Parade Button

I still have the parade button from my first gay pride march. Against the background of a brick wall, black letters say "1979 Gay Freedom Day Parade and Celebration." That was 39 years ago, before the alphabet soup of LGBTQI and before the term "pride" was used.

The parade commemorated the 1969 Stonewall Inn riots, and the goal of the parade and movement was freedom, first from the laws against homosexual conduct that allowed police to arrest and beat up gay men and lesbians for daring to simply exist in public. And second from the concept of homosexuality as sin and disease, which justified shunning and medicalized torture in attempts to change the way God made us.

We who marched in the parade were angry about this mistreatment, but afraid that marching might make things worse. Coming out in public could lose us our jobs, friends, or family. Coming out is less risky nowadays, but still can be hazardous to one's livelihood or health.

Looking at the button makes me proud of how far the gay rights movement has come. But I'm afraid of the hatred and bigotry that have been unleashed by the 2016 election. We've come so far, but our boat is so small and the seas are rising.

Uniforms

Uniforms

I’m a sucker for a man in uniform. But not in the way you might think.

I was a big fan of the TV show JAG. It was an action and courtroom drama about military lawyers. The male lead was a Navy Commander and the female lead a Marine Colonel.

My favorite part of the show was studying their various uniforms. They were blue or white or khaki, short-sleeved or long, with T-shirts showing at the neck or stupid bowties for the women’s uniforms. Once in a while, one of the men would wear a sweater.

I tried to figure out the rules for when each uniform would be worn. Was it all the wearer’s duty station or activity? How much did the weather matter? What were the options when one was too hot or too cold? And what about dress uniforms? The Navy officer had spiffy dress whites, but our lady marine had to wear an evening dress at fancy events.

I was just fascinated by having a rule book to consult that took the decisions away from dressing. I’m told that Emily Dickinson wore a white dress every day to spare herself having to choose what to wear. She saved her brain power for her poetry.

I’m no Emily Dickinson, but I wear a sort of uniform to simplify my life.  Choosing clothes does not rank high in my priorities.

My criteria for clothing are comfort, variable warmth, pockets, and, finally, color coordination. My uniform is blue or black jeans, T-shirts under long-sleeved cotton or flannel shirts, and corduroy overshirts. The various shirts come in shades of blue, purple, and pink, so nearly everything matches. Each morning I choose the next clean shirt, match it with a T-shirt and a corduroy shirt, match socks to my pants, and I’m done.

Happy Pride!

I celebrated LGBT Pride season fully this year.

I perused my catalog to the Frameline Film Festival and bought tickets to six programs: two documentaries, two groups of shorts, and two feature films. I arranged to sit with a friend at five of the six shows, and had lunch with that friend before one of them. The films were absorbing, informative, and thought-provoking. I also caught some LGBT films for free on TV.

I was watching films at the time of the Dyke March, so I missed that this year. But I went to Dolores Park the day before for a youth/senior lunch, and battled my introversion enough to have a few conversations with some of the young'uns there.

On Gay Day itself, I donned a "GEN OUT" T-shirt and rode in a trolley with other elders at the front of the parade; Openhouse LGBT senior services organization was contingent number 5. I really enjoyed waving a rainbow flag out the open window and yelling "Happy Pride!" to the onlookers (some of whom responded in kind) until my voice gave way. Best of all was hearing my name called by a friend in the crowd and remembering his name in time to call it back to him.

After leaving the trolley, I saw some wonderful Pride T-shirts on sale on Market Street, and am kicking myself for not buying one or two. Maybe they're on the web somewhere . . .

Earlier that week, I did buy and wear a rainbow decorated leather bracelet and a rainbow bowtie. And got a rainbow-dyed fluffy foxtail keychain that's decorating my shooting stick/cane seat.

Seriously, though, we're going through hard political times where we need to celebrate our freedoms while we have them. And we need to nourish coalitions with all other groups who are under threat, and do all we can to preserve those freedoms.

My Neighborhood Cat

My cat Misty is an indoor-outdoor cat. She came to me that way, and I have experienced how unhappy she is when I have to confine her indoors for medical reasons. She gets in and out through a cat door I had installed next to my back door.

The cat door is locked, so I don't get visits from other cats or raccoons or rats. It unlocks when Misty touches it while wearing a key fob on her collar. When she loses her collar, I need to find it if I don't want to replace the collar, the key fob, and her ID tag.

These items being troublesome and costly to replace, I have accompanied them with a tracking tile that I can locate with an app on my phone. When the tile is close enough (its range is 50-100 feet), the app notifies me and the tile itself starts to play a musical tune. I use it most often to locate Misty while she's wearing the collar and I need to take her to the vet.

Twice in the past three months she has come knocking on her cat door without her collar and I have had to let her in the back door (and out again, and in again . . . ). The first time this happened, the tracking tile didn't work. In addition to a limited range, it has a limited life. It needs to be replaced every year or so, and I had heedlessly ignored a warning of its imminent expiration when it crossed my screen. I looked for the first collar in my back yard and asked my tenants to look for it. No dice.

So I bought her a new collar, adorned it with a backup cat door fob and the ID tag from my previous cat, and ordered new tracker tiles and cat door fobs. When the new tracker tiles appeared, I put one on her lovely new collar.

It was only another month or so before she came a-knocking at the cat door without the new collar. Grrrr. I fired up the tracking app on my phone and walked around the backyard. No luck.

Every so often, one of my neighbors stops me on the street to report seeing Misty in their backyard, or that she came into their home for a visit. So I figured she must have dropped the collar in one of their backyards. With the limited range of the tracker, though, I would not be able to find it from the sidewalk.

So I crossed my fingers and headed up my street towards neighbors who knew Misty. A few houses up the hill, I saw a vaguely familiar neighbor talking with someone else. When their conversation was over, I hailed the woman. Told her that my cat might have lost her collar in her backyard, and could I come and scan for it. She led me into her yard, the tracker went off, and we could hear the tile's music playing from the backyard next door. My neighbor, being taller than me, looked over the fence and saw the collar on a table in the yard. So we went next door and asked the ladies to retrieve the collar from their backyard. They did so, and we had a nice chat about how cats dislike wearing collars and how some have figured out how to use bushes to pull them off.

I rejoiced in having neighbors to help me take care of my pet, and made a mental note to promptly replace the tracker tile when I am warned that it may be  it running out of juice.

What is Community?

Today's buzzword is community. What is community? How is it created? What circumstances foster it? How is it revealed?

The word "community" comes from a Latin root that means "common." A community is a group of people with something in common. More specifically, it is "a social, religious, occupational, or other group sharing common characteristics and which either is perceived or perceives itself as distinct in some respect from the larger society within which it exists."

I come to the question of community as a member of the so-called LGBT community. Outsiders may see the LGBT community as a monolith, but it contains many sub-groups who see themselves as communities: political activists, artists, the leather community, etc. And any one person can be a member of several overlapping communities depending on her neighborhood, gender presentation, occupation, activities, religion or lack thereof, and so on.

I find it helpful to separate two kinds of community: communities by identity and communities of caring. By identity, I am a retired older lesbian living in San Francisco, and my affiliations include a synagogue, a brunch group, and two support groups.

How is a community of caring formed? Good question. Some communities of identity include caring for each other as an element of their identity, such as religious congregations and extended families.

In my experience, a community of caring develops when members of a community by identity allow themselves to depend on each other. When they explicitly or implicitly agree to come to each other for support, and have a reasonable expectation of getting help.

I saw this happen when members of my brunch group had surgery, and the others visited them, sent and brought food, helped them with chores, and encouraged them. We take each other to medical procedures and the emergency room. We call each other to listen when we just need to vent.

Pretty much any community of identity has the potential to develop into a community of caring. As I see it, the key is for members to express openness to supporting each other. For as many of the group as are willing to explicitly agree to help each other to the extent of our ability. And to express this agreement not just once, but regularly.

And then, in any group needs will develop. If the members are in contact with each other, and believe that they have a mutual aid agreement, they will ask each other for help and receive it, and the group will grow stronger and closer with each need met.

Corporate Citizens

Remember Mitt Romney saying that corporations are people? If they have the legal rights of individuals, they should at least have the same responsibilities.

But no. The law views corporations as profit machines without personal liability. They are encouraged, if not required, to subsume any concern for their employees or customers, or the environment, to the insatiable need for shareholder profit. Not only must each year be more profitable than the previous year, but it must be more profitable by a larger margin than the difference between the two previous years.

These are not sustainable goals. There are only so many customers who are willing and able to pay ever-increasing prices for anything. And when companies try to make the same products more cheaply, the quality drops, or automation robs people of jobs, or off-shoring moves the jobs overseas and the quality may drop, or the environmental damage caused by the company worsens. And corporations cause much poverty and mental and physical illness by demanding ever more work from people who are given fewer resources to do it with, or less control over how to do it, or fewer benefits like health insurance or pensions for doing it, or no job at all.

I think that the laws governing corporations need to require them to bear the same responsibilities they now have to their shareholders also to their employees and customers, and the environment. And these laws should be enforceable by anyone affected by corporations, and egregious violators should face criminal penalties including prison and corporate dissolution for violent corporate side-effects such as mine disasters, poisoned rivers, and huge explosions.

Nowadays, corporations are like toddlers running around with guns. They kill people all the time, but they’re not expected to do any better, and they’re not punished or rehabilitated. This must not continue.

I Should Be Doing Something

I spend far too much time thinking about things I should be doing. This is a fruitless and often painful activity, but I continue to indulge in it. Why?

Well. My thought processes are not uniform. A whole committee of voices participates in my decision-making, and they pull in opposing directions. For example, I have a childish member who really enjoys thumbing her nose at the others, saying "Nyah, nyah. You can't make me. So there." An older committee member protests that my status as retired means that I don't have to do anything I don't want to.

But many members of the committee feel lazy, guilty, ashamed, and unworthy to live when I'm choosing to read or play games on my devices instead of creating something, taking care of business, reaching out to friends, stretching, or just getting out of the house. Shouldn't feeling that bad outweigh the pleasures of doing my own thing?

Then I look more closely into the members who advocate for inaction, and find one who is shy, another who is slightly agoraphobic, and a third who is convinced that keeping still and silent keeps me from the attention of some great, malign force. That's pretty powerful stuff.

On the third hand, the other committee members feel competent, capable, and energized by getting stuff done. But even they are undercut by the knowledge that most of the stuff will have to be done again not too long from now.

I have confronted the problem of "shoulding" on myself many times in the past, and come up with two ways of coping. One, which rose to the status of a resolution one year, is to view each "should" as having only two possible responses: either do or not do (and let myself off the hook for not doing); there is no leaving it undone while beating myself up for not doing it. The second approach is advice I formulated for myself as a retiree: do as much fun stuff as my body and emotions can handle, and as much good as I need to do to preserve my self-esteem.

The first, Yoda-like, approach calls for moment-by-moment mindfulness. The second calls for planning future activities to balance pleasure and productivity, and then to carry out those plans.

Perfectionism sometimes gets in the way of making plans. Many of my committee members strive so heartily for perfection that they cannot decide what to eat or watch on TV without obsessing. The saner members of my committee frequently have to remind them that at every point in life there are many good enough choices, and no single perfect one. Moreover, any particular choice that seems to be working out badly can usually be abandoned and a different choice made. Very few choices are carved in stone. Each new moment I can do something different. This is not an affirmation or aspiration, but a statement of fact. Being alive and human means having the ability to make different choices. Choices are what living consists of. Every moment is an ocean of possibilities, a sea of opportunities limited only by my imagination.

And maybe that's my problem -- a failure of imagination. My whole career and avocation have been in non-fiction writing. I haven't created characters, worlds, or plots. On the other hand, every now and then I imagine an invention that might be useful, but don't do anything with the idea. Maybe there's an inventors' suggestion box somewhere where I could pass these ideas on to someone who could either realize them or tell me who has already done it.

Then I start to wonder if I should be doing warm-up exercises for my imagination. Or would that just be another way to "should" on myself?