Archive for November, 2008

Giving thanks for the rule breakers.

November 26, 2008

As the time for giving thanks is upon us, I would like to take this opportunity to acknowledge my gratitude for someone I just met and will probably never see again. His name is Cortez. I don’t know his last name.

Cortez is a handsome African American young man, probably in his mid-twenties. Today he was sitting behind a counter wearing a bright red Oxford cloth shirt with a good looking striped silk tie to match. And although he was working, he had a smile a mile wide which lit up his whole face.

He works at a cell phone store in the Jersey suburbs as a technician. That means that when things go wrong with your phone, you go to a specified area in the back of the store where Cortez tries to fix it. If he can’t, and you don’t have insurance, he will send you to the retail section where you will need to buy a new phone – starting at $195.99.

My cell phone of three months won’t hold a charge. “It got wet,” he tells me, showing me the faded crosses on the inside of the phone. Go figure. I can’t imagine how it happened (no, I don’t take it with me into the bathroom), but the phone is unfixable never the less. Of course there’s no insurance. I never buy it. On principle. There’s something about having to insure a new piece of equipment that really rubs me the wrong way. If I didn’t have the expectation that something brand new would work, why would I buy it in the first place? As you can see, I am one of those people who would be heading for the retail section of the store to buy another phone. Starting at $195.99.

But today, Cortez broke the rules. He gave me a new phone for the price of a new battery. For $29.95. He offered it up to me as one would a gift to a friend, not needing to hear pathetic pleas or a hostile harangue, or see me reduced to the humiliation of tears. He whispered to me conspiratorially, but without conceit, that his co-workers wouldn’t have done it. “They never break the rules,” he said. I almost jumped over the counter and planted a big kiss on his beautiful brown cheek.

Thank you Cortez, my fellow explorer, for your courage, for your compassion. For helping out a fellow human whose monthly writer’s income has declined right along with her country’s shaky economy.

Yes, I know that in a civilized society, rules are very important. They keep us all in line and able to live with one another. Traffic, sports and parliamentary procedure depend on them. But I have to admit that there is something marvelous about those who are willing to break the rules – from time to time, particularly to help someone out. I, for one, have always loved Robinhood. I love rule breakers. I love Cortez.

P.S. In addition to all you rule breakers out there, I am grateful for the many loving people in my life – my darling family, my dear friends, my esteemed colleagues, my valued clients – teachers one and all, those who make this sometimes challenging but always wondrous walk worthwhile.

Believe it … or not.

November 17, 2008

I believe that I need eight hours of sleep to function well. I believe that I’m not very good when it comes to money matters. I believe that those who are – are more intelligent than I even though I have seen proof to the contrary. I believe that I am too fat no matter how thin I get. I believe that I am not a great judge of character, that I trust too easily, am easily duped. I believe that I am too emotional and not the greatest at exercising common sense.

I believe I have not been such a stellar mother or bread earner or responsible adult. I also believe that even though I can write pretty well, when it comes down to it, I really don’t have much to say and who wants to hear it anyhow?

The list goes on. One after another of all the things I tell myself about myself. Are they honest self-assessments or simply the result of decisions made by me about me at some specific time in the past? At three, ten, nineteen, at twenty-five – are these the conclusions I came to based on my judgment at that age, skewed by a limited critical capacity? Am I forever doomed to think of myself as fat simply because I was chubby at eight?

Now don’t get me wrong. I certainly believe in looking within. I’m all for what AA calls, “making a searching and fearless moral inventory.” I’ve been trying to do just that for most of my adult life. But how do we separate truth from fiction? How do we let go of the stuff that simply “ain’t necessarily so anymore”?

The trouble with beliefs, as I see it, is that not only can they be formed erroneously, but they tend to harden – to set like cement in the convoluted grey matter of the brain. They persist as truth long after they are not. They become very familiar, comfortable, kind of like an old pair of sweat pants, full of holes. You can’t wear them anywhere but you can’t bring yourself to send them to Goodwill either.

Suppose that in this very instant I decided to turn these old beliefs upside down. Just let them go. Suppose I decided I only needed three hours of sleep a night, or that I was great with money, both making it and saving it. Suppose I decided that I attracted exactly the right people into my life, and intuitively knew who to trust and who not to. Suppose I believed with certainty that when life got really tough, I was sure to come through just fine, that I could ride any rough wave with ease and grace. Suppose I was secure in the knowledge that though I’m no William Faulkner, there was still a place for my voice in the world.

Wishful thinking? Or thinking what you wish for? I don’t know. But imagine the possibilities if I could revise the narrative, rework the script? I wonder who I’d be then. I wonder what I could do in the world. Sounds like it’s worth a shot.

And you?

This one’s for us!

November 10, 2008

Finally, I can exhale. I can settle down. I can relax. Obama did it. He pulled it off. And I have no doubt he did it for me. Of course, it wasn’t only for me. He did it for Rich and Marie too who after graduating from Swarthmore College spent the next ten years of their lives organizing workers on the factory lines. He did it for my very first boyfriend Ricky, a member of SDS, who taught me about political activism as he instructed me on the horrors of the Vietnam War. He did it for my cousin Gail, a Freedom Rider at the age of 19 riding into the segregated South to register voters.

He did it for Dona who took in the homeless and counseled women ravaged by rape. He did it for Lisa on the front lines in the Valley of Virginia, working as fast as she can to protect the beauty of that magical land between the Blue Ridge and the Alleghenies. He did it for Nancy who taught self-love at the cost of earning a good living. He did it for Lorenzo’s father who passed away last week at 92, and who had despaired at what had happened to his beloved country. He did it for Wendy telling her students that war is not the answer, in spite of warnings from the school administration. He did it for Paul and Lisa to thank them for their mellow musical protest on the streets of buttoned-down, Republican Moorestown. He did it for my dear friend Mary who couldn’t even bring herself to hope.

There was the old black man I met outside the 7-Eleven who wore an Obama button on his cap and told me that it was the first time in his life that he had given money to a political campaign. “Wasn’t much,” he said, “but glad I could do it before I died.”

There was Rashid;there was Frank, an Indian and a Barbadian, two new Americans, transit workers living in Queens who came down on a bus last Saturday to the Boilermakers union in Ben Salem. They came with hundreds of others to help get out the vote in Pennsylvania. They spent their hallowed day off going door to door in suburban Philadelphia, door hangers in hand. He did it for them.

And, of course, it goes without saying that he did it for Andrew Goodman, one of the three white civil rights workers killed in Mississippi in 1964 and for John Brown and for Rosa Parks and for King himself, but he also did it for Father Michael Doyle in Camden, for Alice Paul, for Cindy Sheehan, for Cesar Chavez. And for countless others.

He did it for all of us children of long ago who have always known there was a better way. We could see it, feel it, taste it. He did it for those of us who had forgotten it was possible.