Last night when I came home I found 4 “missed calls” and a message from my mother on my phone. She had been staying with my grandmother ("mothersitting") last week while my grandfather was away visiting his own granddaughter and great-grandson (second marriage). And my mother felt compelled to share with me all the details of all the many ways my grandmother is rapidly deteriorating -- wetting her bed, refusing to shower, eating nothing but dairy products, all the while insisting that there is nothing wrong with her and threatening to call the police when her nurse-aid attempts to give her a sponge bath.
Yes, I know, I say to my mother. She has Alzheimer’s. We knew this would happen.
She can remember things from long ago, my mother tells me, but she can’t remember anything recent. She’s still stubborn and willful, but she’s no longer the person I knew.
I know. I know, I say. This is how Alzheimer’s works.
She’s dying before our eyes, my mother says. It’s breaking my heart.
I know, I say.
She can’t remember what you’re doing or where you live, my mother tells me, but she still remembers who you are. She knows that she misses you.
I know, I say. We should plan to visit soon.
There’s nothing we can do, my mother says, she’s not eating solid foods – she’ll only drink milk. She’s not going to be with us much longer the way she’s going. We need to appreciate her while she’s still here. You should send her a card.
Yes, I know, I say, I will.
But to what end, I think to myself. To make her feel better, or to make myself feel better? We make her as comfortable as we can. But she, me, her illness, our lives – we’ve progressed passed the point of appreciating each other or saying goodbye.
Things change. People change, places change, times change. Thoughts, feelings, attitudes change. Each moment is forever lost, irreplaceable, as it glides into the next. We know this. And yet we live looking backwards, scurrying to pick up the remains of moments lost, in hopes that we can make them real again.
Alzheimer’s plays a dirty trick on our sense of continuity. Not just on the aging, failing-to-remember individual, but on those who watch the deterioration. When do we say goodbye? As the deterioration progresses, we know that the time to have said goodbye to the person we knew has already passed. We didn’t say goodbye, because we didn’t know. Now we see it – and we feel at least a little blessed that they are still here on earth with us – we want to make the most of the time that remains – but to what end? Someone is sitting here looking at us, but the person we knew is long since gone.
What is goodbye, and when does it cease to matter?
In response to a question put out by Marek J, regarding what defines us as “men” and “women” and the roles we play in the modern world (as part of a larger discussion initiated by Frank Paynter on the roles men might play in supporting feminist leadings) -- my thoughts…
What makes men "men" and women "women"? Well, there is one school of thought that would say: our genetic programming. And there are certainly plenty who argue pretty heatedly with this school of thinking, but I personally find a great deal of value in it, not as an end all be all complete explanation, but simply as one lens among many for examining a complex subject.
According to Evolutionary Psychology, we behave as we do due to an inherent drive to see the continuation and success of our genes. Thus men are programmed to feel the desire to spread their seed to many, not just to one. Thus women are programmed to nurture. Thus men select women who display an aptitude for nurturing (especially if this was an aptitude they saw in their own mothers), and thus women select men who display an aptitude for providing and protecting (especially if this was an aptitude they saw in their own fathers). As modern humans, we struggle to overcome many of these inherent drives -- modern man struggles to resist his urges for cheating; modern woman aspires to be more than just nurturer; and together we aspire to form partnerships based on more than just our genetic make-ups.
Where it becomes complicated is in the reward structures we have woven into modern society. Under capitalism, which also ascribes to the same basic laws of "survival of the fittest," there is little reward or compensation for those inherently female roles, such as being a good nurturer, because there is little value placed on them, which translates to little market value -- both in the cases of motherhood itself and the nurturing professions (teaching, nursing -- both roles in which the best nurturers amongst us should flourish, but both examples of predominantly female roles that are not-coincidentally under-valued and under-compensated). This is likely due to the fact that the "return on investment," so to speak, on nurturing is neither immediate (as we've increasingly come to demand) nor directly attributable. Certain Alpha male behaviors, on the other hand, tend to be both more immediate in their results and more directly attributable. Our capitalist system is run by Alpha males and would not thrive if it were otherwise. Why do men strive to be Alpha? Because then they will be selected by the prime females. Or something to that effect...
At any rate, before we females chastise the Alpha male-dominated capitalist system, we must note the degree to which we reinforce it. We are, all of us, consumers. And many of us are also investors. And managers, and employees, and business owners. And role models. All part of the system -- the macrocosm that embodies everything from the bedroom to the playground to the boardroom.
Another point that I would like to make is about the romanticizing of women. The fact is, power corrupts -- it twists and it taints and it tempts -- and were women at the helm of industry and politics, you can bet that there would be no less corruption nor violence. It might be a little different in form, but it certainly wouldn't be any more a utopia than the world we currently live in. We see plenty of that already -- trouble is, when we see it, we conveniently dismiss these women as behaving like men. Maybe they are; or maybe they are behaving like humans in positions of power. It's hard to say because it shapes itself into a circle.
What's more, women can be incredibly cruel. We don't see it so much because it is far more covert, tends to be smaller scale, and is psychological rather than physical. It's also insidious. Boys, you don't know cruelty unless you've ever been an adolescent girl.
Of course, I can say that, because I'm a woman. If a man said anything of the sort he'd likely be impaled for it. That's the sad reality of politically charged conversations -- you piss off a lot of people if you try to strip away too much of the comfortable bullshit. Women, as a group, are not above reproach, and neither are we simply victims (some are, yes, but those of us who talk about it the most are not). Don't get me wrong -- I'm far from the Camille Paglia school of anti-feminism -- but I think that no real progress comes without balance and objectivity.
I'm continually discovering all sorts of sublime angles into what makes the blog concept such a unique and fascinating communications medium. In fact, I have half a mind to write another thesis on Blogging! (but that would of course kill the "sublime" aspect and just earn me yet another degree that I do not need).
Anyway, what I'm thinking about specifically right now is the way we reveal our human stories (and more to the point, how our human stories are revealed to others -- both friends and strangers) through blogs. When I read Halley’s piece, "When My Dad Wakes Up Today," back in April, I literally had tears streaming down my face, though I think I was smiling too. But I hadn't read her archives; so yesterday when I came across the "My Dad the Swinger" piece she had retrieved and re-posted about her father's philandering, my heart broke as it took in all the emotional complexity of not just a beloved father lost, but the whole cathartic force that must have been pushing through her as she wrote, as she watched the embodiment of so much love tainted with so much pain that had been her father gradually leave her and this world behind. These sort of pieces, these blogs that become a window into the minds and spirits and souls of other people -- they read like good fiction, and yet, they aren’t fiction at all. Nor are they memoirs. They are real and now.
The Internet throws this time and reality shift at us in so many ways that it almost ceases to be amazing, and those that continue to talk about it tend to be dismissed as relics of that whole nasty “bubble.” But despite the economic farce that it became, the Internet is nonetheless still very amazing in so many ways. And looking again at blogs, and the fact that through them we find ourselves reading peoples' lives like fiction… Rather, maybe not everybody thinks of it this way, or maybe not everybody reads fiction for the same reason I do... I, personally, consume fiction like nutrients for my mind and soul. I seek out the wisdom and poetry that writers pull from life and package tidily into stories. And it is in this respect that I see now a – genre? literary model? way of communicating? – turned on its inverse.
This is a piece I posted on Blog Sisters for Linda, for whom blogspot has recently become a "psychology of survival" of sorts...
Psychology of Survival
I have struggled a bit with depression myself, going back to the time I was a teenager. I don't think my depression was anywhere near as extreme as many have to deal with (but it's always so hard to compare -- being as it's so intangible, and sometimes you wonder whether you're just being melodramatic). Anyway, back when I was a teenager, that was when I started writing. Writing became a "psychology of survival" for me (a term once used by a friend, which seemed very apt). I wrote a lot of poetry back then, it made my dark, melancholy feelings more tangible, and, perversely, beautiful.
Later, as I began to mature in my coping skills, I distanced myself from writing because I associated it with my depression, and I wanted to get myself out of my head and back into the “real world.” I spent about a year on antidepressants (Paxil/peroxitine), before deciding to cut myself off of them (much to the consternation of my doctor, whom I hadn’t consulted in this decision). The antidepressants worked wonders initially, but I disliked the side effects, which I described at the time as making “looking through my brain feel like trying to see without my glasses” -- they seemed to blur the edges and made me feel slightly stupid. Trying to write a simple essay for school seemed an impossible feat.
However, there was certainly something to the logic behind them, and that’s when I learned to think of my depression not as some dark romantic poetry, but as a simple imbalance of chemicals in my brain. I began to learn how to manipulate my chemistry through things like exercise (endorphins = new chemical to add to the mix), and through keeping a close eye on diet (sugar = impending crashes, caffeine (in moderation) = medicine). I also saw an acupuncturist on a couple occasions, and this worked a small wonder towards revamping my waning energy level, or my “chi” as they called it (aka “get-up-and-go”).
Then I learned to manage what was left through a lot of introspection and learning to understand my psychology (beyond my chemistry), and this I still do. I take note of things which consistently trip off the downward spiral (such as weekends with too much free time and no plans or structure, too much time alone, or allowing myself to become overly tired or hungry), and I make a point to structure my life so that I don’t run into those obstacles -- I keep a very busy life these days, so that free time is something I covet instead of fear. Free days I structure around exercise -- I’ve learned that part of my depression comes from not having enough channels to release my abundance of mental and physical energy. So I’ve taken up taekwon do, and I avoid the after-work slump by going to my taekwon do classes every evening whether I’m in the mood or not (it’s amazing how difficult it is to feel depressed when you’re walloping the hell out of a bag). I identify things which I know will result in making me feel good (like friends who can make me laugh), and I keep these in the back of my mind as “medicine” to take if I should feel a tinge of depression coming on. I have learned that it’s much easier to manage it preventatively than it is to pull myself out of a pit of despair once I’m in there, so I try really hard to not let myself ever get there.
I remember a conversation I once had in college (which is when it was at its worst) – the guy I was talking to was several years older than I, and I remember talking to him about my depression and asking plaintively whether this would ever go away. And he told me: No. But you will learn to cope with it. And as you do, you will find yourself getting better and better at coping with it. And after a while, you won’t even remember that you’re “coping” anymore.
This is where I’m at now. I sometimes think that my depression is a thing of the past -- just a little melodramatic episode indulged by a less mature self -- but then I’ll relax my “structure” ever so slightly -- I’ll leave myself a long weekend with nothing to do -- and suddenly it will come swooping in with astonishing speed. My chemistry does not change, and yet, I rarely feel a victim to it anymore.
And now I am able to return to writing…which I love like an old friend.
I hope that some of this might be helpful to you – though I also know that everyone’s depression is very personal, and what works for one person may not do anything for another. But the trick, I think, is to have faith in yourself and your own resilience and to KNOW that you will get past it -- and don’t, DO NOT allow yourself to get attached to it (this may sound absurd, but it is so true) – and, lastly, think in terms of moving forward through it, not backwards to a time you knew from before.
And of course, miserable beast that it is while you’re in it, you will know yourself so much more deeply once you’re through it. Having to battle with depression made me very much the person I am, and for that I can hardly hate it.
Went to work sucking on my heart where it sat lodged in my throat, dragging a bag of cracked and empty words. Tired from a night of sleepless sleep. Heavy air, sagging with humidity, waiting, like me, for the rain to come and wash it all away.
Got to work and stared at the screen. Late morning “pep talk” from my boss left me muttering “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck” the rest of the day.
Came home, took a nap, went out to see a band. Never would have gone back out, but plans had already been made. Put on a smile, drank a vodka tonic, and sank into the corner, surrounded by darkness, strangers, and friends of a friend.
It always amazes me, the power that music can have to heal away any old mood. Shut my eyes and let the husky voice of Kris Delmhorst lift the smoke and venom from my head.
Came home, sat outside and stared at the sky. Still hung heavy with clouds, though the rain had come and gone, a dusky violet hue now draped the midnight sky. Strange, I thought, that at midnight the sky should be violet. Maybe it was residue of city lights I couldn’t even see.
Over the weekend Chris Locke (aka Rageboy) wrote to me that his sister refers to the tendency of women (most notably in business) to act like men as "ventriloquism," a concept found in Folklore studies.
A quick search turned up a paper on this subject by Galit Hasan-Rokem of The Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Hasan-Rokem discusses what she describes as "the garbed or even distorted voice of ventriloquism," in which "a ventriloquist looks as if she or he are quiet and the voice emerges from somewhere else, from somebody else's mouth, very often the mouth of an effigy." Questions arise in instances when ventriloquism is identified as preferable to the true articulation of voice, leading one to ask: Who causes the mouth of the owner of the voice to hide its own voice and to transpose the voice to another, false source? And why? Hasan-Rokem suggests that the answer to this question may be found in experiences with children, in which the authentic mouth is forbidden to utter its speech. Alternatively, it may be ashamed to speak, or have another tactical reason for hiding the source of speech, such as a contrived deception, or simply for play.
This explanation reminds me of so many of the early female voices of literature, which were masked behind the names of men, such as the Bronte sisters, publishing as Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, and George Eliot, who was really one Mary Anne Evans. Now we are seeing the inverse in the form of the token female at the helm of business, smiling at us from the other side of the glass, but she may in fact be just a mask for what amounts to just another male voice. Much like Hemingway's scarce and notably unfeminine female heroes.
I recall my frustrated response to reading The Sun Also Rises in college -- I was infuriated at his female heroes far more than their male counterparts, namely in the case of Brett Ashley, because she was not in fact a woman at all -- rather she was a female ventriloquist masking a male voice and a male persona. And even more interesting and enraging was the fact that Brett featured not only as the odd heroine, but that Hemingway wrote her onto a pedestal, elevated higher even than Jake (our male protagonist and Brett's failed lover). As I recall, by the end of the story Brett is left standing alone as the one example of a "real man," after all of her male peers have shown themselves to be cowards or failures in some form. In Brett, the Hemingway voice finds not only his ideal human -- a man -- but a man in the bodily form of a woman, whom he could take as a lover and love as a lover, and yet respect as a man.
There is of course nothing wrong with the male voice -- nor is the so-called "male" voice necessarily strictly male, any more than the "female" voice is strictly female. In fact, quite often I find that I am able to express myself sometimes more articulately but no less genuinely through languages that I have picked up from my male peers, or a fusion of those languages and my own.
But I suspect there is a distinction somewhere which finds its source in the notion of "integrity," one definition of which is: the quality or condition of being whole or undivided; completeness. The insult lies in the distortion of a form (a person, a role) into something that it, at its core, is not.
Of course, literature is symbolism, and symbolism tends toward the extremes of black and white to make itself understood -- not so in real life. My lone female CEO I'm sure is no Brett Ashley, but it may just be that the same societal influences that gave birth to Ernest Hemingway, thus in turn giving birth to Brett Ashley, have had a hand in shaping our modern day Hemingway Heroine-style female CEO.
In response to my last post, which I also posted on the Blog Sisters page, I was directed to a very interesting article about Queen Bees in the workplace. As with everything, nothing is one, and no one explanation explains all, but I found this article offered some interesting depth on one of many possible angles.
I am coordinating a conference attended by MIT faculty and financial industry executives. Of 11 faculty and 14 senior executives, only one attendee is a woman. I am appalled that there is only one woman. And I am intrigued by her. In an industry so blatantly ceilinged in glass, who is she and how did she come to break through?
At lunch, I make a point to seat myself at her table. I watch her interactions, her mannerisms. I want to learn something from her; I want her approval.
My first impression is that she seems harder, overtly shrewder than her male peers. The old question: is this because she is, or because we are accustomed to women being gentler and warmer? I note that her gaze is not enveloping and her smile is not warm – when offered, it is very obviously for effect.
I watch as she does a quick assessment, as introductions are made around the table, of who is important and who is not. I am mildly stunned when she stops short of me – she does not bother to ask my name or my affiliation. Instead she zones in immediately on the Dean. She dominates the conversation.
However, I am not willing to accept my status of invisible simply because she has decreed it. I know the posture of confidence, and I have learned how to wear it well enough, along with my moderately expensive suit. I make eye contact around the table and join the conversation when I have something to say. The male faculty members acknowledge me, but she does not.
Her only acknowledgement of me throughout the entire meal is an off-handed remark about receptionists and their distaste for being asked to fetch coffee; at which point she looks at me and smiles. For effect.
I am livid.
I am far too professional to react. I smile back. For effect.
But I want to know in what way I communicated myself to be a receptionist. Just last week my boss, also a woman, was remarking on how interesting she finds it that the faculty here (yes, primarily male) speak to me so readily, as if I am a peer rather than a servant, and treat me with respect, as if I am worthy – me being but a program administrator of junior status. This is surprising to her, and fairly unusual, she tells me, as well as commendable – me being neither senior in rank nor male in gender. But it is not surprising to me, because when at work I pay a lot of attention to the way in which I present myself – the ways in which poise, dress, and mannerisms communicate professionalism, status, and whether one expects respect or not. Of course these men respect me: I tell them to in no uncertain terms through an array of non-verbal communication cues.
So how is it then, that this woman dismisses me and my carefully articulated communication cues so quickly, and makes the assumption that I am merely a receptionist with little more on my mind than whether to be peeved should someone ask me for coffee? On what basis has she made this assumption?
If this woman had been a man, I would have thought her a sexist pig right out of the 1950s.
I do not really believe that glass ceilings block women simply because they are women. I believe that the sparse appearance of women at the top has much more to do with how women communicate themselves, the goals we set, where we place our priorities, and quite simply, how much we are prepared to ask for – or demand. I believe that I can go as far as I like, achieve anything I put my mind to.
But this woman has taken a pretty hefty swing at this belief of mine. Is she an anomaly? Or are we, in this case, as always, our own gender’s worst enemy?
I've been thinking about what it means to write – to be a writer – I've been thinking about what writing is really about – that perhaps it’s not just about the pleasure of word play, or the satisfaction of grabbing abstract thoughts and pulling them into words, the sculpting of articulation, the lovely, smooth flow of eloquence, the threading and weaving of wisps of ideas into a story, the arc of voice – more than all that, I think, it’s really about the contact point. That point when your abstract thoughts, feelings, hopes, fears, ideas, carried through the little parcels that are your words, along the path that is your voice, meet the thoughts, feelings, hopes, fears and ideas of the mind of another, and make impact.
And more than being about talent, it’s about overcoming the fear of revealing – taking a leap of faith that what you have to say just may be something someone needs or wants to hear, taking a plunge into the unknown depths of all that lies outside of your head, so that these things within may actually reach others, maybe penetrate, or in some way touch the mind, the life of another.
Or maybe just make them laugh.
I got an email from Larry D. over the weekend pointing me towards his new blog…
I LOVELarry’s blog! I think it’s great! I think the strange and perverse and very normal stuff he writes about is fascinating, as well as well written, and I’m so pleased to have that entrance into the mind of someone I would otherwise never know.
Prior to reading Larry’s blog and reflecting on why it is that I like it so much, I had been struggling quite a bit with the question of whether and why anybody would possibly want to read the stuff I write – whether I have any thoughts original enough to be worth putting out there, adding to the cacophony of other equally unoriginal thoughts. But now I see that’s not for me to decide…
Just keep writing…someone somewhere likely wants to hear it…
Saturday afternoon I went to a Habitat Home Dedication out in Roxbury. A great day for a home dedication – starting out warm and sunny, and then, just for the sake of contrast, or to let us know what we could have had instead, the clouds blew in and sprinkled on us, but only briefly, and then the sunshine returned and everything sparkled.
And such happy new homeowners. It makes you proud to be standing there, proud just to be in any way associated. And what a lot of collective work and effort it takes to make that day happen for those two families, to pull those two families up out of the poverty trap – 4000 hours it takes to build a home; 4000 hours and a lot more, to find land, building materials. We hear a lot about the reasons people are kept in poverty, and these are all very important to be aware of. But to me, the more amazing thing is the swell of good will, of hope and of community that enable these houses to get built.
It was that notion of community that really struck me while I was out there, and which I reflected on as I drove home.
“Sense of community” is a phrase that we hear a lot. So much that, for me at least, it has lost all meaning. But looking around myself and actually feeling that sort of community all around me made me realize why the notion held no meaning for me – made me realize just how pale and weak our middle class “community” really is.
Here we, of the middle class, think we have so much more than these people of Roxbury, of inner cities everywhere – we may even condescend to express gratitude for our privilege. But in actuality we also have so much less.
What do we give up for our financial independence, our middle class autonomy?
“Financially independent” are words I’ve heard a lot throughout my 20s. I’ve heard them from my parents, my relatives, my peers. Independence in general is something I apparently should strive for, and I’ve been commended for my achievement in this – my ability to not need anyone.
But what do we really gain from not needing anyone?
Freedom?
Yes.
Loneliness?
Yes.
Autonomy?
Yes.
Isolation?
Yes.
Community?
No.
In all the places I’ve lived since moving away from home, I’ve never known my neighbors. Why would I need to?
But driving through Roxbury, looking around and feeling that sense of community as if it were a thing, palpable, rather than a notion, I felt my loss – a loss of something I’ve never had, and likely never will. And I felt, not grateful for my privilege, but humbled by how little I have, how little I really know about getting along in this world, and how misguided my priorities are.
Perfect for coffee in the hammock and nothing better to do.
Perfect for an outdoor lunch on Newbury Street. Iced jasmine tea & a little sun on the back.
Perfect for an early evening walk into Harvard Square to meet friends for a movie.
Perfect for sleeping in, sleeping through the early morning showers, waking up to birds and breeze and sunshine.
Perfect for puttering around the kitchen aimlessly.
Perfect for building shelves.
Perfect for driving down 93 – that brief and cherished moment when the traffic opens up and you can finally shift out of 3rd gear – with the warm wind rushing through the open windows and the sun pouring in through the sunroof.
Perfect for taking a late afternoon nap. Warm, balmy afternoon dreams.
Perfect for a gin & tonic accompanied by grilled salmon and a sunset.
Perfect for sitting on the back porch listening to the birds chirping as the wind rustles the leaves and the sky turns from blue to pale blue to pink to dusk…
…………………………
The leaves are dark silhouettes now against the faded sky. My cat is curled up on the bed, her eyes slowly narrowing to slits. Inside, the house is quiet, the only sound is the gentle rustling of the leaves in the evening breeze. Outside in the world, in the news, India, Pakistan, Palestine, Israel, Afghanistan, terrorism, bloodshed, nuclear war… But no, not here. Here it is only the slowly darkening sky – pale violet now – as the perfect, incredibly beautiful weekend draws quietly to a close. It will be Monday soon, the troubles of the world can begin again then. But not now. Now the day, the evening, the world, life…is all just as it should be.
Comments by: YACCS