Homeless for the Holidays

Through no fault of my own, I was homeless a few years ago because my family turned their backs on me for being economically dispensable to the unsavory family business that I had worked hard for, a business that was struggling to stay afloat from all of their excesses and not mine. I developed a publishing program for bargain books sold at B&N stores worldwide that's made me infamous throughout the industry. They wasted tens of thousands every year on decorating expenses, stupid parties, pricey real estate, and fancy white gardeners for their office balcony (that I never really had time to use), before they gave us a real 401K plan that we had to ask repeatedly for. My dad had once asked me to sell books only for a dollar or for free, as some sort of test of my "worth" as a publishing executive, and it was one that I easily accomplished. When the economy tanked yet again, they cut the staff who weren't family (or married to family/friends) and jettisoned the rest of us, which surprised me not at all, because I know how people who are bad at business react to stress: they don't. You do. 

So began yet another typically old family pattern of dysfunction spurred on by the upsets present in my life, which goes something like this: if "Mama Marie" ain't earning, then she ain't eatin', and that was certainly true for me. I almost fainted from hunger on some of the worst days (during which my father had the gall to ask me if I'd ever gone hungry, after I'd exhausted all my funds, credit, and extraneous belongings, like any normal person would do to avoid being a burden to others), in between the outrageous emails I sent to my family that gave them full advance warning (because I can succeed at business without even trying, despite the lack of their expensively bought M.B.A.'s, thus adding more fuel to their envious fire) of my upcoming eviction due to lack of payment (with no legal advice offered from my lawyer uncle or the corporate lawyer my father has on retainer for his needs), even while my father congratulated me publicly for my success at earning a spot at a prestigious writer's colony (because he wanted me to teach him writing so he could pen his memoirs and brag about it), because I worked that hard to be good for them by compensating for their deficits during my homelessness, like any real mother would. 

In return, I got bizarre offers for a limo ride to some mental institution in Westchester for all my troubles, when I really just needed an expense check sent to me, like any other businesswoman in publishing who itemizes correctly and transparently. There's no secrets here, anymore. How else was I thanked? Well, every time they made the wrong decision about me, I told them the truth about their sicknesses, illnesses, deficiencies, disorders, impairments, addictions, and crimes against humanity that they owe me "big-time" for, because the only times I get pulled into badness of any kind is at someone else's say-so, and isn't that way it always is for people of good faith? We are tried and tested to see through all the badness around us by fighting our way through it, alone. It is in this way that you've come to be my adoring audience in the year 2015: because you asked me to undergo rigorous feats of strength that you can't do, like any true hero does, and I survived to tell you the tales about my amazing, death-defying acts of life, like an ever-ongoing Homeric odyssey of epic modern proportions delivered freshly and freely almost every day.

And so it came to pass that I found myself isolated and alone at some hotel room (during our most holiest of seasons) in the Sunset Park* section of Brooklyn, living by my wits and a tenuous room connection to the hotel's WiFi service, booking rooms at B&B's in the area so as to be ready to go to work on Monday morning, because I worked my way through it, just like I always do. Sure, a few days I had a small powder blue bag with me on the elevator in the morning that was remarked upon by one of my design assistants, but that was it. 

The holiday itself found me with absolutely no contact from anyone whatsoever: no good wishes, no phone calls of forced bonhomie. 
There was no gratitude or charity towards me of on any kind, except the G-dly ones I received by my own hand, because I walked several miles to be with my parish family at St. Francis of Xavier in Park Slope (where I was "shadowing" Sunday school teachers guided by Sister Kathleen, the former principal of the elementary school across the street, by following along with her lovingly designed children's curriculum) for church service on Sunday, because I said I would.  
I said I would be there.

http://www.coalitionforthehomeless.org

 https://www.bowery.org/homelessness/

http://www1.nyc.gov/site/dhs/prevention/homebase.page

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunset_Park,_Brooklyn

The Lemurs of Madagascar

http://www.patriciawright.org/

Just like the movie, I had to wait an irrational amount of time for something this cool to be freely available on DVD. "Tighty whitey" parents of the 'burbs often cop this arrogant attitude about life, partly to cover their fears about getting discovered as a project person from the Bronx. Of course, the accent (and the raging 'tude) is a dead giveaway to me, but sometimes they pull off the magic trick of affluence with the right amount of condescension to cover up their crippling insecurities; like believing you are all-powerful by keeping a well-known children's movie (that's right: for kids!) for an inordinately long time after checking it out of our lending libraries, totally disproportionate to your actual sphere of influence.

It's weird, but that's the point of view of people schooled to think they can say, do, and act any way they want, because their rich daddy is a lawyer (or chiropractor), so often did me and my friends get threatened by their whiny asses in the open halls of public school. They were in over their heads, and we knew it. Once they grew up somewhat, and figured out that we were more adept at secret beatings than getting nabbed by the POPO, they just shut the fuck up and went away.

Me and my friends here at the Pearl River library had to keep checking my online queue for months, making adjustments around some rich asshole who thinks $400+ change for a missing DVD is justified because their little Maury has "difficulties" at school, or because they are so busy, they just couldn't be bothered to drop one DVD into the mail or a box, just like the President of the U.S! It's such delusional thinking that I've stopped trying to communicate with the insular and insane of Rockland, just like I did with their scaredy cat kids who scream when they are squeezed slightly, and that's exactly why this post isn't kid-friendly either, parents of Hollywood: I want more of this type of movie, and less of you. Much less of you.

Special shout-out today goes to the lady from New York who had the guts and ingenuity to stick to her guns, by following her chosen fields of study to wherever they called her: all the way to the lovely people and beautiful animals of Madagascar. She's from SUNY Stony Brook, yo! Way to represent your peeps! Thanks, Dr. Wright: you do us right here at home. We proud of you, girl! Keep going!!

http://www.stonybrook.edu/commcms/centre-valbio/people/patwright.html

http://www.patwrightlab.net/

http://www.rhinebeckcsd.org/newsdisplay.php?ID=36

All That Jazz!

America, meet the Jennings: http://r29.co/1I8ZU1Q

I've been fascinated with the recent heightened awareness about the transgender community for awhile now, because I see them as cultural "outsiders" like me, but not for something of our particular creation. How can this be true? A gay man does not choose to have a brain shape that more closely resembles the brain of a heterosexual woman, a change that occurs during the earliest phases of fetal gestation, which makes it almost impossible for a mother to have any control over it, although photographic imaging technology improves our ability to see almost daily. 

It's given us the necessary scientific evidence we need to help treat our populations who have long suffered from false accusations of choice. How the heck does a small embryo "choose" his or her brain shape? Through sheer willpower?! It sounds absurd to us now that we know better, and yet during the Salem witch hunt days, Puritans wrongly believed women with moles were witches and burned them to death by tying them to a stake, albeit with the "holiest" of motives. Where was the compassion for a common skin feature then? 

What has always been taboo to the typically European "white man" has, in fact, always been accepted (not perfectly, but much better) by native First Nations of America** as a human part of tribal life. In fact, many societies accept the third gender as a natural part of life, the way a mother accepts her child's Albinism; it's a rare but beautiful thing.

Enter into the scene my favorite kiddie New Yorker, beautiful baby Jazz, a wunderkind dynamo if ever there was. From the age of two or three, Jazz told her parents she was a girl, because she is a girl. Not in all facets, yet (because she's still a teenager), but internally, deep in her brain, where we've yet to go where with our still-limited technical abilities, although I feel more confident than ever that we will get the correct results, because this mama ain't ever wrong about what she knows to be true. And so were Jazz's really "New Yawk" parents sure, too; two very normal Longyland people from totally normal backgrounds, who had no idea what "trans" was, let alone suggest it to their baby in utero. 

But what they did have (and still do) was the love, compassion, intelligence, and faith to understand that they did not raise a liar, or a cheat, or a sneak, certainly not as a cute lil' toddler. They choose to love, accept, support, and take care of their special little girl; not because you like it, but because they have G-d's absolute empathy and understanding, just like do you.

Oh, I know all about the wackos who can easily throw up Bible scripture like they wrote it yesterday and understand it perfectly, but as someone who has seen firsthand many people with learning disorders and mentally disabilities struggle to read one perfect, easy book (think of "Bible Study" as Special Ed for the spiritually inept), you know what I'm up against here. All I ask is that you let me tend to my own kind while I get you the information you need, in a way that you can understand. That's it. You don't have to do a thing. I got this one.

Special "shout-outs" to the wonderfully smart Dr. Marci*** for leading the way by honoring her Hippocratic Oath, and actively using her experienced background as a transgender healer to make a difference by saving lives one person at a time, and my man Chaz Bono for staying strong and true. It ain't easy being real in a world that can seem so fake at times, but that's exactly where all the gloriously good stuff is. Thanks for leading the way.


*      http://www.thestar.com/life/health_wellness/2008/06/17/gayness_linked_to_brain.html

**    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two-Spirit

***  http://marcibowers.com/

"Smokey"

Years ago I smoked cigarettes, which is hard for many people (including me) to fathom. Why?! Truth be told, I was a horrible smoker, which was why I began in the first place: I'm not a binge drinker like many of the kids I grew up with. "Smokey" was actually another one of the nicknames created by my "bestie", like "Uker". I'd puke if I drank too much, you know, because too much alcohol makes you sick. 

And so I compensated for not having an alcohol addiction by using cigarettes to calm my stomach from an excess of beer drinking, something college kids ruthlessly monitored me over (like my normal sleep patterns and continued persistent refusals to party overmuch), to keep their own massive consumptions obscured. I knew it, just like I knew my Dad smoked, as did a few of my grandparents, in response to life stress and their own addictive patterns. 

Like many Gen X'ers, I found myself wrecked by the consequences of other peoples' blatant disregard for my health, well-being, and safety. After years of being bored and sickened by someone else's stupid habit, I finally broke the cycle of abuse for me by quitting smoking cold turkey, because I had several bouts of DVT, related to knee surgery. 

I knew I was never an addict by the time I tried to use the lowest dose of nicotine patches available, because I had to leave my art director's job mid-day from a sick stomach; the severe nausea healthy people have in response to the harsh chemical cocktail designed to addict that's in cigarettes. For me, the cycle has forever been broken by my iron will, though the mentally ill receptionist at that former job, who compulsively gossiped as a political weapon (which I successfully used against her), merely changed the tone of her attack from noting my smoking habit to any other thing she felt she could get away with. 

Today I ask you to break the bad habits imposed upon you by others (those that were created in response to repeated personal attacks), by getting clean and healthy, like our fabulous health official Dr. Mary Bassett; herself an educated healer and fellow New Yorker, also caught in the twin traps of getting by on nothing, while fighting a corruptly biased system. Today we declare our collective good health, for all the peoples of the world still fighting oppression. I got your back, girl. 

May G-d bless you and keep you safe, 

in these final days of hope and light.

Quitting Smoking:
http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/about/commish-bio.shtml

https://a816-nycquits.nyc.gov/pages/homepage.aspx

The Tobacco Industry:

http://www.thestreet.com/topic/25884/top-rated-equity-tobacco.html 
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3490543/ 

A series of black and white self-portraits I made for (and sent to) my old college boyfriend, who needed support during his time at McGill University while I worked three jobs at RISD, which he blamed me for. He retaliated by transferring out of Oneonta before me during my last semester there, supposedly because I "insisted" on "wasting my time" at art school. Amen to you who are my similarly afflicted.

1-866-NYC-QUITS (1-866-697-8487) 

http://www.nysmokefree.com/ 

Cast Iron

Reflection in oil.

As my mom ages, so does her Multiple Sclerosis, which necessitates changes and adaptations in her tool usage. What was once an old stand-by becomes old, as it crosses over into unusable territory, given the advances of time upon her. And so it came to pass that she finally let go of a kitchen stable in our household, her old cast iron pan. Cool! Can I have it?, was the question I asked a few days later, when I realized it was now up for grabs. With severe handicaps, you learn to roll with the punches. It's given me a laisse-faire attitude that's whittled away the more hysteric components of my character, something I forget until an outsider comes into the picture, which often happens, sometimes with explosive effects, as it did one afternoon when a friend of mine who cleans off the cars in my mom's elderly development found out on a snowy day. He found her on the floor, talking to a LifeAlert operator over the phone line, and he, well, readers, lost his shit over it. I got a real shaky emotional VoiceMail, which I had to laugh at. 

Hand-etched Makers Mark that reads: "Ware, Sidney, -0-"

My mom delivered a great shock to his far more delicate nervous system, dragging him backwards into heady emotional waters, like his mother's death, the condition of his own elderly ailing dad, and that of his mortality, late in the game as it is in our 40s. Potent fare for a sunny snowy afternoon, and not the $25 worth or car cleaning he was expecting. I had to text him through the dangerous shoals of his own emotional ineptitude, and at the end of our brief exchange, he understood far better who I am as a person, and just how well I handle extremes. It's why he cleans my mother's car along with his ten other odd jobs, and picked her up off the floor one snowy afternoon, while I sit here typing to you, dear readers. Now he absolutely knows this and that knowledge cannot be undone. It is forever, as is his understanding of the kinds of conditions I operate under. I do all this, and that, and I do it far far better than him.

Cured with oil in the oven, just like my mom and grandpa taught me to.

Which lead me back to another part of our conversation, that of an old cast iron pan. My Uncle Paul had given it to her, but she didn't exactly remember when, though to me, it represents her leaving the family household for that of her marriage, like the type of gift a young newlywed wife gets. I always remember having it around the house, and so I know it came before my arrival in 1969. We took a turn down memory lane, as she reminisced about him. He was the youngest of three boys: my grandfather in the middle, and my great uncle the oldest, a wild kind of raconteur who took a fabulous Colombian bride for his second marriage, and then took of to Bogota for several years with her and his young sons. I remember his passing, but not that of my Uncle Paul, though my family spoke of it infrequently.

A perfect tear-shaped handle.

 
You see, he died under tragic circumstances one rainy night on the George Washington Bridge, the victim of an accidental collision, as he struggled to change a tire on the shoulder-less side of the bridge in the evening, a father trying to help his family. He was in his 40s, and he was a fireman, and his wife and children watched him die as he was hit by oncoming traffic. Even though he died before I was born, I can tell just by these scant details, along with one extraordinary hand-crafted and wise bridal gift, that he was the kind of guy I would like; the kind of hero who picks up helpless handicapped women lying on the floor, any time of day or night, because that's exactly the type of person I am.

An ancient family legacy, in the guise of one humble cast iron pan.

Amen to you of the Corvus Clan on this day in winter,

to those of us who wear the twin symbols of the wolf 

and the raven, that which endures, survives, and thrives.

Welcome to this, that is our legacy.

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Normans

In blessed memoriam of Paul Corbett. Long may he rest in peace.