Students for A Democratic Society

This piece was originally started on August 30, 2018.  

Pictures before and after.

 

 

 

I just watched an interview on Democracy Now! with Tom Hayden, one of the founders of SDS and the main author of the Port Huron Statement, a document that influenced me profoundly.  It is the 50th anniversary of that group's birth.  Although it was another 6 years or so before I draped myself in peace symbols and headbands and American flags sewn upside down on the seat of my jeans, I followed their progress, secretly cheering their sit-ins and confrontations, as the movement gained strength across the nation.  Tom Hayden was certainly one of my heroes.  Later I would question many things about his politics, especially the lack of women in out front leadership roles.  But in 1962, politics and social movements were still a man's world and women were rarely given credit.  But I was very pleased to hear him mention in the interview his first wife, Casey, as a leader in the movement.
What an amazing time it was for me.  I was changing so quickly.  

 

For most people, I don't know if high school graduation was as huge a transition as it was for me.  I was both excited and petrified minute by minute.  I had lived by the rules of the house, the church, and the school in order to avoid recriminations and confrontations all of my life.  I was known as the quiet one, the sad one, the introverted prude.  I spent most of my time in my room whenever I had to be at home.  Volunteered for any activity that gave me an excuse not to go home.  Books were my escape; my portal into self examination and the worlds I wondered about exploring. Everything I knew about sex had come from a slumber party forbidden read of "The Naked Ape" with my two best friends.  Judy Blume had not yet bloomed.

Even in the small North Carolina University where I had agreed to go in order to win my mother's approval, there was what was called "student unrest".  I secretly liked that term.  In the summer after graduation, I worked two full-time jobs (a toll operator for Ma Bell, and a layout assistant for a publishing company that published cruise books for the Navy (more on that later).  I had to work twice as much because not only did I need to pay for my tuition, housing, and food; but I was determined to wear all the right clothes so that no one at college would know the poverty that I came from.  This was a very big part of being successful in the Norfolk, Virginia suburb of Virginia Beach where I had lived since 1962.  I was raised a member of the "mobile poor":  those white people on the higher edge of poverty who had not been beaten down into hopelessness and helplessness...yet. I wanted to look like a "normal" middle class white girl from the suburbs.  Normal was my highest aspiration. Civil Rights, SDS and the Vietnam War blew the lid off all that and opened the world to me.

 Supreme Court Confirmation

I'm working so hard this morning to manage my emotions....my grief...my disappointment...my (dis)belief in the goodness of others.

I'm scared.
I'm so very angry.
I'm sad thinking of all the women who have had and are having the same emotions as I coming up inside them and working so hard to do more than stuff them down...as we have had to do so many many times before. Some feelings are expected; others we still don't understand...even though we have been through this before.

When we were not heard.
When we were discounted.
When we were not believed.
When we were demonized and ridiculed.

It overwhelms me in moments when I cannot control the tears and deep, soulful sobs escape from deep inside.

I cannot even hear the voice of the one true loving male in my life...my son...who I hoped to raise differently...and who is indeed most thoughtful and caring.  Yet he is a man...and he cannot understand why his mother should care so much about a certain man who will soon sit on the highest court in our country.

Because I watched a highly accomplished, intelligent woman shake and quiver while relating a memory from long ago.
As I have.
Because something that happened to her was so traumatizing that she has spent every day since examining herself, her closest relationships, her thoughts, feelings and beliefs; in order to make sense, to understand, to bring acceptance to herself.
As I have.
Because she was not believed.
As I was.
Because she was ridiculed.
As I was.

Because she had to face the man that she accused and he did not respond with compassion even as he denied her memory.
As I have.

Because by all accounts he will work to overturn a landmark court decision that recognizes a woman's right to make decisions about her health and her body.  A decision that is one of only a few that signifies a woman's autonomy; her existence as a uniquely qualified human being to determine her own future.  A decision that took women out of the darkness of desperation and dangerous alleys of criminality into high quality, accessible healthcare.

Because his denial makes it okay for others to shed responsibility.

Because he is sanctioned by the men AND WOMEN who govern our country.  It is with the women who voted for Kavanaugh that I have the most anger. Betrayal.

I think of all the courageous, loving, insightful women that have contributed to my well-being throughout my life....some would likely be shocked to be included...but those that I had the most differences with were sometimes the ones that strengthened me when I needed it.

Like the 27 year old waittress with 4 children who tried to self abort with quinine and a glass straw in the restroom of the restaurant where we both worked.  I offered to take her to Planned Parenthood for birth control counseling and she refused saying that's where n.... go.  3 of her children had brain damage at birth from botched attempts at termination.

Like the college roommate that I took to the emergency room after finding her bleeding profusely in bed after a "back alley" doctor had terminated her pregnancy.

Like the cashier at the neighborhood convenience store who I found red-eyed and teary one day when I came in to pay for my gas.  She had just found out her 15 year old daughter was pregnant...the same age she had been when this daughter was born.

Like the 12 year old girl in my 7th grade class who confided in me as we walked to school one morning that her mother's boyfriend was getting into bed with her at night and when she had told her mother, she beat her and called her a slut.

My mother didn't beat me when I told her what my stepfather did...she just said that I should not ever tell anyone because "all families have secrets". So I didn't for a very long time.

and on and on......

and so it goes....

Boiled Peanuts

It's Saturday morning in late summer in California's Central Valley.  It has been hotter than normal this year and another dry one resulting in wild fires up and down the state.  The air is acrid, brown, and tastes of dust literally older than the hills.  My son went for a bike ride and returned home with farmer's market delights and a surprise for me."Here Ma", he said with a twinkle in his voice, "Look what I got for you."  I took the white plastic bag bulging with little lumps and bumps and peered inside..."Raw peanuts!!??"  A rare find in this dry climate and a relic from my childhood summers in eastern North Carolina.
My Brother, sister and I often spent our summers with my mother's family in our home state spending a few weeks at each of her siblings homes until at the end we would go to cousins in Wilmington.  As often as we could, in Wilmington we went to Wrightsville Beach and spent all day chasing the waves, digging for sand fiddlers, and eating boiled peanuts that were sold in little paper bags by strolling vendors on the crowded beach.  The peanuts were boiled in sea water and tasted like the ocean, and eventually, like the beach itself as gritty sand would find its way from our fingers onto the outer shells.

Thank you, Chris...you know how to make your mama smile...now if we could just get some ocean water to boil these peanuts in and some sand to add to the mix.

Listening to Tom Waits this morning.  Should be doing so many things but ole tomcat makes just me want to hang out and smile.  My living room turns into a sultry, smoke-filled piano bar...and I just sit at the table sipping tea and feeling like it is scotch as the blanket of blues melodies wash through me.  I love his quirky sense of humor, even with the rawness of his voice and lyrics, he conveys such depth while not taking anything too seriously.  and "I hope that I don't fall in love" with him...(smile)

I was up about 4 with the dog and sat watching the night sky begin to fade into morning...then back in bed and, as oftens happens on the second installment of sleep...I dreamed a dream of fantasy and reality intertwined.  I was at the library which was in the middle of Home Depot, researching something legal for somebody I knew...??? I had been there awhile because the librarian kept coming by and saying "Are you still here?  How long are you going to be here?"  I just smiled and shrugged.  My grandson was with me...listening to a story being read in the children's corner.  Instead of being the big 11 year old that he is, he was about 5 and still had that delightful little boy laugh that kept bouncing across the space between us and kept us connected even though I couldn't quite see him.  All of a sudden his giggle seemed farther away so I went to check on him...for a moment I was disoriented because he wasn't in the place where I had left him.  Just as I looked around the corner, I saw a woman on the sidewalk (somehow we were outside then) who was encouraging him to follow her across the street in a game of tag.  As I shifted into gear, prepared to cry out and catch him, I found myself in that dream state of paralysis where no sound comes from my mouth and my feet are stuck in quicksand.  My mind was trying not to completely panic by sending my body messages like "calm down; breathe, see where he is and where he might go...find help...try not to cry.  I hate that feeling.

I absolutely and completely adore my grandson...he is truly a joyful blessing in my life.  I need to tell him that more often, I think I neglected telling my own kids all the amazing things I saw in them because the message I had gotten as a kid was that too many positive messages like that would make you arrogant and conceited...now I know that is a bunch of bull...children don't get enough recognition for their unique and special ways of being.

Ole Tom is telling a story in the bar that I need to hear.
:)

Connections

It's been a while since I was on this blog.  My focus has changed.  Although still looking back, forward and sideways to make sense of life and define somehow the path where my feet travel each day.  I have more time alone now...just me and the dog...my son and grandson in their own home with the lovely and talented woman they have charmed into their lives.  It feels so good to see them all together...3 brilliant energies who exist so well together and are so distinctly present apart.  I have spent much too much of my life seeking myself through my relationships that I failed to see myself as clearly as I wanted...too much attention to the reflection and not enough on the real me.  I am told I have a powerful presence...and I see evidence of that, even though I fail to acknowledge it readily.  It scares me, humbles me, gives me a stronger sense of responsibility...and sometimes it is what makes me want to isolate.  I know I am different...I don't always adopt the social graces of others, my passion moves me to speak in terms that are tinged with anger and condemnation...I sometimes judge the world too harshly.  Injustice, ignorance and system dysfunction frustrate me...I long for conversation with people who are knowledgeable, compassionate, and articulate...but find that I get the most from simple exchanges in everyday life.  For the last few days I have had a man staying in my "under-construction" garage apartment who leads a "unencumbered life"...meaning he is virtually homeless, drifting from situation to situation without expectations of permanency or prosperity.  He has his alcohol dependency to dull whatever pain he carries and finds pleasure in being useful to others.  Yesterday he walked down to the store and found a "Scientific American" magazine from 1999 in a trash heap.  He enjoyed this gift of intellectual nourishment tremendously and spent periodic moments throughout the day reading, processing and sharing its contents.  We humans are amazing beings.  I spent the day working at my computer with breaks going out to the yard, checking on construction progress, and engaging in bits of conversation...he enjoyed hearing about my travels around the country and we found bits of historical commonality in our lives.  There was a comfortable rhythm to our interaction.

Catching up

I haven't added anything to this blog in some time.  Life has gotten ahold of me again.  Since my last entry I have been unexpectedly unemployed.  My third "retirement" and my first uninvited.  I feel like I am coming out of the shock now.  It is spring and although it has always been a hopeful time of year for me, it is also one that brings up some of my deepest losses.  April is full of landmark dates.  The first is the anniversary of my brother's death in 1995.  He died of cancer at the age of 46.  The 10th would have been my mother's 90th birthday if she had not also died of cancer in her mid 40s.  The 16th is my older son's birthday.  He will be 34 this year and I miss him a thousand times a day.  He is strong and healthy and living in Seattle, and I speak to him on the phone occassionally and see him maybe once a year, and as adult children and relationships go, I suppose we do okay.  But nobody told me how hard it would be to lose that closeness I felt when he was growing up; when he looked to me for understanding, love, compassion.  I had no parents to have experienced this need to "break away", establish myself as completely separate.  My parents were gone way too young and I was cast adrift to maneuver on my own...I didn't even start to blame them for my failings until I was almost 40.  Instead I have struggled to resolve the loss of closeness with distance.  He left for college on the opposite coast at 18 and he never came home again.  When he found and married the love of his life, I thought we would regain some of our connection, that he would be more comfortable with his adulthood more defined.  But he said he felt like he had to make a choice between us and that he could not be close to both of us.  So I stepped aside and accepted what he could offer; and tried to redefine who we were to each other.  I accepted his statements and recited the "if you love it set it free" mantra several times a day for a loooong time.  And for the last year or two it is better...much better...maybe I am finally growing up?

Why Memoirs

Why do I have this blog of memories?  I suppose it has to do with the fact that I have lived 3,000 miles from my family of origin for all of my adult life; that my parents were dead by the time I was 22; and that I needed to put some structure around a chaotic childhood:  a childhood that I often dissociated from and therefore made no sense to myself or others.  In my 40's, I worked hard with therapist after therapist to put back together the feelings unfelt and the visions unseen.  I thought it would make me sane.  They told me it would make me whole.  I wanted to be sane and whole for my kids.  I thought I could make their lives less chaotic and smoother like I believed others to be:  the "normal" people I saw everyday at work and school; passed on the street; chatted with in line at the supermarket.  As crazy as I knew their father's childhood to be; it made much more sense than my own.  He at least knew where his pain came from and, after sobriety, why it could never be medicated enough.  His fear made sense...to me anyway.
Now I know we all have pain and we cannot compare one to another...it is too personal.  Anyway, this is the first time I have found joy in writing about my life.  I suppose that says something.