Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Book Review in 100 words: The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce

Harold receives a letter from Queenie Hennessy after 20 years of silence. He goes to mail a brief reply, but inexplicably keeps walking. A chance encounter with a random salesgirl propels him on; soon he is making a distant pilgrimage by foot, entirely unprepared – physically and emotionally. I was gripped by his journey, not the least his memories and regrets. Back home his wife Maureen traverses an inner expedition of her own. Despite years of secrets and lies between them, by the end we care deeply about whether or not their paths will merge again. I’ll read the sequel next.

Tears at the Dumpster

All my adult life I have feared that in my old age, when I couldn’t work, that I would be a "bag lady". I knew I would never have a husband or children to support me: that I was and would be on my own. Recently, I see the women with shopping carts piled with bottles and cans, and recall all my fears. However, I now realize that, in fact, I’m okay in my retirement. That I will be okay. It is hard to adjust to this idea: that I will be able to afford my rent for the next 15 years (or so?) that I have left.

I collect all my bottles and cans and keep them in bags in the back seat of my car. The other day I am coming out of my building’s garage and a slender figure is on tippy-toes using a tree branch to try – I suspect – to fish out cans from our dumpster.

I pull over at the end of the driveway and call to the person: “Are you looking for cans?” No reaction. After a couple of more tries I realize that they can’t hear me or perhaps understand me. So I jog to the dumpster and step into sight-line and see that yes, she is fishing for cans. She is wizened and dressed in piles of clothing and looks frozen. She is so emaciated that I cannot even guess at her age or race.

I run back and forth to my car four times. First, I get out a big plastic bag of bottles and cans; then I return for a paper bag full of cans that I had forgotten about. It isn’t enough. I run back to the car and get out some money and race back to give it to her. And then finally, I realize that she is wearing a kind of plastic fake-leather jacket and must be freezing, so I return to the car to get the lovely purple fleece that my friend Jaya bought for my birthday and which I keep in the car for the frequent times I’ve misjudged the weather, and I give it to her. She says, “Too much, too much.” She leaves the driveway and I get into my car. As I pull out, I see her going to the back of the building across the way to where they keep their dumpster.

I have solved nothing for her. I have solved nothing for the many women, men, and children out on the streets. I am choked up – even now days later as I write this – because I am only too aware that the only solution to social problems like poverty and homelessness are social solutions. Laws that protect us; institutions that serve us; safety nets that catch us – and the present regime is busy undoing all the shards of support that remain. We are all in for heart-breaks – some so much more than others.

I Wept At My First Bernie Rally

My protest partner Barry and I drove to Rindge, New Hampshire, where Bernie was speaking at Franklin Pierce University the day before the first Democratic primary. Because of an unanticipated light snowstorm, it took us two hours to get there. The campus was one big traffic jam, but the cops found us a convenient disability parking space. We were greeted by a young volunteer who, on seeing the button on my backpack that says “Ask me about my book,” asked me. She said she was an English Literature major and hoping to become a novelist. I said one of my books was a novel about a woman who at 84 falls in love with a dyke who is 79. Excitedly, the girl said, “I’m queer too!” What a sweet greeting.

Inside it was crammed with people, but the volunteers had put aside seats for elders and people with disabilities. We were two rows back from the podium. The first row was reserved for people enjoying the services of a sign language interpreter. There were swarms of press – microphones and cameras everywhere. C-Span broadcast it (you can catch Barry and me as they panned the crowd). Barry and I and an old guy sitting next to us were interviewed by Nightline . I explained why I think Bernie is the only candidate sure to beat tRump.

Later edit: A little part of the interview was broadcast on Nightline in the evening! Here it is. Bernie coverage starts at 2:00. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npCS1FFTI6E&feature=youtu.be&t=149&fbclid=IwAR3gU0diSTTHO1FvcBmydloKXeE9pz7pi0Qh3dDNPDh_avvxhWPKUhWhSTc

Two women students were the first to speak. The first was herself hard of hearing from early childhood. She described the isolation she felt and how this campaign had embraced her and how life felt so much richer working for Bernie’s vision. She said that in 2016 she had been 19 and instead of using her first chance to vote, out of confusion she didn’t vote at all. She has spent her time since making up for that mistake.

The second student talked about growing up poor. She said her mother went to college at age 30 and was still paying off her student loans, just as this girl was accruing hers. She identified as LGBTQ.

Next was Nina Turner, a former Ohio State Senator and now a national co-chair of Bernie’s campaign. She is a remarkable speaker, skilled at call/response, and practiced in getting the crowd excited. Plus, she was rocking a fantastic animal-print floor-length dress. When she said that this may be the last chance in our lifetime to achieve the kind of country we want, I wept. It is certainly the last chance in my lifetime.

Nina was followed by the Sex in the City actor Cynthia Nixon, who also said she “identifies as LGBT.” She was quiet, even halting, as she explained her own journey. She said she voted for Hillary last time, not because she didn’t find Bernie’s policies exciting, but because people insisted that the middle-of-the-road was the path to beating tRump. When she said the name “Hillary,” the jubilant, animated crowd of students went dead silent. They didn’t boo or hiss. They were focused at the job in hand, and I found it quite moving. Cynthia introduced Bernie.

He came to the stage with his wife Jane who seems to stay on the campaign trail, but quickly leaves the limelight to him. He gave a speech I have seen on tv many times – but with such vigor and energy and conviction that one believes utterly in his sincerity and focus.

My takeaway from the day is that I am not doing enough and must do more. We cannot be lulled into paralysis by the fascistic wave overtaking our lives. We must fight the tendency to drown in a good novel – whether reading or writing one, or to overeat as we watch any of an infinite number of entertainments available on our every device. It’s now or never. Let’s kick each other into gear and stop this maniac by electing someone who is so consistent, so sure, so progressive that no mere bully can shake him from his beliefs. As Cynthia Nixon said, I’m all in for Bernie.

If You Don’t Ask, You Don’t Get: Appeal of a Traffic Accident

Herewith the story of my car accident, my punishment, my appeal, and the lesson to be learned.

I rear-ended another car some months ago. I was coming from a reading of my latest book, A Raisin in My Cleavage: short & shorter stories, to a large group of older lesbians in Roslindale. It’s not an area I know, so I went slowly around a hairpin turn from one street onto another, around a little urban park. Because it’s a blind U-turn, I couldn’t see that the car driving on the second street had stopped suddenly. The car only came into view as I came around the bend, so I steered hard to the left to avoid her. Although I was going under 10 miles per hour, my front bumper on the passenger side scraped the whole driver side of her car.

We pulled over, regretful but polite. First things first: we checked that each of us was okay. We took phone photos of all the relevant paperwork, the cars, the licenses. My car was more damaged than hers. We had pulled over in front of a barbershop and out came the owner. She was kind and helpful – said these accidents happen frequently in that place. We all agreed that situations like this were easiest when only women were involved.

I reported everything to my insurance and after a week or so they asked if there had been a witness. I googled until I found the barbershop and then rang up to find the owner. She was glad to call the insurance company for me. They judged me 100% guilty (as is generally the case in Massachusetts when someone rear-ends someone else) and when I went to see my agent, she said that I would lose points, lose my large discounts for years of good driving, and end up paying up to $800 more per year for my insurance.

There was an appeal process and I applied and I received a letter from the Massachusetts Division of Insurance, Board of Appeals giving me a hearing date for some months forward. I contacted the barber and she agreed to send me a witness statement. It was carefully handwritten and full of sincerity. Armed with that, a blown-up map showing the nature of the blind turn, and my own statement, I went to the appeal.

One woman served as judge. Another woman served as the representative of all the insurance companies. The judge was a total pro. She had a modulated voice that could calm a mosquito in heat. She was interested, patient, and gave each person time to say whatever they wanted to say. I watched as she adjudicated about 6 or 7 other appealers before me and was impressed indeed. For all of us, the stakes were high, but she maintained a reassuring transparent fairness.

When I had my turn, I told my story. After seeing the others, I realized that my own circumstances might not fit the criteria: it wasn’t night or bad weather. Once it was my turn, I answered her questions, giving her copies of the map with the impossible turn, the witness statement, and my own statement. When she asked if I had something to add, I said: “My father was a trucker for a while and took great pride in his driving record. He taught me how to drive in the 1960s and I have never had a moving violation or been at fault in an accident ever since. I would hate to betray my dad in a situation where, after going over it a million times in my head, I simply do not see what I could have done differently.”

A week later, I was driving on my least favorite highway at night in the rain when I was side-swiped by a pickup truck. That’s the bad news. The good news is that a state police car pulled up behind me when the other driver and I pulled to the side of the road to exchange paperwork. The other driver left, but I walked over to the state policeman to ask for a report – having seen the judge ask about such things while watching the appeals – and he gave me one indicating that the other driver was at fault. The bad news is that I got home rather bedraggled only to find the appeal results in the mailbox, but the good news is that I won the appeal.

If you don’t ask, you don’t get.