When Did the Weather Become Political?

We are not so good at predicting calamities, but I am getting better and better at predicting dustups between Democrats and Republicans.

Anderson Cooper was standing in the middle of the street in Time Square when Hurricane Irene was downgraded from a category 1 hurricane to a tropical storm.  Cooper, for a fleeting and delightful moment, lost a measure of his celebrated cool.  “You mean this is the worst of it?”  He was sharing a split screen with the CNN correspondent who was assigned to deliver the status of the 400-mile-wide weather monster to the poor fools who were out standing in some part of the New York City geography, waiting, I guess, to be blown into the middle of next week.

At that moment, I chuckled.  Somebody is going to make a federal case out of the fact that everybody failed to be killed who didn’t chose to heed the mandatory evacuations, I said to no one in particular.  This was Saturday, the day Irene made her way up to the Big Apple to toy with the media.

The next morning all the Sunday talkfests were attempting to discuss the aftermath of Irene’s traipse up the eastern seaboard.  I was writing an op-ed for a California operative, with only half an ear on the pundit drone emanating from the TV.  I looked up just in time to hear the dour George Will characterize the media’s rather breathless coverage of the pre-Irene preparations as “synthetic hysteria.”  Apparently, Mr. Will thinks the pinko liberal media types were all about manufacturing drama around what amounted to a – what? – disappointing hurricane that only killed a measly 20 people. I think I even detected signs of a little smile around the taut corners of Will’s mouth.
I know, George.  It was all Obama’s fault.  He failed to lead, so Irene lost her bearings.

I cannot for the life of me understand why anybody aspires to be a meteorologist.  I don’t even know why they are called meteorologists, since there is seldom any apparent involvement of meteors in the so-called science of predicting the future.  That’s all it really is.  Which totally explains why these poor wind-swept, slicker-wearing brave souls who risk their lives to stand in front of a raindrop speckled lens get it so wrong so often.  Of course they do.  They are predicting the behavior of the most quixotic element of the earth’s atmosphere. 


What the hell is the matter with people?  Would they feel better about all the coverage if we had five or six more New Orleans-like tragedies?  They think because the authorities decided to shut down several of the countries largest cities they are all a bunch of namby pamby wusses? 

I say we have a little more respect for the media’s efforts to save the lives of as many people as possible, even if some of those people are too cynical to appreciate it. 

Why I Ended My Career Early

 

When I retired from my corporate management job in 2000, I was 55 and far more exhausted than I even thought I was. It seems to have taken me a full eleven years to recover enough to see the humor in the years I put in at the funny farm.

This job I did was the envy of every new graduate of a journalism program who didn’t really want to be a journalist. “Going into public relations” seemed to be the solution to a lot of them. My company had a top drawer PR department and its reputation for being impossible to break into was the most accurate rumor in town. I worked for the company for seven years before I was finally admitted. I try to forget the fact that the only reason that happened was there was a hiring freeze in effect with an open stop time.

I have to admit I made the job look glamorous, if I do say so myself. Unlike my colleagues who worked in the media relations side of the house, my job required panache. Community relations people had to attend every breakfast, luncheon and banquet thrown in the community because that was the only way the hosting organizations had a prayer of getting any of the money I controlled for grants and sponsorships. Yes, I held the purse strings for millions of dollars just sitting and waiting for me to approve a small fraction of the hundreds of proposals that landed on my desk.

I come from a long line of clothes horses, so having the excuse to dress impressively was like a prescription for Viagra for a “challenged” but amorous gentleman. I was now justified in spending the insane amounts of money – money I’d give my dusty and probably moth-eaten fur coat to have back – I spent on skirted suits, sensible but sexy pumps, jewelry, scarves and pantyhose. Didn’t I have the responsibility of representing my company in the best possible light?

But by the time my retirement party came and went, I was very much “over it” all: the rubber chicken, the small talk at receptions before long and boring banquets; the longer and even more boring speeches that always followed. Sometimes I would have to be the one boring the crap out of a roomful of tired people just like me who would rather be doing just about anything else.

At first I basked in my sudden popularity in a brand new town that is well known for being difficult to settle into socially. Atlanta might be the most cliquish city I’ve ever seen. But give a newcomer the keys to the bank vault and she will be honored as one of the 100 Most Important Atlanta Women within two years, if she’s doing the job right. It was fun to walk into a room and have people rushing to greet me. Too bad I wasn’t delusional. If I were just a little less clear about what was making me such a magnet for schmoozing, I might have let it go to my head. But I was quite clear.

Whenever I needed a reality check, all I had to do was return to my office. I would be knocked off whatever pedestal I had climbed upon as soon as I rounded the corner into my office and saw my inbox. Dozens of those little pink phone message slips named While You Were Out sat atop the day's newly delivered mountain of proposals. Hours and hours worth of work I could only find time to do after the rest of the office went home for the day. Why?

The most challenging part of the job was surviving the drama in the office. Oh, yes, there was always an abundance of drama. How could there not be with the collection of personalities we had?

The vertically challenged clerk believed she was constantly dismissed as irrelevant because she was only about 4’9” tall. The truth was she was dismissed as annoying because she used her diminutive stature as an excuse for her nasty attitude and failure to perform. Guess who at one time was in charge of the clerical staff? Yep. I was the lucky one who had to try to find the magic motivator to get her to pull her weight.

The neurotic drama queen turned the art of one-upsmanship into her personal hobby. Have a headache? Hers is a migraine. Have marital problems? She never does. Her husband is perfect – except when he’s not. Then he is an asshole. It got to the point that she could clear a room simply by entering it.

The closeted just plain queen delighted in assessing the personal style or lack thereof of every woman in the office. His cloying cologne gave me a stuffy nose, a stinging face and sometimes an asthma attack. He refused to reduce his fragrance dousing; in fact, he switched to an even more noxious brand. He flounced around the office singing show tunes and daring anyone to assume he was gay. He didn’t want to run the risk of sabotaging his career. Oooookay.

The night-time alcoholic was a real challenge because he had become adept at disappearing to “answer a media call.” The word “media” in our office might as well have been spelled g-o-d. Nobody was to keep a reporter waiting. Some mornings our boy would come in reeking of whatever he had consumed the night before, only to find himself late for yet another staff meeting. He might poke his head in long enough to announce he was on a call with a reporter and had to leave soon for an editorial board meeting downtown. Once he showed up with a blood-red eye from a ruptured vessel he popped while tossing his cookies the night before. Drinking problem? It wasn’t a problem for him.

The bigoted quasi-liberal boss was the worst pretender I have ever seen, before or since. It was necessary to be perceived as a person who cared about economic development in “underprivileged” neighborhoods and quality education in inner-city public schools. That was his job as VP of PR. In reality, he was among the most conservative people I had been around. When I showed up at work one Monday after having been on a trip to Jamaica, my hair in beaded braids all over my head, I thought he was going to have a coronary on the spot. His red hair disappeared into the hue of his flushed face as he sputtered and spit looking for the politically correct thing to say to me. Mission accomplished, L. I just loved to mess with his phony majesty.

Yes, it is all pretty funny now, I suppose, but it was agonizing toward the end of my stint. I was sick and tired of smiling at the same old tired jokes told by the same old tired executives giving the same old tired (and phony) remarks at a podium. And I was finding it very hard to bite my tongue when the characters in the office would darken my doorway to whine, dish, and sometimes lie, while I glanced furtively at my watch, knowing it would be 8 p.m. yet again before I got out of that place for the night.

Was it all worth it? I think not. I was paid handsomely, which allowed me to live in a house I never had time to enjoy. But I didn’t know my neighbors. I was frequently going into the office on weekends to try to reduce the height of that pile of paper in my inbox. And I was constantly playing against type because I am an introverted loner by nature. The stress made itself known in a myriad of physical ways, even if I got so used to being stressed out, I thought I had licked it. No, it wasn’t worth it at all.

Small Joys That Last Forever

Anybody who knows me knows my son is the center of my universe.  They also know how hard he has worked all his life chasing his mile-high dreams. He played quarterback in high school, albeit second string.  He made the pros in baseball.  He’s dated supermodels and Playboy centerfolds.
Today he is in a countdown to what could very well be his launch into movie stardom.  Surreal doesn’t begin to describe the feeling, he says.  I feel that way too, but probably for much different reasons.  Of course I worry – that’s what doting moms do.  I worry he will be disappointed in fame, even destroyed by it. 

Yesterday he called to hear my reaction to one of the radio interviews he did on LA’s FOX sports station.  Perhaps unlike many parents, I change hats when he asks for my professional opinion about something.  If he uses too many verbal fillers, i.e., you know, really, very, etc., I get around to telling him that after I’ve given my overall impression.  He takes it in the spirit it is given and doesn’t do it in the next interview.  Yesterday’s interview was actually outstanding and I was proud and happy to tell him so.

I was not prepared for his next collection of words.

“Mom, I’m going to have to buy a house soon.  Too many people know where I live and they are starting to just show up at my door.  Some of the Hollywood opportunists are starting to smell success in my vicinity and want to latch on for the ride.”

We both knew this might happen if he was ever lucky enough to get a foothold in the business.  In one of the several ways he is similar to me, he is a gregarious loner; i.e., someone who enjoys other people, but in small doses.  He needs his privacy and downtime.

“Would you consider moving out here if I find a house with a separate guest house or apartment for you?”

My heart fluttered, my eyes welled, my tongue tied and my mouth wouldn’t speak.  He actually wants me to be near him.  He, too, dislikes the continental span lying between us now, but neither of us ever complain about it.

Earlier this week I described off-handedly how a man around his age had behaved rather disrespectfully to my exercise group at the gym.  I am always startled when he reacts so protectively, and this time was no exception.  He wanted the man’s name and number.  I assured him I handled it in my own not-too-subtle way and there was no need for his intervention.  I said I considered it just a little disrespectful on his part to assume I can’t take care of myself.  He has been like this since the first time he pulled his toy gun out of the holster of his cowboy costume on a state patrolman who had stopped me for speeding.

“You’ll have to decorate the house, of course,” he laughed.  “But the way I want it.  That will mean leather and little color.”  He prefers earth tones and hates pastels.
“I’ll just feel more comfortable if I can be close enough to help you out if you need it.  It’s always been my plan.  And, I can take care of punks like the one who disrespected you last week.”
I cannot adequately describe the joy this conversation gave me.

The Jerk and the Witch Had a Date

 

Perkier-than-thou Christine O’Donnell has returned from the darkness of shame and rejection to peddle a book she allegedly wrote. Whoever chose the title, Troublemaker, slipped up and told the truth.

I’d like to send a gift to the publicist who decided it would be a good idea to book O’Donnell on the Piers Morgan Show. If ever there was a train wreck just waiting to happen… this was the dumbest booking in the history of television.

Prim, bubbly little Chrissy made a surreptitious sign of the cross before the interview taping begins. Of course, somebody saw it and tipped Piers off. Sound the Kentucky Derby bugles. They are off to the races.

Piers Morgan is making a career out of out-Simon-Cowelling Simon Cowell, vying for the Snarkiest TV Host Alive award. In an ever-growing list of British transplants to American television who use their clipped, upper-class accents to skewer and barbecue singers, jugglers, yodelers, dancers, magicians and opera singers alike, all for the amusement of their economy-weary viewers who are mad as hell and not inclined to take it anymore – Cowell of American Idol soon to be X Factor, Len Goodman of Dancing with the Stars, Nigel Lithgoe of So You Think You Can Dance, and Piers Morgan of America’s Got Talent and his current nighttime interview show supposedly designed to replace Larry King Live – Morgan is the all-time nasty-ass of the bunch.

So the taping actually happens, against all rational odds. Morgan uses his faux charm to make O’Donnell think he might have decided to play according to her rules; i.e. soft balls only. The drool dripping from the sides of Morgan’s mouth goes unnoticed by the chirpy guest.

Then the fun begins.

Morgan: Christine O'Donnell ran for the Senate from Delaware. She's a Tea Party darling and yes, she infamously dabbled in witchcraft when she was in high school. She's also the author of a new book with the intriguing title, "Troublemaker."

And Christine O'Donnell joins me.

Christine O'Donnell, how are you?

O'DONNELL: I'm doing well. Good to see you, Piers

.
MORGAN: I can't help but notice you did the sign of the cross as you sat down there. Was it -- is it because you're nervous about the interview? Or --

O'DONNELL: No, I did it off camera. I didn't realize you were watching. I do that just because ever since my very first TV interview, I just pray. You know, and ask for God's blessing on what I'm about to say.

MORGAN: Well, I got relieved. I was expecting some kind of devil worshipping sign.
(LAUGHTER)…

Morgan refused to follow O’Donnell’s script. He reminded her of her early look-see into witchcraft. O’Donnell’s smiling response: “Let’s not go there, Piers.”

He asked her if she still thought masturbation was a bad idea. O’Donnell’s far less smiling response: “Let’s not go there, Piers.”

Then he asked a direct and relevant, even to her, question about gay marriage. Visibly shaken and sans any trace of a real smile – more like a grimace, maybe – O’Donnell removes her lavaliere mike while her handler parks his broad back directly in front of the camera, creating a totally black screen.

Best late-night television I’ve seen in years!

Is there some sort of boot camp run by Republicans in this country for the sole purpose of grooming pretty brunettes who can speak in semi-complete sentences to become distractions for their rank and file members who are less inclined to listen for signs of intelligence than they are for glossy hair and twinkling eyes? Where are all these women coming from?

I wonder if they all have memberships in the Screen Actors’ Guild, comedy division.

 

These Things I Know for Sure

I’ve learned…

• No matter how certain I am that my opinion is the right opinion, there is someone I respect who believes the diametrical opposite with the same certainty.

• When it seems things cannot get any worse, they do.

• When it seems things are hopeless, they aren’t.

• There is always going to be someone who is smarter, dumber, richer, poorer, uglier, prettier, fatter, thinner, m ore loved and more hated than I am.

• Being in a hurry never makes anything move any faster, especially computers and the person in line in front of me at the supermarket.

• Within 30 minutes of leaving the house, I will need to find a rest room.

• Very few cat people also love dogs.

• Most of the people who think they can sing can’t.

• As long as I am alive, my son will always call me when he is feeling broken... or he’s just broke.

• Coqui the dog will ALWAYS stop to scratch an itch in the middle of an intersection.

• I have no idea what love really is, but I know how it feels.

• Telling the truth, paying bills on time, working hard and doing unto others as I would have them do unto me are all guaranteed to get me NOWHERE.

• When someone asks me “what did you do to your hair?” … they hate it.

• If men and women aren’t from different planets, they are definitely on different wave lengths.

• Dry morning air during the dog days of August is a treat rivaling a hot fudge sundae.

• Despite my fervent wishes and prayers, race will be an issue in the United States of America until the end of time.

• When people tell me who they are, believe them and wait for the rest of the story to unfold.  There is always a “rest of the story.”

• Greed is the root of all evil.  Empathy is a double-edged sword.

• Humans cannot out-learn, out-earn or outsmart their inherent frailties.

• Standing beside the ocean puts everything in its proper perspective.  In the scheme of things, I am miniscule.

• Heaven and Hell are in the now, not in the future.

• My mother did the best she could with what she had.

• “They lived happily ever after…” is the biggest lie ever told.

• Happiness cannot be touched with one’s fingers.

What are some of the things you have learned?

The Help Is Deeper Than it Looks

l-r: Emma Stone as Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan, Octavia Spencer as Minny Jackson, and Viola Davis as Aibileen Clark

As I left the theater this afternoon, my head was swimming with impressions. Get home before all these thoughts disappear.  The movie was this close to being as good as the book.  If I were a white woman from 1960s Jackson, Mississippi, I would be pissed.  The Oscar buzz I’ve heard about is justified – at least to an extent.  Ensemble acting is tricky, but when done well, it rocks.  For the first time I can recall, a story has been told that ends with the heroic and inordinately brave African American women in triumph and the powerful, intransigent and deeply imbedded racism trounced, if only for that fictional moment in time.


I am not a white woman who lived in the 60s Deep South, but I am an African American woman with plenty of white relatives who visited Jackson, Mississippi at precisely that time in history.  In fact, I was with a group of white students from Wisconsin who drove down to visit Tougaloo College, a place that played a somewhat prominent role in this just-released movie based on a novel I listened to on audio books several years ago. It was superb in every way.

This screenplay nailed the tiniest details of Jackson at the time Medgar Evers was shot in the back as he walked toward his front door carrying an armload of t-shirts that said “Jim Crow Must Go.” His two small children saw it all.  It was June 12 1963.  On November 22 that same bloody year, JFK suffered the same fate, largely for the same underlying reasons.

This movie played up the comical parts of the book to the point that I thought the white characters bordered on clownish.  At first.  On second and subsequent thought, maybe not.  Yes, they appeared vapid and shallow, prejudiced and ignorant, petty and well, useless.  But as I drove home I realized just how brilliantly the authors of the book and screenplay delivered the women of that time in all their multi-layered splendor.

Ron Howard’s little girl, Bryce Dallas Howard, delivered the character of Hilly –a mean-spirited, equal-opportunity bully of her Junior League cohorts and unabashed hater of Negroes – that put a sharp point on what it must have been like to be a white woman of the time and place.  Not all the women in her clique were willing accessories to her antics, but they were cowed by her brash brand of leadership.  American women in general didn’t have a hell of a lot going for them back then, so most of these ladies were fearful of losing whatever social status their affiliation with the dreadful Mrs. Hilly Holbrook afforded them.  Bryce Dallas Howard turns in an award-willing performance of a woman so opposite Ms. Howard’s actual persona, she is virtually unrecognizable.

Academy Award nominee Viola Davis of Doubt fame, should dust off a spot on her mantel because I feel another Oscar nomination in her future.  She portrays the lead maid role and serves as the first narrator of the story.  In heartbreaking nuance, Ms. Davis succeeds in showing through Aibileen Clark the total confusion a woman in her position dwelled in every day of her life.  She raised “her babies” from birth to their own parenthood.  They loved her more than their own mothers.  She figured out a way to teach them self-worth because their mothers were too busy and self-possessed to raise them properly.  Yet the man of the house would barely acknowledge her presence.  And when “her babies” became adults, they were expected to turn on her just as their own mothers had turned on the black women who raised them.

In her uneducated dialect, Aibileen taught her last baby to repeat a mantra whenever she felt scared and alone:  'I is kind. I is smart. I is important.”

Watching the scene in the “colored neighborhood” as a couple dozen uniformed black women boarded Jackson city buses to their respective white employers’ homes, I felt them mentally preparing themselves to leave behind whatever issues and concerns their own children were battling and walk into ten or more hours of quiet deference and swallowed pride.  Then I wondered if they even knew what pride felt like, since their entire existences seemed to have fear as the foundation.

I remember a mixture of shame and pride in the voices of my up-North neighborhood friends whose parents did domestic work or, as they would say, “worked for the white folks.”  The shame came from not being able to do any better due to lack of educational opportunity and poverty in most cases. The pride came from the tokens of  white love the women would take home in the form of cast off clothing, sometimes even mink coats.

Men who served a Pullman porters were revered in my ‘hood, even though the work still included bowing and scraping to traveling white folks in fancy railroad cars.  That probably has more to do with the fact that they were males than anything else.

My biggest concern over this poignant story, this history of my own times, is that people who didn’t live it because they are too young will not understand the profound distance Americans of African descent have covered in a relatively short time.  I worry that the comedy, which is laugh out loud quality, will diminish the grim reality of Jim Crow laws and institutionalized hatred.

There should be no shame left in the story of domestic workers who endured shameful indignities, like not being allowed to use the indoor toilets in their employers’ homes, in order to survive and make better opportunities for their flesh-and-blood children.  A woman who lived this life was every bit as much a hero as Rosa Parks.  And the women in The Help will make you stand up and cheer.

 L in the Southeast 2011

Why Middle Schools Were a Mistake

 

A long, long, long time ago, back when I was a very young girl and cars had running boards, there were no junior high schools or middle schools.  The Catholic school I attended offered grades 1 through 8, and each of those grades had one teacher who taught everything, all in one room.  In the latter half of my elementary years, the parish popped for a music teacher who happened to be a lay person; classroom teachers were Dominican nuns.

It is unclear to me why I was gifted with a memory for little details that occurred decades, nay eons ago, but I am able to remember with almost frightening clarity how it felt to be in those classrooms year after year.  In a nutshell, I loved it.

As a first grader I thought the eighth grade students were practically grownups and I treated them with respect and awe.  They seemed to like that a lot, when they weren’t teasing us or tousling our hair.  I remember that from a purely aspirational point of view I was drawn to the idea of moving down the hallways through the series of grades until I was “older” and moved up to the second floor, where the big kids studied.

I wasn’t yet the little imp I turned out to be in adulthood , so I was one of those despicable children who tried to do everything right so I could be chosen to do special “honors” like taking notes to a nun in another classroom or passing out textbooks.  My gregarious personality got me into trouble for talking too much sometimes – total silence was demanded at all times unless called upon by Sister – but when I kept a lid on it well enough, it wasn’t exactly unfair when classmates would call me a Brown-Nosed Teacher’s Pet.

By the time I was in eighth grade, I was sometimes asked to substitute for an absent teacher in the primary rooms for the entire day.  Imagine how important, respected and trusted I felt when that happened.  Those little children were now looking up to me as a near grownup and I would do nothing to disabuse them of that notion.  Of course, in today’s fractious environment, those nuns would find themselves in the local clink, next to the drunk tank.

I’m not saying the upper-grade students were somehow spared the friskiness, the sudden heightened interest in the oppositely gendered (or the same gendered, for that matter, although I knew nothing about homosexuality until much later – like college!) The interest was there, but the eight years of behavioral training kept most of that in check. 

What a contrast to the experience my son had when he briefly worked as a substitute teacher in Atlanta Public Schools.  One of the girls in a sixth grade class actually propositioned him!  And yes, I’m talking about a sexual proposition.  He was so put off by it, he refused any future assignments in middle school or higher.  But I digress.

By the time I had to suffer the rank humiliation of becoming a mere freshman at the huge public high school I opted to attend in lieu of the Catholic girls’ academy, I had negotiated my way through the startling changes my body was undergoing in an environment that was familiar and non-hostile.  For the most part, I had spent all eight of those years with the same 20–25 children.  The pecking orders were well established, the alliances were subject to frequent change but predictable and all the impressions had long been made.  There was little need for the kind of posturing and preening that occurs when a child changes school buildings and locations.

Yes, I fell from my little perch and had to start from the bottom again, but I was far better prepared for that process than I would have been when entering sixth or seventh grade. 

Somewhere between then and now, shapers of educational methodology decided there needed to be a step added to better prepare tweens for the blackboard jungle known as high school, and for some reason they believed that step needed to be taken in a separate building.  Also, instead of being instructed by a single teacher, aside from an occasional music and/or art specialist, there would be a team of teachers teaching their respective subjects in a tandem manner, keeping each subject relevant to a larger, predetermined theme.

Sounds good, right?  The idea concentrates all the attention and planning on a smaller age-span and allows the school to better tailor the curriculum to that age group’s needs.  Except, I don’t think it really accomplishes that.  In fact, I think the change has caused those tweens to lose more than they are gaining.

Surging hormone overload creates a highly charged atmosphere in the building, with no relief anywhere, comic or otherwise.  There are no little children to “look after” for the more nurturing, sensitive types.  Instead, they become prey for the aggressively inclined, and allow words like “lame” and “that’s so gay” to penetrate their fragile or yet-to-exist self-confidence.  The youngest among them, instead of looking up to the seventh and eighth graders, live in fear of attracting their negative notice.

The junior high concept, confined to just seventh and eighth grades, was scary enough.  I laugh whenever I remember the orientation meeting for my son’s first junior high year, in which the principal called junior high school a state of temporary insanity.  Many of the children in sixth grade are clearly not yet ready for a plunge into the cuckoo’s nest.

Just as I believe it is a mistake for seniors to live in seniors-only environments, I believe it is an injustice to all concerned to separate the younger students from those older, temporarily insane ones.  The world is not getting more homogeneous, it is decidedly less so every year.  It is important to learn to not just survive but to thrive among people of all ages and all hormonal states.  In my opinion, middle schools do very little to help that along.

No Ordinary Kid

“… and a little child shall lead them…”  [Isa. 11:6, 8-9]

Children are magical creatures.  Like cherubic sponges they soak up knowledge at a staggering rate, going from totally helpless at birth to skillful escape artists in a matter of months.  They are what keeps the Earth spinning on its axis.  They are the spring rains that renew the life and hope that starts to elude those of us who have grown jaded and tired.

Meet Nicolas Seminerio of San Anselmo, California. Nick is the son of dear friends of mine.  I take great pleasure in claiming credit for his very existence.  Nick’s dad, John, a talented and successful graphic artist, was once hired by me as a temp in my company’s graphics department.  He became a protégé first and then a friend.  

One Christmas Eve we were sitting in a San Francisco diner after the office open house for families had drawn to a happy close and our chat took the inevitable turn to our respective love lives.  John seemed unusually taken by a young woman he had encountered professionally and I encouraged him – no, I practically ordered him to give her a call and ask her out.

My gift to them was to coordinate their wedding in one of the San Francisco Civic Center’s magnificent buildings.  I was quite proud of myself when the  lovely couple became partners for life.
Nicolas was born 16 years ago, two years after I had reluctantly transferred from San Francisco to Atlanta.  

Nick is no ordinary teen.  He is obviously handsome.  He is popular at Sir Francis Drake High School in Marin County, and he plays varsity tennis.  He even umps at Little League games. All that might be considered ordinary.  But not too many twelve-year-olds observe their mothers making campaign calls for Democratic candidates and ask to help.  Nick did. And he ended up training other volunteers and traveling to Carson City, Nevada to help get out the vote during the 2008 Presidential Campaign.


An ordinary teen is not named Volunteer of the Year, ahead of volunteers much older than him, by the Marin Democratic Party for the work he did for organizing for the Democratic Central Committee of Marin and for Organizing for America. Nick was. 

Today he leads two neighborhood teams in Marin, as well as the San Anselmo Youth team. The groups work to put on events, call likely voters, and encourage residents to vote in elections.  Nick says their recent work has been focused on working to repeal Don't Ask, Don't Tell and keeping healthcare reform from being repealed.

Nick has made hundreds of calls to voters and constituents, urging them to call their representative. He's trained older volunteers and led groups of young volunteers. As one of only 20 Organizing for America young interns in Northern California, Nick is now focused on getting more youth involved -- including establishing clubs at high schools. Drake, where Nick is a freshman, doesn't yet have a club.


His work has not gone unnoticed on the national level either.  In July 2011 Nicolas was invited to the White House to meet the World Series Giants and be present at an Obama presentation. Accompanied by his mom Jann Russell, Nick headed off to the White House!


Last week I was almost depressed by the way Washington has conducted itself.  I was feeling helpless and hopeless, as if everything we’ve worked so hard for was vaporizing into the ether.  Then I looked at this picture of Jann and Nick and saw the future.  Maybe it is time for us to turn to the youth of America and encourage kids like Nicolas Seminerio.  Maybe it is time for us, the warriors of the mid-20th century, to look to the warriors in training for leadership.  Nick’s not sitting on his sofa complaining about “them.”  He’s out there beating the bushes (excuse the pun) and making a difference.

I wouldn’t be at all surprised to receive an invitation to Nick’s inauguration in January 2033.

Stop! I Think I Want Off

Like a carousel whose horses have rebelled and taken control over the microchips, my world is spinning faster than I can handle.  The momentum is picking up speed and the outcome seems more and more inevitable: I will either be thrown from my underpinnings by the mere centrifugal force or I will make my peace with whatever drives me and jump off.

What has happened to us, someone among you will respond, happens to all powerful nations when they become intoxicated by the headiness of that very power.  There is never enough.  It goes to the head of the head honchos and they won’t rest until they claim it all for themselves. And eventually, it all comes crashing down.

Our colleague toritto has an excellent post today about the huge numbers of Americans who are subsisting on food stamps.  These are not people who are simply malingering, too lazy to rise from their overstuffed sofas to seek employment.  These are people like you and me who are not able to feed themselves or their families.  Fifteen percent of us, or 45 million Americans would starve without food stamps.  Yet, there are also Americans who sincerely believe food stamp programs are not sustainable, that they should end.

I cannot help but wonder how long it will be before the photos like the ones we are seeing coming out of Kenya begin to surface here.  Famine is not entirely out of the question in America, given the wildly fluctuating weather patterns and the impact the economy is having not only on consumers, but also on the farmers who grow our crops.

The weather has wreaked havoc on so many American communities in recent years, there are families who are reduced to nothing in the few minutes it takes a tornado to flatten their houses or a rising river to sweep their very foundations right out from under them.  What becomes of these people?  Does anyone who supports the slashing of so-called entitlements  ever wonder that?  Can these people ALL be so short-sighted and self-involved that they can’t foresee the devastating effects of such measures?

I woke up this morning feeling overwhelmed and tired, too weary to access my usual reservoir of hopeful ideas to help make things change.  The Birthday Boy in Washington will celebrate his 50th surrounded by his healthy young family who have only to ring a bell to have a snack delivered.  Has he forgotten us?  We are the communities he was busy organizing not too long ago.  We are The People.  What about us, Mr. President?

I am too weary, too disillusioned to be bothered with the retorts that will inevitably come my way.  And no, it is not because I have a particularly vicious dog in the fight.  My chances of being okay are better than many, with a little more luck and frugality.  I just don’t recognize the world I woke up to this morning, and I don’t know how to exist in the one I’ve found.