Thursday, May 24, 2012

Timeline


Sometime on May 3rd, while I was in a very long rehearsal for GODSPELL, the show I just closed, singing about blessin' the Lord, my soul, my cousin, Elizabeth, was getting diagnosed with a brain aneurism. According to what I learned later, all didn't seem initially lost -- Elizabeth was a very strong, healthy woman in every other way.  They sent her into surgery with assurances to her family that she stood every chance of the best possible outcome.  A few hours after she came out of surgery, though, her brain began to swell, and she was declared dead late on Monday, May 7.

Catherine and Elizabeth
Mother of the bride
2011
I knew nothing of this, of course, because I was out of pocket, in Godspelland.  It wasn't until my sister texted me Tuesday afternoon that I realized I needed to log on to Facebook.  I felt gutted, though it's hard to say exactly why.  She was my cousin, of course. We'd spent time together during summer trips to Texas when we were kids.  But I hadn't seen Elizabeth since I was fourteen and she was nine.  Our only contact was checking in occasionally on Facebook and "liking" each others photos and statuses.  Our lives were distant - hers in Texarkana, Texas, mine in L.A.  Our jobs and aspirations and families had evolved so differently. She was married to her husband, Mike, for something like 25 years.  My husband and I divorced after four, and I remain single.  She was a dedicated teacher. I am a writer and performer, who still has a "day job". 

In some ways our lives were similar. We both gave birth to daughters in 1988, both of whom are blonde and gorgeous and a singular source of joy in our lives.  And she named her daughter Catherine -- a choice to which we here at the Chron cannot possibly object. And, in the end, neither of us ventured too far past our hometowns.  Mine is bigger and weirder than hers, but it doesn't matter much. When it's where you're born and you grow up, where your family and the people that you love remain, there's little difference between Los Angeles and Texarkana.

Mike with Elizabeth
at their daughter's wedding
2011
I wish I knew Elizabeth better as an adult. I wish I knew her husband and her daughter.  I'm sorry we never had any more meaningful interaction in the past several decades, outside of making each other laugh on Facebook from time to time.  It makes me mad at... who?  Myself? The universe? God?  Oh, hell... anger now is a pointless waste of time.  Not that it's not a natural reaction, mind you.  Her sister, Julia, thought seriously about entitling her eulogy, "This F**king Sucks!", a sentiment I soundly supported.  (Note: The final draft of said eulogy is much warmer and more church-appropriate.)
Sara and Elizabeth:
Mother and daughter

And time is really the issue here. That someone so vital and alive and healthy could be here one minute, and then gone the next is a crack over the head with one's own mortality.  When I think of how much time I have wasted thinking ill of myself, talking mean about myself, all the time I spent cursing my thighs and refusing to attend swim parties and beach bbq's because I was worried about what people would think of me, it makes me want to slap my own self on the hand with ruler.  What a waste! What a sheer luxury! What an audacious, spendthrift squandering of daylight! I don't know how much longer I'm going to get to go to swim parties and beaches. I don't know if I'll have the chance to learn to ski this next winter.  If I'm upright, and there's snow on the ground at Snow Summit come December, I promise you, I will ski at least once in 2012.  I may not like it, but I'm trying it.

The Patterson sisters:
Rachel, Elizabeth, Julia
@ The Kennedy Center, NYC, 2011

It's tempting to think that Elizabeth's death is "unfair" or that she was "cheated".  The sickening part of being a mortal human being is that, eventually you're going to die, and inevitably something interesting and "must-see" will happen shortly thereafter. Maybe Elizabeth got cheated out of the end of her life, and maybe not.  I'm not smart enough to know how these things are determined in the vast workings of the heavens and the universe. Elizabeth had a little over 49 years, which isn't long in the grand scheme of things, but she managed to get a lot accomplished, it seems.Wall posts on her Facebook page are still popping up from former students she taught years ago, that have moved on and graduated, who leave messages of love and appreciation.

She touched many, many people.  She has left holes in the hearts of many.  But maybe her life was exactly as long as it was supposed to be.  It seems she filled the brief time she had here admirably -- touching other people, making them laugh, teaching them, inspiring them, amusing them. She used her time well. She didn't waste it not going to swimming because she didn't like the way she looked in a bathing suit. (Though, in the interest of full disclosure, it should be duly noted that, much to the annoyance of the generally wide-hipped, round-fannied women, like me, in our family,  Elizabeth looked pretty damn good in a bathing suit, the saucy vixen.)

I'm going to fill my time better. I'm going to be less critical of myself and others. I'm going to love more and judge less.  And I'm going to the beach this summer, and I don't care who is looking.  In fact, I've been invited to a swim/jacuzzi/bbq party this Saturday. I'm going. And I'm getting in the jacuzzi.  And this winter, I'm learning to ski.  I'm not wasting a single precious moment of whatever I have left of this life in anything that isn't rooted in love and/or good feelings.  Because life is too short. Often even shorter than we think is.  And any opportunity squandered on thinking about yourself (particularly the thigh part of yourself) rather than others is a pitiful usage of a precious commodity.

Elizabeth taught me that.


Elizabeth Patterson Ingram
March 24, 1963 - May 7, 2012



Monday, May 14, 2012

Bully For Us



 It took a bully to make me post to The Chron again. And by bully, I mean… me. 

No, seriously… in my youth, from about the age of nine onward, throughout my adolescence, I was  a verbal bully.  I didn’t call people names as much as I used a fairly stellar vocabulary that far exceeded my years to make other kids – especially bigger, older kids I felt threatened by – feel small and stupid.  I came by my dominating loquacity honestly.  My parents were both intellectual and verbal bullies.  I learned my lessons well, and from the best.

Regardless of my intent, regardless of what I did or did not know about life and the big wide world, regardless of my youth and inexperience, the fact that I used a gift I had been given  – in this case, not size, speed or agility (none of which I had), but rather a lexicon borne of super-smart parents who were funny and erudite and more than a little bit ruthless – to make others feel “less than” made me… makes me… a bully. 

In short, I used my powers for evil, and not for good.  It is not a memory of myself as a child that I look back on with delight.  I have regrets, okay.  I have remorse.  I wish I’d used that big, big mouth to make others feel better about themselves and life in general.  It was a wasted opportunity, and now that I am all grown up, and I know that you only get one go-round in this particular lifetime, it makes me sad.  It’s supposed to make me sad..  Doing things out of darkness rather than light should make a person feel bad.  It’s how we learn to truly savor the light and step into it as often as possible.

Look, I was a child.  I was ignorant and didn’t  know any better. So there is a limit to which I will kick myself for doing stupid, hurtful things back then.  I will just own them, embrace them, apologize for them when I can, and then move on.  But I have learned enough to know that it is appropriate to feel bad when you’ve done something wrong.  A person who doesn’t have regret when they have misbehaved, a person who can’t stand in the shoes of the person he wronged through his ignorance and cruelty and thoughtlessness, a person who chuckles when confronted years later with his bad behavior as if he were only just reminded how hilarious someone else’s suffering can be… that person has a name.

That name is “malignant narcissist”.

I wasn't sure at first if that definition applied, so I looked it up again, just to be sure. From Wikipedia:
"Malignant narcissism has been described as 'an extreme form of antisocial personality disorder that is manifest in a person who is pathologically grandiose, lacking in conscience and behavioral regulation, and with characteristic demonstrations of joyful cruelty and sadism.[1]'"
Let's start with "pathologically grandiose"... in front of cameras, Romney often refers to others (President Obama, Newt Gingrich) as "grandiose".  But behind the scenes, it is well known that he sees this as "his time"... "his turn"... as if somehow, he's set out on the path to the Presidency, jumped through all the hoops, and now, it's his due.  I'm not sufficiently schooled to recognize pathology, but I know grandiosity when I hear it (the concept of the "Etch-A-Sketch" theory is purported to have been initially laid out by Romney himself).  As for "lacking in conscience and behavioral regulation", tying his dog to the roof of his car for a long family road trip certainly falls into that category.  And I think the bullying incident in prep school covers the "joyful cruelty" and "sadism" requirements.  The fact that, to this day, both the dog incident and the bullying incident can still elicit a chuckle from Romney upon recounting indicate that, for him, that shit just never gets old.

The thing is that I don’t hold what Romney did 48 years ago against him.  He was seventeen, for God’s sake.  Much as I will not punish myself for what I didn't know as a youth, I'm equally  unwilling to indict others for their own youthful indiscretions.  There isn’t one of us in the world who’d want many of the things we did at seventeen to haunt us forever if we could help it.  I’m pretty sure there are things I did as a teenager that I have conveniently blocked from my memory.  In fact, I’ve been confronted with things I said and did as a teen that I had no memory of, even AFTER I’d been reminded. Hurtful things. Thoughtless things.  Possibly downright cruel things. On most of these occasions, the hurt was entirely unintentional.  I was just so self-involved in my teenage endocrinal confusion, I had no idea I was trampling on someone else’s heart.  I can happily report I never held someone down and whacked off their hair with a pair of scissors while they screamed for help.  That, I think I’d remember.

But if I had done that, and I’d forgotten about it, and I’d been reminded of it, and after being reminded I still didn’t remember it, I’d at least have the decency and goodness to feel properly ashamed.  I would certainly not try and make excuses for it. I would not try and justify it.  I would absolutely not laugh about it on national television when interviewed. 

Mitt Romney wasn’t the only boy involved in that dorm incident that day. He was one of what one witness reported as “a posse”.  And then there were the dozen or so boys who stood in the hallway and watched the event without intervening.  When interviewed later, one member of that posse reported that the attack was “vicious”, and another reported that he deeply regretted the incident and looks back on it today with the utmost shame. Thirty years after the hair-cutting incident, David Seed, one of the boys who witnessed the event ran into John Lauber, the victim, in an airport and apologized on the spot for not doing more to stop it, he felt so bad.  Seed says Lauber (who died of cancer in 2004) recalled that the incident was “horrible”.

Seed had the decency to feel genuinely regretful and remorseful, not because he participated, but because he failed to intervene.  As well he should. Because, remember, remorse and regret are teaching tools.  In the 80s, our parents tried to raise us in a “guilt-proof” world. Their way of escaping the dictums of too-constraining religious precepts about saints and sinners was to invent the “Me Decade”, where there were no sinners and everyone was a saint. But sometimes, guilt is an absolutely appropriate response. Like, say, when you’re actually guilty.

When Fox News talking head Neal Cavuto confronted Romney in a phone interview with the bullying incident, Romney's response was similar to the response he gave when Chris Wallace (also from Fox) confronted him about the Irish Setter-on-the-car-roof moment:He chuckled in amusement.  "Dog on the roof." Hilarious.  "Forcibly whacking off the hair of a younger classmate." Uproarious. (To their respective credit, both Cavuto and Wallace had the decency to look properly taken aback by the inappropriate reaction to the recollections.)

Governor Romney has no guilt. He has no shame.  Maybe he was raised that way.  Maybe was raised to believe that everything he did was above reproach, beyond reproof. I don't know.  All I know is that, in many ways, Romney makes George W. Bush look like Albert Schweitzer.  By offering him up as their intended candidate, the Republican Party is backsliding. And their lukewarm reception to Romney gives every indication that they know it, and they're as uncomfortable with the concept as our side is.

The late Randy Pausch said in his famous “Last Lecture”: “A good apology has three parts: 1) ‘I’m sorry’; 2) ‘I was wrong’; and 3) ‘What can I do to make it better?’” Truer words were never spoken. Though it might seem that an unconditional apology, offered decades after a transgression, might be too little, too late, in many cases, it can be a healing, transformative moment, for both the giver and receiver, especially if the unconditional apology is followed by an unconditional absolution. 

I don’t think anyone who has ever been a teenager would have held Romney’s actions almost 50 years ago against him, if he’d simply owned them and apologized unconditionally and sincerely. We’ve all been there.  But Romney does nothing without condition, and nothing in true, unadorned sincerity.  His actions 48 years ago disturb me less than his actions in the past 48 hours. Romney is a man who cannot see that the pain and loss of others are not insignificant and not an amusement.  He is unable to empathize or sympathize on even the most basic level. We have a name for someone like that.

"Malignant narcissist."

How can we entertain the thought - even for a moment - of making one President?













Tuesday, February 07, 2012

Imperative

Found this from another, long-since forgotten blog, and really, really liked it, so I thought I'd share.  I was doing a lot of writing exercises at the time, and this one was one of the few that worked out well enough for public consumption. The exercises can be found in Brian Kiteley's book, The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Exercises that Transform Your Writing. I highly recommend it.

In Kiteley second exercise, called The Imperative, he instructs the writer to write a 400-word min. story fragment in only imperative sentences, instructing the reader to accomplish a task.

INSTRUCTIONS FOR LIFESAVING TECHNIQUES

Pack and go.

Do not wait until you have nothing of you left to take. Take your books, yes. And take your clothes. Box them up and seal them tight with thick, USPS-approved cellophane tape, label them carefully, and put them in the back of your car. Do not let him know you are going. Do not say good-bye.

Just pack and go.

Leave before he can try and talk you out of it. Get out before he has the chance to convince you that you will die without him. Do not give him one more chance to tell you that no one but him could ever love you, and that you are worthless and useless. Make haste and depart before he can describe yet again how easy it would be for him to kill you in your sleep, and then hide your body where no one would ever find it.

Pack a smaller bag for your little one, full of his or her most precious possessions. Do not leave your little one behind so that he has the opportunity to tell him or her that you left because you did not love the child, rather than because you had long ago ceased loving the father. Do not let him poison the child as he has tried to poison the mother.

Pack and go, before he has one more opportunity to let you know that he does not today, nor did he ever really love you. Pack and go before he can find other little ways to kill your soul or fragment your self with his unloving of you. Pack and go before you can be shocked again at the realization that he never knew who you were, and that he really didn’t care, as long as you were fertile and young and could give him the children that he wanted.

Pack and go while you still have the tiniest morsel of you to seed and grow back into the woman you were, the woman you were meant to be, before the unloving and the unknowing and the uncaring of you, of this life you have now. Take your boxes and your bags and and your little one and anything else you can carry and, as quickly and quietly as possible, avoiding panic and mayhem, find your way to the nearest exit, before you lose all sense of direction, all sense of yourself and of your purpose on this earth.

Do it, now.

Find your real life.

Just pack.

Then, go.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

THE IRAQ WAR - FULL CIRCLE



I've posted this before -- found courtesy of the Wayback Machine -- of the post I made the day we invaded Iraq, on March 19, 2003.  This month, the war in Iraq officially ends, and our troops will be out of Iraq by December 31st. 

As we wrap up, and hope and pray that we'll be done in Afghanistan soon as well, I'd like to thank a few people who performed above and beyond the call of duty. Thanks to the "other" 1% -- the percentage of Americans who were actually asked to make real sacrifices for this war -- for all that they gave and all that they lost. Thanks to their families who lost them, for a while, or forever, depending on how or if they returned.  Thanks to President Obama for finally getting this done, despite my doubts that he would in the end.
March 19, 2003

My country went to war today. A deadline passed, a stand-off persisted, and then came the rockets.

If I had to sum up how I feel, I'd call it sadness. I'm so, so sad. I'm sad it's come to this. I'm sad that my feelings of overwhelming cynicism made me believe that it always would come to this. And I'm sad that so many people will not be satisfied, will not have had enough, until blood is spilled and people are dead.

When I was a child, I used to think that if we could just find a way to get out of Viet Nam, we would live in peace. After all, hadn't we learned our lesson about war? Now, nearly thirty years later, here we are again, sending troops to fight for something that vaguely resembles liberty. Something that's been dressed up in noble cloth and made to look like a noble cause. But try as I might, I can't see the Emperor's clothes. I have a sneaking suspicion that the Emperor is, in fact, naked.

My country went to war today. I pray that things will happen quickly, with a minimum of bloodshed and casualty, and then we'll bring our soldiers home in one piece. And maybe this time, we'll have learned our lesson.

The right lesson.

The lesson that we've learned? I'm not sure entirely. "Never bring a knife to a gunfight?" No, that's close, but not quite. "Who's the bigger fool? The fool or the fool that follows him?" Getting warmer.

Maybe it's something simpler and more straightforward. As a young man, my father served in the Air Force during the Korean War as a jet mechanic and one of his fellow mechanics, a big, gentle Alabama boy that never picked a fight, but never ran from one either had a favorite saying he'd use on my dad often.

"Don't let your alligator mouth run away with your hummingbird ass." 

Yeah... yeah, that's it....

Monday, December 05, 2011

That Newt... He's Such a Kidder...

(Well, okay, he wasn't kidding, but he was funny, and in the Sowards family, that's often all that matters.)

Newt used to espouse removing poor children from the custody of their parents and placing them in orphanages (because, theoretically, being poor is abusive to children).  That idea kind of went over like a big ol' lead balloon back in '94, when Newt first proposed it. When then-First Lady Hilary Clinton told a news reporter she thought it was terrible idea, Newt recommended that she go to Blockbuster and rent "Boys Town".

Gingrich, pictured here, describing
something really small - his heart, perhaps?
His brain? Some other body part?
Now, Newt has a better idea. Instead of allowing all those kids to laze around and go to school and play sports and hang out with their friends, he has suggested that child labor laws be repealed and kids be put to work. He wants to pull poor kids out of class and have them scrub toilets and mop pee-soaked floors in school restrooms.  Why? Well, because apparently, the poor are poor because they don't work. That's right. Thus, poor kids don't see examples of hard-working people around him.

So, see, the mopping of their classmates piss off the floor will teach poor kids the value of hard work.  Because none of these kids are the product of hard-working single parents (mostly mothers) who struggle constantly to put food on their families' tables.

Earlier today, Gingrich rubbed old wrinkly elbows with faux billionaire and future GOP debate moderator Donald Trump.  These two fops put their heads together and cooked up a scheme to force these poor, put-upon kids in constant contact with Trump by having a mini-"Apprentice"-style mentorship. As if poor kids didn't have enough troubles.

I'm not really sure why Gingrich wants to hurt poor people so badly. But there's a part of me that just wishes he'd walk into a food bank somewhere and just kick one of them in the shins and get it out of his system. Then maybe he'd shut up about it.  I can't even imagine what poor people could have done to him to piss him off so royally. But then, perhaps the crime of being poor is enough.

Week after week, the GOP offers up a new clown to lead their circus parade, and while it is entertaining, I have to admit, it's also sad and disconcerting. The GOP has single-handedly turned America into a walking, talking joke of a country.  How can we expect the world to take us seriously when we've turned our political system into bad reality TV.






Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Newt Gingrich Demands that President Obama "Repudiate the Concept" of the 1%

Apparently, the entire premise of 1% of the nation's population controlling 18% percent of the wealth has become, according to Newt Gingrich, a "concept".

Really? It's just theoretical now?

Well, of course it is. Because we'd have no way of being able to actually prove that a tiny handful of very wealthy control 18% of the entire nation's money. I mean, it's not like anyone keeps records on who owns what and how much they make or anything, right? So, it's really all just supposition and guesswork, isn't it?

So any assertion that 99% of the population of the United States no longer has a voice in the country's monetary course (and, thereby, it's political course) is really just a "concept". Like flying cars. And Santa Claus. And unicorns.

It's almost refreshing that some things never change. The sun rises in the East and sets in the West, the swallows will return to Capistrano, and Newt Gingrich will be a big, gigantic asshat. Always.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Master Quote of the Day (or Maybe Even Week -- We'll See)

     "But too many people in finance are acting as if it were 2007. Whether it is investment bankers griping about Obama being a closet socialist, Wharton MBA students chanting  'Get a job' to OWS protestors, or the Chamber of Commerce, once a moderate voice, using its money and clout to try to preserve George W. Bush’s tax cuts for the rich, the message conveyed is the same: We don’t get it!
     For an economic elite whose perquisites ultimately depend on the acquiescence of everybody else, it is a silly and dangerous pose to strike. If only for its own sake, the 1% needs to show a bit of nous."

And what Commie, Socialist, Class-warfare-inciting, Left-wing, liberal rag published this quote?

Fortune Magazine, November 21, 2011 issue, in the op-ed piece, "Memo to the One-Percenters": Wake Up and Look Out of Your Limos by John Cassidy.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled revolutionary protest movement.