Dec 23, 2011
(I urge you to sing this to that fine old tune we all know and love)
On the first day of houseguests my true love said to me, “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the second day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the third day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the fourth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the fifth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the sixth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “I’ll never eat again,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the seventh day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Let’s go get Leah,” “I thought you said you’d do it,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the eighth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Who’s coming next?” “Let’s go get Leah,” “I’ll never eat again,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Get it yourself,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the ninth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “We should change the sheets,” “Who’s coming next?” “Let’s go get Leah,” “I’ll never eat again,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “It’s not my family,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the tenth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “We should change the sheets,” “Whatta ya mean ‘we’?” “Who’s coming next?”“Let’s go get Leah,” “I told you I’d do it,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “Eric comes tonight,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Leave me alone,” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the eleventh day of houseguests my true love said to me, “Here comes Matt and Amber,” “We should change the sheets,” “Whatta ya mean ‘we’?” “Who’s coming next?”“Let’s go get Leah,” “Where’d you put my wallet,” “TOO MANY GIFTS!” “You forgot the onions,” “Fetch Don and Doris,” “Where’s my list?” and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
On the twelfth day of houseguests my true love said to me, “I’ll see you later,” “You forgot the onions,” “Leave me alone,” “Whatta ya mean ‘we’?” “I told you I’d do it,” “It’s not my family,” “You said you’d do it,” “GET IT YOURSELF,” “Where’d you put my wallet?” “Where’s my list?” “I’ll never eat again,”and “I can’t wait to see Lu-lee.”
The Feminist Grandma is taking a vacation - I'll be back January 6
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Dec 16, 2011
When I was employed at a little legal think tank, I spent a lot of time on causes dear to my heart: welfare rights, abortion rights, indigent health care. Most of my companions in these causes were volunteers, who had to follow their fervor outside of whatever job they were paid to do. But at my job, which was largely self-defined, I was encouraged to engage with the community, and even had a secretary to help me with it! So people were always asking me to do things – go to meetings, chair committees, give speeches.
For years, I was The Girl Who Can’t Say No. And like most yes-sayers, I got in over my head, floundering to avoid drowning, dropping balls, mixing metaphors. Then one day I had a vision*** of a strange bird sitting on my shoulder. It turned out to be the No Bird. Since then, whenever anyone asks me to take on a project, the No Bird asks three questions. “Is it worthwhile? Do you have time? Do you want to do it?” Unless I can say yes to all three, I’m required to say No. This is harder than it sounds.
THE NO BIRD
First, worthiness is hard to assess. Doing a kindness is always worthwhile. Fun is always worthwhile. Speaking truth to power is a moral imperative, and therefore usually worthwhile, though efficacy must sometimes enter into the equation, and one must beware of the self-aggrandizing tendency.
Time is elastic. If you want something done, ask a busy woman. Even if she consults her calendar for other commitments, she probably hasn't scheduled down time: time to lie in a hammock, drink a cup of tea, sit and stare. And as she considers the request, she'll probably ignore family obligations and general maintenance. So she's likely to say yes, and down time and all the rest get squeezed out.
“Do you want to?” can also be a tricky question. They like me, they like me. They’ll be angry if I say no. I’m the best (or only!) one who can do it. All these lead me to think, well yes, I kind of want to. But if the thought of it fills me with dread and depression, if my throat tightens and I want to hide under the bed – that’s a pretty sure sign that I don’t.
Sometimes I overrule the No Bird. When worthwhile really means essential, and I’m truly the only one who can do it, we argue quite fiercely, and eventually the No Bird has to shut up. (You can see that her beak is a little the worse for wear.) But by and large my silly bird has been very helpful, and I haven’t joined a committee in years.
*** Inspiration always comes to me in pictures. A house collapsing into a sinkhole, an infant left by a dumpster, a man standing in shadows at the edge of the woods – these sudden images generated my three novels.
NEXT WEEK: The Twelve Days of Houseguests
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Dec 9, 2011
A few weeks ago I wrote about finding a church that I loved, but Amanda rejected. We continued our quest, visiting several, and now I believe we have found the church for us.
Two friends told me that the United Church of Gainesville had excellent children’s programs. I knew they were a progressive church with a social justice orientation. They were the source of our first HOME Van donation nine years ago: in a single service they collected 189 pairs of socks, 189 jars of peanut butter, and $189. They also participate in the Interfaith Hospitality Network, in which member churches take turns providing temporary shelter, food and services to homeless families. So I thought we’d give it a try.
The people mingling outside the church were all white, but in the entrance Amanda was happy to see a girl she knew from kindergarten, and we sat with that family. The sanctuary is a beautiful space of wood and windows. People were welcoming, and the sermon was thought-provoking. The children gathered in front for a story, we sang to everyone who had a birthday that week, and then Amanda went off with the children for Sunday School.
PHOTO FROM TRADITIONALMASS.ORG
As a child I went to an Episcopalian church. To me, church is dogma and ritual and music. The only dogma I’ve found at UCG is a commitment to welcome everyone no matter who they are or what they believe. A part of me asks, So what’s the point? The congregation has created lovely rituals, but they lack the mystery, history and solemnity I loved as a child. There is beautiful music of all sorts – classical, Dixieland, bluegrass -, but the hymnal seems to consist entirely of hymns written since 1960. The lyrics are clunky progressive pieties, and give me the willies, though there are few I would disagree with.
Still, Amanda enjoyed her time with the children, and wanted to return. I found, as I always do in church, that the program of listening, speaking, silence and singing is a calming time that taps into wells of memory and grief I rarely visit.
Of all the churches we visited, Amanda liked this one the best. I had my doubts, but I went to a meeting for prospective members. We sat in a circle to say why we were there, and listened to members and ministers who told us what the church means to them.
I heard the same words over and over: community, commitment to service and social justice, spiritual seeking. I thought desperately, “I don’t want community. I’m drowning in community!” I’ve been in Gainesvillle over thirty years, and have many old friends whom I see too seldom. As for service, my hands are full with the HOME Van and school volunteering, not to mention Amanda. I don’t want any more obligations, or any more guilt. Finally, when it comes to a search for truth and meaning, I am like someone born with no sense of taste. I don’t miss it, and in fact take comfort in the thought that we are tiny specks in an unfeeling, unthinking universe.
HUBBLESITE.ORG/GALLERY/ALBUM/THE_UNIVERSE
But Amanda likes going to this church, and feels she is part of the group. We go almost every Sunday now, and bit by bit I am less of a stranger. I’ve learned a few names, and I’ve signed us up to help host dinner for the homeless families who are staying at the church. I like the thoughtful, honest sermons of the four ministers, and my prickly, judgmental voice is becoming fainter. We may have found our church.
NEXT WEEK: The No Bird
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Dec 2, 2011
I don’t understand the passion for purses, but the passion for shoes? – I get it. I used to mash my feet into spiky toes, pound my soles walking on spiky heels. Three inches was as high as you could go back then, unless you shopped in specialty costume stores. Now heels are up to five inches. I see women in these tottery-high heels everywhere, and my toes hurt. I see a young woman in platform shoes and fear for her ankles.
High heels screw up your feet, your legs, and your back. They hurt us and hobble us. Why do we wear them? Because our self-images are still shaped by fashion and media. Along with thin and young, we think sexy means that look you get in high heels – long curving calves, buttocks and breasts pushed out. Feminism has only taken us so far, and when we’re on the prowl we’re still willing to suffer to look sexy.
OUCH
I always loved shoes, and have lots of shoe-memories. As a toddler I had to wear ugly brown oxfords instead of Mary Janes. In elementary school, I wore saddle shoes, in junior high I wore loafers and flats, and then it was boarding school and back to saddle shoes again. When our dog chewed on Luli’s flats my mother had the cobbler turn them into peep toes. I was jealous; my mother wore open toed pumps and they were very fashionable.We dressed up flats and pumps with clip-on bows and brooches. I held color chips against my fuschia dance dress so the white satin pumps could be dyed to match.
When I was fourteen I took the train alone into New York City. I wore slate-gray high heels with pointy toes. It was my first time navigating the city on my own, and I strutted down Madison Avenue until my heel went into a grating and broke off. It was white plastic with a spike inside. I fitted the spike back into the hole, and limped the rest of the way to my appointment.
My first sexy boots were knee-high fake patent leather, and made my feet smell terrible. I sprinkled talcum powder inside. When I pulled them off my stockings were covered with powder and I left little white footprints on my first lover's carpet. The idea that my feet could smell? Mortifying.
I bought black patent leather sandals with spike heels and an ankle strap. That was when I first heard “fuck-me shoes,” from a lover who liked fantasy sex, but was otherwise annoying.
RUDE SHOES (KIRIAKI BY NINE WEST)
I was close to forty when comfort trumped style. After that, it was light weight hiking boots in winter, thick-soled sandals for summer and Naturalizer pumps with one- inch chunky heels in many shades for teaching or dress-up. I didn’t stop wishing I could wear snazzy shoes, but the pain was persuasive.
A couple of years after I got my new knees, my left arch collapsed. My ankle was pulled out of alignment, swelled up like a balloon, and left me limping. I tried ice, braces, arch supports, cortisone shots. The podiatrist finally gave up and sent me to a specialist, whose custom-made orthotic inserts fixed the problem. There’s only one catch – the inserts are very expensive and are made to fit one particular shoe. So I wear the same shoe style all the time, with fancy dress and jeans. Old lady shoes are acceptable anywhere. They come in black, buff, and white. Until recently I had one worn out, knockabout pair, one kept-clean pair for dress, and one buff pair for variety.
I can’t go barefoot anymore – as soon as I get up in the morning I put on my shoes. I miss my bedroom slippers in the winter, and sandals in the summer. My feet are imprisoned except when I’m sleeping. But foot freedom is a small loss. Now I can dance again, and even hike up hills.
Still, every time I go to Zappo’s, where I buy my shoes, I linger over the “women’s heels” pages. One pair promises to “capture your prey with a memorable message of seduction” They even have a brand called Promiscuous (WHAT is the world coming to!) I yearn a while, and then I order another pair of Brooks Addiction Walkers.
Then one day as I was whining to Luli about my shoes, she suggested I paint them. Immediately I googled shoe paint, found a site with instructions, and ordered about $30 worth of supplies – 8 colors, leather cleaner, and an acrylic finish. Iris and Amanda and I had a happy morning painting, and since then Amanda and I have painted my two remaining pairs.
AMANDA'S CREATIONS
PAINTING SHOES
THE FG COLLECTION
I’m amused by how my shoes cheer me up. Every time I look down and see them peeking from my pants I smile. It’s not all good. I don’t have any shoes left for somber or formal occasions, and I know if I buy another black pair, the temptation will be too great. (I’m dying for zebra stripes.) But dress codes for funerals have seemingly disappeared, and I’ll never be invited to the White House. I'm glad to have shoes that say, "I am still here.”
NEXT WEEK: An Infidel in Church: The Church Search, Part II
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Nov 25, 2011
(Of course I’ve changed the names, and a few details, to preserve the limited privacy of our homeless friends.)
The HOME Van arrives at the Downtown Plaza, our busiest stop, at 5:45 on Thursdays. A long line forms for food bags, followed by a line for soup, cornbread and hot chocolate. A smaller line waits at the front of the van for medicine. At the back people search through clothes, toiletries and books. And a few people stand in front of me where I sit near the van, sorting socks to find what suits each customer: “You want short or long, dark or white?”
HOME VAN AT HOME
HOMEVAN STUFFED WITH STUFF
Old friends, old enemies, and strangers stand in line together, loud or quiet, lively or withdrawn, all hungry, most homeless. Hugs, greetings, insults, jokes, gossip – who’s in jail, who’s in the hospital, what happened at the church dinner the night before.
Sometimes there are angry complaints – “How come you never have batteries?” but more often gracious, generous words – “You are a blessing,” “No, give it to Mr. Watson, he needs it more than me.” (Mr Watson is over 80.) There are more men than women, more black than white, more middle-aged or old than young.
Times are always tough at the bottom; you might think a poor economy wouldn’t make any difference. But work has long since dried up at the labor pools. Shelves at the food banks empty quickly every week, and at every agency demand is up and donations down. There are more homeless people now. The annual count in Gainesville used to find about 800 people; now there are 1500.
We never used to see children at the HOME Van, but now we often do. Recently Laquita has been a regular customer. She has a toddler in a stroller, and 6-year-old Shontelle. Laquita waits patiently in line for food bags for the three of them, each bag with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a hard-boiled egg, an orange, a granola bar, and a bottle of water.
Shontelle stands by her brother. Her hair is neatly braided in rows and plaits, and she wears the same public school uniform as Amanda – a polo shirt and pants. She watches our motley crew of customers with lively eyes. Little Franco, bleary-eyed, leaps into the lap of a fat woman in a wheelchair. Her thin cotton dress falls alarmingly low off her shoulders. Joseph and Isaiah argue over a place in line, their expletives rising louder and ruder and then subsiding into muttered insults. Michelle wears all her clothes at once – pants, skirts, shirts, sweaters, her head wrapped in shawls.
Arupa and I try to have a special gift for the children who show up – a stuffed animal, a book, a notebook and pretty pen. I ask Laquita, “Do you think the kids would like this teddy bear? She smiles and calls Shontelle over. Without prompting, Shontelle thanks me and takes the teddy bear to her brother, makes it dance and talk for him.
GIFTS FOR THE KIDS
More than the children, it’s the parents I ache for. Living in a car, a church, a homeless shelter, they struggle to give their children a normal life. They are ashamed that they cannot provide, humiliated at taking the kids to a soup line. But the worst is the fear that protective services will take the children away.
Last year I took Amanda to the HOME Van Christmas drive-out, when we give out the Christmas stockings stuffed by people all over town. They are white tube socks stuffed with candy, perfume, batteries, flashlights, toys, all sorts of treats that say “People are thinking of you, people care that you are living in the woods.” With her best company manners Amanda handed out socks and candy canes, and helped eat the cookies.
HOME VAN CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS
A few weeks ago Amanda and I hosted dinner for the families who were staying at our church. Hosting is easy. With another volunteer we put out the food, eat dinner with the guests, and clean up afterwards. This time there were three families, including four young children and two older boys.
After dinner Amanda went out to the playground with the children, but Darnel, the oldest boy, stayed behind to talk with me and the other volunteer. He was a comical delight – full of 14-year-old braggadocio and wiseacre remarks. His uncle had moved with him and his younger brother from Detroit in August. They had spent the previous week in a motel, and would move the next week to another church. Darnel was enrolled in the prize-winning performing arts program at one of our magnet schools. He said school was too hard. “At least you’re not bored,” I said. “Yeah, but I can’t sleep in class, so I’m tired all the time. They should let you sleep if you want to.”
We discussed rules that we think are unfair, and I offered rules against peeing in public. Darnell thinks those are good rules. “What can you do if you don’t have a home? You still have to pee.” “Yeah, but how would you like it if you were walking down the street and some guy had whipped it out and was peeing?” “I’d walk behind him.” “Yeah, but what if he turns around suddenly and it goes all over your leg?” “I’d wash it off.”
Amanda played with the other kids until well past dark. The littlest girl admired her earrings and when Amanda told her she had a matching bracelet at home, she said, “I wish I had a home.” Amanda said, “It’s hard not to have a home. I wish I could help you.”
I had to stay till 8:30 when the overnight volunteers take over. Joe came at 7:30 to take Amanda home for bedtime in her very pink bedroom – a hot shower, fleece pajamas, a chapter from the bedtime story, and lights out.
AMANDA'S ROOM IS JUST AS PINK – PHOTO FROM DIGSDIGS.COM
Today is the day after Thanksgiving. If you are homeless, you may have eaten three Thanksgiving meals yesterday – everybody serves free dinners at Thanksgiving and Christmas. If you are housed, you probably have a refrigerator full of leftovers.
TURKEY DINNER BY NOMADCHEF.COM AT IMAGES.GOOGLE.COM
You may feel you have been as thankful as you need to be. But take time today to be grateful for one more thing. If you are homeless, be thankful if you have no children. If you have children, be thankful if you have a home.
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NEXT WEEK: I Got Shoes
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Nov 17, 2011
I was looking for a church for Amanda and me. I am not a believer, but she attended church sporadically before she came to live with us, and her belief in God and Jesus are important to her.
FROM "A CHILD IS BORN" BY MARGARET WISE BROWN. ILLUSTRATIONS BY FLOYD COOPER
click
Amanda has been self-conscious about her white grandparents, and undoubtedly will be again. I wanted a church where we could both be comfortable, where a white grandma was accepted. More important, I wanted a church where Amanda would hear more about love and forgiveness, about doing good works and rejoicing in God’s creation, than about possession by demons and the fires of hell.
It was a puzzle. Where could I find a church for both of us – black Christian child and white atheist woman? I heard of two “integrated” churches, and went on their websites. They were big evangelical churches, and their photo albums didn’t look very integrated to me – a smattering of black faces among thousands of white. And their missions and messages disturbed me, insisting that Jesus is the one and only Way. Maybe searching for a Christian church that doesn’t focus on Christianity is unrealistic, but it can’t be good for Amanda to think Grandma and Grandpa are headed for hell. We ended by visiting four different churches.
Twenty years ago I took my foster children to a black United Methodist church. I really like the minister there, who told me, “God doesn’t see color.” The Methodists seem to accept that there may be various paths to truth, and they sing a lot of the hymns I grew up with. So on Palm Sunday, Amanda and I dressed up and headed to church.
Amanda chose a pew in the middle. At first she sat stiffly, two feet away from me, looking a little worried. But as the familiar sights and sounds sank in – the praise choir clapping and singing, people waving their hands, swaying – she began to relax.
PITTSBURGH GOSPEL CHOIR from IMAGES.GOOGLE.COM
I sang enthusiastically. At home I sing constantly, and it often aggravates Joe and Amanda. He says, “Please stop singing,” and she simply says, “Grandma.” But in church she didn’t object, and soon she was singing too.
The minister welcomed all the visitors, saying, “You are in the right place, you are where you belong.” She looked right at us.
It was a special day. They were baptizing a baby, maybe a year old. She had a great mop of soft black hair, and creamy tan skin. Her black father and white mother were surrounded by family in all shades. They passed the baby to the minister, and when the water touched her face, she cried. Amanda watched closely.
The minister introduced Michelle Duster, a descendant of Ida B. Wells. She told us that while she was proud of her great grandmother, the anti-lynching crusader, all our ancestors were strong. They were fighters and survivors. They survived the Middle Passage, slavery, Reconstruction, Jim Crow. And none of them did it alone.
IDA B. WELLS
click
As far as I know, these were not my ancestors, but in this church Amanda would learn the values and history I hope she will cherish. In this church I heard the messages that matter to me – messages about service, community, justice. Church is for believers and seekers, and I am a comfortable atheist. But gospel music makes my soul sing, and I love to be in a place where people are rejoicing and trying to be good. Here Amanda could find community and strength, and this is the church I would choose.
Unfortunately, our next visit was a disaster. The minister called all the children up to the front, and Amanda of course went too. But they had been rehearsing a reading, and the group leader sent Amanda back because she didn’t have a role in it. She was mortified, and NEVER wants to go back. I had to resume my search.
NEXT WEEK: One More Day for Thanksgiving
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