A Maternal Memorial

Driving.. on my way to buy stuff

By the Hand of My Father,

from the Paper Boys

Is playing on my ipod.

As the words that I am singing along to

start to sink in

all the way in

past my defenses

past my consumerist distractions

past the soft layers I’ve added on over the years

One day late

I cry for her

Crazy as a loon

By the hand of my father

but never by the hand of my mother

she never used power and violence to hurt me

maybe because she had no power

A powerless crazy ol’ woman

who never beat me

suffered

gave birth

plunged me into this world

taught me how to tie a bow

and draw paper dolls

and carried me through the snow

and that was it

all she could give

but enough

I cry

Maternal memory is carried down river

as grief for our great matriarch

casts its yawl into my willing emotional current

Our Mother

perpetually raped

is now being soiled

with the black semen

of man’s lust for power,

Our Mother

left barren

must watch

as her children drown

in it’s filth

We weep

We mothers weep

We grandmothers weep

for our great mother

our schizophrenic mother

who heaves and throws tantrums

and sometimes tries to

shake herself free of us

and protect herself

from the hands of our fathers

Travel Log: Fill in the Blank

The Re-Emergence conference in Belfast was mainly my excuse to finally come to the magical land of Leprechauns. I have no explanation for why it has taken me this long to get to where I have always had a fancy to go (I’ve made it to England three times now, Australia twice, PNG and even Hawaii), but now that I am here, I have the silliest notion of needing to finish this sentence: “The Irish are _______.” I want to know who our people were, who Maggie was, who I am. And that in a mere five days!

Not knowing anyone in Dublin, my first whiff of Ireland came from my “chauffeurs.” Quite literally, the taxi I took from the airport to Skerries, just outside Dublin on the coast, smelled as if it might double as an escort service. The driver was unsure how to get to my B&B and was secretly using a navigation device, which he had on the seat between his legs. He could now afford to buy a more expensive cologne, because the ride cost me a fortune, double what I was told it would. The next day I took a train into Dublin and indulged in the Hop on, Hop off bus tour, which would have been out of the question had I been traveling as a family of five. Most of the drivers seemed to be auditioning for a stand up routine, peppering their tasty nuggets of Irish lore and factoids about historical landmarks with puns and punch-lines. One driver left out the lore and factoids and just told saucy one-liners about his “ex-wife.” Another tour guide told us that St. Patrick didn’t actually wear green. He wore royal and navy blue clergy colors. Green was, as Santa and his sleigh, thrust upon the religious holiday to make it more commercial, more appealing to a culture that was growing ever more secularized, a marketing scheme.

Looking for a place to have a coffee, I happened to walk into Bewley’s Oriental Cafes, which is home to Harry Clarke’s world renown stained glass windows. The building which once housed Whyte’s Academy, where the Duke of Wellington and Robert Emmet both went to school, became Bewley’s Cafe in 1927 and was the “hang out” for some of Irelands most famous literary and Artistic figures including Patrick Kavanagh, Sean O’Casey and Samuel Beckett. I was very pleased to hang out there and do some writing as well, and felt recompensed for not affording myself a glimpse of the Book of Kells, while I was at the beautiful Trinity College.

But for the architecture and the Guinness signs everywhere, the shopping district offers the same here as the world over: Gap, Gucci, Armani, The Body shop, McDonald’s and Burger King, with the later tempting me to forgo the culinary adventure of fish and chips. What frustrates me is that it seems no matter where I go in the world, I always find something American there. And indeed, in Dublin, anyone passing me by or sitting next to me in a cafe was as likely to have an American accent as an Irish one. The people waiting on me at my B&B, at restaurants, train stations, etc., however, had neither American nor Irish accents. They were mostly polish who had come over to earn money during Ireland’s economic boom and then go home again, but had gotten stuck when Ireland’s economy busted. It was a notable contrast to Belfast where it seemed everyone in service positions was Irish, and things were also less expensive.

My last stop of the day was in Malahide, another coastal town on the way out to Skerries. Getting there after the shops had closed, and having a bit of time before the next train and very tired feet, I stopped in at Duffy’s Pub after a quick walk down to the waterfront. Being too late to order something from the menu, I ordered a Becks (you don’t have to go all the way to Ireland to drink a Guinness, and drinking one in Ireland doesn’t make them taste better), and got out my little pink notebook. Of the 25 or so customers, there are five other woman besides myself. None of the men are younger than 45, rather quite over 50, white, with grey hair and casual, conservative dress. Malahide is obviously a notch or two above Skerries on the social scale. The bartender knows almost everyone in the house by name. They are all regulars except for myself and one other table. “These are the evening drinkers,” he responds to my question of whether the Irish drink a lot, or more than other folks; “ they’ll go home and then the night drinkers will come out.” He doesn’t know too many, that “drink straight through.” I understand him to mean that the Irish believe in moderation: they drink only once a day.

Now Lionel Ritchie is playing. The only place I’ve heard Irish music until now was in Burger King, where I stopped to use the restroom. I don’t spend a lot of time in bars now a days, so sitting here in an Irish pub, a horse race on the wide-screens, the salty sea smell of a coastal harbor town mingling with the savory sweet smell of malt, and this fill-in-the blank question gnawing at me like a dog on a bone, I am easily transported way back to the days when I did spend a lot of time in bars: as a little girl no older than six. The “Show Boat” and “Millie and Al’s,” were bars that my biological father, that precious Irish blood coursing through his veins, frequented daily. I’m guessing he didn’t have the knack for moderation, and am thinking he was more the “straight through” kind of drinker. Pistachio dispensers on the bar, dancing in front of the jukebox, gambling, poker games, trips to the horse races, the smell of fish and dirty water from the wharf in DC, large stuffed tuna and swordfish on the walls of Millie and Al’s, Shirley Temples (ginger-ale and grenadine with a cherry) were a few of the brighter spots of those years.

I sure would like to find some other traits to fill in the blank with, intriguing connections between the Irish and myself, more noble heirlooms that Maggie might have bequeathed to her American decedents, something worth salvaging from a family that shipwrecked on poverty, alcohol, crime and insanity. But I should be patient, this is only day two... I still have another three days to find out why being Irish is a bloody good thing. Ah... is that the theme music to “Shipping News” I hear.....

Dupont Circle

It seems kind of kooky, but I have lots of fond memories of Dupont Circle.  My friend Niki and I, who were shopaholics even at the tender age of ten and eleven, loved to go to “Nicely Nicely,” a little shop with just the kinds of pretty trinkets and colorful shnick-shnack an eleven year old girl can embellish her fantasy with.  I would smuggle this wonderful world out of the store by purchasing the tiniest, and cheapest item I could find.  At home this small and insignificant purchase would swell and release its magic, transporting that entire store into my otherwise uninspiring room.  The magic never lasted very long, so we made frequent trips to Dupont Circle, or to Georgetown, which also had many such shops.

The middle school (6th thru 8th grade) I went to was on the other, better, side of NW DC, and to get there, I had to take the #42 bus down to Dupont Circle and transfer to the D2 bus. On the return tour, the bus stop for the #42 was right in front of Kramer Books and Afterwards.  Obviously a book store, but it was also a cafe, restaurant.  If I hadn’t already spent my piteous allowance at the penny candy store across from the school, I sometimes could afford to buy an ice cream at Kramers.  Mostly, though, we liked flipping through the picture books and magazines (especially in the Sex and Marriage section), the smell of coffee, the clatter of plates and glasses, the swish of the waiter’s apron as they passed by with delicious looking treats on their tray.  Sometimes we even caught a later bus, just so we could stay longer.  This was when I first knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: someone who can afford to go to breakfast at a cafe just like Kramers, drink coffee and talk all morning long!

I haven’ t a clue if it is still true, but back then Dupont Circle had the Metro stop with the longest escalator down to the underground subway, and it was at the top of this escalator that two historical moments in my life converged.  My first and only blind date ever, and the loss of my... gullibility (ok, partial loss, to the joy of my children, I’m still pretty gullible).  

The blind date wasn’t humiliating, but it was no winner either.  I had been to Europe twice at that point in my mid 20’s, mostly in England and Germany, but also doing my own version of the summer Euro-rail tour.  I never attempted to hit every major city between Stockholm and Rome, but instead visited friends in different countries and stayed with them for longer periods of time, getting the feel for life in Germany, Switzerland, Austria, France, etc.  The blind date was set up by my college roommate and was the brother of her best friend, who studied German and apparently also had a “thing” for all things German.  He (name long gone) had invited me to see a German movie, with subtitles, playing at the Goethe Institute on 19th, I think, just behind Kramers somewhere.  The movie was a bomb. Some advent-guard 60’s Psycho movie that seemed more like a recording of someone’s bad dream than any real artwork, but no harm done, he and it were quickly forgotten.

What I didn’t forget so quickly, was what happened while I was looking for this person I had never seen before at our meeting spot at the entrance of the Dupont Circle Metro station.  Since I wasn’t charging past like the other commuters, I was easy prey for the young pawn who was being payed to pass out flyers.  It was a glossy, designer flyer, eye catching and trust inducing with a picture of the sweetest old women you’ve ever seen.  On it were several points simply explaining why I should vote against the proposal to introduce deposit bottles in DC.  I wish I could remember all of the silly points on this otherwise very serious looking pamphlet, but I can only remember the tear wrenching claim that frail old ladies, like the one pictured, would have to carry those heavy deposit bottles back to the store, and we couldn’t be so heartless as to impose such a hardship on the elderly.  

And that was it! My moment of awakening:  the world is evil and full of liars, and even in broad day light at Dupont Circle, you had to be on your toes or someone was going to try and pull the wool over your eyes.  Growing up in Adams Morgan, I knew about being on my toes and what dangers were lurking in the neighborhood, but not until that day did I understand that even little old ladies and white people in nice suits would take me for bad, if I let them!  The really sad part is, that if I hadn’t spent over a year in Europe, witnessing first hand what a perfectly normal part of society the concept of deposit bottles are, I probably would have fallen for the glossy lies on that flier!

I haven’t thought about that day in a long time, and probably would have forgotten about the blind date altogether, if it hadn’t been for the recent debate and propaganda campaign against Nationalized Health care.  Until that day at Dupont Circle, I had assumed that “propaganda” was something the Russians did, a Russian word even, which we don’t need in our vocabulary, because Americans tell the truth!  But hearing of the recent parade of videos depicting Canadians dissatisfied with their health care, I can almost feel that glossy printed page in my hand, and I am on my guard.  Again, I think I would myself be easily duped (it all sounds so convincing and compassionate), if it wasn’t for my own experience these last 17 years of living overseas with “no worries” health care, and the testimony of the same from many, many others I know in countries with Health Care systems superior to that of the States.  It seems like a no-brainer to me, but I guess there are a lot of people who are still falling for the glossy fliers and biased advertising.  I can live without deposit bottles, after all, you do have to carry them back to the store, but I can’t live without health insurance, not in todays world of high medical costs.  What will it take to get people to stop being so gullible?!

Here are a few links to what I believe is real information about Canadian health care.  Please ignore the first paragraph of the first link, she wigs out on Republicans.  I know that is rot, but the following points she makes are good ones I thinks.  I had a third link on here, but there was really only one sentence about the survey of Canadians which found that 91% are happy with their health care.

http://network.nationalpost.com/np/blogs/francis/archive/2009/05/12/health-care-lies-about-canda.aspx

http://www.ourfuture.org/blog-entry/mythbusting-canadian-health-care-part-i

World of Weirdos

Charis has always had a lot to talk about when she comes home from school.  Barely through the front door downstairs and it all starts pouring out.  Usually it has been about her teachers or the other kids in class.  Now Charis has a whole new topic to tell about:  Weirdos on the Bus!

Coming into the 5th grade this year, puts Charis at a “High” school (Gymnasium is what it is called here) which is no longer in walking distance, so she takes the #22 bus to the #1 Tram and gets off directly in front of her school.  After a couple of days of taking the route with her, she was on her own and feeling pretty confident.  (I’m so glad she is adjusting well to her entirely new school situation.)  

 Now my gregarious daughter (don’t even think that thought! She has it from BOTH of us!) comes home and says things like this:  “Mama, today this guy got on the bus and one of his eyes had skin grown over it.  He had a blind stick, but I think he could see a little bit from one eye.  I gave him my seat.”  Or, “Today the tram was really full, and I had no place to put my feet.  Every time the tram jerked, I accidently stepped on this woman’s feet.  I said I was sorry, but she scolded me!”  Or, “Today it was so full and when I wanted to get off, there were too many people in front of me, I had to wait for them first.  Then this man behind me rudely pushed me aside and told me to get out of his way, so he could get off the bus”  Or “There was this guy who looked pretty shabby and he smelled so bad, the bus was so full, that he kept squashing me up against the side.  I got off a stop earlier than i had to, just to get some fresh air.”(Charis is particularly offended by "icky things", such as body oder, bad breath, saliva. Rules out kissing or any kind of body contact.) 

So then I tell her about when I had to take the bus to school.  At about her age, I took the #42 bus down to Dupont Circle and then switched to the D2, which took us to Hardy Middle school.  Mostly we kids dominated the bus scene once we were on it, and we found any number of “targets” for our curiosity and amusement.  I was a rare white face in the back of the bus with a loud and boisterous group of black and Hispanic friends fighting for the good seats next to the windows.  In DC there was no shortage of smelly passengers, and the ones who smelled most like liquor and urine were also the most eager to engage us in some surreal conversation.  Jan and I had the opportunity to experience just such a social encounter together many years ago in a subway in NY.  In fact we stole the line our fellow commuter kept repeating, and we still use it for a laugh, and for when we want to signal that one of us is getting too close to the edge of our sanity.

I told Charis about the guy who got on my bus once when it was particularly crowded, who had no nose.  It wasn’t grown over or anything; there was just this big, gaping hole, where his nose should have been!  Wow, not everybody gets to see something like that!  But our favorite characters were the Big Hair Ladies.  I’m not talking beehive hairdos from the 60’s either.  I’m talking big monster hairdos.  Dinosaur hairdos.  Scary hairdos!  They had large cardboard signs with them with pictures of burns on their bodies, which they said were caused by the government doing chemical testing on them.  It had also made their hair grow like crazy.  I guess I pretty much believed them, but I didn’t really know what to do about it.  I just thought, "wow, that’s scary".  One day though, I saw one of these women take her big hairdo off.  That was eye opening.  I still don’t let the government do any testing on me though.

I guess I’ll save all the stories about almost getting frost bite while waiting for the bus for hours in sub-zero temperatures in my Nikes, my wet hair frozen to icicles by the time I got to class, for when she starts bugging me to give her a ride to school in winter.  

Well, sorry for ranting on about all that.   Charis just reminded me again of all those people we miss while we drive around in our SUV’s and our mini-vans.  Her little reports made me realize that she is venturing out of a pretty protected circle and discovering that this world is full of wackos!  So, if you ever think you are a wee bit too snuggly in your comfort zone, just start taking the bus, and you'll be reminded what a weird world we really live in.