Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

BOOK REVIEW: Never Be Afraid: A Belgian Jew in the French Resistance

Never Be Afraid: A Belgian Jew in the French Resistance recounts Bernard Mednicki’s intricate memories of his courageous life history. Ken Wachsberger - author/editor/book coach extraordinaire - brings us this man’s unique narrative. “It’s his story, but I wrote it,” Wachsberger explains, clearly a feat of close listening and empathetic understanding.

From Mednicki's childhood, when his father moves the family to Belgium to escape the Russian pogroms through his marriage, his decision to pass as Christian after Hitler’s invasion of Belgium, his work with the French Resistance, and his arrival in 1947 to America (with its dramatic twist), Mednicki shares his emotion, describes the painful roadblocks, and discloses every clever survival scheme.

In Volvic, France, the description of the rats in the stable where Mednicki had to house his family caused me a sleepless night. The efforts he made to protect his sick son tore at my heart. But the tale of turning a porcupine into a rabbit and that into a rooster was a riot.

Fundamentally, this is a story of resistance which serves as a negation of the myth that Jews went to their death like lambs to the slaughter. Mednicki joined the French Resistance, spending his first night as a fighter with a group of men and women, hidden from the Nazis on top of a mountain. He managed to balance his two constant struggles: to keep his family and himself fed and to fight against the Nazis.

This is the Third Edition of this volume, a book that wants to continue to live, much like its hero Bernard Mednicki. Wachsberger is the respected writer/editor who brought it into life and who continues to nurture it, knowing that within these pages is an unusually textured picture of one Jew’s experience of facing down the fascism that defined the 20th Century. In a time when Holocaust denial and anti-Semitism are sky-rocketing, this is a reminder of why we need to start now to fight the good fight.

Mid-Cape Cod Redux - May 2021

For my first vacation after 14 months of staying home, my pandemic partner Barry and I recreate our last trip to the same Hyannis Harbor Hotel, eating (outside) at the same nearby Black Cat Tavern, and driving to some of the same beauty spots. But it feels like a very different trip. We are figuring out when to mask. People are declaring themselves fully vaccinated before engaging in conversation. And we are experiencing a refreshed post-pandemic sense of freedom in the outdoors.

Heritage Museum and Gardens
We get advance tickets ($20) to the annual rhododendron festival – 100+ exquisite varieties! – at the Heritage Museum and Gardens in Sandwich. Besides the picturesque landscaping and the explosive colors of the blooms, my favorite amenity is the people-mover that continuously circles the 15-minute loop around the 100 acres of soft hills and steep inclines. There are seven stations to hop on and off which makes the entire Gardens accessible for those of us who want to save our steps for the “good parts.”

Dunbar Tea House
From there we go straight to Sandwich’s famous Dunbar Tea House where a crispy tender Duck Leg Confit has been added to the menu. The bad news is that the strawberry/rhubarb pie is sold out; the good news is that there is a pudding-like strawberry/rhubarb layered concoction to substitute. Barry’s Guinness Braised Short Rib Stew isn’t as tender as he would like, but we are both gratified by the outstanding service we receive at the hands of our server Elaine.

Bass Hole Boardwalk
Another day we return to perhaps my favorite spot on the Cape, the Bass Hole Boardwalk at Gray’s Beach in Yarmouth Port. Each plank of the long sturdy boardwalk is playfully inscribed – from celebrating a kid’s graduation to a 50th anniversary; from honoring a favorite pet to blowing kisses to a beau. On one side of the suspended boardwalk is an exquisite green salt marsh, unusually lush and grooved. On the other side is a long stretch of sandbars leading to the ocean, where fowl and kayaks intermingle. (Photo by Tammy Nolan)

Scargo Tower
Last time we tried to visit it, our drive up to the Scargo Tower was blocked for some sort of renovations. This time we actually see it. First constructed in 1874 by the Tobey family who hoped that its location atop the highest mid-Cape hill would turn it into a lucrative tourist attraction, the wooden structure was soon blown over in a gale. Once rebuilt, it burned down. Finally in 1901, a 30-foot version was assembled from cobblestones and surrounded by a parking lot, which the town of Dennis manages. They say that from atop the Tower the views reach from P-town to the Sagamore Bridge, but it looks like the Tower hasn’t been open for a long time. Stuck up there like a sore stone thumb, it seems quite the folly.

Hyannisport
I love driving around places I don’t know, sneaking up the “private, no trespassing” lanes of the one-percenters to see their mansions, sometimes gorgeous and often gross, and then winding through the streets of the neighborhoods of those who clean those mansions. Although I have never been an environmental activist of any sort, I do know about the problems of clean water faced by many on our planet, not the least the people of Palestine. So the acres and acres of bright green lawns surrounding the bloated homes in Hyannisport make me considerably crazed. Blocked access to the sea and security guards in giant pickup trucks telling us to “move along” when we try to momentarily stop near the yacht club for the view add to my irritation.

Spohr Gardens
We drive the loop to Falmouth before our departure in order to stop at the Spohr Gardens – I had never heard of it before. It was developed on 6 acres along Oyster Pond for over forty years by the owners Margaret and Charles Spohr. He was a high-flying civil engineer; she graduated from the Johns Hopkins University School of Nursing and served in the Army Nurse Corps. Charlie and Margaret, who were the ages of my parents, evolved these Gardens together.

Charlie added his growing collection of items he thought of as “decorations” – “planting” them throughout the gardens. Big metal bells, massive millstones, and giant old anchors predominate. His prized possession is well-displayed on the edge of Oyster Pond: it is reputed to be the 1760 anchor meant to be used on the H.M.S. Bounty (i.e. Mutiny on the Bounty), but left on shore for repairs. It is 14’ long and 2,476 pounds.

We run into a Trustee named Bill who talks to us for a long time about Spohr Gardens. He tells us that their old renovated cottage is rented out by the year – usually to rich city folks. His particular job at Spohr Gardens is preparing the Butterfly Habitat, and he points out the varied plants that serve as breeding grounds for the different butterflies. The whole estate was donated by the Spohrs as a Trust with funds to maintain it on the condition that it remain open every single day and be free to the public.

As we are leaving the Spohr Gardens we run into a couple who live nearby. They are watching an eagle’s nest on top of a tree on the other side of Oyster Pond and they lend us their binoculars (“We’re fully vaccinated,” he says as he hands me the binoculars) and tell us about the eagle and its wingspan of six feet! Then he tells us something spooky. That for the first time at the nearby Otis Airforce Base, bunches of paratroopers have lately been seen parachuting from low-flying military planes. The locals are mystified by why that is going on.

We climb the exit path lined with azaleas and hydrangeas and vow to return for the daffodil festival next April.

 

Photos via Barry Hock

 

Nakba Day 2021 - demonstrating at Copley Square

May 15 2021
Today’s Nakba / #FreePalestine demonstration in Boston in solidarity with the Palestinian people was heartening in these dark times for Gaza. There were thousands and thousands and thousands of mostly young people, many of them diaspora Palestinians. All the speakers except one were women, and all talked about how no one can be free until everyone is free. They called out for “Black liberation, Indigenous liberation, and queer liberation!” One speaker led a chant: Up with the Jewish people; down with the Zionists. My sign “Another Jew Against the Brutal Occupation of Palestine” was well received, with Palestinian youth asking to take selfies with me.

It was my first time in a crowd since Covid, and what a crowd! Packed, singing, chanting, passionate -- just amazing. It was noisy and high-energy and there was nowhere I more wished to be than in the midst of these young people with their intersectionality and vitality.

Madeline Davis (July 7, 1940 – April 28, 2021)

I did not know that Madeline was a famous, beloved political and cultural pioneer when we first connected. I did not know that she created the foundation for a class-conscious lesbian and feminist movement in Buffalo, a town much like my own hometown Pittsburgh – dying industrial cities. I did not know that Madeline served as the first open lesbian delegate (for George McGovern) at the 1972 Democratic National Convention.

I met her online. Which sounds today like a normal thing to do, but was very unusual in 1995. I was living in London and after breaking my leg at work, I was shut in for a month dragging around a teal-colored cast. I decided to write a booklet about lesbians and aging (yes, it’s been my topic for a very long time). I devised a survey and went about trying to get it distributed by email among lesbians. I was making it up as I went along, because I myself had not yet seen or filled out any kind of digital survey. Email was just becoming popular.

For context, I need to explain that these were the days of dial-up, a noisy, slow, annoying way to access the Internet. To help date my effort, let me point out that Wikipedia was only launched in January, 2001; it was in 2005 that the term “WiFi” became sufficiently popular to enter the Merriam-Webster English Dictionary; it wasn’t until 2008 that Facebook began getting more hits than MySpace.

Somewhere there are floppy discs with the many answers that I received back from women. None was more interesting than the response I got from a Buffalo girl named Madeline Davis. Her thoughtful, insightful ideas led us to a continuous email conversation about politics, class (we were both working class), and art. Sometimes we even talked by phone, although trans-Atlantic calls were an expensive and rare indulgence.

When I was mobile again, I decided to fly to the States for Thanksgiving and Madeline invited me to stop in Buffalo for a few days to visit her and her life-partner Wendy. They picked me up at the airport in the middle of what seemed like a major snowstorm, but which to these Buffalo residents seemed like a Tuesday. Instead of going straight to their house, we stopped at a strip mall in front of a department-store-sized pet shop. I lived abroad for 24 years so I was unaccustomed to what had happened with super-sized American retail box stores. I remember how the size of the store blew my mind. We loaded up the car with huge bags of cat food and kitty litter and drove to their house.

But there was a conundrum. The cats lived on the second floor and between Madeline and Wendy there wasn’t a single working knee able to easily mount those steps lugging a burden. I volunteered to carry up the bags, one by one, and so I cemented a warm welcome from the cats. One of those cats was very old and sick. Madeline and Wendy took me to a healing session with friends of theirs. I believe one friend, in particular, led some chanting and blessings I couldn’t understand, and comforted the two women. Madeline herself was a Reiki Master who conducted these kinds of sessions, it turned out. I was totally out of my element. I had never owned a furry pet, nor had I ever attended an event in which a group of women talked in spiritual terms. I was (and am) a socialist, atheist, ass-kicking materialist – in the Marxist sense that I believe what I can see and touch. I don’t have a religious or spiritual bone in my body. That session was a fascinating visit to another world.

Madeline turned out to be a true Renaissance woman, who had founded numerous progressive organizations, wrote songs that became gay anthems, co-wrote a beloved book Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold: The History of a Lesbian Community, taught the first university level course on lesbians “Lesbianism 101,” and that very year was featured on the poster for a tattoo show. It was selected as the Best Color Poster of the year by the Commercial Printers & Publishers Association. I wish I still had the copy that Madeline and Wendy gave me.

The visit was unforgettable. Their hospitality to a stranger from abroad was generous. Wendy and Madeline got a chuckle out of the butch/femme pillow cases I brought them from London (which Wendy just today reminded me of). Their house was super-comfy, their relationship was a joy, and they were surrounded by loving friends.

We are losing our founders and it is one of the difficult aspects of aging. The loss hits the community hard, and that community extends to the several generations impacted by Madeline’s revolutionary, innovative legacy. I have learned so much about Madeline since I learned of her death and read the tributes pouring in. If you want to know more, you can start here at her Wiki page.

My deepest condolences to Wendy.

My 365 Day Anniversary: March 10 2021

365 days ago I understood that I needed to shut my door against Covid-19. But first I had to make some stops. I went to Trader Joe’s and stocked up with multiples of everything that seemed crucial. I bought liquid dispenser soaps, bars of soap, shampoo, cleaning products, toilet paper, tissues, paper towels, hand cream, and food galore. I went to Walgreens and snagged medical gloves, Clorox spray, wipes, Vitamin C, and candy. At the bank, I got hundreds of dollars of cash, not the least $1 and $5 bills for tips I anticipated giving. I stopped by the post office and loaded up on local and overseas stamps, before gassing up the car, although I did not foresee that it would not be touched by human hands for the next 50 days.

I’m not sure how I knew so clearly what to get and what to do to prepare for a pandemic and to weather a shut-down, but I attribute my prescience to a life-long Holocaust mentality. I suspect that this is the result of a genetic propensity, in a metaphorical sense.

My mother had infinite cheap plastic handbags to match her every outfit. I went through them when she died. (I found over $700 hidden around her place among her things and I bet I missed plenty.) Each purse had a $5 bill, one of those fold-up plastic rainhats women of the 1950s depended on, a comb, and a disposable razor blade with which she scraped at the old-lady whiskers she grew. This is my heritage: a strong streak of just-in-case-ism.

I have squirrelled away $5 bills in the pocket of every coat and jacket I own – just in case. Likewise, I have food in every bag, in every room, and in the glove compartment of my car, just in case. I’ve been saving money all my life even when I scarcely made enough to live on – just in case things got worse. And “just in case” has come true for us all this year.

I live alone in an apartment that has one large room and then a little bedroom in which I can do nothing but sleep and dress. There’s not even a place for a chair. In short, I’m living and writing and eating and entertaining myself and reading and phoning and exercising and Zooming in this one room. But I’m lucky to have a fine view of a pond and a balcony on which to sit and watch the sunset, weather permitting.

After years of begging, I had succeeded a couple of months earlier in convincing my landlords to change my scuzzy wall-to-wall carpet to lovely new grey carpeting. I also found just the perfect credenza (a long sideboard) in February following a couple of years of searching. My friend Debi, who can do it all, came over and spent an entire day putting it together. I disposed of the heavy oak Art Deco pieces that came over to the States with me from London in 2000 – pieces that were too big for my one room. I hung the original collage paintings of Sandy Oppenheimer - a self-portrait and a portrait of Chadwick Boseman -- over my marble sculpture by Jaya Schuerch. In short, my home was much improved and comfy for settling in.

From the start, all the fatality stats were showing that hypertension was a top complicating and deadly factor when it came to Covid. My Dr and I had been struggling since the November before Covid to get a grip on my high and erratic blood pressure. I was determined to survive, that is, to avoid Covid, and I set myself restrictions far beyond those of many other friends. I was inside for the long haul.

In that first week or so I negotiated an arrangement with my bestie, Barry. He also lives alone. He is also a very cautious person. We decided to weather the lock-down together/apart, to speak daily, to provide support. Neither of us would see any other friends in person so that eventually we would actually meet safely. Barry was the first to buy good commercial masks, and he mailed them to me. But I was a bit stuck and could not go out – because of the elevator.

My building was built in the early 1970s and the single elevator – like the rest of building – has never been updated. Few workers today know anything about this elevator’s ancient technology and parts have long since ceased to be available. A maintenance company finds substitutions and comes to tinker whenever it gets stuck. Fifty apartments use this elevator and there is no obvious ventilation. I did not feel that I could use the elevator to go down to my mail (7 stories) or my car (8 stories). I was afraid it would be full of cooties and I’m sure I was right.

My mailman, always a sweetie, started bringing my mail up to the 7th floor and leaving it outside my door whenever my little mailbox became crowded. A young dance friend picked up my prescriptions from the pharmacy when they were refilled. A volunteer did my first shopping, arranged by a mutual aid group in my town, before I found an indie professional shopper, a single mother whom I tip 35% because she is doing something for me that I won’t do myself.

Laundry was the biggest problem. No way was I going into the shared laundry room – shabby enough in the best of times. My friend, Bren, came to visit by standing down in the parking lot as I leaned over the balcony. The distance is so far that we used our phones like walkie-talkies in order to hear each other. She insisted on taking my laundry. I stuffed everything into a big black plastic bag and heaved it over my balcony guard rail. It landed with a dramatic explosion that brought people running out of their homes up and down the block.

Bren and her friend took my car for a drive around the block at some point, but it was only on May 1st, 50 days after I had gone inside, that I got to experience the outside world via my phone. Barry came over to drive my car around. I wrapped the keys in a padded envelope which I put into another padded envelope that I tossed off my balcony. It fluttered down to him as gracefully as Pavlova’s arabesque. He got in my car and FaceTimed me. As he drove my car around my neighborhood and then further into my little town, he pointed his iPhone camera towards the road. I could see what he saw. I was visually riding shotgun. Flowers were blooming, bushes were verdant, there was a world out there. I sobbed – for all I had missed, for all who were dying, for all who were struggling. To celebrate my tour, I ordered some pasta from a local restaurant that not only came out and put it in the trunk – now known as curbside – but also donated a meal for a hungry local elder for every meal that was bought. Barry put the food in its bag inside the elevator and sent it up to me. It was the first food I would taste that I hadn’t cooked myself. I wrote my first pandemic blog.

Only on May 22, after 73 days inside, did Barry find face shields for sale online. With good masks and the protective shields, we felt sufficiently safe to go up and down the elevator. It meant meeting a human in person for the first time in over two months. It meant driving my car. I decided to “go away” and drove myself to the town where Barry lives and entered his apartment. I was inside other four walls and it was as exotic as my trips to Machu Picchu or Pusan.

Now we get together for 20 hours each week – from Friday dinner to Saturday lunch – and each Saturday, if it isn’t raining or snowing, we take walks in parks and woodlands and at lakes we never before knew existed. I’ll Google a nearby town – say Carlisle, near Concord – and inevitably there will be somewhere magic to visit and stroll. We have been amazed at how little we knew about nature spots right in our own towns and the surrounds.

Everyday I say to my bestie Sandy, who lives in Northern California, but with whom I talk daily: We are among the lucky ones. We have a roof, heat, the interwebz, food, safety, cars. We have art to work on with passion. I know I’ve had it significantly easier than most people: I’m retired so I did not lose my job or my income. I’ve lived alone since 1977, so nothing new there. I’m a writer and used to sitting at this desk many hours a day. And the biggest bonus: I’m going to get out of here in time to see the Spring this time.

My biggest complaint (to myself) is how busy I am. I have a minimum of four Zooms per day. Two are permanent weekday commitments. I have a Silent Zoom writing session each morning at 9:15 with my esteemed London writing buddy Liz: throughout this pandemic, it’s consistently been one of the most productive hours of my day; I have a Zoom workout with Barry at 11:00 or 11:30: I’m doing some Tae Kwon Do again to spice up the exercising. I teach writing every Wednesday for Rainbow Lifelong Learning Institute. And then I might have a board meeting or an LGBTQ elders get together or the job of running a panel for a huge online lesbian literary festival or a Zoom/phone call with Sue in London or Schweid in Barcelona or Jaya in Italy or Kaz in Bristol or Sarah in Dublin or Yael in Israel or Verandah in Vermont or Vicki in New York or Melsen in Hudson or or or.

Today marks a full year since I met any human other than Barry unmasked and undistanced. The only other four walls I’ve been inside have been those of doctors’ offices. I will be fully vaccinated on April 12th. I do not know what life will look like in a world with ever-evolving viral mutations.

But I do know that my first excursion will be to the Dollar Store. The next day I’ll go to the podiatrist. The day after that I’ll be off with Barry for two days to a hotel on the Cape. Two whole days seems bold enough for a first outing. I cannot yet see past that moment.

I should have posted this yesterday, but I seem to be running on "pandemic time."

Remembering dear Kay Bourne

The community has lost one of its most unique journalists, historians, and humanitarians – Kay Bourne. As the arts editor of Bay State Banner for many years, she met and interviewed every Black artist and dancer and writer and actor and playwright who passed through Boston – from the ascending to the legendary. She was admired by the entire arts community for her generosity and the depth of her commitment to artists of color. As Abe Rybeck (photo below), the founder of The Theatre Offensive and an international giant of queer theatre, said, “Kay was a great example of someone who used their privilege responsibly and creatively.” Abe also called her a “true mensch,” which is exactly what I felt when I first became friends with Kay.

Kay carved out this extraordinary space for herself and used her pen and remarkable personality to promote the many talented people who became her friends. She collaborated with some of them, notably shows about Black theatre that integrated essays by Kay with photos by her gifted bestie Craig Bailey.

Kay won copious awards and many honors – and she never failed to share the spotlight. At one major event she insisted that I set up a book display table with the talented Bonnie McIlvaine, another writer friend of hers, and she lauded both our work from the podium, encouraging people to get right over to our table to buy our books, as she accepted her honor.

Kay’s archives are a massive, precious history of the Black presence in the Boston arts scene and a testament to the depth and width of her respect for the talent of so many people, some of whom were being underpromoted and under-estimated.

I was often her driver, after she could no longer drive herself, and as a result I got to go to the most wonderful affairs. I hung out at her Brookline home a number of times, a temple to the many Black artists she supported.

And my house is full of the presents she sent me – books she thought I’d love and the most wonderful Jane Austen doll – my fave author. A Jane Austen doll!!

But I only learned of Kay’s death a couple of hours ago when her carer called me. “I used to read her mail to her,” the young woman told me, “and we would laugh over the cards you sent her.” I have the Valentine I got for Kay sitting right here on my desk, addressed, stamped, waiting for next week - too late - to be mailed. Goodbye, friend.

Pig Rock Sausages

I admit it. I’ve only used pre-cooked sausages in my kitchen. And sausage only became part of my menu when I found them at Trader Joe’s. Little did I suspect that sausage – a word that in my house growing up implied non-Kosher sawdust swept up from the dirty factory floor stuffed into old pig intestines - came in such varied and delish forms.

This weekend I had a high-level Sausage 101 tutorial. At a neighborhood store that does curbside, I bought some Pig Rock Sausages with chicken, real maple syrup, and garlic. Yum. But they arrived all squishy and plump, i.e. completely uncooked, unlike the ones I get from Trader Joe’s. I started to sauté them but quickly realized that in truth I had not a clue what to do. I Googled and searched and finally called the company – their number was readily available – and left a message at the impossible hour of 6:00 Friday night: “Help! The sausages are cooking in a stovetop pan in medium heat. Is that right? How long should I cook them?” I also posted a message on their Facebook page.

A man called me back minutes later and talked me through (about 7 minutes on each side) while giving me the basic 411 on fresh, pure sausages. Pig Rock Sausages turns out to be a Boston-based company formed by Art Welch, a very special executive chef. The person who called me was none other than Art Welch himself. He also responded to my FB message.

The meat turned out scrumptious. It transpires that there are many types of additive- and preservative-free Pig Rock Sausages to be had – from Bratwurst to Sweet & Hot Italian and more.

Congratulations Art Welch on your amazing products, but even more on your willingness to spend some of your weekend explaining to a woman in her 70s who has never much learned to cook how to pamper her taste buds.

The Queen's Gambit: My Mixed Feelings

I know that "The Queen's Gambit" is all the rage, and, yes, it is one of the few series that I watched all the way through in perhaps three sittings. But as riveting as it is, I have some problems with it. This is a show about a woman, based on a book written by a man, with three male series writers, and a male director. In the right hands, that would not necessarily have been an issue, but I was bothered by how drenched it was in the male point of view. For me it wasn’t so much the male gaze as the male leer. (What was the point of view of centering the camera on her ass as she danced alone in her underwear in her own home?) And I wasn’t surprised to hear that most critics believe the main character had a great deal in common with the life of Bobby Fischer, a misogynist prick. ("They're terrible chess players... I guess they're just not so smart... I don't think they should mess into intellectual affairs, they should keep strictly to the home"—CBC)

Beth Harmon is a brilliant child prodigy and adult champion in chess. She has big eyes, a great sense of 60s fashion, and takes to leaning her chin in her palm in a fetching manner. She somehow attracts women and men who want to save her, serve her, and adore her, although she seems totally incapable of returning the favor. Beth is all about Beth, given to either dreamy or drunk or stoned monologues, and on the few occasions where she actually responds to another person, she is likely to be rude and brief.

I found it hard to stomach that she never cuts her chess teacher Mr. Shaibel into her success, although she mentions him. The first gesture of gratitude to this custodian at the orphanage where she lived, comes after his death.

The series packs a visual wallop. Every shot is carefully and skillfully framed, so much so that sometimes I felt it was a period-perfect series of stills. The episodes gallop along, clutching your attention all the time, until the 6th and 7th final episodes which were so repetitive and drawn out that my viewing partner wondered if they had changed it from a 5- to a 7-part series last minute and had to stretch out the narrative. For example, in the final chess battle, in Moscow, we see her exit the hall the first day to several women wanting her autograph. The next day, a dozen. The next day, fifty. The next day, a crowd. The next day, a mob. We got the point.

Sexually, she is an object of lust to all the men she beats in chess. Even a gay journalist wants her for a minute. She herself floats through life without sexual passion in her stylized outfits and big eyes, when she isn’t hiding in her home drinking and drugging herself into isolated oblivion, always to be saved by one of her admirers. She sleeps with one woman, but I don’t count it because it was only after getting stupid drunk on the night before the finals of a tournament.

I know they purport to examine mental health and substance misuse, but really the camera obsesses over her oversized eyes and caresses her increasingly stylish outfits. Beth Harmon is not a character I could believe, let alone love.

I found "The Queen's Gambit" suitably diverting, quirky, and just long enough to fit into pauses from following the Covid and breaking news. But I was also annoyed by the lack of authenticity around the inner life of this character.

Here’s the trailer:

This Vote Counting Coverage is Ridiculous

You have to feel for the election officials, for the TV commentators, and for those of us who want relief. No matter which channel you turn on – cable or broadcast – it is ballot results non-stop. Even when there are no results to report. There are digital boards and graphic displays and electronic gadgets of every sort, and even they are getting tired. When Steve Kornacki’s toys start playing up, then you know they’re being overused.

Even Anderson Cooper can hardly think of another thing to say – but that doesn’t stop the producers from examining each result and reiterating the status (basically unchanged) in a days-long stream of increments. This is not the first election that is stretched out over days. That’s just how it is.

Pity the sleep-deprived voting officials who have to drag their asses out frequently to report on 20 ballots – to a flurry of whirling updated numbers and percentages – and to be unable to predict when they’d actually be done and to defend the beleaguered counters and the election staff and to explain that they’ve never dealt with so many dropped-off or mailed-in votes. For gawd’s sake, we get it.

Meanwhile, you wouldn’t know that day after day we are reporting the highest number of Coronavirus infections than any country at any time. We are breaking these nasty records, just as Europe too is having surges, but there isn’t enough time to report that. Uncounted people are unemployed and hungry and on the verge of eviction. As individuals we can, of course, turn off the TV altogether – but the country is absolutely saturated with these details and it’s hard to demure.

Why can’t we have an hourly update? And go ahead and break into the other programming if there is a definitive result. This approach just raises the national blood pressure and makes us go cross-eyed with the ridiculous nature of American elections. And I know that in my lifetime I will not see the elimination of the foul Electoral “College” so that the candidate with the most votes wins; nor the fair distribution of Senate seats; nor the end of gerrymandering and voter suppression. This 24-7 minutiae just confirms what a screwed-up structure those slave-owning, land-owning, property-protecting, white-male-privilege-defending Founding Fathers bequeathed us.

 

Secret Love: Film Review

Prepare your hanky and your deepest thoughts about the future when you watch the poignant Netflix documentary Secret Love. Director Chris Bolan traces his great-aunt, Terry Donahue, and her life partner, Pat Henschel, from their love-at-first-sight romance in the 40s through their struggle as ailing elders. Bolan’s mother Diana is the third major figure of the film, as she struggles with Pat over the best way to support Aunt Terry in her decline.

The lovers met the year I was born, 1947, while Terry was a Canadian star of the Peoria Redwings – a team in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (which inspired A League of Their Own.) They only came out to Terry’s beloved family in 2009, living in a sometimes brutal, if love-filled closet, all that time. With remarkable footage and stills from back in the day, we see how they constructed a life in Chicago of fierce devotion, building friendships with other queers. The film shorts us on what this life was: we see only one dinner shared with a couple of gay men who are clearly central to their community, but we are given no sense of how the advent of gay liberation, with its new institutions and cultural opportunities, affected them – as it surely did.

The ways in which homophobia impacted them is encapsulated by Diane’s discovery of Pat’s love letters to Terry, from which the bottom signature has been ripped off to protect their identity. Pat is alienated from her own family, but unfortunately not entirely embraced by Terry’s. The reasons why they came out so late to Terry’s family remain under-explored, but we get a hint when one niece is outraged at having been deprived of this information (it’s all about her) while she is scandalized that they are living in sin. Pat is only too aware that in this family she is mainly seen as an impediment to Terry’s return to Canada, and not always as the solicitous life-partner she has been.

If gay people had made this film, it might have looked very different. The years of their Chicago life together and the social fabric they wove would have had more primacy. Their relationship may have remained a secret to the family – and there must have been good reason for that – but surely they were more open within the life they built for themselves.

On a personal level, the film reminded me of how our worlds shrink if we make it to old age, with our peers dead or ailing or retired in Florida or returned to distant home towns. Those with younger family members who give a shit have a lifeline, but those of us without close bio families are too often thrown onto the trash-heap of impersonal if not homophobic social services. We pioneers have failed to build any solid intergenerational network. The LGBTQ movement seems to have more cross-generational disdain, in both directions, than connection.

I wept throughout this film, most especially at the barriers to their love, prior to the 70s, and then at what ill health does to this couple’s independence. Sufficient hard-earned savings and Terry’s family’s concern allow them safe solutions in which to thrive. But I wept for those without money or loyal young people to shepherd them to the end.

The trailer:

The Secret Lives of Church Ladies (book review) in 100 words

The most un-put-downable short stories create an entire world. In The Secret Lives of Church Ladies, Deesha Philyaw does it with gob-smacking prowess nine times. Whether it is a teenage girl crushing on the pastor’s wife, or a couple coping with their first winter up north exiled from all they love, or a self-possessed sexually-active woman who outlines lengthy rules for the married men “applying” for a passing entanglement, the reader is catapulted into their emotional and physical worlds. Her characters are Black women wrestling with both church culture and with private passions. Philyaw’s stories kept me awake and awed.