Covid Journal entry No. 1 for #MOC19

When I woke up in the middle of the night there was so much light in the room I thought it had to be 6 or 7 AM, not the 3:30 AM that showed on my clock. I looked out the window and saw a brilliant full moon, just sliding behind a bank of clouds. The world outside was still, no cars or machinery rumbling, not even any deer or raccoons to be seen ravaging our foundation plantings. I felt suspended in time and space. We are all suspended in time and space, waiting, waiting for some miracle to happen—rapid result virus testing for all, testing for antibodies to see who has already had the disease, a vaccine.

Like many writers, I’ve been filling notebook pages with thoughts, feelings, worries, etc. about our current condition. Recently I learned about an effort called Mass Observation: COVID-19, or #MOC19. This group is asking people to keep a diary of how they are experiencing the pandemic, whether it is the experience of sheltering in place or that of being in a service role, such as a health care worker. The information will be gathered up and saved for researchers in the future.  I decided to drop in my two cents worth.

I live in a suburb of New York City, in the hardest-hit state, New York.  I am 72 years old and so considered vulnerable, so I am following the rules for staying home and being very careful when I venture out to the grocery store or pharmacy. We haven’t seen our kids or grandkids in ages. I serve on a bank board and that is still meeting virtually, but my exercise club is closed. My volunteer organizations, such as the League of Women Voters and the Katonah Poetry Society are trying to maintain a virtual presence in the community, but a zoom meeting here and there is just not the same.  And following a workout video via my laptop perched on an end table in my living room is also less than optimum. I take walks whenever it is nice out and I try to keep busy, but I’ve been having trouble focusing on anything. I fall asleep pretty easily in the evening, but I often wake up at three or four in the morning—shuddering with feelings of dread or having anxiety dreams of needing to place thousands of objects in order or to fill out indecipherable forms—and I can’t get back to sleep. Still, I consider myself lucky; I have a comfortable home and enough money in the bank to ride this out. And there’s still plenty of coffee and toilet paper in the cupboards.

I intend to post at least once a week but will aim for twice.  I am including today one of my entries from mid-March.  I’ll post again in a few days with entries to begin to catch up with the present. Please join me at #MOC19.

Mid-March on the cul de sac.

Notified this AM that my gym has closed; a patron tested positive hours after visiting. I was there last Friday, wearing too-large surgical gloves that kept sliding off during Zumba class.

Walking my dog, I stand six feet away to chat with a neighbor, each of us solo walkers. Back home, I do sit-ups and leg raises on my bedroom floor.

Next-door neighbors—a dad and twin girls in lavender parkas—march down their driveway with their curly-brown-furred dog. Mom hurries to catch up, phone at her ear.

Our road is a parade ground of walkers—families with strollers, children on scooters, dozens of dogs. I’ve met more neighbors in three days than I had met in the past five years.

 

Thanks for reading,

Katherine

 

 

 

Life in a Time of Corona Virus

March 2020

I saw a bluebird at my suet feeder this morning.

The yard is winter-bare, and there sits this tiny,

bright-blue being, going about its delightful little life.

 

The wildlife at my birdfeeders seem ignorant

of social distancing.  A blue jay scares off a titmouse

then touches down on the just-vacated perch.

 

I’m notified that my gym has closed; a patron tested positive

hours after visiting. I was there last week, wearing too-large

surgical gloves that kept sliding off during Zumba.

 

I do sit-ups on my bedroom floor,

then walk my dog.  I stand six feet away to chat

with a neighbor, each of us solo walkers.

 

Next-door neighbors—a dad and twin girls in lavender parkas—

march down their driveway with their curly,

brown-furred dog. Mom hurries to catch up, phone at her ear.

 

The governor closed the schools.

Back home, seeds spill as a woodpecker stirs them

with its beak, looking for just the right morsel.

 

Chipmunks scurry in for the spillage, then two

gray squirrels sift through sunflower seed hulls,

checking for forgotten kernels.

 

I’ve forgotten what I worried about two weeks ago,

and I hope for new deliveries of toilet paper.

 

 

Never, Never Boomers

Books saved my life.

Just before I started third grade, my family moved to our first one family house.  After many years living on the ground floor of a duplex, we kids were thrilled to discover that there would no longer be any other family living upstairs.  My older sister and I now shared the luxury of a third-floor bedroom all to ourselves.  We even had our own bathroom.  The previous occupants had left us blue wall to wall carpeting and pirate-themed wallpaper.  Jolly Roger flagged galleons were manned by a collection of peg-legged and eye-patched old sailors.  Some of the pirates, for some reason as large as their ships, floated mysteriously against the azure sky, brandishing curved scabbards and smoking muskets.  

For several years around this time, Dad attended law school four nights a week, in addition to working all day.  Weekends, he crashed. In our busy household, it seemed that Mother was always engrossed with our many younger siblings. (Sheila was the oldest, and I was number two of the eventual ten children in our Irish Catholic family.)  Above all the hubbub, Sheila and I lived in our own little world.  Most of the time, that meant parents and the little kids did not ascend the third-floor staircase.  We could have Monopoly games going for days, and no babies would mess up the board.  In exchange for this privilege, we were required to do our chores and to GO TO BED when told.

We hated turning off the lights at night. That third floor was dark. As a compromise, we negotiated to keep the bathroom light on and leave the door ajar just a crack, which allowed a thin sliver of light to pierce the shadows. Unfortunately, the light also hit against the wallpaper and lit up the pirates’ eyeballs, which glared out, menacingly. In preparation for this problem, I would put my Jesus, Blessed Virgin, and Holy Family fluorescent glow-in-the-dark statues directly next to the light bulb of our bedside lamp for several minutes before lights went out.  Once darkness fell and the eyeballs glistened, I could line up my glowing Catholic talismans to defend me.

Then Peter Pan came to television, and Sheila and I were overjoyed to discover a world where little kids beat the pirates! Our game theme was set for the next few years.  Like Peter Pan and Wendy, we felt in command and unafraid of the wallpaper menace.  Unfortunately, though, we now faced an even worse peril: crocodiles.  Crocodiles under the bed, ready to snap at your bare ankles.  Crocodiles everywhere on the blue wall-to-wall sea. A trip to the bathroom became a mad dash on tiptoes. Sharp teeth loomed everywhere.

Sheila and I were avid readers, and books became our saviors.  We kept stacks of them at the foot of our beds and spread them, like rose petals, beneath our feet as we moved about the room.  They became our little islands on the ocean floor, and a nighttime trip to the bathroom was now accomplished by crossing our literary archipelago.  Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, the C.S. Lewis books about Narnia, the Enid Blyton Adventure series… even babyish storybooks were used indiscriminately for protection.  But heaven help you if you slipped off!  A crocodile could crush your ankle in his powerful jaws in less than a second!

In bed, waiting for sleep to come, I would fantasize that Peter came for ME!  He and I would fly off to Never Never Land, and live there forever.  For months I even left our dormer window open a crack for him.  If Dad felt the draft, he would tramp upstairs, huffing and swearing, “Jeez, waddya trying to do up here, heat up the whole town?  Close the winda!”  He’d slam the window shut with a bang, and I would scoot down under the covers, giving up on Peter for that night.  “Maybe tomorrow,” I’d think, as I drifted off to sleep.   The two fantasies coexisted peacefully; my fear of the crocodiles in our daily play was somehow detached from the dream to fly away and be free in a land where crocodiles roamed.  I could picture myself swimming in paradise lagoons, perching in tree houses, and floating over exciting new scenery, like a cloud.  No dishes, no homework, no diapers to fold and stack!  I wanted to live in Never Never Land, have adventures, and never, ever grow up.

For Sheila and me, adults were just legs who wandered through our scenery, like in the Peanuts comic strip.  And we were almost as independent of each other as we were of adults.  We often shared helpful advice for each other, such as, “You don’t have enough books in your arms to make it all the way to the closet.  Take more.”  Or Sheila told me to try using old National Geographics; they worked just as well as hardcover books, and they weighed less.  I shared with her my discovery that large, flat storybooks were the easiest to balance on – they provided a wide, solid foothold.  But when it came right down to it, it was every kid for herself.  No whining to parents to rescue us. Whether it was in real life or in the books we read, we believed that children could function almost totally without adults.  And as we moved into the sixties, we continued to think that we could get along without adult help and never have to grow up.   

Throughout it all, I generally felt quite capable of making sure I had enough books with me to get where I needed to go without ankle injury.  Don’t get me wrong.  Mother was a rock, and I depended on her for far more than I knew at the time. But, understandably perhaps in our large household, she was Mrs. No Nonsense,  Mrs. No Time for Sentiment.  “Time to get up.  Peel these potatoes for dinner.  Did you do your homework?  Fold that basket of diapers, would you?” And as I mentioned, my father was just sort of not there, except to yell if we broke the rules.  Never feeling particularly nurtured, not fearing the absence of warm bosomy embraces, I wasn’t afraid of leaving home.  

I really couldn’t figure out what all that fuss was about the Lost Boys and Peter wanting a mother.  I had a mother, and I didn’t feel any qualms at all about leaving her.  Becoming part of a gang of lost children sounded like fun. In choosing a college and after, my siblings and I seemed to have a contest to see who could move away the farthest and stay away the longest. California, Wisconsin, Montana, Massachusetts, Louisiana, North Carolina…  As each child graduated from high school, we received two suitcases as our graduation present, and off we went. For a while, we even had representatives in Zaire, Egypt, and Venezuela! And we took care of ourselves quite nicely, thank you, at least in all the practical things.  We learned to make a living, and we saved dutifully for retirement, although none of us actually believed that retirement would ever come.  

But time did pass. We Boomers couldn’t ignore it anymore.  We began to diet and exercise.  

And now both of my parents are gone. And since I’m in the famous first wave of Baby Boomers, I know that I’m not alone.  We Boomers, who were never going to trust anyone over thirty; who, into our forties were still asking each other what we wanted to be when we grew up; and who have been fighting against the signs of age hitting us, have never really faced the ultimate impact of the passage of time on our parents, much less ourselves. While my sisters and I were nervously whispering about what we would do if Mother needed nursing home care, she slipped away.  No nonsense, no fuss, a massive heart attack while we were sleeping, and we were cut adrift.  

Suddenly I feel alone and exposed, surrounded by crocodiles.  Funerals, estate attorneys, where to have Thanksgiving dinner this year, who to call for sympathy on that missed promotion. Do I take Social Security at 62 or wait it out to 67?  Unexpectedly, I feel empathy for the Lost Boys.  Sheila and I never felt like we had anyone to save us if we fell off our islands, but she and I, and our other brothers and sisters and friends have subtly, now, become each other’s islands. Like the Lost Boys, we are creating a new family structure for ourselves, hopefully one which will allow, even encourage, more closeness than before.  

The pirates and crocodiles are out there, but just as we did up in our room on the third floor, we’ve discovered that we can create a new island refuge.  And as each of us struggles to carry enough books to make it to where we need to go, we try to remember to look out for each other.  The next few years will be tough ones, and we lost boys and girls will have to stick together. 

***

For more stories like this one, I’ve published a memoir about growing up in this large family and caring for my youngest brother, who suffered from schizophrenia.

Male Myth and Guns

Where does the urge by young men to strap on powerful guns and shoot up a bunch of strangers even come from? Why do young men keep doing it? Why are they so angry?

For a possible answer, we might take a look at our society’s major myths. In the Western world, the familiar myths that help us make sense of the people and events around us glorify male archetypes, heroes who tamed wild, unknown lands. I’m thinking of the notation at the edge of old maps that say things like “Beyond here, there be dragons.” Often the myth that fuels our perception of events is that of the redeemer— the young man who journeys far from his home to fight unknown foes and come back to his home as a hero: Odysseus/Ulysses and Perseus in classical times; the Lone Ranger, Luke Skywalker and Spiderman in ours. This kind of hero uses his superior strength, intelligence, skill with weapons, and the favor of the gods to tame evil giants, one-eyed monsters, and greedy evil-doers.

The problem is that today, most of our worlds have been conquered. And so our continuing reverence for this kind of myth creates a tension that cannot be resolved without making trouble for society.  It no longer serves our tamed and heavily populated world. Yet, to the extent the brave warrior archetype is the one which fills young peoples’ imaginations, men will want to be the warrior and women will want to be with the warrior. All young people want approval, and hopefully admiration, of their peers and parents. But allowing this kind of myth to fuel their approach to the world only gets us all in trouble. this kind of thinking helps young men up so they face setbacks as if they have just drunk ten cups of coffee. They want to DO SOMETHING NOW!!  They don’t set themselves to studying and planning and working with others. They come to believe that strapping on a semi-automatic weapon and shooting the people at the church or synagogue down the road or their high school will somehow vanquish society’s enemies. Yet the real evil we must face is more likely to be a pervert in the apartment in the next building or a greedy corporate raider–not to mention climate change woes–not a one-eyed giant in a strange, far-away land. 

Now, before you start, YES, we have way too many guns floating around in the U.S.A.—an estimated 400,000,000 of them, including 10,000,000 – that’s millions – assault-style rifles, capable of shooting over 40 bullets in one minute.  We thoughtful people can’t seem to get our lawmakers to hear our demands for sensible gun control legislation.   And YES, some of these shootings are committed by people who are mentally ill. But it is a very low percentage, less than the occurrence of serious mental illness in the population. (And, by the way, we are doing almost nothing to help these people before a tragedy occurs. See my blog Following up on Parkland) And YES, violent video games might give people ideas. But women play video games, too, and they almost never commit mass shootings. 60% of Japanese people play these video games—more than in the U.S.A., but they hardly commit any gun violence at all. Men in European countries and Canada face problems with their jobs and anger over perceived unfairness in the workplace, but they hardly ever engage in shooting sprees.  So how do we make sense of this?

In the U.S. we are seeing the convergence of three problems: the availability of firearms,  the build-up of these economic and social provocations and stressors and a third factor—a lifetime of hearing and seeing this conquering hero archetype projected around them over and over again. The combination is deadly.

We need new myths.

There are still new worlds to explore and conquer. It’s just that they will not be discovered or explored by superheroes, cowboys and adventurers. The new worlds we face as a society will be explored by teams of people working cooperatively, depending on their intelligence, reasoning ability, and support teams—like astronauts, who depend on an extraordinary team of scientists and technicians to make their giant leaps for mankind. It will not be by loners, acting on their intuition, innate skill, and big guns. There are no one-eyed cyclops out there for us to shoot and save the world in an instant. We need great stories that give praise to intelligence and reasoning ability, skills that will fuel the ambitions of young men and women going forward. Our new heroes will be scientists and people who can lead people to work together to solve such problems as infrastructure needs and mitigating the impact of climate change.

How much happier the young men of our society—and the people around them—would be if they were raised to praise and wish to emulate the good father, rather than the man who abandons his family to have adventures. how much happier and better off if our young men held as their idea not Odysseus, but more like the Jimmy Stuart character in It’s a Wonderful Life. Or if they were raised to emulate the idealism and self-sacrifice of Jimmy Stuart again in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, making a difference without a gun anywhere in sight. Those movies were very popular in the past, but more recently have been replaced by comic-book strong, independent men or X-men who have no family responsibilities and who chase evil-doers with guns blazing. They’re not even pretending to try to get back to Penelope.

I think our society recognizes that the lone hero archetype isn’t quite right, but it doesn’t quite know how to fix it. Let’s all try.

Post Script

And where shall women find heroines to emulate in the old myths? There’s certainly no place for a lady in any of them, at least not as an actor having the adventures. another reason for some new myths. But my thoughts on that will have to wait for another day. Coming soon.

Why Not Believe the Women?

There is something that often gets overlooked in our conversations about #metoo, priestly pedophilia, Christine Blasi Ford, beer-swilling Kavanaugh, disgusting child rapists, and the range of sexual abuses that were simply not talked about for generations. That “something” is that two trends tend to play out in concert with one another in the issue. 

On the one hand, claims that a man has raped a woman or child are often not believed. Our society has declared that rape and child sexual abuse are heinous crimes, yet for some reason, most police, judges, jurors, etc., have tended to believe that the women and girls who report these assaults are likely lying. In their eyes, the very fact that the woman has had sexual relations—even if it was against her will—somehow defines her as a wanton woman. “Do you want to believe a prostitute?” someone inevitably says. Well, I say, “Do you want to believe the guy who frequents prostitutes? …A man who lures 15-year-olds into his mansion to give him ‘“massages?’ …A man who cannot sustain a consenting sexual relationship with anyone? Yet the woman’s claim is often not believed, she is verbally abused for making any claim, and the man goes free.

But there is something else that occurs — the man IS believed. That is, the fallback position if there is any doubt—do we believe him or her?— is that the man likely did not commit a crime; men in power believe the accused’s protestations of innocence. It’s not 50-50. So despite the fact that 19 (or more) women have accused Donald Trump of sexual assault, our legal system has done nothing to prosecute him. So a rich movie mogul can rape, abuse and torment young actresses for decades. So a known child predator and pornographer—Epstein—can operate in plain sight because he is rich and has a huge cadre of lawyers who pay people off or blackmail his customers or whatever they do so that their client does not end up in prison for life. Police, prosecutors, etc. don’t believe the women. They believe the men

This goes far beyond the innocent until proven guilty claim. Compare it to a claim of robbery. If I claim that I saw someone steal my car, and if I pick the guy out of a lineup, he will likely be convicted of that crime, no matter how much he protests his innocence. The jurors and judges will likely believe me. Yet men will repeatedly say about a rape that the intercourse either didn’t take place, or that it was consensual. 

In cases like this, unless the woman can show huge bruises and scrapes from being dragged through an alley, the claim that it was consensual, or that the woman is making it all up—the usual contentions of the man—is, more often than not, believed. It is as if the car thief claimed that I told him it was ok for him to take my car for a joy ride and the jury believed him. 

The D.A., judge, and jury would not believe that. They do, however, apparently believe that a fourteen-year-old girl wanted to become the sexual plaything of a bunch of rich perverts. 

I am so disgusted.

Why do so many men believe that women make this stuff up?

When will this change? When will sexual predators be locked up?

We need more women in authority. We need a woman president.

Not Thinking About Schizophrenia

Nobody really knows why the universe exists or how it came into being. But people through the ages have felt obliged to come up with theories and came to call them truth.

Nobody knows if our belated efforts to slow global warming will make any difference in the long run, but great efforts are made in the name of science

Nobody knows what will happen to our spirits at death. But people through the ages have devised theories and called them revelation.

Nobody knows – – so many things.

Do you know how a squirrel can manage to leap six feet through the air to get to the top of my bird feeder?

Or why mothers and daughters argue and so often carry resentment like a badge?

Or how to face caring for a parent or sibling who is slowly dying?

Do you know why 1.1% of the world’s population develops schizophrenia? Or why my little brother Paul–he, of the ten of us siblings–was one of the unlucky ones? Or why as a society we have abandoned people like Paul? Why is out of sight, out of mind, unless it’s your brother? Why are our mentally ill brothers and sisters dying in the streets? Why aren’t we doing more?

Nobody knows.

What I do know is that it is easier to try to figure out how to reduce carbon emissions or to theorize how the Big Bang may have reverberated through space, than it is to search for answers to what drives the human psyche. That may forever be what nobody knows.