what a difference a word makes.

Linus: [to Sally as she walks away with everyone else] Hey, aren't you going to stay to greet the Great Pumpkin? Huh? It won't be long now. If the Great Pumpkin comes, I'll still put in a good word for you!

[realizes what he just said]

Linus: Good grief! I said "if"! I meant, "when" he comes!

[calmly]
Linus: I'm doomed. One little slip like that could cause the Great Pumpkin to pass you by. Oh, Great Pumpkin, where are you?

There are multiple reasons this is on my mind, and the recently passed holiday is the least of them. The primary one is that I keep going back to something that appeared in my inbox recently. Usually when someone is having a tough time, you say something like "I'm here if you need me." This person said something to the effect of "I'm here when you need me," and it made all the difference in the world. "If" is conditional, transient. "When" is "I'm not going anywhere." It's more of a statement of faith, as Linus shows. Right now, that means a helluva lot.

memories of you

Memories of You -- Ol Blue Eyes

This post has been rolling around in my head for weeks. I decided it finally needed to see the light of day, even if I can't clearly articulate what it is I'm trying to say.

Facebook has been a tremendous tool for getting back in touch with childhood pals, I'll give it that. What I haven't been prepared for is the way people remember me.

I get friend requests every now and then, and I always accept them and say what is the truth, that I never send them (well, almost never, unless it was someone I knew extremely well) because I never know if people remember me. I'm not trying to be modest, I'm being honest -- I really don't know, nearly 30 years later, what the people I knew in high school (or younger) remember of me.

To the gentleman who told me he wished he'd been kinder to me (you know who you are), you had and have nothing to worry about. I do have to say that one knocked me off my feet, though. As far as acts of kindness go, it wipes away whatever slights you perceive having made toward me. (I don't remember any, really. But that was a beautiful thing to say.)

But it's all the people who say things like "Of course I remember you! You were always so nice!" or "your smile is still as contagious as ever!" or whatnot who get me thinking. And mostly what I think is: Does life eff with people's basic personalities? Because of what I remember of myself in high school, cheerful doesn't really come to mind. ;-) And I certainly don't remember being overly kind or whatever. I remember being depressed as hell, largely, and having just a few close friends.

Was I really nice and generous and all that then? Am I now? Have the nastier parts of my post-high school life intervened to screw it up? I don't know. I know it's been forever, IF ever, since I've been able to see myself the way others see me. (Two therapists -- one current, one former -- and a friend both brought that up in the past week.) I don't think I am a particularly spectacular person. I just try to do the best I can with what I have and hope it's right.

Someone who lived just that way and who I loved a bunch died last week, and that's got me thinking too, and remembering. I don't know if he knew how much he meant to me and what an impact he had on me growing up. I have no idea if I succeeded in communicating that when I saw him last. But that I remember him unfailingly treating me as well as his own kids says something both about his character and about the way life ought to be lived.

I love you, Mr. P. And as for my childhood pals -- I don't know if I am, or ever was, the person you're remembering me as. But thanks for remembering good things.

Waking skies
At sunrise,
every sunset, too,
Seems to be
bringing me
memories of you.

Here and there,
everywhere,
scenes that we once knew.
And they all
just recall
Memories of you.

How I wish I could forget
those happy yesteryears
That have left a rosary of tears.

Your face beams
in my dreams
spite of all I do.
Everything seems to bring
memories of you.
Those memories of you.

sheeple.

Edited 6/3/10 to add link to article

Or, Man's inhumanity toward man, part 2.

When it's online I will come back and post a link, because it's well worth a read. But I just finished editing an update to the famous Stanley Milgram experiments.

Twenty-first century style, some idiot turned electrocuting people into a reality show.

Now, of course, just as in Milgram's original experiment, no one actually got shocked. It was all just some really good acting, but it made for some distressing insight into human behavior. The original subjects got paid; the "reality show" contestants got whatever the hell it is people who want to go on reality shows get, I guess -- well-fed egos, maybe.

Nevertheless, in both cases, about two thirds of the people administering the "shocks" kept going -- up to delivering what would have been fatal levels -- just because an "authority figure" told them to do it.

BAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

I have been thinking a lot lately about compassion, and who has it, and who doesn't. It would be nice to think it exists, even if only in smidgen format, in all people. But history has showed us otherwise. Hell, so has Milgram. When only 30 percent of folks will call a halt to hurting -- or KILLING! -- someone despite being told to keep going, mankind is in sad shape.

What brought it up for me today was this:

former restaurant critic on food stamps

I have been on both sides of this particular aisle. It's much uglier on the receiving end, I assure you.

Many years ago, I worked at my parish's food pantry. There was one mother of 7 who visited frequently. She always said how awful it made her feel, and I always told her, as I was packing bags for her, that there was no need to feel awful, that that's why we were there and it was OK and that everybody needs a little extra help now and then.

You know what? It's a LOT easier to say that and believe it when you go home to a fridge stocked full of food you both want to eat and were able to buy yourself.

I suspect a number of journalists who found themselves victims of the industry implosion over the last few years also found themselves in this guy's shoes. I did, for a time. It was the most humiliating experience of my life. I used to walk to the church a few blocks away that had free meals a couple of times a week, hide as much as I could (ball cap, hoodie, etc), keep my head down and pray no one would recognize me. The people who were dishing up dinner couldn't have been kinder, and I'm sure they would have told me what I told that mom -- there's no reason to be ashamed, etc. But there is still shame involved.

Is it put on us by ourselves or others? A little of both, I think. I don't have an answer for how to handle it. The standard "put yourself in the other person's shoes" not only goes just so far, but can lead to pity, and I, for one, am not interested in that, no matter the problem. I don't need you to feel sorry for me. I'm not sure I need you to tell me it's OK when I'm not in a position to hear and believe that. This guy is more fortunate than most; his background helped prepare him some.

I dunno. I don't have an answer, as I said. If I make you think after I make you feel, I'm content to leave it at that.

this is what i'm talkin' 'bout.

I mean, really. It's bad enough when regular people (who you can have some hope of educating/shaming/etc) say crap like this, but medical folks??

Read the post, but especially the comments on the post.

Prophetic

Hey guys: There's a difference between a little dark humor to get you through the horrors of your day and openly mocking people who haven't had your good fortune and aren't equipped to slag you in return.

BTW: My history is significant for one of the same things (which apparently makes me mentally challenged) and I don't have a bowl haircut.

As one of my early writing coaches liked to say, "Gross generalizations are generally gross." Let's try not to make them, shall we? The world would be a much kinder place.

man's inhumanity toward man....

Today I went to an exhibit on race, sponsored in large part by Mayo Clinic. With 33,000 employees in a town of 90,000 or so, they have a bit of pull and a lot of cash, and they're very good at philanthropic things.

You would think, with people coming here from all over the world for treatment, that Rochester would be a pretty diverse place. You would be incorrect. The signs as you drive into downtown saying "we are striving for a more inclusive community" are kind of a hint of that. The reality is, for every Arabian sheik who brings his retinue here once a week every year for checkups and drops $8 mil while he's here, there are a dozen farmers five minutes outside the city limits. When's the last time you saw a farmer of color? :-\

Some years ago, in a very segregated city of moderate size, I had a good friend who happened to be black. It was horrifying to do something as tame as browse a store in the mall and watch him get followed while I was free to roam where I pleased. On a lesser scale, it's kind of like what I felt like at the Bullseye when people assumed I was a slackjawed idiot for having to work as a cashier. My only regret is that before I quit, I didn't go off on one of them and say, "listen, you pretentious sack of shit, I have a master's degree and am NOT an 8th grade dropout, so stop making assumptions."

And that's what it comes down to. The most heartbreaking part of this exhibit -- and there were many -- was the one that gave voice to the children. Some wrote down and put in a notebook their experiences of being discriminated against. One little girl, who listed herself as "8 but almost 9" said that she didn't *not* want to be Hindu, but that she wished people were nicer to her, because even if she were black or white or Asian, it shouldn't matter, right? One of the high school girls on a videotape, who identified as Native American, black and white said people would stare at her and then outright ask "what ARE you?" She said she finally started responding, "human."

We all know about slavery in America (or we think we do). We all know about the civil rights marchers (or think we do). But to see and hear the experiences of people who have lived some of these things is humbling and thought-provoking. One older white gentleman said he didn't realize until he watched the videos of the civil rights marches and paid attention to the people lining the streets, throwing rocks and hurling profanities, that that was the history of HIS people, and that horrified him into doing something. And so it should.

Anyone who knows me at all well knows I am a glass-half-empty person. My life experiences to date have brought me to that point. But sometimes things happen that remind me and my closet optimist, who lives inside my head and who I let stick a toe out every now and then before shutting him back up for another year or two ;-), that no matter how bad I think my life is or has been, somebody else's is or has been worse.

Yeah, people can fucking suck. There ain't no two ways about that. Seeing a pair of actual shackles an actual slave was locked up in is a vivid reminder. Often we aren't very nice to each other, and often it's for arbitrary reasons that we aren't.

I long ago gave up trying to save the world. But it's entirely possible to make a dent in my -- or YOUR -- little part of it. Life, to me, isn't about expensive "toys" (good thing, since I have none and likely won't ever) and that sort of thing -- it's about integrity and about being able to say, when it's all over, that I did what I could. I don't need to be famous, or rich. I just want to be able to say that I did what I could while I was taking up space and oxygen here to improve things a little. I hope I can.

Edited to add: While the topic here was race, there are other sorts of discrimination people won't talk about, either. I can't believe I neglected a couple rather obviously close to me. It can be summed up as: medication-related weight gain.

I am not the world's tiniest girl, but the addition to my regimen of a med known for packing on the pounds has caused me to become that much less tiny. It sucks. But you know what? I wasn't *always* a cow. I may not have always been society's definition of "thin," but I wasn't always Gigantor, either. So how about not looking at me and assuming I'm this size because I don't exercise (I walk most places I go, now that I live somewhere that's feasible) and eat terribly (since I order the groceries for the whole house, I bring in almost nothing but chicken, pork, fresh fruits and vegetables and hugely limit the processed stuff).

The other form of discrimination I face is going to be another blog post before May, which is Mental Health Month, is out.

Race exhibit

at the age at which Mozart was dead already.

I promised this to someone on my birthday, but was out of town on the day and didn't have the book with me. So here you go, Carrie. Credit Ellen Goodman, April 1977.
==============

Let others freak out at turning 30 or 40. Let others greet their new decades with $12-an-ounce moisturizing cream and anxiety attacks. Not me. I'm no more mesmerized when the zeroes click into place in my life than when the speedometer turns over a new 10,000-mile mark.

But this odd-numbered birthday is different. This one has been lurking around, waiting to ambush my mind. You see, at the age I'm about to be, Mozart was dead already.

Now why, you ask, would someone whose musical career ended in the college chorus line of Guys and Dolls be worrying about Mozart?

Because Mozart has always been a convenient symbolic figure in my life. Someone to make me feel totally inadequate. Someone not to be able to live up to. Someone to make me miserable. Nice healthy things like that. I mean, if you want to feel like a wipeout, there is always the specter of old Wolfgang inking in the G clefs.

Remember when you were 5 and thrilled at being able to tie your shoelaces? Mozart was composing minuets. Remember when you were 30 and still hadn't "found yourself"? Mozart had finished The Marriage of Figaro. Need I go on?

Of course, Wolfgang isn't the only such handy source of low self-esteem and discontent. In the third grade there was always one kid who was on the gold book when you were on the green. There was one guy in college who had his first play produced on Broadway while you were completing your language requirement.

I had two friends publishing novels in New York the year that I was writing obituaries in Detroit.

I suspect that most of us were geared at a young age to all those grades and annual reports. There wasn't any such thing as an overachiever back then. He was just someone ahead of us. Someone to chase.

Now, however, it strikes me that there may be some advantage in arriving at the age at which Mozart was dead already. You don't have Wolfgang to kick yourself around with anymore. It occurs to you that you are far too old to be precocious, and you'll never be a Young Achiever. You'll never again be able to write Don Giovanni at 31.

Instead of whipping yourself to mush after the goals of others, you begin slowly to reset those goals. All this is called learning to live with yourself.

You stop living for Who's Who or the obituary column. You begin to give up the notion of living for the record, for others, or for the fleeting immortality of card catalogues and Chamber of Commerce plaques. As one friend put it: "If I'm not going to be Shakespeare, I might as well enjoy life."

At the age at which Mozart was dead already, you begin to gain what some people call perspective and others call "losing the old drive" and others call mellowness. For a day or so you might be repulsively philosophical. You might ruminate on the fact that the earth will be cold in a billion years or so, that most people's life's work is their life, and that there's not a whole lot of point in just making points.

The next trick, I suppose, is to learn to accept your limitations without trapping yourself in them and to find some of the important lines: the line between eternal dissatisfaction and smugness, the line between anxiety and boredom, the line between being driven and being immobilized. The line that we describe as a balanced life.

As for me, I may get there yet. I have at least finally realized one truth that comes with the candles: I'd rather be alive than be Mozart.

wond'ring aloud...

wond'ring aloud
How we feel today...
will the years treat us well...

Gotta love Jethro Tull.

Hit one of those milestone birthdays last week. Birthdays always make me reflective, but the ending in -5 and -0 ones much more so. One of the things I've been wondering about is just how much wiser I am, really.

For some reason, I've been thinking about Chris Farley. Maybe my subconscious unearthed something while I was in Milwaukee last week. Chris Farley was an alum not only of my alma mater, but of my specific place within it. He died in my first semester there and it was a huge deal. (Also a little weird to be seeing my dean interviewed on CNN, but that's neither here nor there.)

Marquette has gone through a lot in the last 13 years. Buildings have come and gone. Al McGuire (peace be upon him) died. The board of directors was mocked nationwide for trying to change the school nickname to "The Gold." Hegarty's, a 77-year-old campus institution -- and where my friend Mike took me for lunch to try to get me to talk about my feelings after my dad died -- is closing. It's all minutiae that adds up to a life. And as far as I can tell, I'm thinking about Chris Farley because he didn't care, and I wonder why he had that figured out at 33 and I still don't.

It sounds petty, but remember the SNL skit where he was auditioning for the Chippendales? That, friends, took brass ones. Niecy Nash getting out there every week on Dancing with the Stars and shaking her self-admitted large self for the entire country to see? She's doing it, and she's doing it with a "F, yeah" attitude. Meanwhile, I refuse to go out in public in anything sleeveless, because god forbid anyone stare at my fat and flabby upper arms. Like the rest of me isn't fat and flabby either? And more important, like I should care?

How does one arrive at the point of that sort of self-acceptance? I feel kind of ridiculous for being this old and not having achieved it yet. Perhaps that's a hint to get the hell outta the Caribou across the street from St. Marys. It kills me that physicians all tend to hit the genetic lottery as well as the IQ-points one. Really -- looks or brains -- should be one to a person. ;-)

and it's only the giving that makes us what we are...