Feet of Clay

All of us are flawed.

The term ‘feet of clay’ is derived from a troubling dream experienced by the King Nebuchadnezzar, in which he saw an awe-inspiring statue. As recounted in the biblical book of Daniel, the statue’s head was made of gold, while its arms and chest were composed of silver. Its lower torso and thighs were composed of bronze and its calves of Iron. Finally, the feet of the statue were made of a mix of iron and clay. It was this clay that was the undoing of the statue, making it so unstable that, when struck by a stone, the entire sculpture collapsed, all its components fragmenting, until they were blown away like chaff on the wind.

The term feet of clay has come to mean a character flaw or personal weakness in those we consider to be giants among humankind; the great and the mighty; guides and mentors. But the simple truth is that all of us are flawed. We all have feet of clay.

The American author Ambrose Bierce, once defined a saint as “A dead sinner revised and edited”. And so are our heroines, our heroes, our leaders; all those supposedly superior beings. They are all “revised and edited”.

Winston Churchill brilliantly led Britain through World War II. But he openly despised Muslims. Thomas Jefferson, the principal author of the Declaration of Independence, was a slave owner, as was George Washington. Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony partnered with white supremacists in their struggle to obtain the vote for women. Abraham Lincoln’s administration implemented appalling policies toward Native Americans. Both John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr., had extramarital affairs. Mother Teresa’s Kalighat Home for the Dying provided little to no pain management or proper hygiene, so that people suffered needlessly—suffering which she praised.

Peel back the layers on the face of every acclaimed human being, and you will find the shocking reality lurking just beneath the fiction. Often, it is not very pretty; frequently, it is downright ugly.

They were, they are, just like you and me.

There are no saints. Yet saints we demand. We beg for an image, a template, which we can emulate, but then cast the pattern angrily aside when we discover that it is made of shreddable paper rather than polished silver. We forget that a pattern is just that—a design, an outline, an example—rather than a requisite. We fail to understand that we can emulate the best of what we see in others, while forgiving their flaws.

And we also do not live within their minds. Did Lincoln or Jefferson or Washington, in the privacy of their own thoughts, deplore the disparity of their publicly-stated views with their personal actions? Did each question his own motivation or bias and belief? How did JFK and MLK reconcile their high-flown aspirations with the infidelity that caused their spouses so much pain? If our guides and gurus had feet of clay, did they also have psyches cringing from their own contradictions? Did they suffer doubt, or confusion, or shame?

In most cases, we will never know. Rarely are we allowed a glimpse into the workings of another’s mind, and when we do achieve such observation, it is incomplete. Mother Teresa, for instance, never retracted any of her statements about the nobility suffering, or the behavior that led her treat the pain of cancer patients with nothing more than aspirin. Yet in her private diaries she expressed spiritual desolation and a complete disconnect from God. Did she ever link her own spiritual emptiness to her belief in the nobility of pain or her personal responsibility for unnecessary suffering?

Jesus, it is recorded, cleansed the Temple of the money changers: driving them out with a scourge, knocking over tables and kicking over chairs, shouting condemnation. His rage, I was always taught, was justified, because he was acting on behalf of virtue; driving out evil. Even in childhood, I laughed at that claim. I’d seen a lot of rage in my family, and I recognized it. However praise-worthy his motivations, he just got mad. Just plain angry and disgusted; simply raging mad.

He lost his temper.

He walked on feet of clay.

When he was done—when the sheep and oxen had stampeded out, the pigeons flown away—when the money-changers had fled, and their cash boxes been poured out—did he, his chest heaving, look around and say to himself, “I should have done this differently. This was inexcusable behavior. How can people trust me if I lose my temper this way? Will they ever forgive me?”

Those who recorded his history, if not forgiving him, did at least excuse Christ for his out of control behavior. Perhaps in that we can find our answer: If we cannot forgive our guides and mentors who have walked, just as we do, on feet of clay, we can at least acknowledge their humanity, and our common failings, and grant them our pardon and excuse.

Enjoyed this essay? Then you might also like “Tough Love for the Prodigal Son”, which you can locate in the Archives dated March 30, 2018.

My Dad Called the Japanese “Japs”

Just the way in which a name is said can be an insult.

Photo for ObituaryCropMy Dad, who died in 2021 at the age of 92, called the Japanese “Japs” to the end of his days, despite the fact that he never fought in WW II.  He was an adolescent and then a teenager throughout the war years, patriotically watching the newsreels and reading newspaper reports of the war.  But he never encountered battle with the Japanese.

Instead, Dad spent most of his adult lifetime working in the industrial fastener industry. Japanese manufacturers were often his industry’s strongest competitors.  I suspect that this fact had more bearing on his biased nomenclature than the actual events of WW II.

Later, following the events of 9/11, Dad despised all Muslims with the same loathing he had always bequeathed the Japanese.  I’d taken him to the zoo one Father’s Day when he was in his 80s, and, as we were leaving, we saw an American serviceman, in uniform, with his Muslim wife and children.  Dad simply glared.  “I don’t like seeing that,” he remarked to me, his words clipped and angry.  “I just don’t like seeing that.”

Knowing my Dad as I did, I was not surprised, although dismayed.  “For the love of heaven, Dad,” I protested, “not all Muslims are terrorists!”  But he shook off my words as a dog shakes off water.  To him, just as the Japanese would always be “Japs”, so all Muslims were terrorists and fanatics.

Yet despite the fact that his own brother fought during the Korean War, while Dad himself lived through the horror of Vietnam, watching the carnage on the nightly news (always fearful that my older brother would be drafted and seeing the sons of his friends and neighbors go off to fight and die in an undeclared war)–well, despite all of this, Dad never referred to Asian people using the horrendously insulting “gooks”.  I’m uncertain why this was.  Perhaps he just never encountered that derogatory  term.

Dad once forwarded me a video of a meeting in which a Muslim woman in the audience stood to ask the panelists a question about fighting the sick ideology of Muslim terrorists without harming the hundreds of peaceful, law-abiding Muslims worldwide.  The panelist who responded did so by making a number of very valid points about the innocent, peaceable people of Germany, Italy, Japan, and a half-dozen other countries, all of whom were led into wars they did not want and would never have begun, by a fanatic minority leadership.  The panelist’s points were compelling, but the manner in which she made her remarks was a discourteous rant.  Her voice grew more and more strident and agitated until she was nearly shouting.  Her fury was quite out of proportion to the reasonable question posed so courteously by the young Muslim woman. When I replied with this perspective on the video, my Dad chose not to respond.

But I find that it’s all too easy to dehumanize an entire group, a full spectrum of humanity, in order to justify evil behavior of our own.  All we need to do is label both the good and bad apples with an insulting sobriquet – to call them honkeys or the reviled N-word,  or redskins or spics,  kikes or Micks, Japs or gooks or Krauts.  We don’t really even need to come up with a nasty name; just the very way in which the word is said, spitting it out (“Jews!”) can be enough of an epithet.

So, no matter how much I loved my Dad, I continued gently suggesting the correct nomenclature — yes, even in public — when he spoke of  “the Japs”.  I mildly reminded him of the hundreds of peaceful and law-abiding Muslims who are not terrorists, and that an entire group of people cannot be defined by an ideologically sick few.

It’s unlikely that my remarks made any difference at all to my father’s worldview.  But I always felt better for having spoken.

Despite the way it might sound, I posted this essay to honor my Dad–my contrary, opinionated, self-proclaimed “mean old Wop” Dad–who would, had he lived, have turned 93 just a few weeks ago.  And if you appreciated this essay, you might also enjoy, “Same Argument, Different Decade”, from January 19. 

Acknowledgement and Thanks

People deserve to be thanked.

I wrote the thank-you notes following the funerals of each of my parents. In Mom’s case, I wrote them knowing that my Dad would almost certainly fail to do so, and that, even if he did, his handwriting was so execrable that no one would have been able to read them, anyway. But writing letters of appreciation for flowers and contributions was just one more small responsibility I could take from his bowed shoulders.

Eleven years later, on a rainy December afternoon, I wrote similar courteous messages to those who sent contributions and flowers in Dad’s memory. Penning the notes carefully in my clearest handwriting, trying over and over to achieve a slightly different manner of saying the same thing, I attempted to express that the cards, the flowers, the contributions, someone’s presence—all were appreciated. They helped. They proved to us that Dad was loved, thought of well; that his life meant something; that he would be missed. For two and a half hours I wrote; addressing and stamping and sealing envelopes, and finally delivering them to the post office. I found the action healing. It put a period to the long sentence of my Dad’s failing health, and to the difficulties and resentments one experiences as a caretaker, and that had been such a shock to my consciousness.

But that afternoon also made me think: think of the times that I, and others, had not received either acknowledgement or thanks in similar situations. I recalled one funeral in particular, that of Cathy, who had been a member of my “Monday Night Group”, a discussion and meditation forum that I’ve attended for years. I wrote a bit about Cathy’s passing in an earlier blog post (Cathy’s Roses, July 24, 2018). Her death in a car accident was shocking, devastating all of us who knew her. Cathy, who was energetic and dynamic, riding her bike everywhere. Cathy, who in her 70s had hooted off to Nepal one summer and provided massage therapy to a Sherpa’s wife; who trotted off to Mexico to have extensive dental work done on the cheap. Cathy, who said, “If you stop moving, you’re dead”—and then ended up on life support after the accident, life support that was discontinued when there was no hope. Cathy, lively, vigorous, and often tactless, who took in waifs and strays and gave them a place to live. It seemed impossible that she was gone.

Her family arranged a memorial service outdoors in a park on a stiflingly hot day in July, and many of us from the group attended. There, hearing from them about the time that she had planted 6,000 trees in a single season to help the environment, we of the Monday night group discovered the perfect way to memorialize our companion: we anted up funds to have several trees planted in her memory in a National Forest. Meanwhile, I personally, speaking with Cathy’s daughter, mentioned an incident that had occurred following her mother’s passing—a surprising occurrence that, her daughter agreed, could only have been her mother’s spirit, reaching out. I explained that I planned to memorialize her mother in a blog post, and promised to send her a hard copy once it was published. I also promised to send her Cathy’s Talking Stick—a branch, decorated with charms representing the deceased, that would be passed from person to person as we group members spoke a few words about her in our private memorial ceremony. The post soon appeared on this blog, and I duly sent Cathy’s daughter the promised copy; her mother’s Talking Stick was dispatched to her, also.

Months later, though, all of us, comparing notes, realized that no one had received any thanks. The group’s gift of trees in Cathy’s memory went unacknowledged; I’d received no response at all to the article in her mother’s remembrance, or the Talking Stick.

Sighing, we all agreed that receiving recognition was not why we had made the effort. We’d given our time and money and actions to honor Cathy, not to be thanked.

But now, having for the second time spent an afternoon writing appreciatively to those who acknowledged the life and passing of a parent, I believe that outlook is wrong. Granted, those who have lost a loved one (and, after two years of Covid, they number in the hundreds of thousands, and we are all, every one of us, weary of loss) are often numb, in shock, and painfully unable to fulfill societal expectations of courtesy and etiquette. Nevertheless, as I found, making such an effort is, in the end, healing. It benefits the one expressing thanks even more than the recipient. And, given that people grieve differently, while it need not be done immediately following the passing of a loved one, it does, after all, need to be done. People—friends, family members—deserve to be thanked. They are entitled to acknowledgement of their efforts to care for the bereaved in their time of sorrow.

Three years following Cathy’s passing, it’s safe to assume that such acknowledgement will never be made. And that is a travesty that can never now be remedied.

If you would like to know more about the Talking Stick ceremony, you can read, “Another Talking Stick”, which you can locate in the Archives dated December 10, 2017.

For Good (The Dollhouse)

Good heavens! Five hundred dollars? Should I even allow a 3-year-old to play with it?!

A few weeks ago, cleaning out the attic at my late father’s home, my brother brought down two items from my daughter’s childhood: a nearly 100-year-old babydoll crib that had been passed down for several generations, and a dollhouse.

I knew the crib was quite valuable as an antique toy, but I also knew it was the perfect time for it to be given to my little granddaughter, who at age 3 was a wonderful “dolly Mommy”. She would be delighted by it. My mother, I, and my daughter had each played with that doll crib. It had, as I had always heard the tale, been a used toy donated to a collection effort organized by a local fire department during the Depression. Cleaned and restored by the firefighters, it became my own mother’s childhood Christmas present. When she’d passed it on to me, she’d pieced a small quilt for it, which also still survived. There was no question but that the doll crib, valuable antique or not, would be given to my granddaughter to play with.

I was even more thrilled by the dollhouse. I’d spent far too much money on it when I bought it for my daughter in 1993; it was a true gem. She’d loved it and taken such good care of it that nearly all the miniature pieces remained intact, even to the tiny blankets that I’d crocheted for the little beds and cribs.

So I brought both toys home and began the arduous process of cleaning them up. They were filthy with dust and insulation from their 25 years of storage in the attic, and (though I’d certainly never seen a rodent in my Dad’s house) smelled faintly of mouse. I washed and wiped and disinfected, and used up an entire package of cotton swabs cleaning tiny nooks and crannies. My efforts paid off; cleaned and restored, the toys looked wonderful.

I knew that this type of dollhouse was no longer manufactured. Large and well-made of heavy plastic, with intricate accessories, the cost of such a toy all these years later would have become prohibitive. But I began to research the dollhouse on resale sites, hoping to find a few more accessories to add to it. That’s when I received my mild shock.

A complete set, dollhouse, two families of dolls (Caucasian and Asian) and virtually every one of the tiny accessories, was worth at least $350, and probably closer to $500. For each of those 25 years that the dollhouse had waited there in the attic, accumulating dust, it had been gaining in value.

Good heavens! Five hundred dollars? Should I even allow a 3-year-old to play with it?!

Of course I should. After all, what good was a toy sitting untouched, unloved? If she broke it, lost the pieces, then Rah-Shar*! So be it. It had been her mother’s toy. It was now hers.

My decision was totally vindicated when, arriving at my home, the little one approached the dollhouse slowly, not quite believing her eyes. Then she knelt before it, her breath exhaling on a long, slow expiration of wonder and delight: “Aaaahhhh!” IMG_20220209_115630804_1pWithin moments, she dived in like a swimmer into deep water and began to play, surfacing for air only occasionally. The whole day went to hell in a handbasket as far as normal activities–getting dressed or combing hair, brushing teeth or taking a nap, or even eating meals–was concerned. Darting between the doll crib and the dollhouse, she played, and played, and PLAYED. Later she would tell her mother, “We didn’t have the TV on all day!”

In the afternoon, when a friend arrived to visit, she provided a “tour” of every accessory, doll, and feature of the dollhouse. Together we called her mother to say, “Did you know this thing has a doorbell?” (No, she didn’t.) When Mom arrived to pick her up, she repeated her service as a tour guide to the astounding wonders of the dollhouse.

Watching them—her mother grinning, the little child carefully displaying every marvelous feature of her new toy, I suddenly remembered something I’d written and posted to this blog nearly five years earlier, in an essay titled, “Saving Things for Good” (November 9, 2017). I’d been speaking about regularly using my fine china and crystal, regardless of the fact that I might break the lovely pieces, “…taking pleasure in them, because no matter how precious they may be, they are valuable only if they are appreciated”.

Like the beloved toys of the well-known movies, the dollhouse, awakening from its long sleep in the attic, had gained new life under the loving hands of a delighted child. Its worth lay not in its assessed monetary valuation, but in the joy it gave; was giving.

As I had written all those years earlier and now remembered: “Hoard nothing. Treasure everything. And save nothing “for good”, for our good is right now.”

You can find the post “Saving Things for Good” in the Archives. *You can also read more about the exclamation “Rah-Shar!” in the re-published post by that name from January 5, 2022.

Aging Prayer

If I live long enough….

I’ve worn glasses or contacts most of my life, having gotten my first pair while in the fourth grade. Ugly things, glasses, and I never liked them, but (having needed eye correction long before my parents conceded the fact and took me to an optometrist), I liked even less being sniped at by my teacher, a nun at the Catholic grade school which I attended. When I begged her to move my desk further to the front, explaining, “Sister, I can’t see!”, she berated me, snarling “It’s not my fault that your parents won’t take care of your eyes!” (I’m quite sure that Sister-Whatever-Her-Name-Was firmly believed in the Roman Catholic church’s doctrine of Purgatory. Well, in her case, I really hope that place of torment does, in fact, exist, and that Nameless Nun earned at least extra decade or so there for her bitchy retort to an innocent child.)

Whether Nasty Nun is suffering in Purgatory or not, I, not being a candidate for laser surgery due to an old eye injury, have worn my glasses or contact lenses without complaint through all the decades since. And now, realizing that my hearing is beginning to diminish (yep, I have to turn on the subtitles when I’m watching TV, and not just when I’m watching British shows!), I’m preparing to get an audio exam and invest in an OTC hearing aid, which I will also wear without complaint. I do not want to miss a single whisper from the lips of my beloved little grandchild.

Which begs the question: Why do so many elderly people simply refuse to wear hearing aids? The jokes abound between all of us afflicted by an elderly family member who (despite having worn glasses throughout all the years of their own lives) simply will not put in a hearing aid. Instead, these old quirks snarl, “Speak up!”—and, when one does just that, snarl again, “Don’t yell!”

Please God—don’t let this ever be me! Don’t let me be the person demanding, “Look directly at me when you speak!” Let me just put the damned hearing aid in my ear, and smile, and converse pleasantly with people. And, when I occasionally still can’t hear, let me remember to say politely, “I’m so sorry; I missed that. Can you repeat it?”

Now, I haven’t yet reached that stage where my thinning layers of skin and disappearing subcutaneous fat layer (oh! for some disappearing fat!) render me more susceptible to feeling the cold. I still prefer chilly or even cold weather to hot, humid heat. But this will change, and I know that day is probably just around the corner. So when it does arrive, when I am finally feeling cold all the time, please God, please Goddess! Let me recall that my guests’ comfort supersedes my own. Let me remember that I can put on extra layers of clothing, but my guests can’t take off their own epidermis!

Never in my lifetime, not even in childhood, have I known what it is to sleep well. A pattern of waking at night and being unable to sleep again easily has always been my bane, and, as I age, is growing distinctly worse. But, please Heaven, please—let me never begin whining about this difficulty. Let my attitude for the whole day not be predicated upon how well, or not, I slept. When, after a particularly bad night, I am asked how I feel, let me just smile and say cheerfully, “Hey, I’m still topside, so I can’t complain, right?” Or, if I can’t be that jovial, let me at least have the grace to admit, “Well, I slept poorly, so I’m grouchy—but then, I’m retired, so I can take a nap, right?” Please, please, let me acknowledge the silver lining!

And, above all, let me not become the elderly person who conflates age with entitlement; who feels that the younger people in one’s orbit must serve and attend and assist and oblige, totally without acknowledgment of their service or sacrifice. Simply put, let me never forget the lessons of courtesy that I imbibed in earliest childhood: the “Two Little Magic Words”, please and thank you. Let me proclaim those words (and all the attendant phrases) with regularity: Would You, I’d Appreciate It If, That’s So Kind of You, I’m Grateful. Let me say, and mean, the words, “I appreciate that you’ve taken this time out of your day. I know your life is busy. It’s good of you.”

And, if it should happen that I do not, when (if) the time comes, remember these prayers; if I should, despite my plans and supplications, become the worst version of myself, then, please, all gods and goddesses and heavenly beings who look over such matters, give someone the strength to hand me this essay and say, “Read this!” Let me put on those ugly glasses and read, as those mean nuns taught me, carefully and with comprehension. Let me read, and then practice everything within this instruction manual for being aged yet not entitled; friendly, smiling; likeable, even lovable, and, most of all, beloved.

Usually at this point, I refer you to an earlier post that you might enjoy. However, this time, let me just say that this essay was inspired by my Dad, who passed away 12/12/21. However much I loved him, he was everything that I mention here. He drove me–all of us–completely nuts! And I miss him.

Same Argument, Different Decade

Words have power.

I once had an acquaintance who justified his use of two of the most vile racial and religious epithets by saying that he applied them only in terms of personal behavior characteristics, and not as a blanket reference to individuals of a particular race or religion. His argument was totally specious, of course; there was, is, no excuse for the use of such appellations, and there are plenty of available adjectives in the English language to define poor behavior. One need never resort to emotionally-charged words with a history of offense and disparagement.

Perhaps that’s why I was surprised when, commenting on the objectionable use of a brand-new belligerent term frequently splashed across the pages of a progressive newsletter, I was roundly trolled and trounced by its readers. I had (somewhat naively, I suppose) expected better of those whose worldview seemed to encompass a wider perspective than the narrowness of conservative thinking. But, almost without exception, each commentor defended her/his use of the offensive nickname, one even going so far as to say that it was merely a “descriptor”.

Same argument, different decade.

Another of these purportedly broad-minded individuals was infuriated by my suggestion that answering bad behavior with name-calling actually served no purpose; that heckling made no difference in the behavior of those so labeled, and served only to perpetuate the cycle of anger. My statement, he commented, was self-righteous. Reading his words, I chuckled, for self-righteous, as well as hypocritical, were exactly the terms I had, in the privacy of my own mind, applied to those who used the offensive terminology under discussion.

But then I wondered: Why was it that these supposedly free-thinking people were defending the indefensible? If my old acquaintance had risen up in their midst and spewed his hateful rhetoric across the pages of their newsletter, claiming justification for applying it only to the behavior of people and not to the people themselves, these same commentors would have bitterly denounced him and banned him from their pages.

Evil, it seems, is only evil when done by other people, and specifically people outside one’s preferred group. Hypocrisy, however, appears to be universal…as is disappointment. I was bitterly disappointed to find that the group with which I mostly align myself– freethinkers, the broad-minded, forward-thinking individuals–were just as hypocritical, unkind, and sanctimonious as those conventional traditionalists who abhor change.

I wondered, too, about the ages of those who defended the use of that new and distasteful “descriptor”. I suspected (totally without evidence, I admit) that most of those who replied had reached no more than their third or fourth decade, if that. At my advanced and advancing age, one has seen and experienced a lot more of the hatred so rife in this weary world, and has learned the advantages of practicing that ancient phrase, “A soft answer turneth away wrath.”

After a couple of mild responses to their provocative justifications for their continued use of the spiteful nomenclature, I sadly relinquished the argument, realizing there was no point. I doubted that these assumedly-younger people had been raised, as I had, with the chiding phrase, “Don’t call people names. It’s not nice.” They had no grounding in simple good manners with which to comprehend my point: that creating a new slang term to represent an artificially concocted subset of humanity was not a descriptor, but in and of itself offensive and intended to elicit a negative reaction in the reader/listener. By using an emotionally-charged term, they intentionally bypassed the logic circuits within the brains of those hearing or reading their stories—and that is, as it has always been, the real rationale for the use of such terminology. It “others”—dehumanizes, demonizes—those whom it references, resulting in the speaker/writer automatically becoming the hero of her or his own story.

For my own part, though, I will always prefer to use precise and exact adjectives to describe individual bad behavior, words with which the English language abounds. Words such as entitled. Or belligerent. Bellicose—I particularly love that one, as I do pugnacious. Rude. Argumentative. Disrespectful. Confrontational. Sanctimonious. Insolent. Bad-mannered. Loud. Aggressive. Lawless. Uncivil. Disorderly. Unprofessional. Abhorrent.

And, of course, hypocritical and self-righteous.

These are words that have nothing to do with race, or religion, or gender. They are words that genuinely describe the behavior, not the person; words that have not been concocted to encompass a belittling physical description.

Words have power, and it is imperative that we use that power not just precisely, but to good purpose. And that purpose is never accomplished by employing generalities, epithets, or incivility in our speech.

If you enjoyed this essay, you might also like the post “Please Stop Using the Term ‘Karen'”, from December 1, 2021.

Happy New Hope

The clock ticking, the joyful shouts welcoming a new year, won’t really have changed anything at all. After all, this post originally appeared on December 29, 2017…yet it is still pertinent.

In a very few days, a few hours, the clocks will tick over one more time, the sun will cycle across the International Date Line, the ball will drop, and all around the Western world we will hear shouts and cries of, “Happy New Year!”.

And nothing will have changed.

Oh, we’ll all awaken a bit wearier, perhaps hung over, a few hours older. Those who still enjoy and use a paper calendar will take down the old publication and hang up the new, possibly admiring the photo on the edition they chose. But the major things, the important things, will be no different.

Our problems from the old year will still be awaiting us, unerased, staring back at us from the bleary face we see in the mirror. Within a few minutes, a few hours of that clock tick, someone, somewhere, will have been born—or died. Bills from the holiday season will sit quietly awaiting payment, mostly on slender funds. Children and pets and our elderly will require care, possibly needing trips to doctors and veterinarians at the most inconvenient of times. The furnace will break down, or the water pipes freeze. The same worthless politicians will sit in office, masquerading as world leaders. Vicious on-line comments will be posted behind the perceived safety of a veil of anonymity.

The clock ticking, the joyful shouts welcoming a new year, won’t really have changed anything at all.

Except, perhaps, for our perception of hope. Hope is the one real difference made by that clock tick that purports to indicate that something new has begun. The hope that this year will, truly, be different. That the good things, the lovely things, the beautiful things will, this year, outnumber the bad. That we will experience kindness and courtesy, not just from friends and family, but even strangers. That some politicians will take a deep breath and stop–just stop. Stop threatening, stop posturing, stop repeating the sad history of our worn-out world. That a cure will be found for whatever devastating disease our loved ones are experiencing. That no one will be homeless, or lonely. That each of us will be given a fresh start, a second chance.

Hope is the only genuine difference of the new year–the one thing, ancient legend instructs us, left in Pandora’s box once all the evils invented by cruel gods had been unleashed upon humankind.

But in the original matriarchal myth of Pandora, before the shift in her legend created by the misogynistic writer Hesiod, her name meant not “all gifted”, but “all giving”. She was not created by those same cruel gods to be unbearably gifted and seductive, but was a goddess in her own right, born from the earth itself, who came to bestow upon humans all the things necessary to life.

And, being a goddess, she would have understood that nothing—not fire, not food, not water–nothing is more necessary to life, to the very desire to live, than hope. It is the very substance of the air we breathe, and just as necessary to our existence.

So, this year, when the clocks tick over, and those shouts of gladness ring in the airwaves, don’t be fooled that anything will have changed.

But never stop hoping that it will.

If this essay spoke to you, you might also enjoy “Paper Calendars”,
which can be found in the Archives from December 11, 2019.

Blessing the Hearth

I feel the shades and spirits of those centuries of women who came before me

A couple of years ago (pre-pandemic, when one still opened the front door to a knock or ring of the doorbell by a stranger), I was accosted by a salesperson attempting to convince me to sign up for home insect control. Now, I’m not the sort of woman to simply slam the door in the face of some hapless huckster. I know door-to-door sales work is a thankless job. So I usually allow them to get in a few (very few) words first before saying the obligatory, “I’m really not interested” and firmly shutting my front door.

But I did have a bit of trouble controlling my mirth when this young man gestured to the porch overhang, talking about all the spiderwebs that gathered at rarely-used front doors as family came and went through their attached garages. He pointed directly to the corners where such webs would be expected to lurk.

There were none. I mean NONE. Nope, those corners were free of spiderwebs, wasps nests, cobwebs, or cottonwood drifts from the blooming trees. It sort of put paid to his little demonstration. I grinned only a little as I told him I wasn’t interested and closed my front door on his bewildered face.

The only time I’d had greater enjoyment from a front porch peddler was the spring afternoon near Easter when I’d opened the door to a proselytizer trying to drum up customers for a local church. He invited me to join with them on Easter Sunday to “celebrate Jesus’ death”. (Yes, he actually said that.) Now, it’s been a long while since I practiced organized religion, but even in my dim and distant memories of such Easter services lay the notion that we were joining to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection. For this particular porch peddler occasion, I did not even attempt to stifle my astounded chuckles. But I digress….

You see, there were no webs or cottonwood or nests, or indeed, any detritus of any sort on my tiny front porch or its rafters because I regularly practice blessing the entryway to my home. Stepping out armed with a broom, I sweep away anything on or above or around the porch and walkway while repeating the words, “Bless this home and all who dwell therein. This home is surrounded, enfolded, protected, and watched over by the Divine. Bless this home and all who dwell therein.”

Performing this personal ceremony, I feel empowered. With each stroke of the bristles, I claim the protection of my Higher Power. The exterior of my house is both cleansed and wrapped in a mantle of security; cocooned within a shelter of psychic defense as I move from my front porch to my back patio, sweeping and safeguarding that entryway, also.

There was a time when such household protection rituals were common, especially when every home was both lit and warmed by a fire. The hearth was the center of the home; the place where family gathered for warmth, and where women worked to cook the meals or to sit nearest the light to sew and weave. To bless the hearth was to bless the home, and was the exclusive province of women. For centuries women, denied the right to be priests or ministers, or to even participate in any meaningful way in the accepted religions–those women were, nonetheless, the hearthkeepers; the ones who genuinely kept “the home fires burning”. Women swept away the ashes and laid the fresh fires upon the hearths and kindled the logs. Women spoke their blessings over the flames, weaving a circle of protection about their homes and loved ones, blessings woven of love and as sturdy as any cloth upon their looms. They swept their front steps and dooryards, presenting a clear path for all who came and went. They polished the brass of door handles to a shining surface, reflecting the faces of those who visited.

And so, sweeping my own path and entryway and porch roof beams, clearing the ashes from my wood-burning fireplace before laying a fresh fire to be kindled on another cold night, I feel the shades and spirits of those centuries of women who came before me. I am following, not in their footsteps, but in the path of their work worn hands, as I perform the same rituals they once did. I am translated, shifting from my merely human form to become the daughter of all those who went before me, themselves daughters of Demeter, goddess of hearth and home; tenderly weaving words of beneficent protection about my dwelling, while envisioning all those I love cocooned within the warmth and undying fire of my love.

Did you enjoy this post? Then you might also like, “Another Talking Stick Ceremony”, which you can find in the Archives link below from December 10, 2017.

Please Stop Using the Term “Karen”: It’s Racist, Ageist, and Misogynistic

Slurs are specifically intended to elicit a negative reaction.

WARNING: This essay recounts several racist and rude labels, not to insult, but to press a point about the damage done by such slurs. Confronting them may be extremely disturbing and triggering for many readers.

It seems not terribly long ago when I first encountered the word “Karen” used as an epithet. Totally bewildered, I had to punch out to Startpage (no, I do NOT use Google!) to find the meaning of what seemed an obvious slur. The various sites I glanced through each provided basically the same definition: Entitled White Middle-Aged Woman. A few sites included a belittling physical description and mentioned personal behavior characteristics.

My immediate reaction was indignation: indignation first on behalf of a relative named Karen, who in no way fit the descriptions I encountered; then on the part of an acquaintance, a Black woman, also named Karen; and finally on behalf of all the women in the world, everywhere, named Karen. I wasn’t sure if the appellation had arisen due to someone’s upsetting encounter with an actual, unpleasant individual by the name of Karen, but it seemed absolutely nuts to use a common personal name to label a cluster of disagreeable behaviors inherent within an artificially concocted subset of humanity. Nuts and rude.

For a long while I continued merely feeling indignant and disapproving  whenever I encountered the pejorative term in written or spoken form. But after long, long months of seeing the tag flung about by otherwise intelligent and ethical people, I’m far past indignation. I’m miles past, “Well, that’s just rude.” I’m fully into the territory of flaming, roaring, raging, disgusted pissed-offedness.

If “Karen” is used to intentionally indicate Entitled Middle-Aged White Woman, then it is a racist, misogynistic and ageist epithet. Hardly misses any harmful categories there, does it? It is right on par with all other vile epithets. It is deliberately insulting and intended to elicit a negative emotional response in the reader/listener.

I know from personal experience what it is to be called a Wop (which, according to the person spouting the cruel nickname, was “…just a joke. Can’t you take a joke?”) It wasn’t a joke. Passive aggression never is. Racial and ageist and sexual slurs never are. If their reality disturbs you, then skip the rest of this paragraph; otherwise, let’s be brave and confront just a few of these ugly, detestable monikers, shall we? Wop, Dago. Nigger, Jigaboo. Redskin, Paleface. Chink, Gook. Krauts. Japs. Kike. Old Fart. Greaser, Spic. Slut, Ho. Camel Jockey, Raghead. Hillbilly. Faggot, Homo. Honkey. Polack.

A terribly uncomfortable, viscerally disturbing list, is it not? Nauseating to some. Agonizing for others. And those are just the ones with which I am familiar. I’m sure there are countless more.

And now, Karen.

“Don’t call people names. It’s not nice.” I must have been scolded with that phrase a dozen or more times during my childhood, by parents, grown relatives, and teachers—adults who then, not caring that they were overheard, tossed out in casual conversation any number of racist, sexual and ethnic slurs. Leading by example was not a strong suit on the Pale Island* of my childhood. Then I grew up and moved to the American South, and found my jaw dropping as I heard Black teenagers affectionately call one another “Nigger”. Surely I hadn’t really just heard…! Except…why not? Hadn’t my family members often comically or affectionately bandied about the term “Wop”? “You dirty Wop,” my then-young father and his long-time friend and mentor laughingly called one another. Ah, of course: the difference. Between ourselves, and only ourselves; between us Wops, it actually was a joke, and even a term of affection. But only between ourselves. When my (now thankfully ex) husband, not of Italian American heritage, tried the same thing, it became a rank bone of contention between us.

Don’t call people names. It’s not nice…unless they share your heritage and experience. Unless they are in on the joke: the joke of taking something derogatory and evil and transmuting it into a shared experience, thereby rendering it harmless.

There is no way “Karen” can be rendered harmless. It is a vile and bitter taunt; a sneering, intentionally derisive gibe. It is a label—a label that “others”—dehumanizes–human beings, who (despite possibly having and sharing characteristics, some of them disagreeable) are, in fact, human beings. People. Women. Individuals.

Not a group. Not all the same.

It’s long past time that we all, every last one of us, stop applying these offensive sticky notes to the members of our human family.

There are, sad to say, many people who walk this sad world wearing a patina of entitlement. And those people come in every color of the human rainbow. They are male, female, and every finally-recognized gender in between. They come in all ages, all sizes, and are drawn from all walks of life.

There are, in fact, no Karens. There are only self-satisfied hypocrites who find security in labeling others in order to assure themselves of their own righteousness.

*The reference to the ” ‘Pale Island’ of my childhood” can be found in the blog post Juneteenth from June 16, 2021.

When We Weren’t White

This blog post was actually scheduled to publish during the week of Columbus/Indigenous Peoples Day. But Mercury Retrograde was in full swing at that time, supposedly causing everything technical to go totally whack; somehow, the post never appeared. So let’s blame it on Mercury Retrograde! Here it is now, belated and totally out of sync with the holiday, but heartfelt nonetheless.

I am, as confirmed by DNA testing, half-Italian. My grandparents were each born in America, but their own families, including some older siblings, were born in Italy: Lucca, in Tuscany, and Vasto, not far from Rome.

One of my great-grandfathers actually arrived on the shores of America pre-Ellis Island, coming through Castle Garden, on the southern tip of Manhattan. Mansuetto Gregori arrived with his wife and children sometime during the 1840s or 1850s, long before Castle Garden stopped processing immigrants in 1890. Family legend, related to me by my grandmother decades ago, held that, having arrived in New York and before moving to what would eventually be Sioux City, Iowa, Mansuetto quickly changed the spelling of the family name to Gregory, hoping to be taken as “Black Irish” (the name once given to those dark-haired, olive-skinned Celts who descended from survivors of the 1588 destruction of the Spanish Armada). The Irish, as Mansuetto quickly determined, had assimilated and were accepted in America, as Italians were not. I’ve never quite understood why Mansuetto would have believed that his accent, as he learned English, would fail to identify him as Italian rather than Irish, but I suppose that logic would have been his least consideration at the time.

We Italians weren’t White, you see. We would not be considered White until 1965 (I was 11 years old), when racist quotas on Italian immigration would finally be overturned.

So although many people–people of color, indigenous people, and those of Asian, Pacific Islander or Jewish descent–might easily glance at me and think, “privileged White person”—and although I, personally, suffered quite little of the anti-Italian sentiment which was once rife in the United States–well, no, not quite. My experience falls nowhere near the same classification as that of many Jews or Asians, and certainly doesn’t even place in the same solar system as the racism experienced daily by most Black people in the United States. But it was not all smooth sailing, either, especially for my paternal Grandmother and Grandfather. As I have reported in prior blog posts, they endured terrible incidents of bigotry throughout their lives. For my Grandmother, especially, those incidents left emotional scars; I will never forget my feelings of disbelief, shock, and grief as she related the painful story of the racist remarks she suffered in her early childhood from her teacher, an Irish-American Roman Catholic nun. (See “And Speaking of Prejudice”, from January 18, 2018.)

For, yes, as Italians, we were also Roman Catholic. Few people today realize or recall just how detrimental to his campaign was the Roman Catholicism practiced by John F. Kennedy. Yet it was not long after his assassination that I sat in my fifth grade classroom, listening fearfully, as my teacher explained to the class that, should the Constitution’s guarantee of freedom of religion ever be revoked, “THEY” would come for us, just as they had murdered our President.  Fortunately for my peace of mind, there were many Catholic children in the neighborhood where I first grew up, since Holy Name church and school were literally around the block.  But the one little girl who was just my age (all the others were older or younger) wasn’t permitted to play with me, the “Car-tholic” girl.

Still, most of these fears and slights touched my life only peripherally, fading away as I grew to adulthood. Perhaps that is why I reacted viscerally to the reframing of Columbus Day as Indigenous People’s Day. Please do not misunderstand! I genuinely believe this is a long-overdue reparation for and acknowledgement of the horrific damage suffered by the native peoples following the arrival of Europeans on the American shores. Nevertheless, I also have a heartfelt personal investment in Columbus Day, as an Italian American aware of the sad truth of the origins of the holiday: that the celebration (originally intended as a one-time event) was declared by the short-lived President Benjamin Harrison in 1892, following the horrifying New Orleans lynching of 11 Italian immigrants. The murders brought Italy and the United States nearly to the point of war; the Italian consul in New Orleans left the city at his government’s direction, and Italy cut off relations with the United States until President Harrison’s paltry act of reparation.

So while I rejoice at the new national consciousness and acknowledgement of wrong doing, at the truth and justice brought to the reframing of the day, for me, personally, it can never quite be that. Columbus Day will for me, always, be known as “Murdered Italian Americans Day”. My racially-profiled ancestors are to me, you see, quite as important as yours are to you. And none of them, yours or mine, deserved to be treated as less than human because of the circumstances of their birth and heritage.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like “You Dirty Wop”, which you can find in the Archives, below, from February 1, 2018.