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Josh and Jeff
We've known Joshua since she was seven years old.  Mac, Ob and I attened her Bat Mitvah and traditional wild middle-school dance after-party yesterday. The text of her father, Jeff's, advice to his daughter at the  observation that a child, his child, is becoming an adult child follows:

Congratulations to the Joshua Rose!

You  may wonder why I sometimes call you THE Joshua Rose.  Actually, I got that from you, when you were a little tot.

I used to make up lots of games for us to play, and you always had fun playing them.  You knew that I made up the games.  Once, after we had been playing a game for a while, you wanted to switch roles.  You said, “Now let ME be the daddy, and YOU be the Joshua Rose.”

Well, part of Jewish culture is being good at the game -- the game, writ large.  (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase, “writ large”!)  Being good at the game means being good at playing by the rules.  So there are a lot of Jewish lawyers, doctors, accountants and so on.

But at the same time, part of Jewish culture is QUESTIONING  the rules.  History shows much Jewish participation in the labor movement, civil rights movement, and other activism for empowerment.

You have had fun questioning the rules, and not just when you were a little tot. You may remember the day that you were TRULY enthusiastic about going to school.  Unfortunately, there has only been ONE such day.  That was the day that you were going to circulate a petition demanding that the school reverse its decision to lengthen the school day. The petition was successful, but your enjoyment came from your participation, before you knew the outcome.

So, in the great tradition of Jewish culture, may the Joshua Rose continue to have fun playing by the rules -- and have even more fun changing them!

Being an adult involves many things, maybe even wild dance parties. Maybe.

Commitment to the common struggle of being human is the most important, however.

Jeff has spent his parenthood stressing this to his daughter in word and example. 
 
Mazel Tov on a job well done. It is gratifying to see our children grow into true adulthood.

Jeff Schmidt, in addition to being the father of Josh, is a long-time education activist, living in Washington DC. He is the author of Disciplined Minds.
 
 
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Left: My grandmother, Elvy, with some of her siblings in Elba, Alabama at around 1920. Right: My great, great, great aunt, Rose Cooler, Lowcountry, South Carolina.

You never know the truth of it. That might be something Jack from All the Kings Men would say, or the oppressive, hot, dust, humid, slowly forming voice of Faulkner's narration in Light In August, or Binx Bolling in The Moviegoer, or The Misfit in A Good Man is Hard to Find. I know my native region just as well -- which is to say from emotional memory and a kind of "knowing without knowing", the false clairvoyance of familiarity -- just as well from books as from any experience of my own, which is in truth and in never knowing it either. And we know it.

Everybody could have been rich, because everyone knows someone unseen, who was made rich, when they were smart enough -- though it is never smartness, it is luck -- to buy that co-cola stock when it first came out and to hold onto it.

Stories begin with how someone was born and somewhere in there how they died. They died as lovers in kerosene fires, as babies that would not nurse, at the hands of the grown sons, if fathers; they died of canned salmon that had been opened by a curious child in the pantry and left. No one ever dies quietly. Quiet is for the living. They sit at gas stations. They spit. They drink sweet-tea on porches.

But that's not true either.

All that is true is familiarity. And that isn't all true. The heat, the search for what will be cool to the hand, for untroubled sleep, to ride free, for violence, for the worn light-blue starched apron kitchen of motherhood, to have it and be had by it, for the hidden butter and egg money behind the wall, for something you can never say the name of, to know without knowing.

In the beginning was the word and the word was God.
 
 

"Bite this stick", the doctor might say as we birthed our children one-hundred years ago. The grunting,  whimpering, sobbing, pleading, sweating, stinking, bleeding nudity of motherhood channeled into that sweet gag, silent, as the towels mount to soak up all of the  nasty animal we are as we labor with the promise of life. Bite this stick.  

To date, my most popular blog entry, which reappeared on Counterpunch this week (Of Mice and Moms), is one in which I refuse the bite the stick. It is  vaguely about Mother's Day and it is, honestly, the kind of screaming that does not produce life. Birth is a channeling of the pain, down, not up into the air,  pushing through it, sinking, a kind of focus that for all the animal smell, is  what is truly animal. But the response from other mothers, and even fathers,  people in general, to my scream was huge.  I was a little taken aback. We are angry. We are sad.

Mother's Day is sad and it is unnerving because it is an insult to us. It is  an insult to life. We are angry at this insult. I feel death, unnatural death,  moving in for our children. It is emotional, moral and physical. And each of us  is a mother's child. The facts are apparent. I have little more to add. The
facts are what we talk about very often. I do not desire to watch the executions  of our children, to know the make of the bullets, the details of the poverty and the war, to seek out an argument about the temperature and humidity the day on which we sort the pieces left of the life we have tenderly worked at.

Politics and ideology leave me feeling cold. They are a game played by people who do not know what love is, far, far too often.

I have a name for what I am doing with my life. I have a few. They are the names of the children I have birthed, Mac and Ob, and the names of the other people I love. I think this is what I have in common with every other mother on Earth. 

Solidarity is the principle aim of thoughtful motherhood. This is what I am here to tell you today. Give me a minute and take my hand, I want to explain what I think. 

At one time the idea solidarity meant in German culture "collective debt."  Over time it came to mean the individual taking responsibility for the  community. Later on, during the French Revolution, it came to mean brotherhood  among the underclass. Today it seems to mean some kind of interest, however vague, in the welfare of another. It means a lot of things to a lot of people. I  will accept each of these definitions for now. I will accept each of these  definitions because they each pivot on responsibility, a deepening of what we are each capable of feeling, saying, thinking, doing, from where we start, because of love. Love is  the glue that holds a community. This is the same pivot where we find each other as mothers: responsibility and love. 

There is a limit to what I can do for my sons, for anyone, so long as I do  not make my love political, however. While my politics must not lose its face, in my  case, the dirty little freckled face of my baby son and the deep eyes of my young man. 

Some time ago a woman invented Mother's Day. Julia Ward Howe. She called on  mothers to raise their sons well, to not be tools for war, as she saw happen in the American Civil War, as she assisted happening as the author of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Quickly this was forgotten; the holiday progressed to honor mothers just for being mothers, not call us to solidarity. And quickly, yet again, the holiday was consumerized. And now as my sons are threatened, and as I scramble with my every ounce of life force to protect them, I will get a card this weekend, maybe with a picture of a teddy bear on it, and maybe some message from a friend about how I am a goddess, to be proud of my stretched and flabby body, as if it is that that I am most worried about as perhaps it is that that  determines my personal worth to the occasional sweet talker with economic and/or social power.

I like Howe’s Mother's Day Proclamation. "Arise, all women who have hearts, Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!" Like many good words, however, I recognize that repeating them on their own doesn't make them understood enough to derive a coherent lesson or change behavior. I think, to be understood, the people in them have to be struggled with as representatives from our own inner lives, which is what they are, as our ancestors or peers. We must be willing to  fully struggle with our culture, and not just mainstream culture, but our closest, most intimate cultures inside it. Howe, for example, may have been conveniently misguided in her thinking that women, in general, teach sons "charity, mercy and patience" -- traits then somehow "unlearned" -- and that moral evil is an inherently masculine capacity for which women are uniquely responsible for  working their sexual or motherly magic against. And like our old mother, Howe, we might too be misguided.

I have begun to see how our idea of solidarity moved from being one of  communal debt to the vague interest in another's welfare. I will not argue with the word, but the animal mother has been tamed. In a recent interview on Democracy Now long-time activist Selma James said "We are civilized by this work [of caretaking], we women...we need men to be civilized by this work...we don't want them working for capitalism...I'm talking about our working to care for others, to be with others." I agree that caretaking is transformative, in a good way, but I have a bone to pick with the word “civilized.” I have been thinking recently that actually the problem is that we are less animal than we should be. We have nothing to base a morality on. We live in the intellectual, professional, ether.

Howe saw the devastation and her politics clearly changed as a result. She  became a pacifist just a few years after supporting a war, a war she supported to support justice for enslaved peoples. And while she may have admitted to friends in private correspondence the change, and to some degree her own responsibility as a writer of rousing words, not simply another mother, for its horrors, it is the Mother's Day Proclamation that is her public writing, and in it, she shares nothing of that. 

The Proclamation seems to me sometimes interesting primarily as a study in how one can make the mistake of eschewing appropriate personal and communal responsibility in order to pursue a more virginal image, and an impossible responsibility, than anyone deserves or can shoulder, and do so very surreptitiously. It reminds me, really, of an aspect of modern American "progressivism," where we blame evil people (like George Bush) for doing evil things (like bombing Afghanistan and Iraq) and feel like, because we say the right words (like peace and solidarity), or even, in some cases, truly suffer in our efforts, we are among the virtuous (while we continue to bomb Afghanistan and Iraq). 

How can we begin to explain, if we are serious people, serious about justice,
the constant murder of civilians all over the world in what so many of us have accepted is a series of wars about dominance? And, even without war, the abuse of workers? Poverty? Are we really so weak that we can't do better? We can see the consequences of an incomplete fight for justice -- a justice most human beings on the Earth say we want, and I believe we do, I think. Is it simply that our mothers did not read Howe's Proclamation and words like it? Is that the problem? Somehow, I think this is doubtful. 

But it is in the example of their profound complication, her complication,  our complication and my complication that I can learn anything, or share  anything. It's never enough, I think, to just recall the facts. We must struggle with them in our deepest selves. And we must do so fully with each other. That is animal behavior evolved to a state of deep morality.

I have said before, because I am a mother and I repeat myself, that colonial thinking (for example: racism, classism,  misogyny), which we all engage in to varying degrees -- in testament to our wretched inheritances -- is ultimately about denying humanity, making people, ourselves even, abstractions, ideas, not flesh and blood people. The idea we have might be violent or it may be sentimental, as our political debates speak to, but the reduction is ultimately an evil. It may be the definition of evil. Indeed, Selma James, in her 1972 introduction to The Power of Women and the Subversion of Community said wisely: “There is nothing in capitalism which is not capitalistic, that is, not part of the class struggle.” 

Whiteness, for example, as a form of superiority, is kind of a new concept which came about as a convoluted result of the movement toward home ownership  and suburbia after WW II (White People were once Irish, Italian, Polish...), and while race  is imaginary (while racism is real), it is possible that what was once "White" culture is, in our current social context, is becoming "professional" culture. Institutional racism and, indeed, caustic bigotry remain huge issues for millions of people -- for all of us really, if solidarity is our value -- but in the United States we now have a Black president and the new MLK memorial has corporate sponsorship --  the same sponsorship that goes to making war and leaving people in poverty, and the same president who sends us into it. Whiteness, a great tool of  institutional evil, is an invention of capitalism as an invention of  imperialism. What other tools are there? Racism is still with us and what else is?

 Our mother James continues:

 "…look at the demands we in England marched for in 1971: equal pay, free
24-hour child care, equal educational opportunity and free birth control and
abortion on demand. Incorporated into a wider struggle, some of these are vital. As they stand, they accept that we not have the children we can't afford; they demand of the State facilities to keep the children we can afford for as long as 24 hours a day; and they demand that these children have equal chance to be conditioned and trained to sell themselves competitively with each other on the labor market for equal pay. By themselves these are not just co-optable demands. They are capitalist planning. Most of us in the movement never felt these  demands expressed where we wanted the movement to go, but in the absence of an independent feminist political framework, we lost by default."

In a folk tale from India (my son Mac loved this one when he was about four) an unwise king does not want his naked feet to be dirtied, so he orders the earth covered in leather. This makes it impossible for the people to live, because they cannot grow food, and when it rains, it floods them out. A wiser man creates the first shoes for the king so that the rest of the world may have the life giving dirt again. The king is not confronted in this way and the people continue to live under him, though thankfully no longer under leather. These are the kinds of solutions James was referring to in the 1970s and the kinds of solutions we continue to support, as opposed to solutions based on any idea we may have of solidarity.

Mariarosa Dalla Costa joins Selma James (in The Power of Women and the Subversion of Community) in saying:

"We want...nurseries and washing machines and dishwashers, but we also want choices: to eat in privacy with few people when we want, to have time to be with children, to be with old people, with the sick, when and where we choose. To 'have time' means to work less. To have time to be with children, the old and the sick does not mean running to pay a quick visit to the garages where you park children or old people or invalids. It means that we, the first to be excluded, are taking the initiative in this struggle so that all those other excluded people, the children, the old and the ill, can re-appropriate the social wealth; to be re-integrated with us and all of us with men, not as dependents but autonomously, as we women want for ourselves; since their exclusion, like ours, from the directly productive social process, from social existence, has been created by capitalist organization."

I read a lot of self-help books, because, like many of us, I need some help. 
One of my favorites is less self-help as it is a primer in skills building to  solve all problems through community building. In The Abundant Community consultants Peter Block and John McKnight assert that “We are colonized by the belief that we are a diagnostic category, that we are a need, not a capacity, and that only a system, a product, a professional service can satisfy that need…the abundant community embraces fallibility and humanness.”

It is in a competent community that as human animals we will find freedom,  which may not be the same as liberty. I believe this strongly and I want you to think about it with me. The allure of capitalism is that it is possible for some of us to attain a kind of liberty so long as we have the tool of capital, money, with which to pay for our power, not negotiate our relationships. This is the power of men over women, the power of Whites over People of Color. It is a power that is both coerced, on an individual level, and consensual, on an institutional level. It is a puzzle.

Block and McKnight say that:

"To reclaim the role of citizen, to go from addiction to choice, the shift will simultaneously restore vital functions to the family and the neighborhood and reconstruct the competence of the community, all of which come under assault in consumer culture."

The strategy outlined in The Abundant Community in which one may reclaim the role of citizen is, however, somewhat counterintuitively, an abundantly personal one. The properties to be attained by the authors’ ideal, fully functioning community are the giving of gifts, the presence of association (wherein the gifts of individuals are amplified), and  compassion, or hospitality (which recognizes that many traditional communities are xenophobic, and otherwise phobic, as we have seen in North Carolina this past week). Their strategy has strengths, to be sure, but I find that the authors do not pay heed, in this list or anywhere in their very good book, to the political, the institutional, environment within which this movement they describe must take place. It is not as easy as making better choices. Our choices are pulled at by forces outside of us.

For some reason this has been a common pattern of weakness in our  culture. That which is political is only concerned with institutional matters,  while that which is personal is only concerned with the individual, the  transformation of the individual usually, and usually to a happier state. It is
a kind of hyper-specialization of interest, and a hallmark of professional behavior, which is capitalist behavior, that drives the whole way we think of
our lives together. 

I find it extremely problematic to find a strategy that is either entirely  personal or entirely political to counter the generations of oppression and the ensuing breakdown of community that has made these intrusions more and more  possible. The war we fight is everywhere as mothers, as caretakers,  as maybe the last non-professional relational beings left standing in the United States, hobbling maybe, but here.

Many feminists of James’ generation fought to take women out of the home and into the workplace. This was an institutional, political, strategy not unlike inventing shoes for a king who would otherwise cover the earth in leather. Women took work outside of the home that at best is no more fulfilling than the kinds of work  that the vast majority of men had and have now, which is far from life affirming labor and far from useful labor. All the while the march of colonialism became swifter as our children, now in many cases the third generation with little parental involvement, are raised almost entirely by institutions and the media, which is not only bad for the human animal they are, but which is in service to capitalism. I do not intend to be barefoot and pregnant, but I value the work of caretaking and we all need it. Caretaking should be expanded beyond the role of motherhood. That is the institutional goal, but on a personal level, feeling the weight of motherhood and demanding its respect is on my list.

Where do we even begin meeting these goals? It is all so overwhelming. Martin Luther King, before he was a corporate memorial, began his political agenda in Where Do we Go From Here: Chaos or Community with "The Triple Evils of poverty, racism, and war.”

"They are interrelated, all-inclusive, and stand as barriers to our living in
the 'Beloved Community.' When we work to remedy one evil, we affect all evils. The issues change in accordance with the political and social climate of our nation and world."

Perhaps, if we talk about it, we will identify other things, but we must talk
about it. I propose that we each pick five people with whom we are going to
determinedly interact for the next year, three on the emotionally easy side and two on the hard side, and talk. Talk all the time. Talk deeply. We must identify what is coerced and why in the life of the individual through our neighbors and remedy this through what remains consensual, how we choose to behave as organizations of people. 

If it were me talking, which it is, right this second, political demands we might make as organizations of mothers, as caretakers rather, may well be Guaranteed National Income, for example, a political idea that is often scoffed at as impossible. Income is a big problem in making truly free choices on a personal level. Further, radical, organized, acts of resistance to war would address political issues we find our children and each other faced with, as Howe attempted to address in her invention of Mother’s Day. We must work to free swaths of us from the chains that prevent our connection, but like the chicken and the egg, neither the political nor the personal must be first. 

Personal change may well be what is described in The Abundant Community intentionally for people do not change without connection, the more personal the better.  Despots and saints, however much they are simply in the popular imagination, know this. “One man’s death is a tragedy, but a million deaths is a statistic”, Joseph Stalin famously said. Mother Teresa said something similar: “If I look at the mass, I will never act. If I look at one I will.”

I noted recently that there is a home that you can only find in the depth of
old friends, their eyes and hands, old places, emotional and physical, in the
labor and commitment, or the memory, which has kept the bond whole. One of my favorite quotes comes from Iris Murdoch: "Love is the difficult realization that something other than oneself is real." We are not the same person. We are,  however, mutually dependent and capable of doing much better by each other than we do. I am a mother and I repeat myself. I say these things all the time.

Happy Mother's Day. Really. "Arise, all women who have hearts, Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!" Arise. Take my hand. Better yet, take your neighbor's hand, assuming I am not she.


 
 
I am sure, if you have gone to even one protest in your life, that you know the chant: "This is what democracy looks like." That is  pretty much it, over and over. We are in the street, banging on water jugs, and this is what democracy looks like. This is what democracy looks like. 

I hate it because we can't simply chant about democracy and have one that is actually good for people. I, of course, dislike chanting in general though, seeing it as a rather loud and mindless way to spend time I could have used having a conversation where I and another person were given the opportunity to grow together. But I digress. Sort of.

A society can be democratic and unjust, if you believe  in the concept of justice anyway, and/or cruel and/or hypocritical. We can be democratic and be a whole host of other things.

There is a logical fallacy  called The Appeal to Popularity, wherein one claims that a position is true because many people believe it to be true. Many people can be quite wrong, about  facts, and about morality, especially when they do not speak to one another and are, in fact, many people who are totally alone in their thoughts. 

Democracy isn't the goal of our work, as far as I am concerned, though it may  be a pretty good partial strategy. The goal is goodness, morality: a way of living together that is humane. And goodness, morality and humanity are  realities we build with other people and to do that we have to do something much  harder than march, or gripe (or say classist things about Stupid Rednecks), or chant, or even petition -- as miserable an activity as that is -- we have to talk with each other. We have to inform and be informed about the reality of the other and oneself.

I would like to suggest that a  good response to North Carolina may well not be a snarky reiteration of the rights of the individual -- which damn if we don't have down to such a degree that we don't even know who our neighbor is anymore, as we say all the time, chantlike, to whomever our choir is; and isn't that the problem here, organized insularness? -- but a greater movement toward community. In the strategy of democracy this may be our best option. Inclusive community starts with me and you.

 
 
The color and quality of the light here is, I don't know, dense. I always feel like I am being pushed into myself, quieting, sinking, falling through what is me and through the floor of the Earth when I walk alone here, visiting what seem like the ruins of the civilization I was part of eons ago, like the last survivor of Pompeii, when it was I who left. This is Montgomery, Alabama.

This is where I was a teenager and where I spent my early years as a mother, the place where I worked as a projectionist in a neighborhood theater, a non-profit one screen art house, called The Capri. Alabama is where my mother's family has lived since before the American Civil War, in a small, ever flooding town called Elba, just north of Mobile.I am hardly a survivor as I burn and push through. I used to fancy myself one, feeling the need to keep on breathing through poverty and constant shaming, breathing and birthing a creature I could be proud of. The irony though is that surviving made me ashamed. And birthing is falling too.

I am walking my old walk, my first day in town, through Granny's neighborhood, which is one dead-end block of peeling paint and plastic playsets now, all the old people as dead as where the last house blocks the street that might have been connected, up toward the theater, where I will let myself in, get a soda, just as Mac and I used to, he in his little red wagon, and then I will walk back to my friend's home (where I am sleeping, drinking and bathing), by way of the ditch that always has tadpoles. I am a pilgrim this morning. I call this my Southern Haj.

I think there is a cultural connection between Arabs, Persians, and American Southerners. Our playful, sentimental, tribal, burning, sinking natures. Our grandparents being cast out of the garden of industrial, mechanized Eden, we, in horror, the children of Cain, or the bastard children of Abraham. We are the children who drink from secret springs of fortune and the falling, always the falling.

Isn't it funny, my adviser points out to me in an email exchange, that it is so in vogue to consume local food amongst the very people who have moved away from where they themselves were produced and grown? I am thinking about this. I do a lot of food shopping with Martin, my friend of going on 20 years that I have been staying with. I treasure every litte berry I pick on my walks, to eat the dirt, maybe to make my passage through the Earth easier, to put it inside of me.

There is a home that you can only find in the depth of old friends, their eyes and hands, old places, emotional and physical, in the labor and commitment, or the memory, which has kept the bond whole. We tell funny stories about each other. Do you remember when? There are hands that make the falling move faster, your mass becomes greater, and in so, the falling will disappear, you are moving so fast it looks like stillness, and there are eyes in which the horror dissipates, and this is home inside the rapid and heavy descent.

I have fallen now clear through, as I write this, back to my children and Washington DC, or rather the Maryland suburb, where we live. Driving the rural roads since I left my cousin Wes' place, having discovered a new setting on my GPS that allows me to avoid the interstate. The more things change the more they stay the same.

The drive is misty and the pushing through Tennessee is so beautiful and so worth it. The rusting church roofs set on white cinderblock squares, the mountains being swallowed by clouds and vomiting up the remains of towns. I have a Cheerwine. It makes the skin above my upper lip and my tongue a very gross, like cheap ass uncooked hotdog, shade of pink, my upper lip in a messy crescent. But I am in a car, so totally alone, and it does not matter.

I think I know now why I like to look at and touch old doll houses. They feel to me like these towns I barrel through, like the meaningful to me corpse of what used to have its own meaning.  

A man at a gas station tells me to keep laughing my big raucous laugh that he overhears. Southerners are so violent.

I return to my children. I have returned to my children, with many food gifts. Ob snuggles into me. He keeps smelling me. I wrap my arms around him and I make my chest his home again, pulling him close, for the fall.

 




 
 
Mothers Day is less than a month away. This will be my 16th as both daughter and mother. I get grouchier every year. 

I have poured my life into my children. I've given them myself, all of it, to  give them to you. They, I have to tell you, are awesome. I think you might be too.

And you know what? Fuck the stupid media debate going on right now about who gets to stay home with their kids and whether or not one should. Fucking "Mommy Wars." You know what? The mothers I know -- from sex workers to hippie crunchy mamas, to lawyers -- do not sit around having this debate. We just do not. Yes, there is a basic hypocrisy in saying that an upper class woman should stay home with her children and a lower class woman should not. Let me tell you, hypocrisy from the dumb asses of the world is the least of my concerns. 

And this crap a few months ago about Rush Limbaugh calling someone a whore and  the War on Women from the Right -- only from the Right? I am here to testify that I have been called a whore, to my face, by men I love, by politically better men than Rush, if by better one means Leftist. "Blah blah blah, misogyny is bad, blah blah blah; by the way Windy, I am unhappy with you, I will call you a whore now, in words and deeds." I have been bewhored up and down and all around for no other reason than someone with good progressive, Lefty politics was angry with me and that was how he knew to hurt me the most deeply. And you know how I made him so angry? By prioritizing my children over him because I am a mother.

I have been told I both work too much and work too little by both men and women because I prioritize my children, if the person in question needs something else from me, even an emotional ax to grind.

I'm grumpy. I've been writing about solidarity and love all day for school.  In 10 minutes I'm going to pick my younger kid up from the bus stop. 

I just don't get us. Peanut allergies are bad, so we ban the peanuts, stridently. War is killing mother's children by the truck load, poverty is killing mother's children by the truck load, lack of education is killing them, lack of medical care is killing them. You know what we do? We "blah blah blah, misogyny. Blah blah blah blah, Mommy Wars. Yeah, that's right... Mommy Wars. Did I cite the right people?"

The media debate about abortion. Also stupid. Not only do we clearly not have a  problem murdering anyone, baby or adult, in this country, but speaking as a former teen mom who is not anti-abortion -- does not think it, unlike war and poverty, is murder -- I can tell you, if you do not know, that abortion is often a sad thing worth preventing. If you care about women and if you care about babies, for god's sake, do something to make it possible for us to raise our children in peace. Stop offering to take our children from us. Stop telling us anything but our full right to have motherhood or to not have motherhood is what we are fighting for. Stop putting our babies in ROTC, stop bombing our babies, and feeding them pink goddamn slime with a side order of bullshit and brainwashing in school. Jesus. Stop degrading our babies' mothers and stop killing our babies. Even our grown up babies.

You know what mothers want? We want our children to grow up healthy and strong and good and moral. We'd like some help. We don't give it even to each other far too often. Why is this so hard? That is what I want to see in the media. I want to see an expose on why this is so hard.

There will be more on this with less primal scream. But I need to scream a
bit right now as I countdown to Mother's Day.
 
I have to get to the bus stop now. Happy Mother's Day, mother fuckers.

Should I end this with a smiley face?



 
 
If I ever have something really crappy happen to me that enters into what is deemed relevant political discussion, do me and you both a favor: do not chant "I am Windy Cooler." Do not wear t-shirts or buttons that say this. 

Take care of my kids. If you loved me, find other people who did too, and take care of each other. Try to learn something about being human, about  yourself, through the relationship with me. Tell some good stories. If you did not know me, did not love me, seek out those who did. Make some sense of what happened, whatever it was that finally did me in. The options for my unjust demise are endless. Whatever it is, bear witness. Take action. But do not take my name and put it on yourself.

We are no one but who we are, but we can do a much better job of supporting other people and asking for the same. 

That is what solidarity is.  

One of my favorite quotes comes from Iris Murdoch: "Love is the difficult  realization that something other than oneself is real." We are not the same  person. We are, however, mutually dependent and capable of doing much better by each other than we do.

Actually, wait...why wait until something is deemed politically relevant by  whomever it is that decides these things?

Let's learn something about each other and take care of each other now. The options for our unjust demise are endless. Let's try a little harder to be ourselves and be present to the reality of each other.

 
 
I am recently not fond of the idea of rebirth. Our culture, at least  the Middle-Class White dominant, professional, pseudo-Buddhist culture of  Liberal America, to be specific, embraces the idea fully. We don't apologize or  reflect or mourn. We move on.

We find new friends or new family when we destroy a relationship, political or personal, usually repeating the same behavior with  the replacement people that hurt the last people in our lives. We don't talk about our pain in public, as that is more impolite than talking about politics or religion. We find new ways of being, such as Buddhism, or pseudo-Buddhism in its many self-care, self-focused forms, borrowing the culture and identity of others, to cover up our own. 

It always feels a little land of the lotus eaters to me, this idea of  being born again, if one is a working class Christian, and certainly this idea of rebirth, if one is of the professional culture. This is something liberals and conservatives have in common. We think we can walk away. It is a trademark of colonial thinking: there is always new territory, even if inhabited by the flesh and blood reality of others, to move on to  once our own flesh and blood home has been destroyed, or made difficult, through our own reality.

Easter, in this cultural narrative about rebirth, cleansing of the  sins, or cleansing of the past, is neuter. Jesus was not reborn. He lived and died painfully, focusing on a small group of close friends; then he came  again, with all  his scars, to the people he had already loved. He presented his mangled body to them, to see, to be seen, to recognize, to be  touched, to be real. 

I am thinking today about how deeply I love and trust old friends. How people grow with each other by growing into each other, through memory and  experience and baggage -- that ugly word for the human experience --that we lift together. 

I cannot undo my experience. But I can incorporate it.

 
 
Picture
The night before our wedding, with family and friends.
"What are you going to wear? A white t-shirt with your jeans?" That's what my friend asked the week before I married John on this day in 2003. I was the kind of person who wears the same grungy crap a few days in a row, maybe even sleeping in it, because I was obsessed with organizing. Or, that is the story I told myself.

"No. I'm going to wear a dress."

"A wedding dress?"

I wore a wedding dress. I did. It was off-white. And I carried flowers. And up until I threw it at John's face a few years ago, I wore a ring that had his name inside and the date on which we were married. I have that ring now, and his ring too, in a handmade wooden box that says "I love you the way you are."

Oh, John. Life is so short and friends are few. I love you. Maybe I can say that and mean it and know what it means to love someone else because you taught me. We taught each other, maybe, because maybe that is the way love works. In the end it was you who taught me, and I who taught you, though I have said all kinds of awful things in the past about the kind of pain I was in with you too. As have you, though you were never as emotive as I. 

We've been so shitty to each other, by accident mostly, and so, so good to one another too, mostly on purpose. The forgiveness between us is real and deep. There is something to be said for that.

For the rest of you, this is what I have learned from my marriage. John and I took vows on our wedding day that we wrote ourselves. They were about our commitment to the community. That's all we said. We were a work team devoted to the world. Guess what, activist friends? That did not a marriage make, and in the end, that did not a good work team make either.

We fell apart, as people. We're still picking the sharp little pieces of broken heart out of our flesh.

Community is something you don't just work for. It is a relationship. And you can't have a relationship with something as huge as "the world" or even "the neighborhood" if you don't know how to have a relationship, an intimate one, with another person, because you cannot know the reality of others without this experience. And you cannot write your own vows to the community. It is a negotiation. 

In The Sibling Society, author Robert Bly relates the story of the Hindu god, Ganesh, who, as a youth, is asked by his mother to guard her privacy as she bathes. He unknowingly is guarding her from her husband, his father, who had been so long gone he does not know him. Indeed, the father had left the family in a rage eons before because his wife, the goddess who bore Ganesh, conceived him in an act of trickery against him. In the ensuing fight between Ganesh and his father, the boy’s head is cut off.  His mother, upon seeing this, is filled with grief and rage. To mend him his father takes the head of a baby elephant and places it upon Ganesh's shoulders. Bly interprets the story in terms of the damage we do to young men in our culture of libertarian ideals, leaving them without mentorship, to feel as if
they are protectors of their mothers, not themselves sheltered.

The myth is also reminiscent of the awesome, if somewhat delusional, responsibility of the activist, the deformity, and the weight of a professional head -- a non-human head -- that has colonized us, a head that does not quite fit on our very human body.

Jeff Noonan wrote recently:

"A future new left must be positive and constructive if it is to be anything at all. A positive and constructive new left, while mindful of the structural contradictions of capitalism, cannot treat these as a reason to not act in the present on demands that make some people's lives better but leave structural problems unaddressed in the short term. Theoretical models of wholesale alternatives to capitalism have a place, but have not proven capable of mobilizing large numbers of people in Europe and North America in ways that have effectively institutionalized real gains. Instead, the losses continue to mount. The first crucial task of an effective new left must therefore be to work out a short term agenda that builds mass support and that can be realized within existing institutions, but at the same time pushes those institutions away from their current life-blind function toward their life-valuable reason for being."

Their life-valuable reason for being.
Their life-valuable reason for being.
Their life-valuable reason for being.

My friend, poet and teacher, Lee Furey, wrote in her poem Penelope about her 20 year long relationship with another activist:

I hate this movement
that has stolen you from me.

I hate it because it denies
its own love of conflict,
it denies
humanity,
the beauty of imperfection
and forgiveness.


I hate it because
it finds those who live in peace boring.


I hate it because
I don't know where you left the guitar.
I hate it
because
I live on the ground.


Yeah, Lee. We all do. We all live on the ground.

 
 
A Friend who is a friend (FYI: I am an atheist Quaker sunday school teacher) told me, told all of us, about this song today at Meeting.

There will come a day
When we will all stand before the throne
On that day, some will say:

"Did we not prophesy in your name?"
And they'll say:"We drove out demons in your name"
I know some will say: "We performed many miracles in your name"
Some will say: "So many works we've done in your name"

Then the Lord will say: "Depart from me, ye workers of iniquity I never knew you"

That's why I know

Everybody talkin'  'bout heaven ain't goin' there
Everybody talkin' 'bout heaven ain't goin'
Everybody talkin' 'bout heaven ain't goin' there
Oh my Lord

He was talking about  peace, about how many of us talk about peace, but we may never see it, relating Palm Sunday to April Fools Day, with Jesus entering Jerusalem as a fool in Matthew, on two animals, triumphantly riding to his death.

I am feeling this song as a message about solidarity. 

Not everybody talking about solidarity is going there. Not hardly. And, it is
the nature of solidarity, I think, that makes it so that if not everbody goes,
none of us do. I always thought, when I was a Christian, that heaven would be  the same, because without someone we might love, there could be no true heaven. 

Our whole idea of heaven is the reverse of everything else Christianity is. It
is about material comfort. Not love. 

To me, colonial  thinking (for example: racism, classism, misogyny),
which we all engage in to varying degrees -- in testament to our wretched
inheritances -- is ultimately about denying humanity, making people, ourselves even, abstractions, ideas, not flesh and blood people.

The idea we have might be violent or it may be sentimental, as our political
debates speak to, but the reduction is ultimately an evil. It may be the
defintion of evil, I think.
 
In my experience solidarity is a word we use to mean superiority in the colonial experience we are all having, not the shared responsibility to the human one that is hurting in the face of it.

Franz Kafka once wrote: "In the fight between you and the world, back the
world." This is not an admission of defeat, for me, but a call to negotiation,
to the belief in the reality of others and its awesome power. Be a friend and
have friends. Make peace with and love and understand your family. Your
relationships are your work and your bread. They are who you are. There can be no heaven, no solidarity, without you and without me.


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