International Women's Day-Bite Me

From Wikipedia, "the focus of the celebrations ranges from general celebrations of respect, appreciation and love towards women to a celebration for women's economic, political, and social achievements"

Just a day?

The definition goes on to explain that what began as a Socialist political event and was then adopted by the United Nations, has since 1975 become an added quasi-holiday; an adjacency to the other isolated days where the focus is primarily on women-Valentine's and Mother's Day. In other words, the two occasions we recognize how important women are in relation to what they do for men. So essentially, women are allotted 3 days, or .0082% annually, on which we are to be reminded that yes, we actually do matter in society and that sometimes, what we do makes us special.

Isn't that special.

With all due respect to the rampant issues and instances of Domestic Violence, is it melodramatic to say that this recognition is a slap in the face? I find it ludicrous to attend a party for one day only to wake up the next in the same world where women are marginalized, paid less, denied positions of political power (nice group photo there, SCOTUS), objectified, verbally, physically and sexually abused, and then told that while it's okay to complain about these injustices just make sure we do so in a manner that won't offend anyone (aka piss off the oppressors). Choose our words wisely and monitor our tone. Passionate rhetoric and resistance are still reserved for the masculine realms of business and politics and activism and while we've been granted a few seats at the table, they seem to be the fold-away, temporary type.

We are only a minority by a mere .24 percent. Less than a whole. We comprise 49.76% of the planet's population and are responsible for 100% of it (albeit with several seconds of assistance, and even then our progesterone has to beckon the reluctant little swimmers forth). We are already everywhere, doing everything, so why does a day need to be designated to validate that? The fact that it does reveals so much about the impairment of our society's vision. The spotlight today only highlights how imbalanced we are, our disproportion the base cause of all of our cultural clashes and shortcomings. A truly fair and equal society would see every day as both Men's and Women's Day, as equality is a nod to all, but that's not our reality. it's just a wish, an ideal dangling somewhere out there in the foggy future, which is why this day exists in the first place. The real celebration will be the day when we no longer see the need to have this day.

I suppose it's a matter of perspective, today, and I'm simply seeing the empty portion of the half-filled glass. If I thought that the focus brought to this day would be a catalyst, a crack in the societal concrete that would let in some change, a space opened up for us to fit comfortably into the foundation, side by side, I probably wouldn't be as cynical about it. Too much time passes though, between the days. I might feel more optimism and hope about this if we instituted an International Women's Day of the Week, celebrated all year long, reminding us often, lest we forget from one year to the next. 

The Ferguson Lesson-We are not United

With the onslaught of opinions and diatribes online and on screen throughout the Ferguson ordeal, from the cataclysmic moment when that teenager dropped lifeless onto a darkened Missouri street, to the final absolution for the police officer who put him there, with all of the media madness and racist rhetoric and violent venting that occurred in between, the ubiquitous question has always been-what has this been for?

We've asked this collectively as a Country, intimately of ourselves, accusingly of one another. We have a deep need to know why. We need for there to be a reason, some higher purpose that will explain to us how a series of events so random and chaotic and ultimately fatal could have happened amongst us, to us. We're trying to make sense of something so senseless so that we can rest comfortably again in our belief that we are not only a Nation but also a species of orderly, civilized beings. We think that if we can take something away from what happened in Ferguson, something that's good and helpful and  that will give us hope, then the horror that happened there can be redeemed.

All along we have been divided. Divided by race, divided by reason, divided in our blame and in our support. We're divided-minded, fragmented along lines of race and culture and economic stature. The division between us is as deep a fissure as is the San Andreas Fault and what's been happening in Missouri has only widened the split. We've betrayed our own name.

We're looking for an answer, a way to succinctly wrap up this entire mess so that we can move forward in our frantic daily lives feeling like because we understand it, it won't really bother us anymore. We get it, so we can be free from it now, we don't have to look at it or think about it anymore. With regard to Ferguson it's just not that black and white. We desperately want there to be a lesson we can learn and that's understandable, we do not want to witness another tragedy like this. But we also want to have learned something so that we can go back to believing we are better than this, above hatred and prejudice and bloodlust and revenge, that the kindness in our nature always triumphs over it's mistakes.

Maybe the lesson has been to teach us how much it hurts to be apart. Maybe we are being taught how to come together. We always seem to learn best through repetition, but it doesn't have to be that way.

What Sexy Might Be

The other night as I was watching a documentary about Feminists in Literature a group of underwear models assaulted me. You know the ad, the commercial where paper-thin post-pubescents strut across a stage wearing only little bitty swatches of material? A haughty female voice, reminding me of tea and curtsies, asked "What is Sexy?" and before I had a chance to consider the possibilites, a stick figure with stilts for legs and giant feathers on her back bounded down the runway. Heading straight for me, she flew so fast that I thought she might crash through the TV screen and land in my living room, from HD to 3-D right before my outraged eyes. Then a blushing girl pouted and told me where I could buy something that would make me sexy. 

The following day at lunch one of my girl friends and I impaled our lettuce leaves and lamented about being overworked (we are), over-stressed (who isn't?), overweight (I am, she's not), and over it all, and then the discussion evolved into one about her current romantic dilemma. She'd been seeing someone for more than two months and through the weeks of romantic dinners and Netflixing at her place he had yet to make a move. At first she'd been impressed by his chivalry and restraint, so rare in this day of bathroom selfies and instant gratification- obviously he was a classy catch, but the more evenings they spent together the more her affection for him intensified and in proportion, her desire for a little action. By the end of her story she was tapping both feet and ordering a second glass of wine; 16 dates and still no hanky-panky. "Maybe I'm just not sexy anymore" she said, as if it had an expiration date.

We examined for hours, we excavated, we took apart each of their interactions and laid all of the pieces on the table like a puzzle in attempt to discover whether he was just a gentleman or if, perhaps, he preferred one. 

We agreed that she needed to do something. Passivity was producing only confusion, self-doubt and mounting frustration. If he was indeed homosexual she'd be disappointed but nonetheless would wish him the best and send him on his way. At least she'd know. At least she'd be able to put to bed the idea of him as a partner, thus clearing the space for a real one to appear.

We staged a seduction. Having read a lot about the Greek Sirens, I felt qualified to Direct:

"Dim the lights and bring out the candles, preferably scented ones, musk is always nice. Do you have any Patchoulli? Turn the music on, low, something with a languid, sensuous rhythm like soft jazz or maybe a soulful, sultry tease by Sade or Nora Jones. Wear silk or satin or something sheer, low-cut and easy to remove, no buttons. Sit close beside him on the couch and make sure your knees are kissing. And the liquor! Yes, have on hand some wine or warm brandy, whatever you think, but nothing that will make him belch or pass gas. Rest your hand on his upper thigh and every time he says something funny or insightful, give it a squeeze and look straight into his eyes".

I caught myself within minutes. 

"Cut!" I cried. "No, no, no. Forget all that"

I shook my head. Where had that come from? Had the TV been muted last night while the Feminists spoke? Shame fell like a curtain over my directorial debut.

And then, thank Whatever rules the universe, I saw it for what it was. With zero thought and as much hesitation it had come up and out. I regurgitated ideas and images that have been fed to me, year after year, by the media and the movies and the makers of the many, too many, products that I purchase. I even had a grammar school teacher who once said to me, "Boys don't like girls who talk too much", as if that would shut me up. I've bought in to the belief that what Sexy Might Be is something that can be manufactured, a thing that can be made or a way of behaving that can make me so.

I forgot, just for a few minutes, what I know in favor of what I've been told is true.

We're not virgins to this news; we all know that the beauty industry wants our faces but doesn't have our backs. We've read the stories about reshaping and airbrushing and felt justifiably appalled and insulted by the ruse. "We're too smart to fall for that" we think, and it's true, we really are that smart. We know that what sexy might be has nothing to do with what props or acts we put on and everything to do with the energy we put out; unique, personal, self-actualized vibrations of satisfaction and well-being. Is there anything more attractive than a woman at ease with herself? Men don't think so. While the package may catch their eyes it's the contents which hold their heart. What sexy might be is a gift, not a trap.

And not only to be given but also acknowledged, by and for ourselves, however we choose to define it.

So if we know what's going on why do we still buy into it? Even if we don't rush out to get the products themselves, we take the idea about What Sexy Is home with us and let it live there, we make space for it inside of ourselves. I know better and I bought into it, if only for the brief amount of time it took me to leave my senses and then come back to them. We must believe because we have no other choice but to do so and I can feel the Feminists thumping me on the head for even thinking such a thing. The message is there though, in deep, embedded like the worst kind of weed in the soil of our innermost minds where only beautiful, life-loving foliage is meant to bloom. I sell advertising for a living so I understand how this works. A verbal or visual suggestion, even better if it's both, repeats and resounds, sometimes connected with a thing that we connect with; a song or a place or a special event, until it takes root. We remember. Our impressionable, defenseless subconscious, the theater of our dreams, receives the intel but also accepts its pernicious subtext of sabotage, simply because it's such a familiar refrain. That teacher from grammar school? That happened 35 years ago, and it's still with me-one sentence. We want to believe that we're desirable and sexy but we've literally been convinced that we're actually not. 

We keep talking and hearing about this and that's such a great thing, but the discussion alone doesn't destroy the effects. Just because we know what's being done doesn't undo it, and saying that something's bad enough times won't make it good. A better message, repeated and resounded until it takes root, seems to be the best defense. We can start wherever we are now but also begin where we begin-

 Years ago I bought my young daughter a character Barbie-accomplished, professional, Doctor Barbie. Along with her starched white coat and tools of the trade, her stethoscope and doctor bag, came a pair of plastic white stiletto pumps. I threw those away. My daughter liked to take her dolls with her into the tub at night, so we had a standing bucket of naked Barbies in the bathroom at all times. I told her I thought it was a good idea to leave Doctor Barbie's clothes on as she might be called upon to perform an emergency surgery. She seemed to understand. 

Three Little Words

While the rest of the world was making love (so it seems), I went grave-digging this Valentines Day. I kicked at the ground around some of my dead romances wondering if The One For Me was ever right in front of me and I just hadn't recognized him. Maybe I'd been too picky. Had I discarded him carelessly like a candy wrapper in anticipation of the good stuff? I peeked into the beginnings and lingered a little in the middles but the ends, I concluded, always came because of three little words. No now, not those three.

At 19 a boyfriend took me to the movies for our first date. Wintertime in Chicago, and though the theatre had a parking garage and heated catwalk, he resourcefully found a spot 4 blocks away and held my hand as we navigated mounds of snow and ice.  The ticket booth lady snuck me a pitying glance when he reached for his wallet and exclaimed, "Seven Dollars?! Geez!" 5 seconds passed as I considered buying my own way in, but by the 6th I'd decided That was it for Him.

He called constantly that next week, before stalking got it's shameful reputation and was still known as pursuit, but his timing was bad and I'd always just left or not yet returned and then one day he appeared on the front porch holding a hand-written poem. It was an acrostic of my name where he stacked and rhymed all of my qualities that had him hooked. As he recited it I leaned against the railing and viewed him from a different angle. Poetic trumped miserly then, as frozen toes are a small sacrifice for a warm heart. So what if he was cautious about money? I told myself he might just be my perfect match considering how fast and free I am with my wallet. We'd balance each other. It could be good. 

Then in the Spring we went to my cousin's wedding. Since they were young and she was pregnant they made it quiet and quick at the Fireman's Dining Hall. No DJ, just a boom box. He watched me dance and I'd catch him across the small room, surveying the gift table. Our ending came swiftly on the drive home that night as he praised my cousin's brilliance for having apparently made a profit on the event. "I mean did you see that stack of envelopes?" His verbal applause went on like that for miles but it became the background music because in my mind "seven dollars geez" had taken the main stage. I imagined for the ride a future spent calculating every special occasion, removing all of the joy from every single one. Then I subtracted him.

A few years forward I batted my eyelashes at shallowness and as if perfectly cast came the hot one. His aunt and uncle owned a cabin in Traverse City, Michigan and we went there for a weekend to ski. On the hills he offered little tips on things. Lots of them. How to clamp my boots, when to bend my knees, where to shift my weight. He chose a hat for me that he knew would keep me the warmest without breaking my speed. I kept to myself that I knew how to ski and had even taken some lessons because he seemed to like giving me tips almost as much as he liked looking at himself. I couldn't blame him, I liked looking at him too. He was someone to look at and everywhere we went everybody else apparently agreed.

He came to my parents house that Christmas and I'm positive my Gram tipped her Harvey's Bristol Creme in his direction. My mom flitted around room whispering to my relatives, "I think this could be the one". During this period my father had started getting anxious about me and impatient for grandchildren. If I'm remembering right, this was the man he cornered that Christmas and tried to bribe with an all-expenses paid Hawaiian honeymoon. I stood too far from them to eavesdrop accurately, but swear I heard him say "Please" and "don't worry, you'll get used to her". 

The gift circle and all eyes were on us. He placed a square box in my lap. Too large for jewelry, too symmetrical for a sweater, maybe a vase for all the future flowers he'd be surprising me with? 

I unwrapped an auto-drip coffee maker, a recent model with a hefty packet of unbleached paper filters, colorless and stiff.  "Ohhhh" sang my mother while beside me he sat beaming like it was the Hope Diamond.

"Um...thanks" and then I braved "but I don't drink coffee. Have you ever seen me drink coffee? I don't like it"

"But I do"

And there they were, all three of them, the nails in his coffin. Later, I let him take me home to my apartment where he cleared a space on the counter and plugged it in proudly. Afterward, he got the appliance and plugged that in as well. 

"Here" he said "let me show you how to use it".

But he never did because I couldn't learn how to stand in front of someone without being seen, as much as he had tried to teach me. So he took his coffee to-go.

At the tip of this triangle, like an upside-down heart, was the one who would have made it had our watches been in sync. Everything else between us was. Magic and mystery made it that way from the first time we met. We were co-workers, salespeople who along with a territory shared months and moments I'll never forget. I'd think a thought and he'd say it out loud. An invisible rope stretched between and pulled us into each other. 2-hour lunches trading stories and secrets became our routine. We'd travel to our clients together and always we'd take the longest route back. When he was going out and I was staying in, he'd stop at my desk and say softly "Come with me" like a question, as a plea. Into early evening when the office echoed he'd ask if I was hungry and then he'd say it again. I loved those little words, trustworthy and faithful they came to me each day and often nights, with weekends as well. 

Disaster loomed; mismanaged funds and dishonest dealings catapulted the company toward a rapid demise. He told me he was leaving before he had no other choice, he'd found something better that he would be a part of building up from the beginning. It was without structure or history and entailed a tremendous risk, a daring plunge into creating a thing without knowing for certain how much it might demand. He said them then. "Come with me" and I almost did, tiptoeing right up to the edge until fear pulled me back to a place that felt safe. I decided I'd wait, hang around for a bit and see what might happen, maybe something better was ahead.

And then he left.

So each partner from the past has three parts all their own; beginning, middle and end, and they're all in the middle of everyone else's. That's enough to make life whole. If you're paying attention, three words will tell you a lot about a person, maybe all you need to know. I'm relieved to discover that I didn't miss something or someone, that everything belongs exactly where it is because it's all a part of the unfinished story.

Greetings

Although I didn't want to, I turned 50. It's a recent thing, but one I've had my eye on for some time now. This blog is a birthday present to myself; my immortal footprint in cyberspace. And since it looks like the internet is here to stay, this then ensures that I am too.

The day my daughter finished High School I thought "Finally! My chauffeur duties have come to an end!" With her college expenses looming, a month later I took a Part Time job as a Taxi Driver. Some habits are hard to break.

My friends worried. "You'll need mace" they warned, "Maybe you should consider getting a gun" (as if that would ever happen). While their concern touched me, I've never shared any of their fears. Being robbed, raped or worse simply isn't an option. If it were, I would never be able to do this work, so it just isn't. Selective denial keeps me driving. Besides, the cab company I work for has as its home base an affluent Chicago suburb. It's not the ghetto. I'm safe.

The truly awful crimes, the violent, news-worthy type, are hosted primarily in the city, where anonymity and opportunity are easier to come by. Criminals on occasion visit the suburbs but when they do their work is so mundane that it's hardly worth mentioning; the occasional 7-11 hold up or some bicycle or car-radio thefts are about as bad as it gets, typically. My suburb sleeps most nights. That's the allure, of course-quiet, lawns and oh so many Starbucks'.

I go into the city reluctantly and get out of there as quickly as I possibly can. Driving anyplace downtown, even through Wrigleyville or Lincoln Park, I know I'm getting flagged (the taxi term for being waved down for a ride). Stopping is a gambler's game, as it's illegal for a suburban cab to take city business. They're very territorial. Once caught, you are arrested and your car impounded and neither you nor the vehicle are going anywhere before paying about $2400. Like suburban neighbors, the city watches out for its own. Dumb and desperate are those who take that kind of risk but it's so tempting when it's right there in front of you. As long as I get back to where I belong, I don't have to fight with myself about it. So I beat it back to the burbs.

The advantage to being a Chicagoan is that the distance between the city and its outskirts is so minimal that there is no sacrifice; you can have your peace and your party too. Passengers from everywhere love this place, I hear it all the time, and Chicago-land loves its home. That's why we put up with the weather. The real sacrifice.

People I drive in my cab have stories to tell, whether they know it or not. They love, work, rejoice, regret. I intend to share here some of the most interesting and inspiring among them.