Speak up, yes - where it (literally) counts

    I think my latest Claremont Courier column, published a week and a half ago, speaks for itself.  Or, as my friend Chris  would say,  'nuff said.  

           PROTESTING IS THE EASY PART.  REALLY? 

   I attended the local No Kings Protest last month.  For about 15 minutes. 

   That was about all I could take. 

   It wasn’t that I didn’t agree with the protesters and wanted nothing to do with the two-hour afternoon protest, one of thousands that day across the nation.  God, no!  I was right there with the protesters, horrified by how President Trump is acting more and more like a tyrant, a king, running roughshod over the law and the constitution.  I too am sickened by how Trump and has goons have led us into a reckless war, snatched people off the street and basically disappeared them with no legal recourse, all but obliterated science and sensible and life-saving health policy and access and on and on and on. 

   It wasn’t because it was hot that Saturday, although it was.  One friend that I saw was beet red (or was that because she was that angry that the country is going to Hell in a hand basket?).

   No, no.  I couldn’t take more than 15 minutes, because I couldn’t handle all the people and all the noise, as impressive and inspiring as it all was. I’m pretty sure this had to do with being in a wheelchair and trying to navigate in such a crowd.  I had the same problem when I would go to West Hollywood on Halloween night. 

   Like on those Halloweens, I should have just parked my wheelchair and watched the cars passing by honking and showing signs of support.  But, at least for me, at the protest, as impressive as the passing cars were in their show of encouragement, it was the protesters that were a sight to see.  At this parade, it was the spectators who were the display, the show to see. 

   Perhaps I should have just driven by in my van, honking, over and over, driving around in a circle.  As much as I wanted to participate, I was really there to cheer on the protesters, encourage the effort. 

   It would have been easier than what the protesters were doing: standing out there, hoisting signs, making noise, for up to two hours, in the heat.  Ugh!  More power to them! 

   And yet, I wanted to be with them, to be a part of what they were doing.  Because it was…fun?  I’m not sure if “fun” is the right word, although it was no doubt fun for a few or for some.  Perhaps it’s better to say that it was a tonic in these troubling times.  Being able to vent peacefully was a release at least and hopefully inspiring and empowering.  All the more so when in the company of so many others – not only here but in so many other places. 

   And yet, and yet again, as much effort as it was to be out there protesting, it was easy.  It was the easy part. 

   It was easy to be out there yelling, venting, expressing outrage, together, in community – to not feel alone in feeling despair, disgusted, helpless.  It was the easy part.  All too easy. 

   Unfortunately. 

   As I saw all those people here and all those people everywhere else protesting, venting, together, I couldn’t help thinking: what if they all voted?  Especially all those young people – students and others – out there throwing f-bombs (as seen in these pages).

   I have nothing against f-bombs, and I certainly have nothing against venting peacefully (if raucously). But I do think it’s unfortunate that it turns out that spending a hot afternoon protesting is easier than voting. 

   That’s what it looks like.  The number of people, especially young people, who vote is nothing to be proud of.  I’ve heard it said that it’s “dismal.” This is especially true in mid-term and off-year elections, when mainly older, more conservative people tend to vote.  Yes, we’re voting for governor this year, but that race is proving to be uninspiring, even frustrating with, of all things here in California, two Trumpian Republicans in the lead and who some fear may end up being the only choices. 

   And with Trump and his sycophants trying to make voting harder, even harder than it apparently is, we need to get out there and really get something done and protest – by voting. 

 

How much is too much?

 

   This week, I attended three evening lectures on three conservative nights at one of the colleges here.  The venue is fairly unique, hosting dinners and talks nearly every evening, Monday through Thursdays, as well as luncheons followed by talks on some days, during most of the school year.  I just go for the talks, not the meals, and, in recent years, I’ve been extra picky about which talks I attend.  It just happened that this week there were three talks in a row that piqued my interest. 

   I enjoyed getting out to the talks – it was fun and reminded me of the old days – but it was sort of exhausting.  It got me thinking indeed about “the old days” – before my spinal surgery in 2017, which I think of more and more as my other life.  At that time, I attended pretty much all of the evening talks, as well as some of the noontime ones (I also got home on my own in my wheelchair instead of having my attendant pick me up in my van). 

   That was on top of all the other things I was doing.  I think I do a lot now – people always tell me I do – but, before my surgery, I was doing more, way, way more.  When I think about all the things I was doing, I’m amazed – people at that time marveled at how much I did – and I sometimes think that that’s why I got the illness or whatever I had that lead to my needing the emergency spinal surgery. 

   I haven’t said this out loud, but I really wonder if it’s true:  It feels like it was my body saying, “Okay, John, that’s it – time maybe not to die but to definitely calm down,” I did feel extra stressed in the months leading up to the illness or whatever it was, and some friends have agreed that it was like I aged very quickly and got old really fast when I had my surgery. I suddenly had much less energy and was able to do way, way less. 

   But I’m still going out and doing lots of things, sometimes quite a lot of things I tend to stick around town – I haven’t gone to L.A in over a year – but there are weekends when I find myself attending three, even four performance, in addition to going to meeting on Sunday mornings and maybe a movie.  Or there was this week when I attended lectures on three conservative evenings.  I like it, but it’s kind of exhausting.  To be honest, I look forward to the weeks, like when the colleges are on break, when there are fewer or no events. 

   I don’t like it that I feel this way, and it bugs me.  It’s like I have an addiction, a bad case of FOMO – fear of missing out.  It’s not a bad, injurious addiction, like drinking or gambling, but I do wonder: How will I know when I can’t do these things or so many of them?  If I have to choose some or a few, how will I know which to choose?  And how will I feel about it, deal with it? 

   I hope it doesn’t take another catastrophic event for me to find out.  Or don’t I?  Would that make it easier?

Keep showing up

 

   The holidays are sort of a rough time for me anyway, and being hospitalized for 5 days between Christmas and New Year’s Day this time, in addition to a separate visit to the ER on Christmas Day, because of a bad, painful UTI didn’t help. So, early in the new year, I decided to gift myself and bought three pairs of overalls. 

   Those who know me or have read my posts probably won’t be surprised at my buying overalls (even 3 of them!), but these weren’t your regular, everyday bib overalls.  Definitely not!  One is black-and-white checkered, a la Bob’s Big Boy or NASCAR flags – actually a replacement for a pair I had outgrown.  Another has a patchwork of very random and very bold patterns.  And the third – my favorite – is a pair, advertised with a man wearing them (shirtless), that is blue covered with big, bright yellow and pink flowers and green leaves. Super gay! (Actually, I bought 3 pairs. I bought another of the flowered ones, because I think they’ll be cool to wear shirtless as cut-offs.)

   These overalls – bibs, as I call them – were probably made for special or unique occasions, like football games (the checkered ones), concerts, music festivals, raves, clubbing.  Cool.  But I wear them like any other bibs. They are just my regular everyday clothes, just my everyday “streetwear.” I like wearing them when I go out around the neighborhood, when I go to the market, to Quaker meeting, to the bank, to doctor’s appointments, to therapy sessions, to the movies, to concerts and performances. I get a kick out of it.   

   But I soon realized that this is about more than cheering myself up after a tough month and in a tough time.  It is about much more.  It is about showing up.  I am showing up. 

   I am showing up.  When I go out in these and my other bibs in my wheelchair, I am saying, “I am here.  I am here and disabled and queer, super queer.  And I’m not going anywhere, dammit!”

   I am showing up and sticking it, in a peaceful and fun way, to Trump and the others who would rather not see me, who would rather I wasn’t here. 

   I get to protests – in my bibs – when I can, but wearing these bibs is my way of showing up, my way of protesting. It is small, yes, tiny, but it’s what I can do, along with writing posts and articles and sharing articles I read.  Some may say that it’s too small, that it’s not enough, not enough of a risk and danger.  But they don’t know how hard and scary, perhaps even dangerous, it is to come out, to come out over and over to everyone, let alone how hard and exhausting it is to get around with a severe disability in a society that barely accommodates us and often is disabling, making it harder to live with a disability.

   This is what we all need to do. Show up.  We all need to show up.  We all need to stick it to Trump and his minions and followers who want a society where we and others don’t fit in or should just be quiet and perhaps not seen. (Remember, Trump once made fun of a reporter with a disability.)

   Well, I’m not going to not be seen and heard!  I’m going to be seen and heard.  I’m going to show up.  And I’m going to have a bit of joy in it – like what I mentioned in my last post about George Fox saying to “walk” – roll, in my case – “over the earth, answering that of God in everyone” and James Naylor saying that “There is a spirit that delights to do no evil.” Both were early Quakers writing in a time of great strife and turmoil and, in Naylor’s case, imprisonment and torture (a nail driven through his tongue). 

   Yes, I am sad and angry, I am enraged, about what is happening in our country, the cruelty, danger and senselessness of it.  I am exhausted and depressed and scared.  But I refuse to sit there, overwhelmed, and not do anything.  I’m going to show up, as scary and hard as it is.  And I refuse not to have joy, not to be cheerful and to delight. 

   A big part of my joy is seeing and knowing that there are many others, and more and more, who feel the same way and who are showing up.  I take joy in being not alone in showing up.  We may each show up in our own, often small ways, but we are all showing up – together.  It makes it a bit less hard, a bit less scary. 

   We can take joy and strength in seeing the thousands in Minneapolis show up and find each other, find community, as they stand and protest on the frigid icy streets in memory of Renee Nicholle Good and Alex Pretti who were shot and killed and all the others snatched and disappeared by Trump’s henchmen.  We can take joy and strength in seeing all the cyclists riding all over, mostly in the cold, together, in community in memory of Pretti, a fellow cyclist.        

 Let’s take this joy and strength to keep showing up, each in our small, peaceful, even joyous way.  I will.

Remembering to breathe

 

   “Electronics,” my attendant, who is considerably younger than I am and that much more familiar with electronic gadgets, said, “are weird.”

   I forget what it was that time.  I forget if my computer was frozen and I wasn’t able to click on anything.  Or if the mouse on my speech device was going haywire, perhaps with the sun hitting it at a certain angle.  Or if the joystick on my wheelchair was jammed. Or if the smart T.V was suddenly acting dumb and not doing anything. 

   As I panicked, wondering when I could get it fixed and how much it would cost, my attendant once again, and again being familiar with “weird” electronics, suggested turning it off, waiting a few seconds, and turning it back on.  Like taking a deep breath. 

   What do you know?  My attendant, with that knowledge of younger years, was right – again!  Sometimes – or most times – just flipping the switch on and then on again does the trick and is all that is needed. With just the flip of the on/off switch, my computer was working fine, like nothing had been wrong.  The mouse on my speech device moved along as it should.  The joystick on my chair was operable, and the T.V was smart again.

   If only the rest of life was that simple, that “weird.” If only we were able to turn off when things go wrong or are a mess and then turn back on with everything okay, back to normal. Or at least with a new perspective on the situation.    

   Maybe it is possible to turn off and turn on, to flip the switch and start anew.  With a change of scenery.  With some time away.  With a conversation.  With a good night’s sleep.  With, yes, a deep breath.

   Is life that simple, that “weird?” Do we just have to remember that?  Is that the hard part?   

Why i keep being gay like that

 

   The other night, I watched the Golden Globes. 

   Yeah, I’m gay like that! 

   It figures.  For pretty much all my life, when other guys were watching football and baseball, I was into award shows, especially for movies – even the stupid ones like the Golden Globes, which are voted on by something like 83 foreign reporters in Hollywood.  (For some reason, they got to be a big deal, with an annual telecast, even after a corruption scandal a few years ago.  Frankly, the show isn’t nearly as entertaining as it used to be when everyone got drunk and especially when Ricky Grevais was the host with the scathing mocking most.)

   It’s not that I’m a red carpet fan, although I do take note at some of the more notable outfits, and not just on the ladies – like the bright, canary yellow suit worn by Timothee Chalomet at last year’s Academy Awards.  I just like movies and like knowing which ones are hot, so to speak, since I can only watch so many. I usually make a point of seeing pretty much all the nominated films before the awards are given out, and I’m frustrated that I’m behind on this due to being waylaid with a pressure sore for much of the Fall when the films came out (I’m trying to catch them online).

   Yeah, that’s how gay I am. 

   But, isn’t all this just silly and stupid right now?  Really.  At a time when the president’s ICE minions are killing US citizens and we’re being told that not what we see on all the videos, when trans people I know feel like they’re in danger even here in blue California, when the president is literally commandeering other countries and playing chicken with Iran and also our own legal system, when we learn of other such horrors nearly everyday, how can I watch, how can I care about a dumb, meaningless awards show? 

   Look, I get it.  I know things are bad, things are scary.  I’m scared.  I’m horrified.  In fact, I can barely function this January.  On top of, or under, the administration’s cruel swings since the new year, I am not only dealing with my usual ridiculous post-holiday funk (I don’t really like the holidays but am always sad when they are over), I am getting over being in the hospital with a bad urinary tract infection over the holidays after three ER visits, including on Christmas Day.  Ugh!  Plus, several friends had messed-up holidays, primarily due to illness or health threats.  Double ugh! 

   You’d think I’d be glad the holidays were over.  But, no, I was back to being sad that they were over – and sad that I missed them this time. 

   I had/have to get out of this post-holiday funk.  And I can’t just sit here terrified by what’s going on. 

   That’s what they want, you know.  Trump and his troopers want to overwhelm us into a stupor so that we give up and don’t do anything about what’s going on and they can take over. 

   I have to take action, even if it is tiny, like hanging up a strand of my Christmas tree lights over the front window bay (to remind me of the light that overcomes the darkness, as George Fox, the first Quaker, spoke of) and buying some crazy, colorful overalls (so I can keep up my spirit and, to paraphrase Fox, keep rolling cheerfully over the earth, answering that of God in everyone) and watching award shows where artists congratulate each other for telling different stories and championing diversity.  I had to do something, like write this and watch clips of Jimmy Kimmel continuing to skewer Trump even after Trump almost successfully had him banned (clips of Saturday Night Live cold opens and weekend updates also help).

   A trans friend tells me that it’s hard to find anything funny about what’s happening.  I hear her.  But I can’t just sit here and whine and cry. I have to do something – again, however tiny.  I have to take action and get out there, show up, be present.  I hope to keep hope alive and to help spread it. I have to share the light. 

   This is what I’m doing these dark, challenging days and what I recommend doing:

-As devastating and demoralizing as it is, keep up with the news.  It is critical to know what’s going on and, yes, to be outraged.  That way, we don’t get complacent and let things happen – or the worst happen – as occurred in Nazi Germany and the like. 

-Take that outrage (or, even more so, depression and despair) and use it to take action, spread hope, share the light.  It doesn’t have to be big.  Take small steps.  Wear your tie-dye.  Keep flying your rainbow flag.  Join a peaceful protest – and help to keep it peaceful.  Write blog posts and letters to the local paper.  Help deliver groceries to people who are afraid to go out and perhaps take them to doctor appointments.  Support those who bravely speak out.  Vote. 

   If enough of us do these things, we can get through these dark times and save our country, our democracy. It is easy to feel depressed and hopeless – believe me, I know – but we have to do these things, do them like our life depends on it.   Because it does.