You've got to be carefully taught

I have been thinking about racism.


"You've got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You've got to be taught
From year to year,
It's got to be drummed
In your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade,
You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught before it's too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You've got to be carefully taught!"



The lyrics above are from the musical South Pacific. They are just as true today as they were in 1949 when the show opened. And I wonder, why? Why hate? I don't get it.


It seems to me that the bedrock of racism is a belief that one kind, one's own kind of people are inherently better than other human beings. It negates the idea of all people being beloved in the Creator's eye. When it says in the Bible that man was created in God's image, it doesn't specifically say which people. To me, people are people. We all bleed red. Our hearts all break. There are cultural differences for sure, but you can put type O blood into any human and it won't be rejected. 


None of us can control the circumstances of our birth and all of us are different. What we can control is our reaction to our race. The racist hurts others with his or her attitude but never realizes how much their own growth is limited. Is it fear or inferiority that causes militant racism? Are people threatened by seeing others of a different ethnicity get ahead? Have certain people of a different race hurt them, or are they just repeating the party line they have been carefully taught?


I am not a fan of parochial schools. I feel they carefully teach children that they are better because of their religious beliefs. They advocate a difference between themselves and the rest of the world, and they are superior. I think children should be taught empathy and compassion, that they are world citizens. But then again, I was raised pretty much as a Jewish heathen. I know that when people seek out answers, they will find them and it isn't always in a church or temple.


I am not against people seeking their own kind because they feel comfortable worshipping or living with others who look or think the same way. I am against the idea that one way is inherently superior to another. There needs to be an acknowledgement that all humans have worth.

Don't assume, don't presume

After the old man died, I was almost flippant about the amount of care the old lady would need. She has always been the strong one, and not that much fuss. She is definitely high maintenance, but that mostly meant telling her how beautiful she looks each time I see her. At 97 she still likes clothes and shoes and hair. She is a true narcissist, everything is about her. When she tells me that the people in her building only care to talk about their own selves, she doesn't see herself. What can I say to that?

I assumed I could handle her, easy. She wasn't as demanding as the old man. But I didn't count on one thing, the old man told her how good she looked and kept her up to standard. The old man demanded she dye her hair. He would tell her to stand up straight or put something else on. Almost like a child who wants attention, she didn't care if he was yelling at her to clean up her room, (he couldn't stand the mess on her dresser or the shoes on the floor) or telling her she was the prettiest woman in the building. It was all attention and it was all good.

Since the old man went into the nursing home in mid June, until now, I am seeing her almost every other day. It is too much. Not for her, but for me. I am tired, tired, tired and I need a vacation. On the days I don't see her I still have to deal with all kinds of stuff that pertains to her. I took her out for a nice day on Saturday, had to deal with the health care staff on Sunday, and take her to Urgent Care on Monday. I can't wait to go to work on Tuesday.

The activities are not hard on me physically, it is the constant repetition that gets me and used to get the old man until his hearing got so bad. The reason he would not wear his hearing aids lived with him. He loved her, but she doesn't shut up and doesn't realize she has just told you the same self-centered story for the ten thousandth time. That wouldn't be so bad, but you have to respond in some way. Today, at the clinic, I told her not to tell me the same old negative story. I picked up a Reader's Digest and read the following joke (more or less):

Jack woke up hung over, aching, with a black eye and read a note on the bedside table, "Darling, I've made you breakfast and have gone to the store to get fixings for your favorite dinner. I love you." He stumbled out of bed and found his breakfast and his son. "Can you tell me what happened last night?" His son said that he came home soused, tripped over a chair and got a black eye. Jack showed him the note and asked if he understood it. "Oh, that was when Mom got you to bed. She tried to take off your clothes but you fought and yelled for her to stop, you were married."


She laughed and laughed. I wound up tearing the joke out so she could bring it to dinner. (Yes, that was me.) Easily amused, she just needs a lot of attention, like a four year old. It turns out the ache in her back was a cracked rib and they put a belt on it. Now she will need help dressing, another thing to be arranged on my end.

Well, there is no cute end to this post, just thanks for letting me vent. I appreciate it.

Pool Haiku

It has been beastly hot here. Sweltering, melting, sweating, dripping, sticky, icky, hot. The kind of hot that makes eye glasses fog up when getting out of an air conditioned car. The kind of hot that makes children cranky and anyone with sense stays out of the sun. I really felt for the boys collecting shopping carts from the parking lot. A hard day for lifeguards, mail carriers, and road crews. Air conditioners could not keep up. My fingers were all pruney when I took off the gloves at work, there was so much sweat inside them.

When I got home from work and minor errands I lay on the couch cooling off. I watched the super talented children on So You Think You Can Dance and wondered how anyone could pick a favorite. It was nine o'clock before I went out to the pool area. It was delicious to uncoil the hose to water the plants and talk to each of them, calling them by name. Here you go, Tomato, here's a drink for Fuchsia, and Marigold, I am so proud of you.

Walking into the pool was like walking into a large tepid tub, not bracing at all, just relaxing and soft. I made myself do about ten minutes of exercise in the shallow end before I took a foam noodle out to the deep end. Back and forth like a water skeeter on surface then I abandoned the flotation device and just lay on my back looking up at the sky. It has been so humid that only a few stars shone and I found myself wondering if someone was floating on those far away pinpoints of light. I'd like to think so.

I started writing Haiku in my head. Five syllables for the first and third line and seven for the second. Haiku is the perfect form of poetry for me, short. Buoyant in the water, nope that is six syllables. Like an otter, she floats, nope six again.

Otter-like she floats, 

Buoyant, writing poetry, 

Counting syllables.

Machinery hums,

Blessed coolness behind doors,

Wet, I feel no chill.

Ears under water,

Alone in sheer abandon,

So glad blubber floats!

Friends in hot places,

Drink water, make plans to move.

Northern winter calls.

Half done

When I moved my parents out to Minnesota from Brooklyn, I had one goal. I wanted to know that when they died I had done all I could do to have no regrets. Now that the old man is gone I can say without a doubt, that I did all I could for him and I have no regrets as far as my care goes. Are there other regrets? Sure. I regret that he did not reconcile and ask my sister for forgiveness. I regret I don't know very much more than I did before about his horrific childhood. I regret I did not hear any stories about my birth mother. I regret that he could not talk about the past.

I can tell you something that is a bonus. I got to see a softer side of Sid. I got to see someone who was able to change his attitude about me. Did he appreciate me? I really don't know. He still thought I was a bit of a Pollyanna, doing for others when I didn't have to. But he started to see that as part of me, and not a bad thing. Over the past six years I lost my temper with him a few times. It wasn't pretty, and it really alarmed him. It also made him act better towards me and others. I wish him well in his new manifestation, whatever that may be.  A cousin said he was probably doing a jig somewhere. I have a feeling he is very happy.

The job is half done and I am feeling quite a lot of patience with the old lady. She never expected to outlive nearly everyone from her generation. Of five brothers and sisters, she is the only one left with her marbles. A younger sister, 88, lives in Florida. The friends she used to have in NY are all dead and many of the people she's met in her building are gone. She says she has no friends, but that isn't true. There was a great outpouring of sympathy from other residents and people have been very kind. The problem is short term memory loss. 

At 97, Harriet can remember her childhood and early life quite well. At least I think so, who is there to challenge her? But when it comes to events closer to now, we sometimes disagree. It is all perception and if it did not personally affect her, she can't remember at all. Whether this is true memory loss or just a manifestation of narcissism, I don't know. She repeats stories how others have offended her ad nauseam. She tends to forget details such as when I am coming for her. Then I find her in tears and fright and have to calm her down. My mantra these days is, "I won't abandon you." She finds it comforting and the other day she kissed my hand. I told her that isn't the way to kiss, and put my arms around her for a hug. She knocks me out and I am humbled.

She says she is ready to go anytime. She doesn't want to live to 100. I think she will, maybe even 101. I wonder what lessons will be learned in this last part of our journey?

Now for something completely different

It has been a few days since I've blogged and find I have little to say about what is going on in my life. Everything is fine. I want to talk about Shakespeare instead.

I have never cared for Shakespeare. I find reading his works quite tedious and watching them being performed is torturous for me. I also dislike Gilbert and Sullivan, and with the exception of Carmina Burana, can't stand opera.  I don't feel uncultured and have a great appreciation for most fine art, from ancient to modern.

It was with great joy that I came across these quotes about Shakespeare and want to share them.

1. Voltaire "This enormous dunghill."

2. Leo Tolstoy "Crude, immoral, vulgar and senseless."

3. J. R. R. Tolkien "I went to King Edward's school and spent most of my time learning Latin and Greek: but I also learned English literature--except Shakespeare, which I disliked cordially..."

4. George Bernard Shaw "There is no eminent writer, not even Sir Walter Scott, whom I despise so entirely as I despise Shakespeare when I measure my mind against his . It would be positively a relief to me to dig him up and throw stones at him."

5.  Charles Darwin "I have tried lately to read Shakespeare and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me."

As far as Gilbert and Sullivan go, I wish they would. I don't know which I care for less, the bumpity, bumpity tempo, the idiotic stories, the interminable length of the damn things or the audience who think it is ever so clever. The fact that one of my favorite writers, Robert Bencheley, adored it makes me want to like it but by the end of the first act, I have had enough, more, more than enough. A good friend is part of the local company but even for him, I can't attend.

So what do I like? New and thought provoking, old and well written. I love literature that is so tasty and attractive to read I want to eat it with a spoon. I like music with a melody and care more for DeBussey than Handel. I love good singers who don't shriek or make me flinch with their nasal sounding assaults. I love clear notes I can hear and would gladly miss everything played with distortion or a wah-wah pedal.

Both my daughters like Shakespeare. Quite a large part of the population does, too. But as for me and those quoted above, we'd rather not venerate his writing. There is one passage, though, that I've loved since sixth grade:


"This above all: to thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
— William Shakespeare (Hamlet)

So there you have it... being true to myself, I won't pretend to you that I can stand the bard.

Love to my friends and family

People keep coming up to me to share their condolences. Yes, my father, the old man passed Wednesday night, and boy oh boy are we happy! They say, "We are sorry for your loss." And I say thank you for your good wishes, but you don't have to be sorry. We are delighted he is out of his misery, and we are happy to be out of ours, too. The time for crying was while he was here, helpless and thirsty and wanting to die. Now is a time of celebration. Being with him Wednesday while he was totally non-responsive and autonomously breathing was pretty awful. Seeing his corpse, later that day, was absolutely liberating. The body on the bed reminded me of seeing a dead fly on a windowsill. Just a husk. That is all this body is when life is gone.

I wake up feeling wonderful. I believe in Energy, that cannot be created or destroyed. I am thrilled that he made his transition to another form. Maybe he will come back, but if my prayers are answered, I won't have to deal with him again. The old lady and I cried and she said, "I am so happy he died, but I will miss him so much." Yes, and I will have to deal with her, a different apartment, contacting social security, etc. But I know I can do it, and so can she. We are survivors.

L'Chiam, to life, in whatever form it takes. Let's make the most of ours while we are in this one. Be happy for Sidney, for Harriet and for me.

Quality of Life

I went to see my father at seven this morning. I stayed for about twenty minutes, holding his hand, speaking gently, watching him breathe. There were times his chest was so still, I thought he was gone, and then there would be a little snort to show he was alive. I held his hand, which was warm, giving it little squeezes, but he did not squeeze back. I told him I was sorry he had an unhappy life and that I loved and forgave him. I told him I was sorry for the grief I have given him over the years. I did a lot of silent communion too. The prayer of St Francis, "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace," ran through my head. But I did not feel peaceful, I felt sad.

Shalom Home West is a beautiful facility on a beautiful campus. The courtyard is filled with conversation areas and lovely plantings. There is art and sculpture all over the place and the air smells good. There were no harsh voices. My dad is in this place of caring, with not a care in the world, except his next breath, and even that is not up to him. He is in limbo, not dead, but not really alive. And as beautiful as the facility is, there is not much quality of life for him.

What makes quality of life? Think of the movie Slumdog Millionaire. There is a scene where a child dives into human waste to retrieve an important slip of paper. That child had more quality of life than my father does now. There has to be a joy in living, a sliver of hope that tomorrow is worth staying alive to see. There has to be a reason to strive. There has to be a reason to laugh and hope and love.

The sweet peas I planted are starting to bloom. I've longed for that scent. It, along with all my little garden, improve my quality of life, as well as my neighbors. I hope that acts of kindness towards each other, whether acknowledged or not, aid in lifting the quality of life all around. My mother is devastated each time she sees him. I can only be there and try to be kind. She can make me crazy and it is my job to let her cry. What else can I do? Yelling does not help. So to improve her quality of life, I have to show love and understanding. My hope is that by doing this the ripples of kindness and caring spread to the far reaches of our existence.

Wishing all my family, friends, and even our pets, a day of appreciation for the gift of life. Jai ho!