No. I’m not dead. Not yet, anyway.
You would be excused for wondering if I was dead, since my last post here was in the Spring. Fall is now nearly two-thirds over. (Yikes! Really?)
Perhaps this is, on my part, inexcusable in the blogosphere. At least in my concept of the blogosphere – that is, in which people post daily or at least two or three times a week. But I want to say that I have an excuse or a few of them.
One is that I have felt so overwhelmed, bombarded by what President Trump and his administration and allies have been doing that I don’t know where to begin, to know which one of the dozen of outrages to write about. Yes, as I’ve even written about in a few of my Claremont Courier columns, that’s exactly what they want – for us to be overwhelmed and not fight back. I sadly plead guilty to falling for that at least most of the time
We saw in this month’s election that this isn’t necessarily the case, that we can make our voices heard – and in a meaningful way. This has been a shot of energy, a bit of hope that sure feels good (and perhaps is part of what inspired me to write this).
Perhaps I should just not write here about Trump and all that and instead write about other stuff, small stuff. Like, again, being at Stater Brothers and seeing signs asking for our understanding when it would close early – 5 p.m – on Thanksgiving Day so that employees “cab enjoy the holiday with their families” – after closing at 11 the night before and opening at 6 that morning. God! Really? We Americans are so addicted to money and buying stuff and making it convenient to do so. When I spent time in Europe, everything was closed every Sunday and sometimes, like in Italy, in the early afternoons. (Maybe this is writing about Trump, Trumpism….)
The second excuse is that I’ve been doing a lot, or, really, have been preoccupied by some things. Among other things (see below), I’ve been preparing a presentation to give at Pacific Yearly Meeting, an annual gathering of Quakers, in July. I was one of three panelists asked to speak on how Spirit has lead me to find my balance, over and over, and move forward in my life. This was a real honor and a real gift to be given this opportunity to look back over and share about my life.
Finally, when I began this blog, I never intended to post every day or several times a week. For a while, I posted every two weeks, but I can’t, or don’t want to, commit to that now. Perhaps I can post every month or every other months – like I tend to write now for the Courier. Perhaps.
Meanwhile, here are the last two columns I wrote. The first came out in September; the second earlier this month. They will give you some idea of what I’ve been up to or, rather, what has been taking over my life, so to speak.
NO WAY! THERE HAS TO BE A WAY!
“You can’t get thar from har.”
I met John when I was at UCLA for the Spring 1984 quarter. He was from Maine and was a big guy, like a dairy farm boy, with a big grin. But he was no country hick. Not only was he at UCLA as an out-of-state student, he was majoring in bio-chemistry or some such, way outside my English/humanities lane.
So it would always crack me up when he would break out his best heavy Maine accent and proclaim, “You can’t get thar from har” – apparently a common Maine saying, at least in the rural parts. It was like a favorite line from a movie that we shared.
I was recently reminded of the line, except, this time, I wasn’t cracking up. At least not in that sense.
Last month, after a four-year hiatus due to increasing disability, I flew to the Bay Area for a three-night visit. It was something of a triumphant return, after having told myself that I wouldn’t return, made possible with lots of work in physical therapy and a critical and clever logistical update. Getting up there and being up there, while not easy, was no problem.
The problem turned out to be getting to the Ontario airport, the nice, quiet airport not even a half hour away. My van was driven up some hours before in order to get to the Oakland airport in time to pick me up, so I needed to find a reliable wheelchair-accessible ride to the nearby airport.
This turned out to be quite difficult, ridiculously, insanely difficult.
The key word here is “reliable.” In the past, I had had some horrendous experiences with the wheelchair-accessible cab service, being all-but-too late or not showing up, which left me rattled to say the least. I couldn’t deal with this. I just couldn’t.
The big bugaboo was that Ontario airport, as close as it is, is in another county – San Bernardino. When I called Dial-a-Ride and Access, which offer cheap, subsidized wheelchair-accessible transportation, they said they can’t, won’t, cross the county line. If I was flying out of LAX, Access could take me, no problem, but who wants to fly out of LAX?
Things only got crazier.
AgingNext gave me a few numbers of private non-medical transport companies to call. (I called the agency after the Services Center for Independent Life, which I helped found decades ago, had, much to my dismay, no advice for me.)
The first place I called wanted $260. One way. For a ride that’s barely half an hour.
WT---!
The second company I called wanted something like $220. One way, again. A bit better – but, REALLY? A half-hour ride cost more than a flight to the Bay Area???
I stopped calling. I was getting too angry. This was insane, highway robbery (literally). This was wrong!
Would I get up north? I was wondering.
A friend saw how desperate I was and recommended a company she knew about. $200. Round trip. This was way more than I wanted to pay – nearly as much as the round-trip airfare for two – but I took it, figuring the trip may have been off otherwise. (The service was great, right on time. Better have been!)
If I had the energy and the time, I would try to put together an organization that provides affordable, reliable, wheelchair-accessible transportation regardless of municipal or county lines. Somebody should.
There has to be a way, a better way, to get thar – er, there – from har – er, here!
A RENEWED GRATITUDE FOR CLAREMONT ACTIVITY, ACTIVISM
I didn’t go to the No Kings Protest last month.
Not because I didn’t care. Not because I didn’t agree with the protesters.
It wasn’t because I’m not outraged by masked thugs and goons deputized as federal officers grabbing people who are of certain color, have accents, work at certain jobs – some of whom are citizens – and whisked away in unmarked vans to be detained and often deported. It wasn’t because I’m not alarmed by the dismantling of agencies to help the poor here and internationally and promote the rights of racial minorities and LGBTQ folks as well as cultural diversity. It wasn’t because I’m not horrified by President Trump’s attempts and efforts to shred the Constitution and destroy our history – vividly on display in his projects at the White House, our White House - and our very democracy.
I would have gone. Sure thing. Just as I went to the huge protest radiating out from the intersection of Indian Hill and Foothill in June.
Yes, I was plenty riled up, raring to go and protest what’s going on. Instead, I was down, not going much of anywhere.
Literally. Because of a sore, a pressure sore, I had gotten, I was stuck lying down. I did get out now and then, but it was like I was sneaking out, escaping prison, since I was told that lying down is the fastest if not the only way to get rid of the sore.
“Fastest” is a relative term here. There’s nothing fast about getting rid of a pressure sore. I had been lying down, stuck in bed-jail as I call it, since early September. To make matters worse, this was happening in October, my favorite month with its cooling days and nights and colorful leaves and fading light, and I was missing it.
Even worse, this happened two years ago at exactly the same time, and I swore at the time it wouldn’t happen again. Ouch!
I’m here to say that lying down all the time isn’t all, or at all, what it’s cracked up to be. We all wish we could lie around all day with nothing having to be done – right? But having to lie down all the time, when one feels perfectly fine, is not only no picnic or day at the beach. It’s exhausting!
What’s more, it leaves one feeling overwhelmed, at least when everything is going wrong and/or crazy.
It’s hard to lie there and read or hear about children and wives wondering what happened to their father and husband after he was snatched and whisked away by anonymous ICE agents, about queer folks like me wondering if they’re safe anymore and if they should go back in the closet, about poor people in other countries and then here not getting the assistance they need to eat and stay healthy, about dangerous health advice and policies being established and disabled people like me nervous about maybe not getting the funding they need to live full, productive lives in their own homes.
It’s hard to lie there when a torrent of dangerous, unjust, cruel and undemocratic actions are being taken day in and day out. I have felt overwhelmed. I have felt trapped, paralyzed.
Trump and his team have said they want to overwhelm, to do so many things so fast that it’s difficult to stop. Boy, it sure looks that way when stuck lying there day after day!
I have missed being able to get out and do something, to be part of getting something done, not just lying there alone, feeling helpless, hopeless. I was missing all those opportunities in Claremont, not just to protest but to be at a meeting or to just hear a talk.
Or what about going to the many concerts and performances here? Yes, some entertainment is important to get our minds off all the crazy stuff going on – and books, podcasts and streamers, as infinite as they are, only go so far. Even going out to the local cinema makes a difference.
I have missed being part of the community, being in community. In this challenging time, I have missed feeling not on my own, not alone.
As the season of gratitude and goodwill approaches, I am thankful that I’ll soon be up to not only enjoy what’s left of our beautiful Fall colors. I’ll be even more thankful for being part of the rich, vibrant community that is Claremont.
