A taste of lemonade

 

  Why have I not been posting much lately?  Fair question, and one which I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. 

   After all, there has been a lot going on, a lot of craziness going on, especially in our nation’s capitol.  From an obscene cage fight/grudge match on the White House lawn, supposedly meant to celebrate America’s 250^th birthday (and to glorify President Trump, a la Chairman Mao, on his 80^th birthday, to the president telling us not to take Tylenol even as his administration slashes millions in healthcare funding, there has been an endless cascade of weird, outrageous, disturbing news.  More than enough to write about. 

   The thing is, on top of having less energy, blah, blah, blah, I don’t want to be always writing about shit, about how our country and precious way of life, not to mention our very lives, are going down the toilet. No thanks.

   So, I get excited when I have something good to write about, as you can see below in my latest Claremont Courier column which came out on Friday. 

   It’s an old saying but it’s true: when life gives you a bunch of lemons, it’s good to add some sugar and water (or, better yet, a sack or apples with a lemon) and enjoy some tasty, refreshing lemonade. 

   THE PERFECT PICK-ME-UP, JUST IN TIME FOR A QUIET PRIDE MONTH

   Wow!  What a difference a month makes!  Make that a month and a half. 

   Sure, I love all the activities at the colleges.  I always say that the colleges are one of the things that make Claremont such a great place in which to live, and, in recent years, as my ability and energy have decreased, I have mostly settled with the idea that all of their events are enough, sometimes more than enough, so that I no longer need to venture out to Pasadena, Los Angeles, etc. There is plenty to do right here. (When my Pilgrim Place friends offer to give me the schedule of events there, I say, “Thanks,  but no!”)      

   So, yeah, I will always feel a bit sad when the students take off in mid-May, as the gown leaves the town, leaving us behind, on our own, alone.  But, at the same time, it’s nice to have a bit of respite, a breather, after four months of concerts, plays, talks, especially after the even busier, frenzied Spring semester. 

   It’s nice to have a quiet, relatively quiet, month and a half, until things pick up on the Fourth of July and with other summer park activities.  Soon enough, the students will be back in late August. And there are still other things to do here; the Village has become quite a hot spot, even without it’s cinema and places like The Press. It’s nothing like it was, or how I remember it, when I was growing up here, and Claremont all but died, went into hibernation during the hot, smoggy months after the colleges’ commencement ceremonies. 

   Even so, one gets a bit tired of reading in the backyard and Netflix and chilling, as pleasant as it is to do so. And, without so much to do, it’s harder to ignore all the crazy, disturbing news coming out of the nation’s capitol.  It’s harder to ignore how democracy, our precious way of life, not to mention our very lives, are being endangered, if not destroyed, by our tyrant-like president and his minions and henchmen. 

   It’s even harder to see all this during the month of June, Pride Month.  During this period which celebrates the hard-fought civil rights – not special rights as some critics claim – won by LGBTQ folks, it’s demoralizing to see diversity, equality and inclusion efforts dismantled and transgender people vilified and, at least in some places, all but banned. All the more galling is the effort of some governors, in states like Indiana, Tennessee and Alabama, to rebrand June as Nuclear Family, Strong Families or Fidelity Month (as if same-sex couples can’t be faithful and have strong families). Ugh!

   To the rescue in this sickening, seemingly hopeless state of affairs comes Ophelia’s Jump’s production of The Legend of Georgia McBride, playing all this month at its black box stage just over the border in Upland.  This Claremont-rooted company is now in its thirteenth season, hanging tough, putting on professional shows, under the gutsy leadership of Beatrice Casagran, in these tough-on-the-arts times.  With McBride, it provides not only a great local show during these quiet weeks but also a perfect tonic in these troubling times and challenging Pride Month. 

   In this play by Matthew Lopez, Casey, an Elvis impersonator struggling to get his act together, suddenly loses his gig at a small-time Florida bar. His rent is overdue, and his wife announces a baby on the way. So, when Elvis leaves the building and a drag show moves in, "The King" has no choice but to transform into an all-out queen. It is no spoiler to say that hilarity ensues along with a heartfelt message about being true to oneself and to each other. 

   Directed by Caitlin Lopez, the show features loads of snappy zingers and some terrific drag performances and is powered by a wonderful cast, topped by a very game and limber Jacob Wilson as Casey and Jonathan Miller as the luscious Miss Tracy Mills.  It is not to be missed.   

   As I said, it’s a real pick-me-up in this lazy month and, what’s more, it’s a rejuvenating cry of defiance, sticking it to those who are trying to do all they can to oppress us, our way of life and, in some cases, even our very life.   

                *

   I don’t know who decided that the Fourth of July parade is to be at 1 this year, but I don’t know what they were thinking.  The day’s heat really kicks in at about that time, with the sun beating right down.  Yes, when the parade was at 4 for years, it was hot, but the sun was going down, and there was plenty of shade along the route.  And, yes, having the parade at 10 in the few recent years was weird, but the day hadn’t heated up yet.  All I can say is that I hope the 4^th is unusually balmy. 

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.