Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Circus of Books – Film Review in 290 words

Circus of Books is a genuinely interesting film that engages us in its unique story, while leaving too many contradictions unexplored. In 1982, a religious woman and her genius husband, Karen and Barry Mason, “accidentally” become the owners of a West Hollywood gay porn store that served as the gay male hub from the flowering of the liberation movement through the AIDS pandemic. They closed it and retired after 35 years.

Directed by the couple’s daughter, Rachel Mason, the film fails to challenge Karen on her pretense to holiness as she not only sells but also produces this porn (with a surprisingly charming Jeff Stryker, no less); on her claim never to look at the wall of dildos that are their bestsellers; and on her alliance with Larry Flynt, portrayed here as a pure freedom fighter. Karen frames the whole of her career as a small business venture, in a way that privileges the structure over the content. We’d like to know how Barry’s genius (he invented dialysis equipment to help his dad) evaporated into an ever-smiling sidekick to Karen’s big personality. And what about the secrets and lies underpinning their ostensibly standard nuclear family. How the hell did they keep their ownership of this well-known store from their children? When one son, who appears to be rather numb, comes out, Karen freaks out in a spasm of hypocrisy. In the end, she redeems herself by becoming a major player in PFLAG – the parental support and education group.

I certainly recommend this film for it describes, as they say, ordinary people doing something that, in their own terms, is quite extraordinary. But I moderate my praise with a sense that the narrative skips too lightly over deep and convoluted realities.

Trailer

 

I Sobbed and Sobbed for the First Time Today

My best friend, Barry, brought me some things today, with the main goal being to run my car which, other than a 5-minute idle, has been sitting neglected and deserted in the basement garage of my building. Barry lives in a different town, 35 minutes away, and this is the first time he has taken a drive since we both locked down in our separate apartments. “As long as I’m in my car or in your car, I should be perfectly safe,” he said.

When he appeared down below in my parking lot, I burst into fierce sobs, from some very deep place; sobs that, once begun, continued for a long time. First some backstory:

I am going through this pandemic with many friends, but most especially two precious people to whom I speak every day at least once: Sandy – sheltering in northern California in the middle of the Redwoods, and Barry. It makes a big difference when you have two people checking in every day. I know that outside this isolated reality of just me in my little apartment, I belong. Someone cares. And someone knows.

I have been okay since March 11th , 50 days ago, when I came inside, never since to open my door to a human (except for a single terrifying accident). With all the technological ways to stay in touch and all my friends in many cities and countries, I have not felt as alone and abandoned as my car must feel. I haven’t cried – although I’ve teared up a dozen times from the news, from TV shows, from scary stories from my friends.

I wrapped up my car keys in bubble wrap around which I folded an old magazine, then stuffed it in a bubble envelope and tossed it down the eight stories below. It descended gently with the grace of a swan, the wind embracing it like a parachute. “Damn it,” Barry said into the phones through which we were talking across the vertical distance, “I should have filmed that.”

The next thing I see is my own red car being driven out of the lot. I cried harder. I remembered when I was free to come and go and thought little of it. Barry had a brilliant idea: he placed his phone in my hands-free holder, turning the camera outward so that I could do the drive with him. “Where do you want to go?” He drove past Spy Pond, which I see from my balcony at a frustrating distance, and I just sobbed with joy. He stopped at every tree that was flowering or heading to full leaf, and I got my first close taste of Spring. He drove down to the Capitol Theatre, an old-timey movie house where we often see films.

Then he had another brilliant idea: why don’t I order food. I have not eaten a single meal that I myself did not cook – and I really can’t cook worth shit – since March 11th. I called Twyrl, a pasta restaurant, which is giving a free meal to needy seniors for every meal someone buys. I ordered some Tagliatelle Alfredo. This is a win-win: my money not only supports a small local business; it also supports someone in need. They put your order on a table outside when you call to say you’ve arrived. I don’t go out so that isn’t an option for me. And I can’t get delivery because although they promise they’ll come up the elevator and leave it outside my door, most delivery services end up leaving things in the entryway without even ringing my apartment.

 

So I went to the outside of the restaurant virtually with Barry and then around the center of my town, Arlington, sobbing at every tree sighting and every revelation: there was so much more traffic, for example, both car and foot, than I had anticipated. After about 20 minutes he came back, parked my car, and then took the stuff he had brought me, including a couple of months of New York Times magazines, and put them on the elevator – which I won’t enter. He pressed the button for my floor and I grabbed them out, wearing a mask, and hurried back to my flat.

All evening my eyes burned, my nose dripped, I felt rung out and weak. The most I could do was watch “Death in Paradise” and “Doc Martin” as I ate my delicious pasta, before going to bed, pondering where to ask him to take me next time.

 

Note: My blog company changed some damned thing and I cannot upload photos in the normal way and cannot find the solution, so I've stuck them in as a work-around. Sorry about the unattractive formatting.

 

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.

How Shingrix supports National Napping Day

I had the old shingles shot (Zostavax) a decade or so ago. But for the last couple of years I’ve been urged to get the new shot, Shingrix. I would’ve done so immediately, but it is never available. Plus, it is hideously expensive, even on Medicare. It seems that insufficient amounts of this vaccine are produced in fits and starts and if you don’t happen to be aware that it is available, you have to hope that the next round might include you.

I had the first of two Shingrix shots, at last, on Tuesday. I thought my Dr’s office was going to administer it, but I got a call from my Rx insurance saying I had to have it at Walgreens, and yes, they cover it. It took my pharmacist two days to carve out time to vaccinate me and it cost me $185. I think my insurance kicked in a dozen dollars.

I was warned about the side effects: sore arm at the shot site (that more or less faded after 5 days); a rash (yeah, I got a small rash a few days ago which has faded away); and exhaustion.

Which brings me to today: National Napping Day. Since receiving the shot, I have found that my regular dozy afternoon slump has turned into a three-hour nap-of-the-dead. About 2:30 or 3:00 I crawl to my bedroom, fall onto the bed in all my clothes, and three hours later I come awake after a blacked-out sojourn in Never-Never-Land. This is happening day after day after day. Yesterday I was out of the house at an event so I didn’t get my nap and, damn it, I was wiped.

Why is this shot so important? Because shingles (a kind of reactivation, usually in elders, of chickenpox) SUCKS! I was traveling with my cousin when she got shingles around her torso, a thick band of weeping raw sores that were viciously painful and persistent. I will never forget how she heroically endured this gruesome condition.

So I’m not complaining about the naps which have become part of my day. In fact, I’m proud to fit in with the other celebrants of National Napping Day. I would continue with this post, but I feel a duvet calling my name.

PS: Here’s some additional info about the reason we’re being encouraged to take the new shot.

In the U.S., Zostavax and Shingrix are FDA-approved vaccines to help prevent the occurrence of shingles. In studies, compared with placebo, Shingrix significantly reduced the risk of developing shingles by 90 to 97% in subjects 50 years and older. Merck’s Zostavax, compared to placebo, significantly reduced the risk of developing zoster by 69.8% in those 50 to 59 years old, and by 51% in subjects 60 and older overall. However, in patients 80 years and older, Zostavax was only 18% effective while Shingrix was 89.1% effective in preventing shingles in this older, at-risk, age group. There are no head-to-head studies.

Women in Black against the Occupation of Palestine is Still Happening

Women in Black (Tel Aviv) was formed in my flat in 1988, shortly after the Jerusalem women started the first group. We in Tel Aviv had been demonstrating weekly as Women in White on the steps of Tel Aviv City Hall, opposing the incursion into Lebanon. When the First Intifada (resistance) broke out, we changed the colors of our clothes and adopted the structure of the Jerusalem women, demonstrating every Friday at a main intersection.

The photo is of a joint demo of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv in 1898. Can you find me?

I was in charge of security in Tel Aviv, because the initial reaction of the Israeli men was absolutely crazed. They drove their cars up onto the traffic island where we protested in an attempt to run us down; they jumped out of their cars to grab our signs; and at the slightest sign of resistance, they became physically violent. They called us “Arab fuckers” and they screamed that we should get home and prepare Shabbat dinner for our husbands.

In honor of International Women’s Day, 927mag.com compiled these photos of Women in Black who persist in representing our demand for an end of the Occupation of Palestine.

 

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.