creepy Deliverance music ever made an appearance.