Chorus: Hang in there, baby, hang in.
Hang in there, baby, hang in.
We're like that kitten hanging by her chin;
Gravity's against us, but we don't give in.
Hang in there, kitten, hang in.
Verse 1: We're up against the system,
pollution and the bomb,
anxiety, depression,
and the list goes on.
Hang in there, sister, hang in.
Verse 2: It's hard as women
trying to survive,
but we have hope and courage
while we're still alive.
Hang in there, women, hang in.
____________________________
The Process of Consensus Blues
Verse 1: I hate to go to meetings.
Usually they're boring.
Got to work together, though, to get things done.
Chorus: Don't you fret yourself none.
It's sure to take forever.
That's the process of consensus blues.
Verse 2: Women use consensus,
not Robert's Rules of Order,
But sometimes it seems as if they're both the same.
Verse 3: We've got eleven women,
crowded in the front room.
Lots of big decisions are a'comin' down.
Verse 4: Two of us are for it;
two of us against it;
all the other women don't give a damn.
Verse 5: If we block consensus,
will we still be welcome?
Wish we didn't have to, but we feel we must.
Verse 6: All of us are tired;
all of us are cranky;
come on, let's decide so we can go on home.
_________________________
Greenham Geese (tune of Dona, Dona)
1 On the commons, Greenham Commons,
lives a flock of unruly geese
trained to honk and flight,
guarding day and night,
so that war isn't stopped by peace.
Chorus: How the geese are laughing.
They laugh with all their might.
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
and half the summer's night.
Dona, dona nobis pacem.
Grant us peace, we pray.
We are here to save the planet.
Greenham camp is here to stay.
2. Geese are easily trained for warfare:
honk alarm, then attack the foe.
Women, drawing near, cut the fence, and hear,
with them, silent, the geese did go.
3. When the roll is called and no geese are found,
major-generals are red of face.
All their well-trained geese, AWOL, and learning peace,
have adopted new friends and place.
_________________________
Books
Books are almost as good as friends,
at warming my heart, at making me cry,
at bringing a laugh, or a tear, or a sigh.
They take me away from this world that I know,
make me feel like a child and then help me to grow.
I revel in fiction and marvel at fact,
learn points to debate with, examples of tact.
Humor is good when I'm sick, weak, or blue.
For escape, science fiction will usually do.
Feminist writings may spur me to glory,
but my favorite of all is a women's love story.
__________________-
Flowering Fruit Trees
Love is flower-like, they say, and
friendship's like a tree
that shelters one from sun and storm
beneath its canopy.
I will not choose between the two;
I want them both, I say;
a lover's arms to hold me close
and friends with whom to play.
The trick, it seems, to having both
is found in friendship's bower,
where love will come one day, I hope,
when two dear friend-trees flower.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Mothertongue Era, the 80's
When I joined a gay synagogue and left the Lutheran church, I came out as a lesbian and got involved in feminist pursuits. My main avocation was writing and performing with Mothertongue Readers Theater. I worked on anthology scripts concerning identity, survival, sexuality, and peace. And now I present some of my pieces:
My name is Dana. I've always thought it meant Dane, a native of Denmark, which I'm not. But I since gathered that I was named after a close male friend of my father's, possibly a lover of his.
I always liked my name. I didn't have to share it with a lot of other people. In fact, I never met another Dana until I was in junior high school, one boy and one girl, and still we were few and between.
People often tell me I have a pretty name, which is not the term I would have chosen, but I appreciate the sentiment.
There are more of us Danas now, so I'm less unique. On the other hand, fewer people misspell the name these days.
Yes, I like my name; I think Dana is a neat, spare name, simple and without a lot of connotations. I think of it as straightforward and androgynous, two characteristics I like to think I share with it.
_______________
I needed to have a Hebrew name by Yom Kippur this year, so I could be called by that name to chant blessings for a Torah reading. I had known for at least a year that I would eventually have to choose a Hebrew name, but I hadn't chosen one. Making choices is not my strong suit.
I liked one name, Shira, because it means "song," and I'm a singer; but to me it belonged to someone else, a teacher of Israeli folkdance. This gave me mixed feelings. I admire Shira, and wouldn't want to take a name associated with a person I didn't respect, but I also didn't want to take a name that already belonged to someone else. That feels like cheating, like being a copycat.
I had even worse problems with Devora, Hebrew for Deborah, the first woman judge of Israel, because, although it is an honorable name and shares some letters with my own name, the Hebrew and English versions of the name already belong to my therapist and my boss, respectively.
So I called the rabbi for help, and he provided a book of English names and their nearest Hebrew equivalents, by sound and by meaning. It turns out that Dana, or Danah, is a perfectly valid Hebrew name, meaning "to judge." Since I'm a member of the State Bar and have a somewhat critical personality, the name seemed appropriate. Moreover, it's simply derived from my own name and doesn't belong to anyone I know, so that it's as rare a Hebrew name as my English name used to be and I don't have to take a whole lot of responsibility for selecting it. I hate making choices.
___________________
Somehow I always knew I would have to earn my own living. When my brother and I were babies, our parents got divorced and sent us to live with our grandparents. When I was 9, Grandma died, and two years later Dad took us from Grandpa, to live with him. When I was 15, Dad died, and we went to live with our mother. It seemed to me that the only person I could count on to be there was me.
Grandpa had told me that I would be taken care of when I grew up. Maybe he meant that my husband would take care of me. Well, I don't know how I managed to grow up without any interest in marriage, but I did. I couldn't decide whether to be a comedian or a psychiatrist, but housewife, I knew, was not for me.
While I was in college, I discovered that I was a lesbian, and that marriage really was out of the question. I enjoyed studying music in college, but it finally became clear to me that I could not earn a living as a musician. So I went to law school, even though I had never met a lawyer, because I thought that as a lawyer I could earn a secure, professional living. After I learned something about the practice of law, I took my law degree and went into legal research and writing instead. I worked for a research service, then for a court, and now in legal publishing, writing, editing, and managing publications.
I love seeing my name in print. I love figuring out complicated problems of legal analysis. I love working on a word processor. Sometimes there's deadline pressure; sometimes the material is boring, or gruesome, or not on the shelves. Sometimes, though I look around my office, which has my name on the door, African Violets on my handsome wooden desk, and a view of the Bay out my window, and marvel at my good luck, but I also know that I do good work and earn my salary. And in my spare time, I sing, compose, and conduct a choir. My father, also a professional, also a musician, and also gay, would have been proud of me.
_____________________
I often call myself Singer when I make restaurant reservations. It's easier than Vinicoff to get across to someone on the phone, especially to someone whose English is poor. And, anyway, I am a singer, so I'm entitled.
_________________________
Two different women look at me from the mirror. The one I see most often has a round face, a pasty complexion, and acne. Her expression is blank; she is plain. The other woman looks much better. She has cheekbones and a chin line. Her skin is clear and she looks wise and confident. She is attractive and I enjoy looking at her.
How can the women be so different? How can they both be me? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is the difference in my head rather than my face? Is it that how I feel about myself affects how I look? Or maybe a bit of both? Maybe I just look better at some times than others.
I don't know. But it would be nice if that attractive woman were the only one living in my mirror.
__________________________
I stand at the open refrigerator. I am hungry, but I know that food will not satisfy my hunger. All right. If I'm not hungry for food, then for what?
For people, I think. For friends, for a lover. I feel so paralyzed. But it's not that I can't reach out to people. I call women for dates, friends for lunch. Sometimes they call me. But it doesn't seem to be enough. Some friends say that they really enjoy being with me and value my friendship. I wish I could believe them. I see their comments as nourishment, but I just can't seem to absorb it.
So, I stand at the open refrigerator.
_______________________
I hate crying unlabeled tears. Crying itself doesn't bother me; it makes me feel better to cry. But I don't like crying if I don't know what I'm crying about. In part, it's because I want to be able to do something about the situation that's making me cry. If it's a problem, I want to solve it. If it's a joy, I want to savor it. If I'm simply tired or sick, at least I can understand what's happening and know that I'll get over it. But it's frustrating to cry without apparent reason. It makes me feel stupid or emotionally immature.
Well, it keeps on happening, and the intelligent, mature response would be to simply cry until I don't have to cry anymore. At the very least, it'll be good for my digestion.
_________________
One day I came home to my mother in tears. I couldn't stop crying and I couldn't explain why I was crying. She filled the bath tub with hot water and told me to get in. "You can't cry if you're in a hot bath," she said. "I don't know why, but it works for me."
I got in. It worked for me, too. Why does it work? Maybe it's just relaxation caused by the heat. Maybe it's a symbolic return to the womb. I don't know and I don't care. A hot bath is good for what ails you.
______________
Did you know that it's illegal in California for a woman to appear in public barebreasted? Men may take off their shirts any old time they want to, but a woman becomes a criminal if she does it. How is it, I wonder, that bare breasts are considered so threatening to the body politic as to constitute a crime?
Is it that poor, innocent, weak-willed men will lose control of themselves and rush like starving beasts to grab and bury their faces in the unveiled and beckoning bounty? Is it that young children will see the ordinary, human sight that lies beneath their mother's shirt? I think it's the possibility that allowing women to control when to reveal our bodies would give us the revolutionary notion that our bodies belong to us rather than to men, and that would bring the patriarchy crashing in pieces to the ground.
_______________
Woman 1: The world is in such trouble. Sometimes I just lose hope. Why bother working and planning when tomorrow may never come?
Woman 2: I know. Sometimes there's nothing I can do but pray.
Woman 3: Sometimes I have to just get out of the city and watch the sun rise.
Woman 4: It helps me to use my body. I do tai chi.
Woman 5: I run.
Woman 2: I need to be with a group of people, like my synagogue.
Woman 3: My coven.
Woman 4: Mothertongue.
Woman 5: The point is, do whatever works to make you relaxed and strong, but do it. There's work to be done, and we need to get on with it.
____________
Ah (with mild embarrassment). There's an explanation for that. It has been scientifically proven that humans need to be touched and held as much as we need sunlight or fresh air. If a baby isn't held enough, it can get sick or even die. That's why babies who have to stay in incubators are put on sheepskins, because the animal fur provides some substitute for human touching. Scientists believe that most people suffer to some degree from touch deprivation.
And that's why there's a teddy bear sitting on my desk.
_________________________
My name is Dana. I've always thought it meant Dane, a native of Denmark, which I'm not. But I since gathered that I was named after a close male friend of my father's, possibly a lover of his.
I always liked my name. I didn't have to share it with a lot of other people. In fact, I never met another Dana until I was in junior high school, one boy and one girl, and still we were few and between.
People often tell me I have a pretty name, which is not the term I would have chosen, but I appreciate the sentiment.
There are more of us Danas now, so I'm less unique. On the other hand, fewer people misspell the name these days.
Yes, I like my name; I think Dana is a neat, spare name, simple and without a lot of connotations. I think of it as straightforward and androgynous, two characteristics I like to think I share with it.
_______________
I needed to have a Hebrew name by Yom Kippur this year, so I could be called by that name to chant blessings for a Torah reading. I had known for at least a year that I would eventually have to choose a Hebrew name, but I hadn't chosen one. Making choices is not my strong suit.
I liked one name, Shira, because it means "song," and I'm a singer; but to me it belonged to someone else, a teacher of Israeli folkdance. This gave me mixed feelings. I admire Shira, and wouldn't want to take a name associated with a person I didn't respect, but I also didn't want to take a name that already belonged to someone else. That feels like cheating, like being a copycat.
I had even worse problems with Devora, Hebrew for Deborah, the first woman judge of Israel, because, although it is an honorable name and shares some letters with my own name, the Hebrew and English versions of the name already belong to my therapist and my boss, respectively.
So I called the rabbi for help, and he provided a book of English names and their nearest Hebrew equivalents, by sound and by meaning. It turns out that Dana, or Danah, is a perfectly valid Hebrew name, meaning "to judge." Since I'm a member of the State Bar and have a somewhat critical personality, the name seemed appropriate. Moreover, it's simply derived from my own name and doesn't belong to anyone I know, so that it's as rare a Hebrew name as my English name used to be and I don't have to take a whole lot of responsibility for selecting it. I hate making choices.
___________________
Somehow I always knew I would have to earn my own living. When my brother and I were babies, our parents got divorced and sent us to live with our grandparents. When I was 9, Grandma died, and two years later Dad took us from Grandpa, to live with him. When I was 15, Dad died, and we went to live with our mother. It seemed to me that the only person I could count on to be there was me.
Grandpa had told me that I would be taken care of when I grew up. Maybe he meant that my husband would take care of me. Well, I don't know how I managed to grow up without any interest in marriage, but I did. I couldn't decide whether to be a comedian or a psychiatrist, but housewife, I knew, was not for me.
While I was in college, I discovered that I was a lesbian, and that marriage really was out of the question. I enjoyed studying music in college, but it finally became clear to me that I could not earn a living as a musician. So I went to law school, even though I had never met a lawyer, because I thought that as a lawyer I could earn a secure, professional living. After I learned something about the practice of law, I took my law degree and went into legal research and writing instead. I worked for a research service, then for a court, and now in legal publishing, writing, editing, and managing publications.
I love seeing my name in print. I love figuring out complicated problems of legal analysis. I love working on a word processor. Sometimes there's deadline pressure; sometimes the material is boring, or gruesome, or not on the shelves. Sometimes, though I look around my office, which has my name on the door, African Violets on my handsome wooden desk, and a view of the Bay out my window, and marvel at my good luck, but I also know that I do good work and earn my salary. And in my spare time, I sing, compose, and conduct a choir. My father, also a professional, also a musician, and also gay, would have been proud of me.
_____________________
I often call myself Singer when I make restaurant reservations. It's easier than Vinicoff to get across to someone on the phone, especially to someone whose English is poor. And, anyway, I am a singer, so I'm entitled.
_________________________
Two different women look at me from the mirror. The one I see most often has a round face, a pasty complexion, and acne. Her expression is blank; she is plain. The other woman looks much better. She has cheekbones and a chin line. Her skin is clear and she looks wise and confident. She is attractive and I enjoy looking at her.
How can the women be so different? How can they both be me? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is the difference in my head rather than my face? Is it that how I feel about myself affects how I look? Or maybe a bit of both? Maybe I just look better at some times than others.
I don't know. But it would be nice if that attractive woman were the only one living in my mirror.
__________________________
I stand at the open refrigerator. I am hungry, but I know that food will not satisfy my hunger. All right. If I'm not hungry for food, then for what?
For people, I think. For friends, for a lover. I feel so paralyzed. But it's not that I can't reach out to people. I call women for dates, friends for lunch. Sometimes they call me. But it doesn't seem to be enough. Some friends say that they really enjoy being with me and value my friendship. I wish I could believe them. I see their comments as nourishment, but I just can't seem to absorb it.
So, I stand at the open refrigerator.
_______________________
I hate crying unlabeled tears. Crying itself doesn't bother me; it makes me feel better to cry. But I don't like crying if I don't know what I'm crying about. In part, it's because I want to be able to do something about the situation that's making me cry. If it's a problem, I want to solve it. If it's a joy, I want to savor it. If I'm simply tired or sick, at least I can understand what's happening and know that I'll get over it. But it's frustrating to cry without apparent reason. It makes me feel stupid or emotionally immature.
Well, it keeps on happening, and the intelligent, mature response would be to simply cry until I don't have to cry anymore. At the very least, it'll be good for my digestion.
_________________
One day I came home to my mother in tears. I couldn't stop crying and I couldn't explain why I was crying. She filled the bath tub with hot water and told me to get in. "You can't cry if you're in a hot bath," she said. "I don't know why, but it works for me."
I got in. It worked for me, too. Why does it work? Maybe it's just relaxation caused by the heat. Maybe it's a symbolic return to the womb. I don't know and I don't care. A hot bath is good for what ails you.
______________
Did you know that it's illegal in California for a woman to appear in public barebreasted? Men may take off their shirts any old time they want to, but a woman becomes a criminal if she does it. How is it, I wonder, that bare breasts are considered so threatening to the body politic as to constitute a crime?
Is it that poor, innocent, weak-willed men will lose control of themselves and rush like starving beasts to grab and bury their faces in the unveiled and beckoning bounty? Is it that young children will see the ordinary, human sight that lies beneath their mother's shirt? I think it's the possibility that allowing women to control when to reveal our bodies would give us the revolutionary notion that our bodies belong to us rather than to men, and that would bring the patriarchy crashing in pieces to the ground.
_______________
Woman 1: The world is in such trouble. Sometimes I just lose hope. Why bother working and planning when tomorrow may never come?
Woman 2: I know. Sometimes there's nothing I can do but pray.
Woman 3: Sometimes I have to just get out of the city and watch the sun rise.
Woman 4: It helps me to use my body. I do tai chi.
Woman 5: I run.
Woman 2: I need to be with a group of people, like my synagogue.
Woman 3: My coven.
Woman 4: Mothertongue.
Woman 5: The point is, do whatever works to make you relaxed and strong, but do it. There's work to be done, and we need to get on with it.
____________
Ah (with mild embarrassment). There's an explanation for that. It has been scientifically proven that humans need to be touched and held as much as we need sunlight or fresh air. If a baby isn't held enough, it can get sick or even die. That's why babies who have to stay in incubators are put on sheepskins, because the animal fur provides some substitute for human touching. Scientists believe that most people suffer to some degree from touch deprivation.
And that's why there's a teddy bear sitting on my desk.
_________________________
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Poems from the 70's, my Christian years
Music starts chills to running
up and down my spine.
I'll love it always.
_________________
The cross of Your Spirit,
the burden is great.
It led You to wilderness thirst.
Its leading is painful,
for wisdom comes late;
we stumble and hurt ourselves first.
The cross led to Easter;
the desert, a spring.
The wilderness bursts forth in flower.
Your peace dwells among us;
Your joy makes us sing;
Your righteousness fills us with power.
______________________
In the pause between thoughts, between breaths, You come.
Your word, although quiet, is clear.
You call me to laughter, to giving and love,
to living a life without fear.
You have told me the past cannot hold me back.
You say I can change and be new.
Your love gives me courage to trust You and try.
I know that Your promise is true.
______________________
Forgiving yourself ain't easy, but it's something you must do.
It's no fun to be in battle where the enemy is you.
There's nothing unforgiveable, no flaw you can't amend.
Be sure you keep on trying, you'll get better in the end.
Think how it is you love your friends, you wish them all the best.
You overlook the faults they have because you love the rest.
You need to love yourself that way; accept your faults, don't fret.
Rejoice that you're still growing; life ain't finished with you yet.
______________________________________
Praise for the magic that makes the world bright.
Praise for the artist renewing our sight.
Praise for the music that lifts up my soul.
Praise to the One who has made my life whole.
Love is the gift that God taught us to give.
Love is the only secure way to live.
Love Him whose mercy has set us all free.
Love is the reason She made you and me.
Hope, for the darkness can last but a night.
Hope, for our faith brings us into the light.
Hope, for the One who puts sadness to flight.
Hope in the Spirit whose plans turn out right.
______________________________
Meditation in the Tub
A soap bubble forms on the shampoo bottle. Iridescent red and blue flames chase each other in circles around its surface--a galaxy spinning in curved space. The flames live only for a few seconds and then the bubble bursts.
The most profound and magical beauty is often fleeting and easy to miss. If I had missed the beauty of that bubble, it would not have nourished me, nor would it have touched the eye of any living creature with its momentary existence. Why then the creation of such wonders? Surely God appreciates their beauty, but can that be enough? Isn't our first reaction--or perhaps second, after marveling ourselves--to want to share what has come to our attention? Perhaps God is like that too.
up and down my spine.
I'll love it always.
_________________
The cross of Your Spirit,
the burden is great.
It led You to wilderness thirst.
Its leading is painful,
for wisdom comes late;
we stumble and hurt ourselves first.
The cross led to Easter;
the desert, a spring.
The wilderness bursts forth in flower.
Your peace dwells among us;
Your joy makes us sing;
Your righteousness fills us with power.
______________________
In the pause between thoughts, between breaths, You come.
Your word, although quiet, is clear.
You call me to laughter, to giving and love,
to living a life without fear.
You have told me the past cannot hold me back.
You say I can change and be new.
Your love gives me courage to trust You and try.
I know that Your promise is true.
______________________
Forgiving yourself ain't easy, but it's something you must do.
It's no fun to be in battle where the enemy is you.
There's nothing unforgiveable, no flaw you can't amend.
Be sure you keep on trying, you'll get better in the end.
Think how it is you love your friends, you wish them all the best.
You overlook the faults they have because you love the rest.
You need to love yourself that way; accept your faults, don't fret.
Rejoice that you're still growing; life ain't finished with you yet.
______________________________________
Praise for the magic that makes the world bright.
Praise for the artist renewing our sight.
Praise for the music that lifts up my soul.
Praise to the One who has made my life whole.
Love is the gift that God taught us to give.
Love is the only secure way to live.
Love Him whose mercy has set us all free.
Love is the reason She made you and me.
Hope, for the darkness can last but a night.
Hope, for our faith brings us into the light.
Hope, for the One who puts sadness to flight.
Hope in the Spirit whose plans turn out right.
______________________________
Meditation in the Tub
A soap bubble forms on the shampoo bottle. Iridescent red and blue flames chase each other in circles around its surface--a galaxy spinning in curved space. The flames live only for a few seconds and then the bubble bursts.
The most profound and magical beauty is often fleeting and easy to miss. If I had missed the beauty of that bubble, it would not have nourished me, nor would it have touched the eye of any living creature with its momentary existence. Why then the creation of such wonders? Surely God appreciates their beauty, but can that be enough? Isn't our first reaction--or perhaps second, after marveling ourselves--to want to share what has come to our attention? Perhaps God is like that too.
A Thoughtful Girl
I wrote this in 1971, can't remember what for, based on a girl whose sister was my best friend in Berkeley, where I lived until 1968:
There once was a girl who was kind, gentle, and thoughtful, very thoughtful.
She thought about her family. Her parents had long ago been divorced. She saw her father, who lived across the country, once or twice a year. He was an unimpressive, undistinguished, quiet individual. She lived with her mother, an active, energetic, involved lady who laughed too much, and her sister, younger than she by two years, also active, energetic, and involved.
She thought about school: irrelevant, boring, and bothersome for the most part, it provided her little satisfaction, pleasure, or promise for the future.
She thought about her friends. It was funny, how she could see the hang-ups that most of them had. But she thought that they were extraneous, had no bearing on her relationships with the people.
She thought about the state of the world. During her lifetime she had seen only worsening, uncertainty, change. When she looked ahead she saw no security, no improvement, and no hope.
One day she took a great number of pills. She was whisked off to the hospital by her worried yet efficient mother, pumped out, and listened to, for possibly the first time in her life. The listening was done by a psychiatrist, who, it was thought, would cure her of her sickness.
She was installed in a clinic, diagnosed as depressive, given electro-shock treatments, chemo-therapy, private therapy, group and family therapy, and days or half-days out for "good" behavior. Her sister and mother were asked to clean out their own psyches of any hang-ups which might be amplifying the girl's own problems.
She seemed to improve. While in the clinic, she completed high school work and received her diploma. She was allowed more and more freedom. She grew interested in colleges. She finally moved out of the clinic and into an apartment and a job.
She was still thoughtful. She thought of her experiences, her present life, and her prospects for the future. She then closed herself inside an abandoned refrigerator and died of suffocation.
It doesn't pay to examine things too closely, for nothing is perfect.
There once was a girl who was kind, gentle, and thoughtful, very thoughtful.
She thought about her family. Her parents had long ago been divorced. She saw her father, who lived across the country, once or twice a year. He was an unimpressive, undistinguished, quiet individual. She lived with her mother, an active, energetic, involved lady who laughed too much, and her sister, younger than she by two years, also active, energetic, and involved.
She thought about school: irrelevant, boring, and bothersome for the most part, it provided her little satisfaction, pleasure, or promise for the future.
She thought about her friends. It was funny, how she could see the hang-ups that most of them had. But she thought that they were extraneous, had no bearing on her relationships with the people.
She thought about the state of the world. During her lifetime she had seen only worsening, uncertainty, change. When she looked ahead she saw no security, no improvement, and no hope.
One day she took a great number of pills. She was whisked off to the hospital by her worried yet efficient mother, pumped out, and listened to, for possibly the first time in her life. The listening was done by a psychiatrist, who, it was thought, would cure her of her sickness.
She was installed in a clinic, diagnosed as depressive, given electro-shock treatments, chemo-therapy, private therapy, group and family therapy, and days or half-days out for "good" behavior. Her sister and mother were asked to clean out their own psyches of any hang-ups which might be amplifying the girl's own problems.
She seemed to improve. While in the clinic, she completed high school work and received her diploma. She was allowed more and more freedom. She grew interested in colleges. She finally moved out of the clinic and into an apartment and a job.
She was still thoughtful. She thought of her experiences, her present life, and her prospects for the future. She then closed herself inside an abandoned refrigerator and died of suffocation.
It doesn't pay to examine things too closely, for nothing is perfect.
A School Assignment
Here's an "A" paper I wrote in 1968, for a Composition class:
My friends and fellow Santa Monicans, I am inexpressibly happy to be back today in the city of my childhood: this beautiful city with its beautiful beaches and beautiful people, so many of you who were once my neighbors. I am a graduate of deal old Samohi (I remember a certain Composition teacher ...), and this background has certainly helped me in travelling that long, hard road to our nation's capitol, the end of which I have so nearly reached, and which, with your help, I shall reach at last!
But I have not come here to talk about me. You already know much about me. I came to tell you about our great society and about how, if elected your Chief Executive, I shall maintain and improve on its greatness.
We live in the age of efficiency. Computers can do in minutes work that it would take men years to accomplish. And what keeps the computers going, I ask you? Numbers! They are programmed with numbers, they process numbers, they read out numbers. From paint-by-number to war strategy, computers and numbers, numbers and computers. Your prescription is numbered, your bank account is numbered, you are numbered, I am numbered. 432-567-8022 is speaking to you today.
This is efficiency. A Social Security number is unique; whereas there might be a million John Smiths. Your number can't be confused with anyone else's. Only with a number can you be an individual. In my administration, your Social Security number, remember its uniqueness, will be used for everything. This will simplify matters, giving you only one important number to remember. It will be your phone number, your address, your prescription, and your bank account number. It will identify you to the census computers, the Health, Education, and Welfare Department computers, the Defense Department computers, and the computer dating agency. It will be your automobile, dog, marriage, and hunting or fishing license number. All your identification will bear this number. The whole world will know you by your Social Security number, and you will be truly socially secure.
And, perhaps, with use, number will acquire personality. Here is an introduction of the future. "375-92-3788, this is 247-86-3519 (Isn't that a noble-sounding number?)" A reverent hush follows.
So! If I am elected, I will do my best to institute and maintain a uninumerical system with the Social Security number used, as identification to people, organizations, and computers, with all the efficiency and simplicity such a system will bring. Elect me your president and our nation will be socially secure.
Thank you.
My friends and fellow Santa Monicans, I am inexpressibly happy to be back today in the city of my childhood: this beautiful city with its beautiful beaches and beautiful people, so many of you who were once my neighbors. I am a graduate of deal old Samohi (I remember a certain Composition teacher ...), and this background has certainly helped me in travelling that long, hard road to our nation's capitol, the end of which I have so nearly reached, and which, with your help, I shall reach at last!
But I have not come here to talk about me. You already know much about me. I came to tell you about our great society and about how, if elected your Chief Executive, I shall maintain and improve on its greatness.
We live in the age of efficiency. Computers can do in minutes work that it would take men years to accomplish. And what keeps the computers going, I ask you? Numbers! They are programmed with numbers, they process numbers, they read out numbers. From paint-by-number to war strategy, computers and numbers, numbers and computers. Your prescription is numbered, your bank account is numbered, you are numbered, I am numbered. 432-567-8022 is speaking to you today.
This is efficiency. A Social Security number is unique; whereas there might be a million John Smiths. Your number can't be confused with anyone else's. Only with a number can you be an individual. In my administration, your Social Security number, remember its uniqueness, will be used for everything. This will simplify matters, giving you only one important number to remember. It will be your phone number, your address, your prescription, and your bank account number. It will identify you to the census computers, the Health, Education, and Welfare Department computers, the Defense Department computers, and the computer dating agency. It will be your automobile, dog, marriage, and hunting or fishing license number. All your identification will bear this number. The whole world will know you by your Social Security number, and you will be truly socially secure.
And, perhaps, with use, number will acquire personality. Here is an introduction of the future. "375-92-3788, this is 247-86-3519 (Isn't that a noble-sounding number?)" A reverent hush follows.
So! If I am elected, I will do my best to institute and maintain a uninumerical system with the Social Security number used, as identification to people, organizations, and computers, with all the efficiency and simplicity such a system will bring. Elect me your president and our nation will be socially secure.
Thank you.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Very Old Writings of Mine
In my decluttering efforts, I recently ran across a stash of my writings dating back more than 40 years, back to when I was in the 9th grade. I'll publish the least embarrassing of these writings in my next several posts.
The oldest piece was published by the Berkeley Unified School District in September, 1967, in a pamphlet entitled "Berkeley's Creative Children."
I Don't Understand You
Can a person understand another?
It seems impossible.
Look at the barriers.
Every single word
has a different connotation
to people.
Some words have more than
one connotation to
a person.
And then,
there are things there
aren't words for.
There must be more than
two degrees of
friendly emotions.
What is between
liking
and
loving?
Understanding.
Then I took up the same topic in my high school valedictory address, which I delivered at Santa Monica High School in 1970:
THE POSSIBILITY OF COMMUNICATION
Is communication possible? As a representative of the class of 1970, I can tell you that at times I've had my doubts. Nevertheless, the problem of communication is more acute than it seems. Webster defines communication as "giving and receiving information by talk, gestures, writing, etc." This information may be split into two groups, of which the first is language. The second group is sense impressions, that is, sights and sounds that are not language - tastes, touches, and smells.
The giving and receiving of sense impressions is accomplished through three avenues - sense organs, nerves, and the brain, which together could be called the sensory apparatus. Many barriers exist which can alter or halt the flow of information. Chief among these obstacles are the sense organs themselves. They vary among people in sensitivity and accuracy. Were there a faint smell in the air, Dr. Drake might smell apple, Mr. Leach, grape, and Mr. Richards, nothing but smog.
That same situation might also have been brought about by differences in nerves, for from the various sense organs nerves extend to transmit the messages to the brain. Once an impression has reached the brain, it may be interpreted differently, both by different people and by the same person at different times.
The snowballing effect is staggering. Imagine the accumulated errors of a lifetime. Each impression, with its own inaccuracy, is filed in the brain to use in interpreting other sensations. An appalling thought is how incorrect second-, third-, or fourth-hand information is, let alone history, which has traveled the centuries.
Let us consider language. The flaws in human sensory apparatus are many, but its inaccuracy is nothing to the mess that languages are. In the field of science, German is more exact than English. For the best available accuracy, however, an artificial language must be used. Symbolic logic was formulated to help minimize the illogic of natural languages, but people are not about to speak to each other in a language whose only verb is "to imply.
The main problem with natural languages is that few people can understand precisely what other people are saying. Dictionary definitions, which would really help communication if everyone used them, are only listings of the most popular of the meanings which are currently in use. Even if the people who spoke a certain language were to agree on meanings, the connotations of the words would still be in doubt . A given word will frequently have varying associations to different people, or to the same person with a change in time. Remember when 'pot' meant 'cooking utensil' and 'grass' was something one mowed?
Is communication possible? I believe it is. Improved sensory apparatus will help. Modern medicine has discovered a full catalogue of remedies designed to combat disorders of the sense organs, nerves, and brain. In the field of language, dictionary writers are ever working to tell people what they really mean when they speak or write. Widespread education is giving the populace more information about its languages. Scientists are even tuning in their mechanical ears to listen to sounds made by the stars.
As long as people inhabit this earth, we must try to improve our means of communication. My classmates will no doubt recall that the bloodiest encounter of the War of 1812, the Battle of New Orleans, was fought after the treaty had been signed. The news of peace simply couldn't travel fast enough to prevent that tragedy. The technical side of communication has advanced immeasurably since then; but please think for a moment of what would happen if, in the midst of an international crisis, the hot line were to break down.
Technical means of communication are not good enough. Someday, perhaps with the advent of telepathy, true communication will at last take place.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Fitting In (from 2005)
Here's an essay that I wrote five years ago for an online writing class, on fitting in:
When I’m alone, I’m in bad company. That’s a piece of twelve-step wisdom that my mother imparted to me. It fit in well with my nagging sense of unworthiness. Now, that sense is not fact based; I have talents and skills and some admirable or lovable traits, and my efforts are appreciated at work and by my friends. Nevertheless, I have a sense of being marginal, unimportant, and unworthy of attention or love. This may have developed, at least in part, because both my grandmother and my father died when I was living with them and I didn't live with my mother until the other relatives were dead.
I'm afraid of revealing too much of myself to others, lest they see enough of me to realize how unworthy I am. On top of which, I tend to believe that I need to be perfect or I don't deserve to exist. This "all or nothing" approach leaves me feeling bad much of the time. Only occasionally do I think to tell myself that I'm good enough, even though imperfect.
Perhaps because of this sense of unworthiness, I imagine that I don't exist for others when I am not in their presence. So I am always astonished when someone reveals that they have been thinking of me in my absence, as when a relative or friend calls me up to see how I'm doing. It also startles me that other people sometimes take action based on what I say or do.
At school I had experiences that both strengthened and eased my sense of unworthiness. I skipped into the second grade in the middle of the first grade, so I was moved ahead of my age mates. Then I was probably too smart and too much of a smart aleck to be really liked. And I got chosen nearly last for athletic games, because I wasn’t any good at sports.
I started to fit in with the brainy kids after I discovered that a friend of mine got straight A’s and realized that I could do that too with a little extra effort. I did very well in school. I was second in my high school class, the valedictory speaker, a National Merit Scholar, a Governor’s Scholar, holder of the National Council of Teachers of English Award and the Degree of Distinction in the National Forensics League. Even Annapolis wanted me as a student, and they weren’t admitting females then. No question about it; I was smart and talented. I did fit in with the straight A, Knowledge Bowl crowd.
But I still had that nagging sense of unworthiness. One day at work I learned a bit about how it played out and what I could do about it. I was in a fairly bad mood that day. I couldn’t have told you what flavor of bad; my emotions were something of a mystery to me. One of my friends came by to invite me to join a group that was going out to lunch. Being in that bad mood, I turned them down. However, after the friend left me, I started feeling even worse and this time knew what parts of the feelings were - forlorn, rejected, worthless. Then I experienced two revelations. First, they hadn’t rejected me, I had rejected them. And second, I didn’t have to stick with my choice. So I ran after them, said that I’d changed my mind, and started feeling much better.
When I’m alone, I’m in bad company. That’s a piece of twelve-step wisdom that my mother imparted to me. It fit in well with my nagging sense of unworthiness. Now, that sense is not fact based; I have talents and skills and some admirable or lovable traits, and my efforts are appreciated at work and by my friends. Nevertheless, I have a sense of being marginal, unimportant, and unworthy of attention or love. This may have developed, at least in part, because both my grandmother and my father died when I was living with them and I didn't live with my mother until the other relatives were dead.
I'm afraid of revealing too much of myself to others, lest they see enough of me to realize how unworthy I am. On top of which, I tend to believe that I need to be perfect or I don't deserve to exist. This "all or nothing" approach leaves me feeling bad much of the time. Only occasionally do I think to tell myself that I'm good enough, even though imperfect.
Perhaps because of this sense of unworthiness, I imagine that I don't exist for others when I am not in their presence. So I am always astonished when someone reveals that they have been thinking of me in my absence, as when a relative or friend calls me up to see how I'm doing. It also startles me that other people sometimes take action based on what I say or do.
At school I had experiences that both strengthened and eased my sense of unworthiness. I skipped into the second grade in the middle of the first grade, so I was moved ahead of my age mates. Then I was probably too smart and too much of a smart aleck to be really liked. And I got chosen nearly last for athletic games, because I wasn’t any good at sports.
I started to fit in with the brainy kids after I discovered that a friend of mine got straight A’s and realized that I could do that too with a little extra effort. I did very well in school. I was second in my high school class, the valedictory speaker, a National Merit Scholar, a Governor’s Scholar, holder of the National Council of Teachers of English Award and the Degree of Distinction in the National Forensics League. Even Annapolis wanted me as a student, and they weren’t admitting females then. No question about it; I was smart and talented. I did fit in with the straight A, Knowledge Bowl crowd.
But I still had that nagging sense of unworthiness. One day at work I learned a bit about how it played out and what I could do about it. I was in a fairly bad mood that day. I couldn’t have told you what flavor of bad; my emotions were something of a mystery to me. One of my friends came by to invite me to join a group that was going out to lunch. Being in that bad mood, I turned them down. However, after the friend left me, I started feeling even worse and this time knew what parts of the feelings were - forlorn, rejected, worthless. Then I experienced two revelations. First, they hadn’t rejected me, I had rejected them. And second, I didn’t have to stick with my choice. So I ran after them, said that I’d changed my mind, and started feeling much better.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)