Objectivity and Taking Sides

 

I am not known for being indecisive.  I have opinions, some of which are pretty strong and non-negotiable. 

I am absolutely clear about my stance on:

-- abortion (for it), gay rights (for them)

-- public  education (yes. It is the only way to pull people out of generational poverty)

-- racism in America (as if I had to say that!)

-- religion (fine with me, as long as you don’t try to force me to practice yours. I have opted out)

-- taxation (yes, it is necessary to sustain social health, but let’s spread it fairly, which means taxing the rich at least as much as the poor)

-- voting rights (stop trying to suppress the vote, GOP!)

I have been called “opinionated” more than once.  I reply that I think everybody should formulate their opinions on everything controversial in order to make intelligent decisions, so thank you!  I know the word is not meant to be taken in a positive light, but I choose to do so.

But ask me about the Palestinian/Israeli conflict and I will fail to choose a side.  It’s not for lack of trying, though.  For the past week and a half I have pored over articles linked to Open Salon posts, and I have read all the comments on posts from both camps.  I have seen opposing videos that make all kinds of sense, but each video argues unequivocally for one side or the other.

I cannot take a side.

Why? Because I refuse to ignore the small and/or the historical details.  Anyone who has the most basic understanding of how Israel came to be should be able to entertain the notion that Israelis may not see things the way we in the US see them.  For us to denounce as “wrong” their strong needs to feel safe and secure in a small country surrounded by many “enemy” countries –countries whose stated purpose is to eliminate the Jewish state -- is hubris at its ugliest. 

Would we tolerate Mexico, for instance, lobbing rockets over the border into Texas or California for more than a day or two?  No matter that the rockets are pretty pitiful in comparison to what we could be returning and no matter that those rockets are “only” killing people in the hundreds as opposed to our perceived and probably real ability to take out several Mexican states at one time, Americans would be screaming at the tops of their lungs for Obama to do something to stop it.

Yes, Israel does look like the Jolly Green Giant to Gaza’s Jiminy Cricket, but do we really expect them to tolerate incoming rockets, day in and day out, sending a majority of the Israeli population to bomb shelters several times a week? We wouldn’t put up with it if it happened once every quarter!  Why do we expect Israel to put up with it?

On the other hand

The long, narrow strip of land called Gaza, situated on the eastern coast of the Mediterranean Sea, has 1.816 M people residing, working and fighting within 139 square miles.  My city of Atlanta, Georgia, USA is 132.4 square miles, with roughly 500,000 residents, just to help with perspective. 

When the Israelis drop evacuation leaflets or drop their “knock” bombs, where are the people expected to go?  Schools you say?  That would make sense, since the Israelis are determined to minimize the number of civilian casualties, but the Palestinians elected and put into power members of Hamas, the terrorist organization that has repeatedly vowed to blow Israel off the face of the earth.  And, although this school was actually vacant at the time, 20 Hamas rockets were found stashed in a school building.  It is widely reported that Hamas “hides themselves and their munitions in plain sight,” making collateral damage to women, children and the elderly almost certain.

I am a pushover for a suffering child.  My brain doesn’t work the way it is asked to work by those supporting Israel.  Eighty dead children are 80 dead children.  They have done nothing to anyone.  They didn’t even vote for the terrorist regime!  Telling me what the number of dead would be if Israel actually unleashed their fearsome capabilities does not make me feel better.  My brain understands the point.  My soul cannot.

Hamas is using their own people as human shields.  That is against international law.

Yes, they do seem to be doing that.  So what?  Is that supposed to make me feel resigned to the fact that women and children and the elderly make up far more of the Palestinian casualties than do Hamas operatives?  Am I supposed to be comfortable with the Palestinian voters’ chickens coming home to roost on the heads of their children?

I cannot take a stance.  This is one of the few problems I have encountered that doesn’t seem to have any kind of viable solution.  Because the conflict is based primarily on religious principles, there is little chance for a compromise that will last longer then the failed two hour ceasefire the Palestinians refused to honor.  Logic and rational thought are taking a back seat to differences in belief systems and extremism courtesy of both regimes. 

I have never felt so frustrated.  World wars have started over these kinds of clashes.  We are expected to take a side, when there is no logical side to take. 

And, I’ll admit it.  Sometimes I wonder where the hell this God, this Allah, for whom all this allegedly is staged – where the hell is this entity who is believed to be all-powerful?  I could never believe in a deity that expects its followers to kill in its name.

Technology is Ruining the Doctor/Patient Relationship

 

Fifteen years ago, when I started using my current doctor as my primary care giver, the best part of any office visit was the chitchat, the catching up on family and work issues.  Dr. M. is a petite, gentle-voiced woman in her forties or early fifties. 

Her long hair and hippie-style fashion preference suits her demeanor perfectly.  One would never mistake her for a technophile, although she is clearly bright and she knows her stuff. 

Dr. M’s husband is her partner in the practice.  Although I have only seen him once, I gather from things his wife has said that he is the business brain in the duo.  And his brain told him around a year ago that he could no longer allow Dr. M’s preference for paper medical records to prevent him from computerizing them.

During my recent visit I suddenly realized how sweeping a change that computerization had made…on everything! 

Dr. M. has always had the ability to make her notes during our visits without taking her eyes (and ears) off me, the patient.  She made me feel that what I was saying was of utmost importance to her, the person, not just the doctor.  But now, instead of my three-inch thick manila folder of records, she walks in with an iPad-like tablet in one hand, a stylus in the other.  I could tell immediately that she wasn’t comfortable with that thing at all.

Before, when a question arose about what the lab work of 2012 showed, Dr. M would rifle through the stapled pages of that folder faster than a hummingbird flaps his wings.  I used to smile at her and ask her when she was going to join the 21st century and computerize that file.  She’d shrug, smirk and and shirk the question.

When such a question arose recently, she sat motionless for a few seconds, staring at the tablet in her hand. She began muttering to herself, struggling to remember how to get to the information she needed.  As always, I continued talking, but unlike always, she wasn’t hearing a word I said.  The rapport we had shared for one and a half decades was disrupted by her need to master the technology she never really wanted in the first place.  For the first time I can remember, she actually turned her back to me to consult her computer, the desktop one that had information she couldn’t (or wouldn’t) find on the tablet.

This same feeling of separation of patient and doctor occurred the second time I met with the neurologist who diagnosed my MS, and has continued ever since. He had spent the first visit sitting at a keyboard typing as I responded to his questions about symptoms.  Instead of a conversation, we were having a dictation session, I felt, and it didn’t make me feel cared for or about.  At each subsequent visit, he would enter the room, greet me nicely, and proceed to his computer.  I would have to sit in silence while he brought himself up to speed about who the hell I am, what my problem was/is, and how much testing he had thrown my way.  There is no longer enough time left between patients for a doctor to review the file BEFORE entering the examination room.

The neurologist sees, on average, close to 40 patients per day!  Office hours are from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. and the guy has to get a lunch break. That means he must see at least five patients PER HOUR in order to meet his daily quota.  And he spends 10 of my 12 allotted minutes typing?!?!

Technology is a wonderful thing.  I am a fervent consumer of its newest applications.  But the price we sometimes pay for the supposed conveniences of the internet and all the nifty devices being rushed to market by manufacturers is often in units of human relationships, and I find that disappointing.

Amazon Prime: Still a Great Value for Me

 

It’s so funny to me the way things happen sometimes.  Just the other day a Facebook friend who had just signed up for Amazon.com’s Prime Membership was wondering if she had done the wise thing.  I assured her that I certainly thought so.

This morning I received an email from Amazon.com announcing their intention to raise the Prime Membership fee from an annual $79 to $99.  Of course, they blamed the rising costs of fuel and transportation.  I felt the heat rising under my collar.  It won’t happen until February 2015, but still…

Prime Membership has been a great deal for me, the maven of online shopping, but a 25% jump in fees felt…well, it felt familiar.  Every doggone time I find something that really works for me, it either becomes discontinued, out of stock or out-of-this-world expensive. 

The email went on to explain that while the fee hadn’t been increased since 2005, the number of items eligible for free 2-day shipping and handling under the membership had grown from 1 million to more than 20 million.  (They wrote “over 20 million,” a grammatical error that seldom gets edited but which pushes my buttons every time.) 

So I decided to put a skill to work.  You know, the one your kids whine about and wonder when they will ever need to know it in real life – mathematics.

Between January 1, 2013 and today’s date, I placed 193 orders on Amazon.com.  Yes, that is a lot!  I told you I am an expert on this mode of acquisition.  I only go to brick and mortar stores for groceries, and that’s only because the great home-delivery service, Web Van, went belly up.  I have developed a phobia of parking lots and parking decks, okay? 

So, out of 193 orders placed, only 9 of them were not eligible for the free 20day S & H.  But the S & H fees I paid on those 9 orders totaled almost $55!  That’s an average of  a little more than $6 per shipment.  Now multiply that number times the 184 orders placed during the same time period for no cost. 

184 orders x $6.00 = $1104

Subtract the new fee:  $1104 - $99 = $1005

Total saving, even at higher fee is $1,005!  I’ll take it.

The other perks of Amazon Prime are not even included in these calculations.  There are hundreds of free movies and Kindle books on loan included, plus access to first-run movies at a price much lower than going to the theater.

No wonder Amazon.com is kicking ass and taking names among brick and mortar retailers.  Not once have I gone to the site looking for something and not found it there.  If you do as much online shopping as I do, try it.  I think you’ll like it.

Oh, and one more thing.  I only paid tax on 24 of those 193 orders.  Georgia has now joined the states that requires Amazon.com to collect sales taxes on items sourced inside the state.  Darn!

Woody Allen: Genius or Pedophile?

 

I’ve just finished reading the Open Letter to Woody Allen that was written by his adopted daughter, Dylan Farrow.

I have no doubt at all about her story. I just saw a comment on Facebook that said we ought to wait until the truth is determined before we string the guy up.  Of course, Allen denies it, just as he denied having a sexual relationship with another one of his adopted daughters who is now his wife.

Why are people so reluctant to believe girls and women who finally shed their cloaks of shame and bring their abuse to the attention of whomever they feel safe to tell?   Does a person who has created an impressive body of work in the film industry get an automatic benefit of the doubt, just because of his celebrity?

My answer to the question posed in my title is: both.  Woody Allen is both a creative genius and a probable pedophile.  That is why I think his selection for a Lifetime Achievement in Film Award does not and should not have anything to do with his highly questionable personal appetites.  That his films have received both critical and box-office acclaim is undeniable.  Unless some of the young actresses he featured in his movies come forward (pretty fast, I’d say) to reveal that Allen actually molested them during filming, I think his pedophilia is irrelevant to the quality of his work.

I completely understand Dylan Farrow’s motivation for finally coming forward publically just before the man she despises is celebrated by Hollywood on the Oscar broadcast.  The justice system failed her because her molester had the piles of money needed to get the best judgment money can buy.  The idea of such a monster being lauded for anything is probably repugnant to this haunted woman.

It will be interesting to see what unfolds in the run-up to the Academy Awards broadcast.  If the award is bestowed as planned, will the audience give him a standing ovation, as is usual, or will there be a few who are silent or even boo him? 

In a court of law, defense attorneys fight tirelessly to make the jury understand that the defendant’s being a philanderer, a thief, a liar, and an all-around jerk is not admissible evidence that the defendant is a murderer.  For me, a person who has NEVER admired Woody Allen for reasons having nothing at all to do with his probable pedophilia, the Lifetime Achievement Award should be determined on his work and only his work.

Do I believe he should be behind bars for his treatment of his daughters?  Absolutely!

A Heavenly Chat

 

Date: January 20, 2014

Place: Heaven or a reasonable facsimile

Martin Luther King glances over at Malcolm X.  From their fluffy perch in the clouds, they were both watching as MLK’s holiday played out.

Malcolm:  I don’t know, Martin.  It doesn’t look like they are making much progress toward social justice from where I sit.

Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Martin: It is disappointing.  I thought we were getting somewhere until recently.  Now that the voices of the far right are so easily accessible, my ears are filled with words of hate and selfishness.  The far left isn’t any better.

Malcolm:  I told you this would happen.  All your so-called passive resistance accomplished was to have more black people than ever thrown into jails and penitentiaries.

Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery.
Malcolm X

Martin:  Your way would have resulted in bloodshed.  Lots of it. 

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Malcolm:  So where’s the love, Martin?  Our people are still poor and uneducated.  They still can’t get good jobs, for the most part.  True, many have managed to escape the trap of poverty and achieve some manner of personal wealth, but what good has that done?

You show me a capitalist, and I'll show you a bloodsucker.
Malcolm X

Martin: It takes time, Malcolm.  If we love those who continue to keep us down, they will eventually come to understand their hate and discard it.

I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.
Martin Luther King, Jr.
 

Malcolm:  Well, you certainly got your message across better than I did, I guess.  Which one of us has a national holiday? 

They both chuckle.  They both stare down at the people and shake their heads.

Power never takes a back step only in the face of more power.
Malcolm X

“Great, Thanks! Yours?”

 

A Facebook friend of mine posted that sign yesterday.  This morning, a neighbor who was driving past me and my dog Coqui stopped, lowered the window and shouted “How was your Christmas?”

“Great,” I lied.  “Yours?”

“Very nice,” she yelled.

So, I am a liar.  I am a terrible person who lies in order to 1) save my breath as well as my face; and 2) Avoid the glazed over stare of the person who mindlessly asked me a question concerning my well-being or lack thereof.

Here is what I would have said, had I not elected to flat-out lie:

“Well, I wasn’t really feeling the Christmas thing to begin with, so I was dragging my ass a bit as I rang my sister’s doorbell at exactly 1:30 p.m. Christmas Day. I arrived as planned, a half hour earlier than the time she said my nephew and his kids were asked to appear.  I knew my retail-employed sister was scheduled to be at her large chain store location at 4 a.m.the day after Christmas, which meant she’d have to arise at 2:30 a.m. (Yikes, that’s pretty unreal!)  So I brought my assigned items (dinner rolls and egg nog, because she thinks she is the only one who knows how to cook, but I do make homemade rolls; but I didn’t because it is a waste of time because the two kids are the only ones besides me who even bother with them at dinner.

Anyway, my nephew, who is notorious for his lack of consideration when it comes to keeping schedules, didn’t arrived at the prescribed time.  He didn’t bother answering his phone when his mother called at 2:30 p.m. to see if he was on his way.  He didn’t answer at 3..or 3:30…or 3:45 either. 

Noting the smoke starting to drift from her ears, I tried to fill the silence by asking what time she would get off from work the next day.  She said 11 a.m., to which I said, “Oh, that’s not so bad…I guess.”

Said she:  “No, it’s not so bad because YOU don’t have to do it.”

I must have looked exactly the way someone should look after having her head bitten off and I did let out a rather long and loud sigh. I slnked off to the farthest away from my fuming hostess and vowed not to open my mouth the rest of the day.  But no, that wouldn’t do either.

Sister Dearest realized what she had done, but instead of apologizing, she acted as if she never took a bite out of my ass and started making small talk about my exercise regimen, my son, etc. I answered as if I weren’t still stung.

But then her 21-year-old grandson, who had driven himself from his home and was on time, decided to try to fill the next pregnant pause by saying something akin to “so how’s it going, Nana?” 

“STOP TRYING TO MAKE SMALL TALK!  YOU KNOW I’M PISSED!”  She didn’t whisper.

At 4 p.m. – a full two hours late – the doorbell rang and my nephew and crew entered. 

And all hell broke loose.   I withdrew to a neutral corner of my mind, but by this time I, too, was rather irritated by my nephew’s lack of respect for his mother.  She yelled something about being disrespected.  He tried to say he thought she told him dinner was at 3, but, of course, that was not working, mainly because it was FOUR O’CLOCK! 

Meanwhile, my sister’s longtime companion arrived, walking into the middle of what must have looked like an episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta.  He wisely decided to stay out of it and instead walked over to me, saying:

“How are you?”

“Fine,” I replied with a weak smile. “How are you?”

Later, after I hadn’t uttered a word for nearly two hours, my sister asked me if I was okay… why was I so quiet?

“I’m fine,” I said, feigning surprise.  I really wanted to bolt out the door and drive to the safety of my empty home.

Looks like I really am a liar. If I had told the truth, it would have been necessary to explain why I had responded “It sucked.”  As we all know, the passing driver really didn’t want to know how my Christmas was unless it was “Great.”  And who the hell wants to reveal the truth: that her family is just as screwed up as everybody else’s?

Happy New Year to you, too!

Christmas is a Feeling…and I’ve lost it

Little L would lie in bed and wait for it:  that magical feeling that started right after Santa Claus finally brought up the rear of the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. 

The anticipation of things to come was like a drug to Little L.  She loved the rehearsals for the Christmas play at school and the familiarity of Christmas carols sung at Sunday Mass amid gigantic potted poinsettias and aromatic pine boughs festooning the altars.  Her eyes would grow wide in front of the automated window scenes at Marshall Field in Chicago’s bustling Loop.  She pretended to believe in the poor man in the red velvet suit who endured children peeing on his lap and pulling his fake beard, just so she could get the gift he would pull out of his huge pack, lying beside his throne.

Little L’s family didn’t do any decorating at all until the Big Night.  My sister, our cousins and I believed the floor-to-ceiling silver-painted pine tree was somehow put there by Santa, before he went about the task of arranging the unwrapped toys in a way that told a story, while at the same time putting each child’s presents in easy-to-find groups. 

Little L loved to wake up on Christmas morning – make that the wee, wee hours of the morning, while it was still night dark – and see the blue glow that silver tree emitted from its monochromatic lighting scheme.  The silver tinsels, meticulously placed one-strand-by-one, reflected the blue lights and enhanced the glow. Knowing she was not allowed to get up until the sun was about to rise, Little L would lie there and let the “feeling” of that glow wash over her while she fought the urge to wake her sleeping little sister in the twin bed beside her.

Christmas was a three to four week feast for all her senses.  The sights of blinking lights and precious nativity scenes; the smells of Christmas cookies mixed with the nauseous stench of diesel fuel that lessened to joy of the trip to the Loop; and the sounds of music from the radio or from the sound tracks of televised Christmas specials and classic movies converged to create a very excited little girl.

Even after I became Teen L, long eschewing the magical components of the season, that glow of tree lights worked on me every time.  Somehow that glow, which only worked on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, had the power to elevate even my adolescent moods, although I did have to be awakened by this time, having been out the night before.

Parenthood changed everything.  Mommy L had to create the magic for her tiny, excitable boy.  Year after year, through tight budgets and single parenthood, through work schedules and relentless sinus infections, Mommy L’s job was not to enjoy the run-up to Christmas, but to “make” Christmas. The joy she experienced at the sight of her little son jumping up and down in his footie pajamas with glee was her sensory reward.

Today I am Senior L.  Without grandchildren yet to spoil and help create the magic for, I find myself disinterested in the Miracle on 34th Street, weary of the sound of Jimmy Stewart’s voice and numb, even, to my favorite Christmas songs.  It all feels so artificial, so borderline dishonest.  While I do believe The Reason for the Season actually lived and walked among us more than 2000 years ago, I no longer believe he was anything more than a charismatic leader with superior staying power.  Celebrating his birth, for me, is similar to celebrating the birth of any other person of historical significance. 

When I watch as my sister and her son create the magic for his 9 and 11 year olds, I notice the changes from one year to the next.  I doubt they believe some portly dude flies in at night, parks his inexplicably airborne reindeer on their roof, and somehow squishes his ample girth and a jam-packed sack of presents into modern-day chimney flues.  I doubt they understand that without their generous and doting grandmother, their Christmas hauls would be vastly diminished. 

And yet, when they have children, they will repeat the same seemingly meaningless (to me, not to all of you, I’m sure) cycle.  And their grandparents will sit quietly, nibbling on pfeffernüsse, waiting for it all to be over, once again.

I understand the concept of Bah, Humbug better each year that passes by.