Right on Target (or not?)

 

   They were so gay.  Not only that, they were completely cheesy. 

   Fuck it!  I bought them. 

   They were me.  (Once, years ago, some time before I came out, when I was again buying cheese at the market, my attendant told me I’m a “cheesy guy.” I didn’t argue.)

   The shortalls – shortalls! – were light blue, baby blue, with rainbow straps and rainbow patches showing through manufactured rips in the legs.  Not only that, there was no zipper in the fly.   

   Like I said, completely cheeseball.  And femme. 

   And me. (Again, if someone says that I’m not completely cis or whatever, I don’t argue.) I dig wearing them and rocking them when I go out.  Especially without a shirt.

   Sure, I’m wearing cheesy, fag girl fucking shortalls.  What about it? 

   I sort of had the same reaction to the display of Pride items where I saw the shortalls a few years ago in the front of the Target store – exactly like the ones now being attacked by right-wingers and being sent to the corner, if not out of the store, literally, this Pride Month.  Yes, it was totally  cheeseball. I also didn't like that most of the items tended to be for women - the cis in me talking.  But more than that, it bugged me, creeped me, that, like at Pride Festivals, a big corporation was cashing in, making money off the queer community. 

   On the other hand, I thought it was cool, way cool that it was out there on full display.  I loved it that I was seen, I was reflected, loudly and proudly. 

   There was another time I was in Target that was even more powerful to me.  It was a few years earlier, and it may or may not have been during Pride month.  I was in the store, and a guy who worked there walked by, wearing the standard red shirt.  But instead of the small logo, it had a large target on the front of the shirt with a big, all-color rainbow curving over top. 

   I was thrilled.  I loved seeing this guy out there, saying publicly that he’s gay like me, that I wasn’t alone.  But I also loved the other message he was sending. 

   Yeah, I’m gay.  What about it?  AND Target, my employer, has my back. 

   Or, I now have to ask, does it? 

Shut down

 

   I got home the other night, and the power was out.  The house was pitch black.  Not only that, but the whole street was black except for a few solar lights glowing in some front yards.  There were also trucks with blinking orange lights going slowly up the street.  It was eerie.  Eerie…and wrong. 

   Something wasn’t right – to say the least. 

   My attendant and I got into the house using the light on her phone.  Hooray for her phone and that light, for one of my flashlights was out of batteries, and I couldn’t find the other one.  And a big hooray for my back-up battery that I got a few months ago.

   Otherwise, the mattress that I use was deflating.  And that was no good. 

   I led my attendant to my office, with the help of the light on her phone, and showed her the battery.  She fumbled around a bit and managed to plug in a lamp.  It worked! Hooray!  Then she push the battery (it’s on wheels) over to my bed and plugged in the mattress, which began to fill with air. Hooray!  This, along with the lamp, was a huge help. 

   After brushing my teeth and draining my urine bag in the half-light from the lamp in my bedroom, my attendant got me ready for the night in my bed.  I was upset that I couldn’t use my ceiling fan (it wasn’t warm, but I sleep better with a fan on, especially when it’s cloudy, as it was), and there were those weird orange lights and also what sounded like talking outside.  It was all upsetting and disorienting, but, surprisingly, I felt asleep before too, too long. 

   After a good night’s sleep – also surprising – I awoke to find that my ceiling fan was still off.  When I got up, my attendant – another attendant – confirmed that, yes, the power was still off and said that there were trucks down the street. Really?  That was a long time without power!

    After I was dressed and in my wheelchair, my attendant moved the battery back into my office and plugged in my computer.  It worked – yay! – but I couldn’t get online.  Perhaps it would work after breakfast? 

   Nope. It was a reminder that my internet depends on electricity – and that I should by the battery for it that I had decided not to buy. Or get a hot spot like my attendant had on her phone? 

   Suddenly, I was exhausted.  Suddenly, I had no power and was deflated like my mattress now was.  I felt defeated. 

   I couldn’t do what I had planned to do that morning, which depended on being online.  It was unusually cool and wet, so I couldn’t go out and enjoy the morning. 

   For a short time, I couldn’t pivot.  I couldn’t think of anything else to do.  My mind was blank, and I was suddenly a child, bored with nothing to do.

   I eventually decided to do some writing (working on this post, in fact). At least my computer was worked.  I then had plans to go out for a few hours in the afternoon.  When I returned, the power still wasn’t on - ! – and I decided, like a petulant child, to read on my Kindle on my speech device.  I was worried about the power not being on yet.  Remarkably, the back-up battery still had plenty of power, but I didn’t want to have another night dependent on it. 

   The power finally came back on a bit before 7, after nearly 23 hours. 23 hours.     

   Yes, I was fine, but I wasn’t happy.  More than that, I was rattled.  I often complain, half-jokingly and apparently in the abstract, about how my life is on my computer and about how much I rely – for my wheelchair, my mattress, not to mention the lights and all that – on electricity, but this wasn’t abstract, and it was no joke. 

   It was also a reminder to get lights with batteries and a battery for my internet! 

Why Trump trumps

 

   So what gives? 

   It is easy to be perplexed, vexed, about why Donald Trump is still popular.  After he was convicted of one crime and found liable in another, after being charged in inspiring the January 6 insurrection, taking classified documents and trying to overturn the 2020 election, after all the havoc he caused during his four years in office, not to mention during previous years, it is easy to throw up one’s hands when seeing that he is out-polling his likely GOP rivals and, most chillingly, President Biden. 

   All too easy. 

   Those who don’t get why Trump still has a large (although not as large) and rabid following and may well, as frightening as it sounds, be president again, are missing, or are perhaps trying to miss, a very simple point.  Trump is so popular for a very simple reason: he says not only that things shouldn’t change the way they are changing but that things should go back to the way they were years ago when things were…simple. 

   Trump, despite being much more wealthy and privileged, speaks for the many people who are uncomfortable with the way American society has been changing. He may live in another, gilded world, but he speaks for all those who don’t like it that white people are not in the majority with all the rights and power, that people who have sex with those of the same sex and who change and mix genders are more and more seen and heard, that women have the same rights and positions as men and are not just there to put on dinner and to have sex and fool around with at one’s whim.

   For those who follow Trump, back before all these changes was when America was “great” – as in Make America Great Again. 

   Many of Trump’s Republicans rivals may be saying the same things, but Trump says them with the same anger and grievance, the same passion and outrage, the same how dare this is happening, if not desperation, that his followers feel.  Many of them have said that they like how Trump just says things, “says it like it is.” They like how Trump speaks his mind – their mind. 

   Years ago, a wise, gay, Quaker friend told me that there will more and more progressive changes in America (gay marriage will be legal, etc.) but there will be people who will fight like Hell to keep this from happening.  With Trump’s and his still-many followers, we are now seeing this fight.

The writing on the pick-up truck

   One day when I was out last week, I saw someone drive by in a small, white pick-up truck, the kind made by Chevy and Toyota. On the side of the truck, in big, red, block lettering, was written, “DEMOCRATS ARE DESTROYING AMERICA.”

   Really?  Wow! 

   After this initial reaction, I had two thoughts:

1. 1. This person made a real commitment and probably paid a fair amount in having this statement painted on their automobile and, thus, no doubt has a considerable amount of anger and fear. 

2.  2. How can this person and others like them be made to see that they don’t have to be so afraid and angry?  How can those who believe otherwise, who are perhaps Democrats, reach out to and engage with him? 

   I have seen plenty of pro-Trump bumper stickers and flags and also t-shirts that say things like, “Biden owes me $$$.” But this was different. 

   As I said, having such a statement painted on one’s vehicle is quite a commitment and probably a costly one.  It’s quite a statement, as my dad would say.  That’s not all, though. 

   It’s one thing to denounce a policy, to say that somebody is wrong about something.  It’s one thing to say that an idea is bad and even to say, for example, that a president owes me money for the expenses incurred by his programs.  These are things that can be discussed, that can be debated.  Perhaps a few minds are changed or at least a compromise can be reached. 

   But it’s another thing entirely to say that a group of people, those who you don’t agree with, are destroying society, are destroying the country.  This is saying that these people are evil, that there’s nothing good, nothing redeemable, about them, that there’s no point in even trying to debate or persuade them. This is saying that, because they are destroying us, the country, these people should be - or have to be - destroyed. 

   What I saw the other day was very dangerous and very scary.  “DEMOCRATS ARE DESTROYING AMERICA.” As we used to say, them’s fighting words.  Clearly. 

   Yes, clearly.  With all the guns available and all the mass shootings we have seen, and with what we saw in the January 6 insurrection, where people ended up getting hurt and killed, not to mention our democracy imperiled, it isn’t too far-fetched that people might see this as a call to arms – and whatever that leads to.

Transitions

 

   As is evident in my recent posts, I have been thinking a lot about changes, about how life changes with comings and (more often now) goings, about how my life is so different now than before my spinal surgery six years ago.  It is breath-taking how life can be radically different, sometimes quite quickly. 

   I continued to reflect on this in my latest Claremont Courier column, which came out on Friday. 

                     A RETIRED LIFE? 

   I recently went to a talk at Scripps College by DJ Kurs, the director, currently, of Deaf West Theater in Los Angeles.  Deaf West is a small but increasingly mighty theater that produces plays featuring deaf and hearing actors, some of which, like Spring Awakening and Big River, have ended up on Broadway.  Troy Kostur, one of its best deaf actors who I’ve had the pleasure of seeing a few times, including as Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire, won the Best Supporting Actor Oscar last year for CODA, which, in a bit of an upset, also won Best Picture. 

  Mr.  Kurs, signing and assisted by an interpreter, spoke about making theater more accessible, not only to the deaf but also to folks with other disabilities.  He talked about radical inclusion in theater, making it accessible to disabled audiences and also opening it up as a space for disabled actors and performers and disabled writers and creators. 

   I was all but jumping up and down in my wheelchair.  As in the Roberta Flack song, Mr. Kurs was singing – signing – my life with his presentation.

   I wanted to say, to proclaim, “That’s my jam!” (I was actually thinking of another word, but this is a family newspaper.) Writing (and sometimes performing) for the theater with a disability is what I’m all about. 

   Or it was.

   Since my spinal surgery six years ago and really several years before it, I haven’t had the ability and energy for playwrighting and performing.  I sometimes think about trying to revive one of my works or working on a new one, but, with still adjusting to my new, increased disability, I don’t feel I have the time, the strength, not to mention the resources. I almost felt like Mr. Kurs was taunting me, “killing me softly with his words”: look what I get to do, and you can’t anymore!     

   Is this what it feels like to be retired? I often wonder about this, as I think about adapting to my post-surgery life and find myself reflecting on the life I had before my surgery.  Is this what it’s like when you’re no longer doing what you used to do, especially when you loved doing it. 

   But I also think about it when I see all the retired people living here in Claremont and what a fantastic place it is to retire.  The college students may see Claremont as a “retirement community,” as one noted in speaking at a Pomona College commencement some years ago, but this isn’t a place where the retired while and waste away. 

   To the contrary, in Claremont, retired people actively pursue their passions, whether in marching for peace or protesting a current injustice or in auditing classes at the colleges.  There are concerts, lectures and presentations to attend and no end of local issues to debate and advocate. 

   Yes, the presentation on the disabled in theater struck a sensitive, even painful chord in me, but I was thrilled that there was the opportunity right here to see, and for others to see, that this work is going on, that, indeed, progress is being made.  I was glad to be kept informed, to be engaged.

·         * 

   Speaking of disabled artists, Raul Pizarro’s paintings all but glow.  They are illuminated, literally, with the white and pale colors in them shining out amid the dark colors, making the dark colors all the darker yet not so dark.  I don’t know how, but they radiate. 

   I have had the great pleasure of being friends with this fellow wheelchair user from Ontario, not only because of his sublime art.  He has been a real hoot, quite a character, as they say – quite an entertaining dinner guest. 

   Raul died on March 18 at age 47. He had recently undergone medical treatment that was thought to be successful. 

   I will miss the beauty and also the bawdy humor that Raul added to the world – and am thankful for all the work he left. 

   There will be a memorial service for Raul on April 28 at 10 at the Fox Theater in Pomona and also a gathering at 5 on the 30^th at the dA Center for the Arts. I suspect he would get a kick out of the venues.