Liberty and Justice for All

Saw Milk over the weekend and I was mesmerized, not only by the outstanding performances, but mostly by the message that stayed with me long after the two hour nostalgia trip back to the seventies. The biopic focuses on the first, feint seeds of a national Gay movement, kindled by persecution, fear, and finally, the incredible and unlikely defeat of Proposition 6, an initiative to ban homosexuals from working in the public school system. Like any other witch-hunt, the story of Harvey Milk's rise to become the country's first elected gay official in the face of opposition from the country's Christian Right, is all too-familiar, particularly as we celebrate the nation's first black President. But California's November 2008 vote for Proposition 8, which overturned a state Supreme Court's decision to uphold the legality of same-sex marriage, suggests that although benchmarks come and go, the fight for equality and justice for all continues. Milk raises the importance of activism at every level. Progress begins with one brave or heroic person, driven by passion and injustice -- whether it's Rosa taking the seat, MLK's making a speech, or a guy called Harvey Milk deciding that he just couldn't take it any more. It only takes one person to start the noise, but it takes a moral majority to turn that noise into a cacophony and take the cause to the finish line. Milk is a must-see because it offers a universal truth about something incredibly fundamental, that we take very much for granted -- our civil rights -- and the message is loud and clear, that there, but for the grace of god, go we, be it black, white, Jewish, Moslem, Christian, male, female, or any group that has endured, or will endure persecution. No person should sit in judgement of another, let alone ratify that judgement as law of the land. In a world gone awry, with the Taliban on the rise and our basic rights and freedoms under assault from yet another form of fanaticism -- there are so many, pick your evil -- this movie could not have come at a better time.

Small Change

My eight-year old daughter commented quite casually yesterday afternoon that little had changed since President Obama was sworn in on Tuesday. "Not that big a difference," she said, as one who might be assessing our household budget or monitoring the impact of our nation's foreign policy on a daily basis only to find it wanting two days after the administration change. And it struck me that as an ADD, Web-addicted, information-overloaded society we have  come to expect instantaneous results from everything, be it our medical tests (do I have the disease or don't I?) to that plane that surfed the Hudson last week -- behavior moulded on a diet of video games, sensational headlines, and an  American Idol philosophy in which talent can trump time spent honing that talent. And when those who provide this information are in such a rush to get it out, surely something gets lost in the mix? Time was when there was time. Real time. Without the immediate access we are afforded by our 24-7 technology. And so, as we examine every facial tic, mispronounced syllable, incorrect syntax and nuance of the Inauguration, from beginning to end, and we chronicle, examine, and analyze every second of the our new President's waking moments, I have a strong compunction to turn off the radio, put the newspaper away and steer clear of the TV for a day or two and hope that, by the end of the week, there will be some real news to report. As for change -- let's not be impractical here. You have to clean the house before you can decorate it, after all, and this is one filthy dwelling that will require so much more than one guy with the world's biggest mop.

An early morning waffle. Indulge me, please.

It's Thanksgiving tomorrow, so we should turn our thoughts to family. I have had a plentiful dose over the last week and as one set of sheets revolves in the dryer, and all remnants of the previous visitors is clearned, the doorbell rings on a new set, ready to partake of the festivities. Caught up in the groundswell of all this relative activity I am trying to figure out how I feel as I come down from a roller-coaster of emotions, not to mention the late night crying jags, remonstrations, venom, and dramatic apologies. Left in the wake of it all, I am giddy from the effort of peacekeeping, negotiating, mediating, strategizing, and drained from the experience of outrage, anger, sadness, guilt, and relief, but not much joy, unfortunately. It is hard to watch one's parents age and in doing so, replace your image of them as all-powerful, knowing beings. They become fallible and doddery and their decision-making instincts, never the best anyway, become worse. And the siblings behave as they always do and the children watch you all and vow secretly that they won't repeat the lunacy. But we live in Groundhog Day and what goes around must surely come around. Oh what would we do without the emotional exercise of some good old family dynamics, with a side of cranberry sauce and a spring of parsley on the top?
Happy eatin'!

A propos not that much

Listening to Radio 2 streaming from the BBC across the cyberAtlantic and there is a tailback on the Westway, leading to the Marylebone Road. I feel nostalgic and homesick and the light rain puts me in the mood to walk along the Embankment and take in the ancient and contemporary London skyline. But a siren passes by and I am back in New York City, which is both alluring and repellent. Saw that rat on the platform again this morning, sipping from an overturned yogurt carton and like every other assault on the quality of life, one learns to just take it in stride and not scream at the top of one's lungs, like the 'career' woman who broke composure to run towards us at full throttle, away from the rat. Get a life, lady. The rat, meanwhile, scurried as fast as it could towards the tunnel once the decibel level went up and disappeared over the edge, onto the tracks. 

I've switched to NPR and I'm listening to all the inevitable cuts that Albany is going to make to education, Medicare, etc, and social services, so that we can try and balance the insane budget. Meanwhile, the taxpayers (that includes us triple-paying suckers in NYC) are going to continue to fund executive compensation - AIG is still partying on their handout -- as well as the auto industry, for their failure to see that Hummers and SUV's were not the way of the future. Don't even get me started on the lawyers who will be on the meter to the Capitol for the foreseeable future. Now here's the question: if the well is open to all and sundry and we aren't a Socialist state just yet, can I send any debt that I accrue to the Federal government for a quick bailout? I know that I didn't really need that flat screen, and it's true, I could do a grocery shop less often, but hey, if major industry can insure itself with the bucks they're taking out of my paycheck, where's my payout? Just wondering.

Gassing it Up

Gasoline isn't regulated in New York.
That was a joke and if you live here, you should be laughing your overpriced socks off.
I've always known it but it really stung this weekend, after a trip upstate, where we filled the tank for $2.35 per gallon on the New York/Mass border. A few hours later, back in the depths of the concrete jungle it cost us $3.05 per gallon. I have the picture to prove it. And I couldn't help thinking, gee, we New Yorkers really fork out a ton for the privilege of living in this glam world capital, where the trains don't run, the stations are subterranean stinkholes not to mention glaring fire traps (we were joined by a rat on the platform this morning), you can't get a family-size apartment for a decent rent, and a gallon of milk, sans the hormones, is a steal at $5.99 at Gouge City, also known as Gristedes, where it's faster to walk to Boston, pay for groceries and come home again, than get out of this store. And yet, we cling to it all as though there is nowhere else in the world that can match the sophistication, ambiance, and unique vibe that is the Big Apple as we wantonly destroy everything that made it what it is in the first place, oh let me count the ways. But the world's changed baby. If you really can't live without Coach and Victoria's Secret, well, you can find them almost anywhere now -- no need to confine yourself to Broadway at 84th street. Everything we got is ditto for the rest of the planet and I can't help thinking back to those pre-gentrification days, when it was still cheaper to eat at the local diner than Nobu, when your favorite, independent bookstores weren't being evicted to make way for a nail salon or yet another bank, when condo wasn't a dirty word. Welcome to the global city as it contracts to face the economic downturn. Who's going to fill all those empty retail stores now, and the half-finished ugly skyscrapers cobbled together with sheetrock?
When the dust settles on the last one out after the financial rape and pillage of this poor old town, perhaps it will revert to a place where creative people can live somewhat affordably once more. They won't mind the dirt. Bring it on, I say. Bring it on.

On the road

We were coming home from Massachussetts on 684 last night -- raging at the usual morons with access to a gas pedal -- tailgating at 90 miles an hour; weaving in and out of the traffic as though they were actually skilled and masterful; and cursing at the usual 200-ton SUV's with their obnoxious, blinding brights on. As usual, we were enraged by the mania, ignorance and sheer incivility on display that was nothing less than the Bush era, manifested at that moment as ultimate rudeness on the road, at super high speed, amid the very real risk of life and death. And then it hit us. Almost. The car in front stopped. Just stopped, for no reason whatsoever and within a nanosecond, we were all screaming as, in slow motion, we plunged forward towards the rear of those terrifying red brake lights. I glanced in the mirror and saw that there were no options -- the car behind was gaining fast and the lanes to each side of us offered the same view. I cringed and waited for the massive impact in front and back and thought of the three children, jammed in the back, and saw our car concertina'd on the road in one those very real, utterly nightmarish moments flashed by. So this is it, I thought. This is how it happens. Just like that. It's all about stupidity. Nothing more or less. And so avoidable.

It didn't. We swerved out of the mess and we were beyond shaken by the near-miss. Later that evening we passed a car turned upside down on 106th street, in a sea of broken glass on the road. As we hustled to get by the rubbernecking, I couldn't help noticing the person, upside down in the front seat and the circle of cops, gathered around it. My heart sank and raged simultaneously as we drove away from whatever disaster some family had to deal with last night.

This morning I ran around the NYC reservoir and saw the light reflected off the water, and the golden treetops shimmering in the slight breeze with the Manhattan skyline, a hazy backdrop to it all. I picked up the pace, breathed in the air as deeply as I could and only one thought came in, loud and clear. We are alive. Saved by inches, but alive.

A Word on Words

Ever hear that saying 'Sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me?' I never really thought about it until recently, when a seven-year old I know called Leo told me that it was a completely dumb statement. Words can hurt more than anything and unlike a physical cut, they don't really heal that fast.

I know, I know, you've had the kid, read the book, paid for the preschool through college, and now they're out of the house, you're done with parenting, but don't you ever wonder if somewhere along the line you might have furnished fuel for therapy? How do you or did you rate as a parent? I only ask because I was witness this weekend to what I consider the worst kind of parenting which involves the two big sins -- shaming and labeling. A mother who I have come to know quite well, and have tried to talk to about such issues since she raised the problem herself, as in "I know that I'm doing exactly what my mother did but somehow, my mouth opens and those nasty sentiments just come pouring out." It's a reflex, like running from an open flame and it's completely learned, at the aprons of our own fair parents, and unless it is consciously unlearned we are doomed to inflict the assault on our kids. So I watched in horror as this woman, who is a very funny, sharp soul, who is under an enormous amount of pressure these days, yell in frustration at her two girls, very publicly, in front of several of their friends. Words such as idiot and moron were bandied about, and then, the big question: "Are you a baby or are you almost 11-years old?" followed by "Do you want to go home or are you going to behave?" Guess what? Kids can't answer those questions. They're way too busy crawling into a quiet, safe space inside their own head where they might stop feeling like a leper. On the outside they just grin and bear it and often, they'll even repeat the behavior, just to prove that they are as bad as you say they are. Isn't that weird? Inside they want the earth to open up and swallow them. So I'm begging you, asking you, pleading with you to listen to yourself when you speak or yell at your kids. Listen to what comes out and decide how you would feel at the receiving end of it?