30 Years Ago Today: The Day the Middle Class Died ...a letter from Michael Moore
Friday, August 5th, 2011
Friends,
From time to time, someone under 30 will ask me, "When did this all begin, America's downward slide?" They say they've heard of a time when working people could raise a family and send the kids to college on just one parent's income (and that college in states like California and New York was almost free). That anyone who wanted a decent paying job could get one. That people only worked five days a week, eight hours a day, got the whole weekend off and had a paid vacation every summer. That many jobs were union jobs, from baggers at the grocery store to the guy painting your house, and this meant that no matter how "lowly" your job was you had guarantees of a pension, occasional raises, health insurance and someone to stick up for you if you were unfairly treated.
Young people have heard of this mythical time -- but it was no myth, it was real. And when they ask, "When did this all end?", I say, "It ended on this day: August 5th, 1981."
Beginning on this date, 30 years ago, Big Business and the Right Wing decided to "go for it" -- to see if they could actually destroy the middle class so that they could become richer themselves.
And they've succeeded.
On August 5, 1981, President Ronald Reagan fired every member of the air traffic controllers union (PATCO) who'd defied his order to return to work and declared their union illegal. They had been on strike for just two days.
It was a bold and brash move. No one had ever tried it. What made it even bolder was that PATCO was one of only three unions that had endorsed Reagan for president! It sent a shock wave through workers across the country.. If he would do this to the people who were with him, what would he do to us?
Reagan had been backed by Wall Street in his run for the White House and they, along with right-wing Christians, wanted to restructure America and turn back the tide that President Franklin D. Roosevelt started -- a tide that was intended to make life better for the average working person. The rich hated paying better wages and providing benefits. They hated paying taxes even more. And they despised unions. The right-wing Christians hated anything that sounded like socialism or holding out a helping hand to minorities or women.
Reagan promised to end all that. So when the air traffic controllers went on strike, he seized the moment. In getting rid of every single last one of them and outlawing their union, he sent a clear and strong message: The days of everyone having a comfortable middle class life were over. America, from now on, would be run this way:
* The super-rich will make more, much much more, and the rest of you will scramble for the crumbs that are left.
* Everyone must work! Mom, Dad, the teenagers in the house! Dad, you work a second job! Kids, here's your latch-key! Your parents might be home in time to put you to bed.
* 50 million of you must go without health insurance! And health insurance companies: you go ahead and decide who you want to help -- or not.
* Unions are evil! You will not belong to a union! You do not need an advocate! Shut up and get back to work! No, you can't leave now, we're not done. Your kids can make their own dinner.
* You want to go to college? No problem -- just sign here and be in hock to a bank for the next 20 years!
* What's "a raise"? Get back to work and shut up!
And so it went. But Reagan could not have pulled this off by himself in 1981. He had some big help:
The AFL-CIO.
The biggest organization of unions in America told its members to cross the picket lines of the air traffic controllers and go to work. And that's just what these union members did. Union pilots, flight attendants, delivery truck drivers, baggage handlers -- they all crossed the line and helped to break the strike. And union members of all stripes crossed the picket lines and continued to fly.
Reagan and Wall Street could not believe their eyes! Hundreds of thousands of working people and union members endorsing the firing of fellow union members. It was Christmas in August for Corporate America.
And that was the beginning of the end. Reagan and the Republicans knew they could get away with anything -- and they did. They slashed taxes on the rich. They made it harder for you to start a union at your workplace. They eliminated safety regulations on the job. They ignored the monopoly laws and allowed thousands of companies to merge or be bought out and closed down. Corporations froze wages and threatened to move overseas if the workers didn't accept lower pay and less benefits. And when the workers agreed to work for less, they moved the jobs overseas anyway.
And at every step along the way, the majority of Americans went along with this. There was little opposition or fight-back. The "masses" did not rise up and protect their jobs, their homes, their schools (which used to be the best in the world). They just accepted their fate and took the beating.
I have often wondered what would have happened had we all just stopped flying, period, back in 1981. What if all the unions had said to Reagan, "Give those controllers their jobs back or we're shutting the country down!"? You know what would have happened. The corporate elite and their boy Reagan would have buckled.
But we didn't do it. And so, bit by bit, piece by piece, in the ensuing 30 years, those in power have destroyed the middle class of our country and, in turn, have wrecked the future for our young people. Wages have remained stagnant for 30 years. Take a look at the statistics and you can see that every decline we're now suffering with had its beginning in 1981 (here's a little scene to illustrate that from my last movie).
It all began on this day, 30 years ago. One of the darkest days in American history. And we let it happen to us. Yes, they had the money, and the media and the cops. But we had 200 million of us. Ever wonder what it would look like if 200 million got truly upset and wanted their country, their life, their job, their weekend, their time with their kids back?
Have we all just given up? What are we waiting for? Forget about the 20% who support the Tea Party -- we are the other 80%! This decline will only end when we demand it. And not through an online petition or a tweet. We are going to have to turn the TV and the computer and the video games off and get out in the streets (like they've done in Wisconsin). Some of you need to run for local office next year. We need to demand that the Democrats either get a spine and stop taking corporate money -- or step aside.
When is enough, enough? The middle class dream will not just magically reappear. Wall Street's plan is clear: America is to be a nation of Haves and Have Nothings. Is that OK for you?
Why not use today to pause and think about the little steps you can take to turn this around in your neighborhood, at your workplace, in your school? Is there any better day to start than today?
Yours,
Michael Moore
MMFlint@aol.com
MichaelMoore.com
P.S. Here are a few places you can connect with to get the ball rolling:
Showdown in America
Democracy Convention
Occupy Wall Street
October 2011
How to Join a Union, from the AFL-CIO (They've learned their lesson and have a good president now) or UE
Change to Win
MoveOn
High School Newspaper (Just because you're under 18 doesn't mean you can't do anything!)
Mark of Time
Monday, August 15, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Old Neighborhood: A Remembrance
Sunday was the day my family visited Grandma Ruthie. After forty-five minutes of eyebrow dialogue, foyer-pacing, and repeated checking of wristwatches, my father and I would heave a sigh of relief as the girls—my mother and three sisters—filed out our front door, spit curls adjusted, smelling like the perfume counter at Woolworth’s.
Each week we drove to the city, ending in the Bronx, that primitive junkyard that called up a wide array of emotions. The decay became more tangible as we approached the heart of the old borough. The dead buildings, their broken windows forming black-eyed Cyclops faces, held an eerie fascination for me. Amid the rubble were relics of an old country that could be spotted if one were very observant.
There was the live chicken market with it hand-lettered sign, where my grandmother would walk with her metal cage, in search of the perfect fowl for her Shabbat table. Gypsies in the park careened toward us at the curb’s edge as my father accelerated around corners, their arms outstretched for whatever we might have to offer. Cadres of brown-suited men lined the park benches on the Concourse, giant blond cockroaches, babbling simultaneously in a foreign tongue in this, my America.
I felt relief at leaving the suburbs, with its predictable lawns. As we neared Grandma’s building, a visceral excitement crept up from my belly to my throat. The building was ancient, deserted but for a gaggle of kids playing stickball in the street and in the raised vacant lots that bordered the entrance on either side. While all the neighboring buildings had an air of danger, Grandma’s building seemed sealed in a protective membrane that stunted the brick, immunizing it against further decay. Bony trees which we dubbed “witch trees” hovered in the dirt gardens, one in the center of each, contorted like Grandma’s nine-three-year-old neighbor. We imagined her bones to be translucent, like the bones of yellow pike on Grandma’s kitchen table when she dismembered them for Gefilte fish.
The interior of Grandma’s apartment was an odd mixture of thirties kitsch and gothic horror. The kitchen and front room floors were green linoleum, splashed with a flowery pattern and buffed to a high gloss. Here I delighted in building entire cities from clothespins, the cherished objects that Grandma kept for only me in a large coffee can. The front room was full of gaudy objects—a red Ballantine Beer tray (made more exotic by the fact that Grandma’s lips never touched beer), tins of raspberry-filled candies, and Grandma’s maroon velvet slippers that waited for her under the radiator, like obedient hamsters, exactly matching the splitting horsehair couch.
Eventually, I had to use the bathroom, an activity I put off as long as possible. Grandma’s bathroom had a foreign old-world odor, a cloying mixture of her sweet-smelling rouge and an earthier scent. The plumbing was so angry that I was sure a troll lurked just beneath the cracked floor tiles. Although I was near panic at the thought of what lay in the next room, I could not turn my feet around without a glimpse.
Grandma’s bedroom was a narrow cell dominated by a gigantic mahogany headboard and a severe matching armoire. The dark stain of the wood and the room’s proportions, with its oversized furniture, made my breath uneven. I was sure that creatures beyond my wildest ken did their evil dance here after dark. Above the bed was an oval portrait of Grandma, flanked by her daughters, with my father at her knee, a longhaired, girlish toddler in a white gown. My grandmother’s eyes seemed to follow me wherever I went, like the Mona Lisa’s.
The halls in Grandma’s building were painted the darkest and drabbest of greens, over a thickly textured stucco. None of the lights worked, which steeped the corridors in near blackness. This became our playground for the most daring brand of hide-and-seek. We would whip around corners, screaming like banshees, our shrieks magnified and distorted by the walls. Occasionally, a witch would stick her bony finger out from one of the doorways and we would run for our lives, back to safety in Grandma’s kitchen.
It was in these corridors that I first heard a tale too terrible to believe, yet too pungent to ignore. The local kids whispered it to each other behind our backs, chattering in code, but we managed to get the gist of it. A giant lived in the neighborhood, four or five blocks from Grandma. He was said to be seven-foot-six, and at least as grotesque as the Elephant Man. They said that he hung out at the Red Hen Luncheonette, where he drank four malteds in a row, surrounded by clusters of child-voyeurs. The most hideous thing of all was that he had to stoop over and crook his shoulder into the ceiling in order to drink his malts.
Our favorite taunt was scaring each other silly by impersonating the monster. The victim’s blood-curdling shrieks would fetch my frantic mother, convinced that someone had been hit by a car. All of my resolve, my promises, my Saturday-morning prayers were dedicated to imploring God to shield me from the sight of this most terrible of creatures.
When the excitement of our corridor games became too exhausting, we would spill numbly from the building—to sunlight and familiar stoops. Across the cobbled street, half hidden by its bumpy contours, was a tiny corner store. Just inside the door, a glass counter spanned nearly its entire width. A miniature soda fountain was crammed into the remaining two feet. From this gingerbread cottage, Mr. Curran, an elfin, roly-poly man, peddled his stock: penny candy the likes of which we had never laid eyes on.
Candy buttons hung in long strips from wooden dowels and chocolate babies—orphans who looked oddly content in their isolation—were my favorites. Mr. Curran was the kindest of men, but I never saw him smile. He would gladly drop his price to two candies for a penny, if he knew you were down to your last cent. A nickel from Grandma would bestow a jumbo scoop of Breyer’s ice cream on a sugar cone. Mr. Curran didn’t even stock those cheesy orange cones. “Pah,” he spat, as if the very idea tasted bad. “It’s all junk nowadays.”
It was into this Xanadu, this iridescent bubble that we would pour, once we had scared ourselves to the brink of hysteria in Grandma’s building. The few moments we spent confirming the day’s booty—for the selection varied from week to week—nourished our hearts as much as a whole day at the Bronx Zoo. These were moments of pleasure that existed beyond time and space. They helped us forget the signs of urban blight and suburban banality. When we turned to leave, our pockets empty and our jaws aching from sugar, we were ready to tackle the New World once again, blithely bouncing across the George Washington Bridge, fondly elbowing one another.
One Sunday we arrived at Grandma’s building, and as we bypassed the entrance, looking for a parking spot, my eye was drawn to an ambulance parked in front of Mr. Curran’s store. Nauseated from the stuffy drive and my father’s cigar, and unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I begged to be let out of the car, promising to wait at Grandma’s front door. My instincts led me instead across the street, where I waited, back pressed flat against the storefront. A few seconds later, a stretcher was dragged out by three attendants. On it, to my utter astonishment, was the longest human being I had ever seen.
His head and feet were draped ridiculously over either end of the canvas, his long curls sweeping the street. His face was bluish and a large purple bruise covered his right eye. Grotesque though he was, he was anything but terrifying. Tears rolled down his cheeks and a whimper like that of a dying animal escaped his lips. The attendants had to hoist him up at the knees, to stuff him into the ambulance. My throat locked and I wept silently for the giant, praying for his recovery. Perhaps some of my tears were for the death of his legend as well.
My heart deflated like a blown tire when Grandma dropped the bomb, quickly and expressionlessly, that Mr. Curran had died suddenly in his sleep. The gumball I had crammed in my jaw a few minutes earlier, now a giant bladder, imploded too, leaving a web of bitterness on my tongue.
Colors faded. In the coming months, our visits to Grandma’s were something we looked forward to less and less. Mr. Curran’s shop was boarded up by the city.
There seemed to be an egg caught in my throat each time Dad turned off the Concourse and headed for Grandma’s building. Where jelly beans and candy kisses had lolled on my tongue, there was now a flat, starchy taste. Soon, Grandma announced that she was moving to a new co-op building, in a safer section of the Bronx. Grandma and I were silent as we tied up the last of her chachkas and headed out of the old neighborhood.
Each week we drove to the city, ending in the Bronx, that primitive junkyard that called up a wide array of emotions. The decay became more tangible as we approached the heart of the old borough. The dead buildings, their broken windows forming black-eyed Cyclops faces, held an eerie fascination for me. Amid the rubble were relics of an old country that could be spotted if one were very observant.
There was the live chicken market with it hand-lettered sign, where my grandmother would walk with her metal cage, in search of the perfect fowl for her Shabbat table. Gypsies in the park careened toward us at the curb’s edge as my father accelerated around corners, their arms outstretched for whatever we might have to offer. Cadres of brown-suited men lined the park benches on the Concourse, giant blond cockroaches, babbling simultaneously in a foreign tongue in this, my America.
I felt relief at leaving the suburbs, with its predictable lawns. As we neared Grandma’s building, a visceral excitement crept up from my belly to my throat. The building was ancient, deserted but for a gaggle of kids playing stickball in the street and in the raised vacant lots that bordered the entrance on either side. While all the neighboring buildings had an air of danger, Grandma’s building seemed sealed in a protective membrane that stunted the brick, immunizing it against further decay. Bony trees which we dubbed “witch trees” hovered in the dirt gardens, one in the center of each, contorted like Grandma’s nine-three-year-old neighbor. We imagined her bones to be translucent, like the bones of yellow pike on Grandma’s kitchen table when she dismembered them for Gefilte fish.
The interior of Grandma’s apartment was an odd mixture of thirties kitsch and gothic horror. The kitchen and front room floors were green linoleum, splashed with a flowery pattern and buffed to a high gloss. Here I delighted in building entire cities from clothespins, the cherished objects that Grandma kept for only me in a large coffee can. The front room was full of gaudy objects—a red Ballantine Beer tray (made more exotic by the fact that Grandma’s lips never touched beer), tins of raspberry-filled candies, and Grandma’s maroon velvet slippers that waited for her under the radiator, like obedient hamsters, exactly matching the splitting horsehair couch.
Eventually, I had to use the bathroom, an activity I put off as long as possible. Grandma’s bathroom had a foreign old-world odor, a cloying mixture of her sweet-smelling rouge and an earthier scent. The plumbing was so angry that I was sure a troll lurked just beneath the cracked floor tiles. Although I was near panic at the thought of what lay in the next room, I could not turn my feet around without a glimpse.
Grandma’s bedroom was a narrow cell dominated by a gigantic mahogany headboard and a severe matching armoire. The dark stain of the wood and the room’s proportions, with its oversized furniture, made my breath uneven. I was sure that creatures beyond my wildest ken did their evil dance here after dark. Above the bed was an oval portrait of Grandma, flanked by her daughters, with my father at her knee, a longhaired, girlish toddler in a white gown. My grandmother’s eyes seemed to follow me wherever I went, like the Mona Lisa’s.
The halls in Grandma’s building were painted the darkest and drabbest of greens, over a thickly textured stucco. None of the lights worked, which steeped the corridors in near blackness. This became our playground for the most daring brand of hide-and-seek. We would whip around corners, screaming like banshees, our shrieks magnified and distorted by the walls. Occasionally, a witch would stick her bony finger out from one of the doorways and we would run for our lives, back to safety in Grandma’s kitchen.
It was in these corridors that I first heard a tale too terrible to believe, yet too pungent to ignore. The local kids whispered it to each other behind our backs, chattering in code, but we managed to get the gist of it. A giant lived in the neighborhood, four or five blocks from Grandma. He was said to be seven-foot-six, and at least as grotesque as the Elephant Man. They said that he hung out at the Red Hen Luncheonette, where he drank four malteds in a row, surrounded by clusters of child-voyeurs. The most hideous thing of all was that he had to stoop over and crook his shoulder into the ceiling in order to drink his malts.
Our favorite taunt was scaring each other silly by impersonating the monster. The victim’s blood-curdling shrieks would fetch my frantic mother, convinced that someone had been hit by a car. All of my resolve, my promises, my Saturday-morning prayers were dedicated to imploring God to shield me from the sight of this most terrible of creatures.
When the excitement of our corridor games became too exhausting, we would spill numbly from the building—to sunlight and familiar stoops. Across the cobbled street, half hidden by its bumpy contours, was a tiny corner store. Just inside the door, a glass counter spanned nearly its entire width. A miniature soda fountain was crammed into the remaining two feet. From this gingerbread cottage, Mr. Curran, an elfin, roly-poly man, peddled his stock: penny candy the likes of which we had never laid eyes on.
Candy buttons hung in long strips from wooden dowels and chocolate babies—orphans who looked oddly content in their isolation—were my favorites. Mr. Curran was the kindest of men, but I never saw him smile. He would gladly drop his price to two candies for a penny, if he knew you were down to your last cent. A nickel from Grandma would bestow a jumbo scoop of Breyer’s ice cream on a sugar cone. Mr. Curran didn’t even stock those cheesy orange cones. “Pah,” he spat, as if the very idea tasted bad. “It’s all junk nowadays.”
It was into this Xanadu, this iridescent bubble that we would pour, once we had scared ourselves to the brink of hysteria in Grandma’s building. The few moments we spent confirming the day’s booty—for the selection varied from week to week—nourished our hearts as much as a whole day at the Bronx Zoo. These were moments of pleasure that existed beyond time and space. They helped us forget the signs of urban blight and suburban banality. When we turned to leave, our pockets empty and our jaws aching from sugar, we were ready to tackle the New World once again, blithely bouncing across the George Washington Bridge, fondly elbowing one another.
One Sunday we arrived at Grandma’s building, and as we bypassed the entrance, looking for a parking spot, my eye was drawn to an ambulance parked in front of Mr. Curran’s store. Nauseated from the stuffy drive and my father’s cigar, and unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I begged to be let out of the car, promising to wait at Grandma’s front door. My instincts led me instead across the street, where I waited, back pressed flat against the storefront. A few seconds later, a stretcher was dragged out by three attendants. On it, to my utter astonishment, was the longest human being I had ever seen.
His head and feet were draped ridiculously over either end of the canvas, his long curls sweeping the street. His face was bluish and a large purple bruise covered his right eye. Grotesque though he was, he was anything but terrifying. Tears rolled down his cheeks and a whimper like that of a dying animal escaped his lips. The attendants had to hoist him up at the knees, to stuff him into the ambulance. My throat locked and I wept silently for the giant, praying for his recovery. Perhaps some of my tears were for the death of his legend as well.
My heart deflated like a blown tire when Grandma dropped the bomb, quickly and expressionlessly, that Mr. Curran had died suddenly in his sleep. The gumball I had crammed in my jaw a few minutes earlier, now a giant bladder, imploded too, leaving a web of bitterness on my tongue.
Colors faded. In the coming months, our visits to Grandma’s were something we looked forward to less and less. Mr. Curran’s shop was boarded up by the city.
There seemed to be an egg caught in my throat each time Dad turned off the Concourse and headed for Grandma’s building. Where jelly beans and candy kisses had lolled on my tongue, there was now a flat, starchy taste. Soon, Grandma announced that she was moving to a new co-op building, in a safer section of the Bronx. Grandma and I were silent as we tied up the last of her chachkas and headed out of the old neighborhood.
Poetry of Daily Rhythms...part 2
Okay, so here comes the part about the poetry of small things. Call it poetry, call it serendipity, or, if you are more inclined toward the mystical and the collective unconscious, call it synchronicity. I do.
In preparing the extra bedroom for the impending tenant, the contents of the room were quickly moved to the garage. A family member had dibs on one of the file cabinets, so I thought I'd nuke its contents quickly. Part of the excitement of this new life is an ongoing purge of stuff....old bills and documents, extra clothes and shoes, objects that make me feel moored to the past, and not in a warm or nostalgic way. Firing up the shredder, I feed the soulless stacks of bill stubs and records into its hungry jaws, careful not to jam the delicate gears. But I am greedy---greedy to reduce this pile of stuff to spaghetti.
Amid the garbage is a large manila envelope marked "confidential," another one marked "Emotional baggage," and the kicker, a fat, business-sized envelope bearing the unmistakable handwriting of my mother. "Uh, oh" I think. It's THAT letter. I care for myself by not ripping it open and devouring the contents, and save it for tomorrow; the morning light is more forgiving than the vulnerable evening.
Remember the words to "The Farmer in the Dell?" If the rat had not gone out of his way to eat the cheese, perhaps the cat (who ate the rat) would not have snagged him. If things had not happened as they did, perhaps the cheese would not be standing alone....If the mold had not been discovered, I would still be trying to solve the mystery of my hives. And if the mold had not been remediated, I would not have moved my office, leaving the abandoned office with the thick, musty, mystery smell. If the friend had not asked me if I was interested in having a tenant, the room would not have been cleaned up anytime soon. And if the room had not been purged, the letter and important envelopes would not have turned up.....
High ho, the derry-o, the Farmer in the Dell.
In preparing the extra bedroom for the impending tenant, the contents of the room were quickly moved to the garage. A family member had dibs on one of the file cabinets, so I thought I'd nuke its contents quickly. Part of the excitement of this new life is an ongoing purge of stuff....old bills and documents, extra clothes and shoes, objects that make me feel moored to the past, and not in a warm or nostalgic way. Firing up the shredder, I feed the soulless stacks of bill stubs and records into its hungry jaws, careful not to jam the delicate gears. But I am greedy---greedy to reduce this pile of stuff to spaghetti.
Amid the garbage is a large manila envelope marked "confidential," another one marked "Emotional baggage," and the kicker, a fat, business-sized envelope bearing the unmistakable handwriting of my mother. "Uh, oh" I think. It's THAT letter. I care for myself by not ripping it open and devouring the contents, and save it for tomorrow; the morning light is more forgiving than the vulnerable evening.
Remember the words to "The Farmer in the Dell?" If the rat had not gone out of his way to eat the cheese, perhaps the cat (who ate the rat) would not have snagged him. If things had not happened as they did, perhaps the cheese would not be standing alone....If the mold had not been discovered, I would still be trying to solve the mystery of my hives. And if the mold had not been remediated, I would not have moved my office, leaving the abandoned office with the thick, musty, mystery smell. If the friend had not asked me if I was interested in having a tenant, the room would not have been cleaned up anytime soon. And if the room had not been purged, the letter and important envelopes would not have turned up.....
High ho, the derry-o, the Farmer in the Dell.
The Poetry of Daily Rhythms (La Poesie Mondaine) - Part I
Decades ago, when I was a reference librarian at the Half Moon Bay Library, a novel entitled "When Things Get Back to Normal" was seen flitting across the circulation desk more than most books that hadn't made it onto the Best Seller List. That title always made me smile; what an ironic way of addressing the small or larger chaos clusters in which we find ourselves ensnared, much like Tar Baby. Whether it's shuffled tutoring sessions, seriously ill relatives, or unforeseen crises that bounce us off the back of the pickup, two things are clear: we've got to react quickly and things will NEVER get back to normal.
If you're over thirty, you've probably figured out by now that "normal" is a joke. (It's also a town in Illinois; I shun the thought of calling that town home.) In the last five months, my carefully constructed sabbatical year from full-time teaching has included (in no special order and in addition to tutoring and subbing in the public schools) finding toxic mold in my house and having it remediated,(thus wiping out my $$ cushion for the year), allergy testing and (at last!) an effective treatment for chronic hives caused by said mold, a very sick mother, an abandoned, musty bedroom crying out for cleaning, demildewing and painting, a surprise tenant who decided to rent said musty bedroom, do-it-yourself wallpaper removal and painting by yours truly, composting and preparing to plant a garden, and hundreds of visits and revisions to my ical page. In spite of all the unexpected busywork, I've managed to do a good amount of painting (the fun kind) and a bit of writing, squeezed in around students, sub days, and home projects.
Oh, I miss the biweekly paychecks, and the invisible medical premium payment even more. It strikes me as backassed that when you're part of the machine, their machine, the take care of all the dirty work. You just show up, do your bit, and keep putting those checks into the bank. But the minute you jump off the spinning carousel, go it alone, live by your instincts, market your own skills, you've got to pay and pay and pay to stay healthy. Am I the only one that thinks that's a little crazy? But I don't miss the lesson planning, the interminable, unproductive meetings, the grading and correcting, and the ever-increasing incidence of someone telling me I have to be at some evening function on my precious bits of "time off!"
Who ever thought I'd find time for a blog?
If you're over thirty, you've probably figured out by now that "normal" is a joke. (It's also a town in Illinois; I shun the thought of calling that town home.) In the last five months, my carefully constructed sabbatical year from full-time teaching has included (in no special order and in addition to tutoring and subbing in the public schools) finding toxic mold in my house and having it remediated,(thus wiping out my $$ cushion for the year), allergy testing and (at last!) an effective treatment for chronic hives caused by said mold, a very sick mother, an abandoned, musty bedroom crying out for cleaning, demildewing and painting, a surprise tenant who decided to rent said musty bedroom, do-it-yourself wallpaper removal and painting by yours truly, composting and preparing to plant a garden, and hundreds of visits and revisions to my ical page. In spite of all the unexpected busywork, I've managed to do a good amount of painting (the fun kind) and a bit of writing, squeezed in around students, sub days, and home projects.
Oh, I miss the biweekly paychecks, and the invisible medical premium payment even more. It strikes me as backassed that when you're part of the machine, their machine, the take care of all the dirty work. You just show up, do your bit, and keep putting those checks into the bank. But the minute you jump off the spinning carousel, go it alone, live by your instincts, market your own skills, you've got to pay and pay and pay to stay healthy. Am I the only one that thinks that's a little crazy? But I don't miss the lesson planning, the interminable, unproductive meetings, the grading and correcting, and the ever-increasing incidence of someone telling me I have to be at some evening function on my precious bits of "time off!"
Who ever thought I'd find time for a blog?
Saturday, January 29, 2011
I Miss the Real Smells of Life
I miss the real smells of life. When I was a kid, I loved the wholesome smells of newly mown grass, New Jersey tomatoes bursting at the seams, and my mom or sister as they stepped out of the shower. Where have all the real smells gone?
I was raised in the fifties, before deodorant soap and heavy fragrances dominated everything from toothpaste to shampoo. I’ve always had a super sense of smell and chemical odors sent me running. I didn’t know until years later that I was chemically sensitive, and would be hounded by these smells for a lifetime.
When perfume hits my olfactory nerve, I become jumpy, hyper, distracted, stressed, and my skin starts hiving immediately. After considerable research, I learned that perfume (and "fragrance" in other products) consists of 85-95% volatile organic compounds, such as formaldehyde, benzene, xylene, and toluene.
In the fifties and sixties, perfume was something you wore on a special date, and very discretely; a little dab behind the ears that could only be detected when you were dancing cheek to cheek. Now, it’s common for some of us to wear a keg of it to work. What’s wrong with smelling like our clean selves? Many perfume wearers don’t stop to consider how uncomfortable or downright sick they can make others.
Fresh flowers picked from the garden are a fond childhood memory. We didn’t feel the need to plug toxic chemical air fresheners into the wall. Dish soap didn’t need to smell like vanilla, deodorant didn’t reek of menthol, and dirty socks---well, they smelled like dirty socks---maybe we’d sprinkle a little baking soda in our shoes to soften the punch.
The artificial scents of today are a sort of mask for the authentic smells. I’d prefer to smell a real cow paddy than artificial apricot scented fabric softener. When did we decide to allow industry to dictate how things should smell?
I don’t expect the world to become as pure and healthy as the environment I’ve had to create. But a little education would be helpful. There are some great organizations that are getting the word out about the dangers of chemically-laden products, many of which are carried in their fragrances. The Environmental Working Group has done a stand-up job of educating the public and so have smaller groups like Marin County’s Teens Turning Green. The average person looks at me cross-eyed when I bring this issue up, even though they may react physically to perfume. It's become a political issue, even a civil rights issue now that the populace seems to have lost all sense of moderation, let alone courtesy.
When I blow out my birthday candles, I’m going to wish for a little more consideration on everyone’s part. Next time you douse yourself in perfume before going to work, think of those of us who truly suffer as you pass us in the hall. And bring back the good old smells….Personally, I enjoy a whiff of someone who has worked hard in the sun all day, just for old time’s sake. Sweat is honest.
I was raised in the fifties, before deodorant soap and heavy fragrances dominated everything from toothpaste to shampoo. I’ve always had a super sense of smell and chemical odors sent me running. I didn’t know until years later that I was chemically sensitive, and would be hounded by these smells for a lifetime.
When perfume hits my olfactory nerve, I become jumpy, hyper, distracted, stressed, and my skin starts hiving immediately. After considerable research, I learned that perfume (and "fragrance" in other products) consists of 85-95% volatile organic compounds, such as formaldehyde, benzene, xylene, and toluene.
In the fifties and sixties, perfume was something you wore on a special date, and very discretely; a little dab behind the ears that could only be detected when you were dancing cheek to cheek. Now, it’s common for some of us to wear a keg of it to work. What’s wrong with smelling like our clean selves? Many perfume wearers don’t stop to consider how uncomfortable or downright sick they can make others.
Fresh flowers picked from the garden are a fond childhood memory. We didn’t feel the need to plug toxic chemical air fresheners into the wall. Dish soap didn’t need to smell like vanilla, deodorant didn’t reek of menthol, and dirty socks---well, they smelled like dirty socks---maybe we’d sprinkle a little baking soda in our shoes to soften the punch.
The artificial scents of today are a sort of mask for the authentic smells. I’d prefer to smell a real cow paddy than artificial apricot scented fabric softener. When did we decide to allow industry to dictate how things should smell?
I don’t expect the world to become as pure and healthy as the environment I’ve had to create. But a little education would be helpful. There are some great organizations that are getting the word out about the dangers of chemically-laden products, many of which are carried in their fragrances. The Environmental Working Group has done a stand-up job of educating the public and so have smaller groups like Marin County’s Teens Turning Green. The average person looks at me cross-eyed when I bring this issue up, even though they may react physically to perfume. It's become a political issue, even a civil rights issue now that the populace seems to have lost all sense of moderation, let alone courtesy.
When I blow out my birthday candles, I’m going to wish for a little more consideration on everyone’s part. Next time you douse yourself in perfume before going to work, think of those of us who truly suffer as you pass us in the hall. And bring back the good old smells….Personally, I enjoy a whiff of someone who has worked hard in the sun all day, just for old time’s sake. Sweat is honest.
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Magnificent Elizabeth Berg
Eleven days ago, I happened upon an interesting looking book on a cart of book donations. I have a thing for "return when done" books because three or four titles often end up on my nightstand at any given time, and I can linger among them as long as I like. "The Art of Mending," by Elizabeth Berg, seemed mildly appealing, with its cover depicting lush quilting fabrics and its no-doubt metaphorical title. Several hours later in my workday, I had almost finished this intense, profound, yet gentle story of siblings disconnected in childhood by hidden parental abuse.
I have an uncanny knack for connecting with books that teach me what I both need to learn and am ready to handle at opportune times; these books are also entertaining, in the most satisfying and profound sense. It's a Zen sort of thing....the books almost literally fall into my hands off some remainder table or are rescued from gathering dust on the bottom shelf of the Friends of the Library cart. Although there is loss and death and sadness in these novels, the protagonist is usually triumphant or wiser or enriched and gifted in some small or large way by the close. There is usually sweet connection too, born of pain and struggle. And there is grace, a strong sense of grace.
As soon as I finished "The Art of Mending," I was off to the library to see what other Berg novels I could gather. Yahoo! There are twelve in all, each with a metaphorical, memorable title such as "Durable Goods," "Until the Real Thing Comes Along," and "Never Change." I read Berg's first novel next, "Durable Goods," a painfully poignant tale of a young girl growing up on military bases with a harsh, abusive father and an older sister. Berg doesn't write as a young girl; she becomes that fourteen year old girl, emerging each day through the pain of growing up with an unapproachably hard father, a sympathetic yet preoccupied older sister, and a deceased mother with a spunky, hopeful optimism that never rings false or Polyannaish.
The next title I devoured was "Until the Real Thing Comes Along." This is a novel of impossible love, the love between a gay man and a straight woman who decide to conceive a child and play house in spite of their explicitly different sexual orientations. It's also a story of friendship, maternal longing, and at times, a bit of a farce.
Each of the Berg novels I have read so far has an underlying theme of parental abuse or neglect, sometimes in relation to the protagonist, sometimes relating to a minor character. There is also a strongly though sometimes subtly repeated theme of inner versus outer beauty, the opposing forces of chosen versus fate-driven isolation, and the difficulty of living with another person at midlife.
In "Never Change," Berg's protagonist is a mousy looking woman of fifty-one who has felt like an ugly duckling all her life. This strikes me as fascinating given the many different photos of Berg on each jacket flap; she is a radiantly, naturally beautiful woman whose black and white image stuns this viewer as Berg peers out of her two-inch frame.
Reading Elizabeth Berg has been like keeping a box of Joseph Schmidt chocolate truffles in the house. Self-control is not an option. If they're under my roof, I will read them! I thank the Universe for presenting me with a bad cold these last few days. They have been days filled with Berg characters.
And I have eight more to go!
I have an uncanny knack for connecting with books that teach me what I both need to learn and am ready to handle at opportune times; these books are also entertaining, in the most satisfying and profound sense. It's a Zen sort of thing....the books almost literally fall into my hands off some remainder table or are rescued from gathering dust on the bottom shelf of the Friends of the Library cart. Although there is loss and death and sadness in these novels, the protagonist is usually triumphant or wiser or enriched and gifted in some small or large way by the close. There is usually sweet connection too, born of pain and struggle. And there is grace, a strong sense of grace.
As soon as I finished "The Art of Mending," I was off to the library to see what other Berg novels I could gather. Yahoo! There are twelve in all, each with a metaphorical, memorable title such as "Durable Goods," "Until the Real Thing Comes Along," and "Never Change." I read Berg's first novel next, "Durable Goods," a painfully poignant tale of a young girl growing up on military bases with a harsh, abusive father and an older sister. Berg doesn't write as a young girl; she becomes that fourteen year old girl, emerging each day through the pain of growing up with an unapproachably hard father, a sympathetic yet preoccupied older sister, and a deceased mother with a spunky, hopeful optimism that never rings false or Polyannaish.
The next title I devoured was "Until the Real Thing Comes Along." This is a novel of impossible love, the love between a gay man and a straight woman who decide to conceive a child and play house in spite of their explicitly different sexual orientations. It's also a story of friendship, maternal longing, and at times, a bit of a farce.
Each of the Berg novels I have read so far has an underlying theme of parental abuse or neglect, sometimes in relation to the protagonist, sometimes relating to a minor character. There is also a strongly though sometimes subtly repeated theme of inner versus outer beauty, the opposing forces of chosen versus fate-driven isolation, and the difficulty of living with another person at midlife.
In "Never Change," Berg's protagonist is a mousy looking woman of fifty-one who has felt like an ugly duckling all her life. This strikes me as fascinating given the many different photos of Berg on each jacket flap; she is a radiantly, naturally beautiful woman whose black and white image stuns this viewer as Berg peers out of her two-inch frame.
Reading Elizabeth Berg has been like keeping a box of Joseph Schmidt chocolate truffles in the house. Self-control is not an option. If they're under my roof, I will read them! I thank the Universe for presenting me with a bad cold these last few days. They have been days filled with Berg characters.
And I have eight more to go!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Speaking of books....
As a teacher of middle-school students, I have the pleasure of reading some great literature. When I was a reference librarian in Pacifica, way back in the early eighties, I would go to middle schools and give book talks about the new genre of "young adult" novels. In the last decade, the genre has really come into its own. There are numerous fantasy series that are well-written, original, and exciting. One of the best series I've read recently is "The Hunger Games," a trilogy by Suzanne Collins. It's a dystopian novel that kept me up many nights with its horrific, graphic, and brilliantly realized futuristic society. Panem, the future U.S. society, is composed of 13 districts (does that number ring a bell?). Had I read this at the age of fourteen, I'd have had nightmares for months. Not for the fainthearted, this series makes the reader work as hard as the characters to survive a toxic and nefarious world. But it's worth all the pain and stress...and you will meet some truly heroic young people.
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