Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Call Me Katz

My mother, full of airs and graces, named me Suzan. I always hated it. As a child, some people called me Susie, and some called me Sue.

Once I went out into the world at 17, I preferred the name Katz, which I associate with my dad, whom I loved. It suits me so much better. I published all my essays and short stories in the 70s under the name Katz. Then I went abroad.

When I lived in Israel, people did not know the name “Sue” – it didn’t really sound like a name to Israelis. And the name Katz is full of meaning. It is an ancient name and is actually an acronym made of the first letters of the words Cohen and Tzaddik. The Cohens were the priestly class in the days of the Temple (1000 BCE), and the Tzaddikim were the Righteous or High Priests. Probably crazed Fundamentalists. So I could not really go around there with the name Katz. In the end, my students determined my name: Suekatz, with the emphasis on the first syllable.

When I lived in London throughout the 90s, my political and work friends knew me as Sue – Katz was far too a Jewish name to attempt in a country that had in the 15th Century expelled or killed all the Jews who would not convert. But the center of my life was dance, specifically “gay and lesbian dance,” as it was then known. Because I scored quite a serious job in London, with an international platform, I didn’t want to mix my writing with my work. I thought the queer things I wrote could lose me my job. It happened that my Boston friends Stan and Gladys were visiting and as we sat on the banks of the Thames, with much hilarity we came up with the pen name Spike (a name I used as a baby butch in the 60s for a quick minute) Pitzberg (a Jewish-ish re-spelling of my home town.) I wrote an article about our dance classes for the local gay paper and the next week, participation tripled. I was forever known, in London, as Spike because of that.

Since returning to the States twenty years ago, I’m running with multiple names. My very close friends from college, whose community in Vermont is the closest thing I have to “home,” call me Katz and Uncle Katz and Katzeleh. Some old comrades from the revolutionary days of the 60s and 70s call me Katz. One of them, my old buddy Maddog, calls me Q. If I had thought it through when I got back to Boston, I would’ve been more conscious about wanting to be Katz again. But I didn’t push it hard enough, which was a big mistake on my part. My friends from our group Jewish Women for Justice in Israel/Palestine call me Katz, Katzeleh, and even Katzilla – the concoction of a Swiss friend. But they are the exception: most new (since 2000) people know me as Sue.

The pandemic reminds me that, at 72, even with luck getting through this public health catastrophe, every moment is a moment that should not be wasted. Every available delight is one to be embraced. I’m using my best bowls and glasses – instead of saving them for gawd knows what. And as every revelation and every
connection and every means of finding comfort is precious, why should I be called by a name I don’t like, instead of one I love?

I want to break with the tyranny of the first name and return to my young adulthood when I claimed my last name. For who decides that first names must predominate, when one has such an honorable and ancient last name? Of course, as a writer, I remain Sue Katz. But in personal exchanges, if it doesn’t feel too awkward or too difficult for you, do me the pleasure of calling me Katz.

MY ONE-MONTH ISOLATION ANNIVERSARY

Today is April 11. I came inside on March 11 and have not seen a live human, face-to-face, since. My last group activity was on March 8, at the annual International Women’s Day tea party held by my friend Jennifer. We must have been 80 women crowded into a living room, telling our stories, eating Jen’s famous pastries based on family recipes, and breathing the same air at very close quarters.

On March 9 I cancelled my chiropractic appointment. On March 11 I had my last physical therapy session before going to Trader Joe’s and stocking up. That evening, Café Pride, a monthly dinner for LGBTQ Elders of Color that I often attend, was cancelled. After agonizing, I did not go to what turned out to be the last dance night held by my teachers Bill and Yuna. A well-loved dancer who did attend turned up symptomatic the next day. She got terribly ill, was negative for the flu, but never could get tested for Covid-19 because she hadn’t been abroad. The nightmare of institutional unpreparedness had begun in earnest.

On March 12, I cancelled my lunch with Gail; Amira’s Harvard lecture and dinner were cancelled; and the first West Coast session at Ballroom in Boston didn’t happen. My bestie Barry and I started doing weights training and other exercises via Facetime, something that is now our nearly daily practice. I cancelled my hair appointment and my friend Suzie decided not to hold her 70th birthday celebration. As the days passed, cancellations started to become ubiquitous and long-range.

Since I closed the door on March 11, I haven’t opened it again except to bring inside the things kind people deliver outside my door – either my mail or groceries or medicine; and except for my late-night journeys down the long empty hall of my apartment building to the garbage shute. I do not even go down to the lobby from the 7th floor to get my mail because I am afraid of the air in our single elevator, used by the whole building.

Why so strict? I have been battling erratic blood pressure since November and have gone from 200 mg of one medicine to 400 and now 600. My doctor added a second prescription, starting at 50 mg and now at 100 mg, but my blood pressure is still high and spiking. Since hypertension is one of the top underlying conditions that are attractive to Covid-19, and since I am 72, I’m well into the category of doom. In my town, 39% of the cases are among people 70+. 39%!! Only 15.8% of the population is 65+. I’m being as cautious as the kindness of strangers allows.

ALONE
I have it easier than so many others. I can afford my rent and my food. I am already retired from paying work and so I am not suddenly losing my job and income. I’m old, so I have Medicare health coverage. And I’ve been living alone since 1977 – except for year-long visits from my young people, first Oona and some years later Tomer, when I was in London. And most importantly, I’m a writer, so I’m used to long stretches in the apartment.

I have four visual privileges that make a difference. 1) I have a sweet new credenza that sits right across from my desk – that is right in my line of sight – assembled by my friend Debi, who is handy at everything. 2) On that credenza sits the exquisite marble sculpture given to me for my 50th birthday by the Tuscany-based sculptor Jaya Scheurch, whose image is on
the cover of my latest book, A Raisin in My Cleavage. 3) Above that on the wall are hung several giclees of the collage painter Sandy Oppenheimer, whose work graces my novel Lillian in Love. 4) Finally, my small apartment features a balcony which overlooks my town’s bike path and Spy Pond and provides me with the sunset: priceless.

But living in basically one room (I have a bedroom but it only fits a bed and clothes), means it is pretty crowded in here. I’ve become doubly cautious, because going to the hospital or even to Urgent Care seems like a dangerous proposition, daily life contains threats. Do you too have disaster scenarios that flicker through your mind? Slipping on a rug or tripping over an obstacle, when falling is always ominous for elders. The slightly irrational fear of dropping a pan of spaghetti in boiling water when moving it to the sink. Wondering if that random pain in my side is appendicitis. A toothache. I had an ocular migraine last week – but luckily it wasn’t my first, because the first freaked me out and sent me to the ER.

My eyes have gone wonky from staring at screens night and day. Facetime and Zoom and Messenger and text and email and phone have brought comfort, connection, and a level of non-stop socializing that sometimes
leaves me exhausted. On some days it’s hard to avoid overbooking. For example, on Wednesday I had my daily Facetime workout with Barry, followed by a Zoom get-together with overseas friends, a Zoom meet-up with an LGBTQ elders group, and then a Google Hangout Pesach seder. I was seeing triple by the end of it all.

But nothing is more annoying than a Facetime/Zoom call out of the blue when my expansive hair hasn’t been tamed, I haven’t put in my false tooth, my nightshirt’s collar is kinda shredded, and I haven’t yet had my second cup of tea. Hey, friends, especially those of you abroad on a different time scale, give a lass a head’s up, could ya?

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS & FRIENDS
The changes in my blood pressure prescriptions just as I had settled in at home meant picking up new meds from the pharmacy. A woman I know from dance who lives close by, Lauren, along with her boyfriend Chris, picked up three months of my prescriptions and brought them to my door. When my Dr upped my script, Lauren went back for more. These were the first gestures of the generosity that would be keeping me safe.

My first grocery delivery was via a volunteer organized by a group in my town. It all happened within 24 hours of my request. My second delivery was via Peapod and I waited about two weeks for a delivery date. Then I found Amy, who has an indie shopping business. I was lucky to hear about her through a friend of hers on my town’s Facebook page. I tip all these people at least 35% because they are keeping me alive, some out of community spirit and some to earn money for their own food.

Early into my isolation a young friend named Hope kindly invited me to come shelter with her family in Maine. Hope works, studies, is a food justice activist, grows food, and takes care of her husband and two children. I declined but will never forget her munificence.

My friend Jane, who once heroically rehearsed with me when I was forced to act in my play when it was produced last summer, offered to pick things up for me every time she went out. Then an elderly friend she was looking after got sick with the virus and Jane had to stay home. We still check on each other nearly every day.

Katie, a friend from dance who rarely indulges in sugar and wheat, but who is artistic in all that she does, made a complicated stunning plaid cake called a Lumberjack cake, and was driven around the neighborhood by her pal to drop off pieces to all her local acquaintances, myself included. Later Katie picked up needed eye drops for me.

I asked on my town’s Facebook listserv if people had suggestions on how I could get my laundry picked up, washed/dried, and delivered back to my apartment door, as I fear running out of sheets and towels. Several people gave me links to various businesses, although they were overbooked when I called. One stranger amazed me with an offer to do it for me at her home. Then wonderful Candace, whom I met once for minutes in person but stayed in contact with through FB, messaged me with the same offer. I can’t impose this on individuals. So far, no clear solution.

Two Sundays in a row, my real-life friend Bren and her girlfriend Alicia have parked in the back lot of my building and yelled for Rapunzel. I go out on my balcony which is 8 stories up from the parking lot, and we holler back and forth. This is the closest to human flesh I have been for a month.

Mary, the owner of Maine’s premiere bakery Bread & Roses, sent me an over-the-top care package with a blueberry pie and a blueberry coffee cake because I had bemoaned on Facebook the end of my baked goods.

Over the last few days, my worst fears became my living reality. I became seriously constipated. This happened to me a few years ago and the situation landed me in the ER where I had one of the more gruesome experiences of my life. I wrote my Dr and also called the clinic and talked to a nurse. I had to come up with a bunch of meds that they promised would get my digestion moving. I didn’t know anyone who could go to the pharmacy for me – they wouldn’t deliver – but if I was to avoid the ER, it had to happen fairly quickly. I tried reaching out, but I didn’t find anyone.

Then I remembered a March posting on the town list by a college freshman named Mike who had been sent home from college. He posted on my town FB page that he’d be happy to help folks. For some reason I saved his info. Desperate, I called him. He brought me everything I needed within an hour.

THE FUTURE
When I closed the door of my apartment exactly one month ago, I said to friends that I didn’t expect to be out before my birthday – which is October 22. I haven’t changed that estimate. Perhaps extended it, as experts are now talking about 18 months. The more I read by doctors dealing with Covid-19 patients, the more blood pressure medicines stand out as a serious risk-factor. I’m not leaving here until I absolutely have to or a miracle happens and someone reasonable is put in charge of the country. I live differently now in little ways as well. I keep my phone charged fully all the time. And instead of putting the chain on the door from the inside, as I have done every single night of the dozen years I’ve lived here, I leave the chain off so people can get in if necessary. Stay safe. Stay home. Stay well.

The Angel Levine: Film Review in 100 words

Harry Belafonte chose to produce this captivating, potent film (1970) of Bernard Malamud’s story The Angel Levine as his come-back after a decade-long absence from movies. He stars alongside the excellent Zero Mostel (as the elderly impoverished Morris Mishkin) and the magnificent Yiddish stage actress Ida Kamińska (as Mishkin’s dying wife.) Belafonte plays the Jewish Angel Levine, or rather an apprentice angel who, in order to earn his wings, needs to convince the exhausted tailor Mishkin to believe in him. The two men grapple with issues of race, love, ethics, and friendship as the Angel tries to overcome Mishkin’s skepticism.

Here's the trailer: