Children of Undocumented Parents Live in Fear of Deportation

 https://www.sandiegouniontribune.com/2024/10/10/opinion-children-of-undocumented-parents-live-in-fear-of-deportation/

 

The Republican candidate for president is promising mass deportations. He vows to remove millions of people if he wins the election. When I hear this threat, I’m reminded of an episode several years ago.

A new psychologist in our school district came into our monthly meeting clearly shaken. She had just left the middle school where she worked and was upset about one of her young clients. The girl was a seventh grader at a school in an ethnically mixed community. The girl’s family was from Mexico.

The girl was being seen for counseling because she had been very anxious and tearful and was having trouble concentrating at school. Her English class at that time was reading standard literature for this age group. That week it was “The Diary of Anne Frank.”

As the story unfolded, an increase of ICE activity was being threatened that month in the school’s neighborhood. The news and worries filled the community. The atmosphere of threat could almost be felt when one walked through the streets.

The girl’s parents were undocumented and often had to be away for their multiple jobs. They had warned the girl emphatically to stay away from the windows and if there was a knock on the door to go hide in the bathroom and to be absolutely silent until she was sure there was no one still there. 

During the counseling session the girl’s final words to my young colleague, “Now, I think I sort of know what Anne Frank felt like.” There are obvious differences in the circumstance in the story they were reading in class, but this girl, more than most, could relate.

I would guess that many of the people currently making and enforcing immigration laws remember reading the “The Diary of Anne Frank” in middle school. I’d like to believe that it had some impact. Moreover, I’d like to believe that, regardless of laws and politic, it might create some empathy for the fears of young girls and boys all over this country. Too many children feel deeply that the survival of their families depends on them -- hiding, without a sound, when there is a knock on the door.  The young girl in our story is just one of the many children who live in this ever-present worry. The threat of mass deportation may serve a political purpose, but young children all over our country are the victims of this, and the harm to them should not be ignored.

JUNK DRAWER ECOLOGY

 

Neatniks' final frontier is the junk drawer

Susan DeMersseman, Special to The Chronicle

Wednesday, April 9, 2003

It may be time to clean the junk drawer by the phone again. I know this because we've gotten to the point where only the pens and pencils that don't work fill the drawer.
I think everyone has a junk drawer (or 10). We have one in the kitchen and one in the breakfast room by the phone. Each has its own ecology and its own pattern of getting junked up.
You don't want to clean them out too often, however. That takes all the fun out of this little archaeological expedition. It would rob you of the joys of finding that phone number you knew you had written down or that receipt you had misplaced, or of sharpening all the pencils at once and throwing out every nonfunctioning pen.
Maybe I don't have enough excitement in my life, but there is something so satisfying about looking at the finished drawer. Notepads in a row, sharpened and functioning writing tools in a little box, emery boards all together in an envelope. All the stray rubber bands from the morning paper now neatly wrapped around the rubber band ball that will soon be too big for this drawer. A little film canister filled with thumbtacks. Won't it be nice when I need one and know just where it is?
I think I learned my junk drawer traditions from my mother. Her major drawer by the phone was fascinating. Every time I went to visit her I cleaned it out just for the intrigue. In her system, one of each useful item in the house was kept in that drawer. One screwdriver, one ruler, one tube of lipstick, one tube of super glue, one hair clip, etc.
On a Christmas visit years ago, I collected all the nonfunctioning pens from drawers all over the house and wrapped them up as a gift with the attached note, "This is only a gift if you throw it away as soon as you get it. " My siblings got the joke, and my mother spent the rest of the evening testing each pen to make sure she wasn't throwing away anything useful.
One day a friend was visiting when I opened the junk drawer to get a notepad. This friend is, for the rest of us, an icon of order. Her house always looks perfect -- beautiful furnishings, great fashion sense and vases of fresh flowers. I had forgotten that I cleaned the drawer the day before. She exclaimed, "Wow, your junk drawer is so neat and organized."
It was a triumph of timing. But I didn't tell her that. Perhaps now I am her icon of junk drawer maintenance.
I admire people who actually learned to put things away in the same place each time. It seems so grown up. A state to which I aspire. But then, they miss the fun of delving into the mysteries and surprises of the junk drawer a few times each year.
In our busy family it stays neat for only a week or two, but that's a week or two longer than when I clean the house. So, it's definitely worth the time.

Susan DeMersseman is a psychologist and parent educator. E-mail home@sfchronicle.com.

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2003/04/09/HO273269.DTL

This article appeared on page HO - 2 of the San Francisco Chronicle

My Father Would Have Loved My Children

 From my story in the book, "Wisdom of Our Fathers" edited by Tim Russert. 2006

My Father Would Have Loved My Children

My father was born in 1889 and was 57 when I was born. Some of his 8 older siblings were born while the family still lived in a sod hut on their Dakota Territory homestead. His world was so different from mine, but my father would have loved my children. This may not seem like such a remarkable statement; most people love their grandchildren. Some do not. Some are not able to overcome the fact that their beloved child chose to marry someone of a different race and have children with tan skin and curly little Afros, but my father would have loved my children.

Even now as my teenage son looks like he just escaped from a rap video, with baggy pants and a big crystal in his ear, my father would have gotten a huge kick out of him. My dad would have loved that my son inherited his gift for Math. He would have appreciated his sense of humor and he would love him because he is mine.

My father would have loved my daughter because she is such a great listener and would sit attentively as he told stories of graduating from high school at 14 -- because he got through all the books in the one room school house. Of his years managing a classic old hotel and having President Roosevelt visit and the man who carved Mount Rushmore live there. He would have been impressed that she can put anything together -- even without the directions. He would have admired her artistic talent and would have made a big fuss over her simplest drawing.

I'm not saying that initially the thought of a racially mixed marriage might not have been a little difficult for him to get used to. After all, I grew up in the fifties in a town where a mixed marriage was one between a Lutheran and a Catholic. And even back then people would ask, "But what about the children?" He would not have taken long to get used to the idea and he would have loved the children.

The hotel my father ran was a classic and in the thirties and forties the destination of many wealthy businessmen from Chicago. Their African American chauffeurs often drove these men to vacation in the Black Hills. The man who built the hotel was a railroad executive and my father sometimes traveled with him, sometimes in his private railroad car. There he met the Pullman employees also of African descent. 

My father was a man of some dignity but he was not cautious with his language. He never hesitated to call someone an SOB if he was one; he never hesitated to identify BS when it was. But the only way I ever heard him describe a black man was as a "colored gentleman". This was long before I ever met anyone who was not white. Somehow his way of saying it and the words he used made a strong impression, one of definite respect.

My dad wasn't especially impressed by facades and surface trappings. He had friends in all the different social strata of our small community. He truly did consider the ''content of one's character " in judging a person.

 What mattered to him most, however, was his family. He adored and respected my mother and thought the sun rose and set upon the heads of his children. He wasn't outwardly competitive like parents tend to be these days, but in-house, we all knew that he thought we were the best. 

His health began to fail when I was in high school. And some days when I came home from school I would find him sitting in his big wing back chair facing the bookshelves. On the shelves were pictures of each of his children. He once told me that he went from picture to picture much of the day stopping at each of the five and saying a prayer for each, because now, that was the only way he could take care of us. He thought we were the best.  My father died a few years after that, but if he had known my children, he would have thought they were the best too.

My Father

In 2006 Tim Russert edited a book titled, "Wisdom of Our Fathers." This is my story in that book.

My Father 

My father would have loved my children. He was born in 1889, and some of his eight older siblings were born while the family still lived in a sod hut on their Dakota Territory homestead. His world was very different from mine, but my father would have loved my children. 

This may not seem like such a remarkable statement. Most people love their grandchildren. But some do not, especially when their beloved daughter marries a man of a different race and has children with tan skin and curly afros. 

My teenage son currently looks like he just escaped from a rap video, with baggy pants and a big crystal in his ear. But my father would have gotten a huge kick out of him. He would have loved that my son inherited his gift from math. He would have loved his sense of humor. And he would have loved him because he was mine. 

He would have loved my daughter because she is such a great listener and would sit attentively as he told stories of graduating from high school at 14 because he read through all the books in his one room schoolhouse. He would have told her about managing a classic old hotel in Rapid City, South Dakota, and having President Roosevelt visit and the man who carved Mount Rushmore living there. He would have been impressed that she could put anything together, even without the directions. 

I won't deny that a racially mixed marriage might have been a little difficult for him to get used to. After all, I grew up in the fifties in a town where a mixed marriage was one between a Lutheran and a Catholic. And even back then, people asked, “But what about the children?”

 But he would have gotten used to the idea pretty quickly. And he would have loved my children. 

My father was a man of some dignity, but he was very direct with his language. He never hesitated to call someone an SOB if he was one, or identify BS when he heard it. But the only way I ever heard him describe a black man was as a “colored gentleman.”  This was long before I ever met anyone who wasn't white. What he cared about in all situations was a person's character. 

His health began to fail when I was in high school. Some days, when I came home from school, I would find him sitting in his big wing back chair facing the bookshelves. On the shelves were pictures of each of his children. He once told me that he went from picture to picture much of the day stopping at each of the five and saying a prayer, because that was now his only way of taking care of us. He thought we were the best. My father died a few years after that, but if he had known my children, he would have thought they were the best too. 

Marriage Advice from Burt Bacharach

GUEST BLOGGER

READ NEXT

The Allure of Solo Travel

I combed my hair and put a little gloss on my lips and I thought, as I sometimes do, of the words of Burt Bacharach, “Hey little girl comb your hair fix your makeup.” Those words remind me of all the marriage and relationship advice that I’ve heard over my life.  The advice has come from a broad range of sources, from Burt Bacharach to my brother’s first wife. The drivel seems to stay with me as well as the sensible.

PIN IT

An early bit of advice came from Mary, the cheerful young nurse who married my brother. I was twelve and on my first solo trip to California to visit them. I don’t know why she thought I could make any use of it, but she advised, “When you get married, make sure the person is a really good friend, because the romance and sex fade pretty quick.” At that point I really had no clue what was involved in sex, but the idea of being with someone who is a good friend made sense. 

My brother was a Navy pilot and gone a lot.  Shortly after she gave me that bit of advice, I went back home and, in a few weeks, learned that Mary had taken up with someone else at the hospital where she worked. My brother and Mary soon divorced.

My mother married the man who was probably the most eligible bachelor in our small Midwestern town, and some might have gossiped a bit. Mother occasionally said as a kind of joke, rather than as advice, “Don’t ever marry for money. You’ll earn every cent of it.” Fortunately, my parents were completely devoted to each other. (Unfortunately, this gave me an unrealistic idea of marriage).

Years later when I was attending a small women’s college in the Midwest, the administration tried to enrich our lives in this, remote community. We had concerts, performances, and lectures. One lecture was by a woman who was a social worker. I remember only one thing she said. Her advice was that when you become parents, remember that the most important relationship you need to attend to is the one with your husband. That sounded so sensible at the time.  Twenty three years later at the age of 40, with two in diapers and a demanding job, I thought about her advice with a longing smile. It still sounded like a worthy goal. 

I can’t remember when Burt Bacharach entered the advice column in my head, but he has stayed. I do think of his song as I comb my hair and “fix my makeup” before my husband is due home. 

PIN IT

Burt’s Advice:

“Hey, little girl
Comb your hair, fix your make-up
Soon he will open the door
Don’t think because
There’s a ring on your finger
You needn’t try any more
For wives should always be lovers, too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.” 

I love that last line. If I did that, my husband might think he had walked into the wrong house. I have never done that, but I do try to look a little tidier at the end of the day. Sometimes it’s a matter of washing the leaves and mud off from my day in the garden or it might be addressing the dazed and crumpled look after a day in front of the computer screen. (And for an update, you might be the one coming home from work.)

My husband and I have been together for over 40 years and honestly, I doubt that he ever looks at me with a critical eye when he walks through the door or thinks, “Wow, did she comb her hair or fix her makeup? And why hasn’t she run to me?” Bless his heart, I don’t think he would notice one way or another. But I still like to comb my hair and “fix my makeup” and have realized that – “Hey little girl, it’s more for yourself.” It’s a kind of punctuation in the pattern of the day.

I can’t think of any of the advice I’ve heard over the years that I have passed along. But recently, while getting my hair cut by a wide-eyed young stylist, I did share something. She was very impressed to learn that I had been married for so many years. She asked with sweet sincerity, “I’d really like to know. What do you think is the key to a long marriage – communication?” In spite of all the previous advice and without hesitation, I responded, “Nope. Determination!” Not advice; just reality.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PIN IT

Dr. Susan DeMersseman is a psychologist and writer with frequent contributions to the San Francisco Chronicle, Christian Science Monitor and other publications and books. Her blog, Raising kids, gardens, and awareness, is a humorous and touching look at raising children, gardens, and awareness.

 Dear Readers, I would love to know why there are so many of you lately! Any information appreciated.

Susan

 RHUBARB REDISCOVERED

From Midwest Living Magazine

 

            Each summer I spend a few weeks in my childhood hometown in South Dakota.  I've lived away for many years, and I sometimes bring an outsider's viewpoint to what was once a seamless backdrop of my growing up world.   A little distance from the once familiar can cause a person to see the individual elements.  For example, the regular sight of $5 peonies and $30 bouquets of lilacs in the California flower shops, and I now look at my mother's peony bushes and lilac hedges with new appreciation.  Now that I've seen horseradish tastings at the local food boutiques, I view my brother's homemade version in a new light (though I still suggest a gas mask if you visit during the preparation). 

            It took a few more years before Rhubarb entered this domain. It too had been part of the landscape of my childhood, and I guess it had its purposes.  It occasionally appeared in front of me camouflaged as a dessert.  I cut its big leaves into the shape of a palm trees when I was playing Muffy dolls visit Hawaii with my little friend Carol.   We sometimes ate it raw without sugar to prove to other kids how tough we were. (Like men who prove they're macho by eating the hottest peppers.) It tasted horrible and made your teeth feel so dry you practically had to peel your lips away.  It was only slightly more palatable than the grasshopper and worm parts the big kids made us eat to get into their clubs.

            On that trip, I noticed that people seem to grow rhubarb to give away rather than to use. It's the Midwest version of the giant Zucchini's that people give to each other in California. But Midwestern gardens have plenty of room, and in July, they'll find somebody to give it to. One neighbor confessed that the only time she locks her car door when she goes downtown is in July, otherwise she might come back and find a heap of rhubarb in the back seat.

            That summer I was weeding around the roses next to my mother's rhubarb when I noticed, for the first time, what a pretty plant it is.  Big plump leaves on the top of slender stalks just starting to show the rosy shade of ripeness.  And all of a sudden, I remembered Rhubarb Cream Pie.  At 85, my mother no longer remembered every dessert she served or where the recipe was, so I had to search.  

            I went through her entire collection of cookbooks.  In "What Albion Lutherans Eat" circa 1926 I found an ad for my great grandfather's buggy shop but no recipe.  In my grandmother's handwritten cookbook, there was a recipe for a mustard plaster, but no rhubarb cream pie. Finally I found a custard recipe as a starting point and improvised.  My mother's rhubarb wasn't quite ripe, so I ran to the store for a few stalks.  I added my own touches, lots of vanilla, some nutmeg, and more butter.  

            As it baked the rich smell filled the house and made the rainy summer afternoon seem almost made to order.  My mother tested it first then made me cook it 15 more minutes.  Couldn't quite handle rhubarb al dente.  At the end of 15 minutes, it was done, and it was wonderful. 

Each visitor who came by sampled and raved.  Following each rave was, “Where’d you get the rhubarb?"  Everyone reacted the same to my disclosure that the rhubarb had been purchased.   To a person they said, “Oh no! You should have told me. I would have brought you some." You've never seen a more disappointed group of people; they had missed the opportunity to give rhubarb to someone who would actually use it.  I told each one I'd be happy for some more.  

            With the contributions I further tested and refined the recipe.  I now feel certain that I came upon a good reason for rhubarb.

 

My recipe

--Chop up some rhubarb to make about 2 cups and put into an uncooked pie shell.

-Mix 2 tablespoons of melted butter, 2 eggs, 2 tablespoons of flour, 3/4 cup of sugar, l cup of canned milk with 2 teaspoons of vanilla and 1/2 teaspoon of nutmeg.

--Pour over the rhubarb and bake at 400 for 15 minutes, reduce heat to 325 and bake for about 45 more minutes. 

 

The “refined” recipe from the kitchen of Midwest Living Magazine

                        Pastry for 9-inch single-crust pie

            21⁄2     cups fresh or frozen unsweetened, sliced rhubarb 

            2          eggs

            1          cup evaporated milk

            3⁄4       cup sugar

            2          tablespoons all-purpose flour

            2          tablespoons butter or margarine, melted

            2          teaspoons vanilla

            1⁄2       teaspoon ground nutmeg

 

1. Prepare and roll out pastry. Line a 9-inch pie plate with the pastry. Trim and crimp edge as you like. Do not prick. Line pastry with a double thickness of foil. Bake in a 450º oven for 8 minutes. Remove foil; bake 4 to 5 minutes more or till set and dry. Remove pie plate from oven and reduce oven temperature to 350º.

2. In a medium saucepan bring 2 cups water to boil; add rhubarb. Return to boil. Drain water and cool rhubarb.

3. Carefully sprinkle rhubarb evenly over bottom of prebaked piecrust.

4. In a bowl, beat together the eggs, milk, sugar, flour, butter or margarine, vanilla, and nutmeg. Slowly pour over rhubarb in piecrust. Cover entire pie loosely with foil.

5. Bake in the 350° oven for 25 minutes. Remove foil. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes more or till center appears nearly set when shaken. Serve warm or chilled. Makes 8 servings.

Nutrition facts per serving: 318 cal., 16 g. fat, 38 g. carbo., 71 mg. chol., 1 g. fiber and 149 mg. sodium.

 By Susan DeMersseman, who lives in Berkeley, California, where it’s acceptable to buy your rhubarb.   Midwest Living Magazine June 2000.

In May of 2006 Tim Russert edited a book on Fathers My story of my own father is one of the stories

  My Father Would Have Loved My Children

 

My father was born in 1889 and was 57 when I was born. Some of his 8 older siblings were born while the family still lived in a sod hut on their Dakota Territory homestead. His world was so different from mine, but my father would have loved my children. This may not seem like such a remarkable statement; most people love their grandchildren. Some do not. Some are not able to overcome the fact that their beloved child chose to marry someone of a different race and have children with tan skin and curly little Afros, but my father would have loved my children.

Even as my teenage son looked like he just escaped from a rap video, with baggy pants and a big crystal in his ear, my father would have gotten a huge kick out of him. My dad would have loved that my son inherited his gift for Math. He would have appreciated his sense of humor and he would love him because he is mine.

My father would have loved my daughter because she is such a great listener and would sit attentively as he told stories of graduating from high school at 14 -- because he got through all the books in the one room school house. Of his years managing a classic old hotel and having President Roosevelt visit and the man who carved Mount Rushmore live there. He would have been impressed that she can put anything together -- even without the directions. He would have admired her artistic talent and would have made a big fuss over her simplest drawing.

I'm not saying that initially the thought of a racially mixed marriage might not have been a little difficult for him to get used to. After all, I grew up in the fifties in a town where a mixed marriage was one between a Lutheran and a Catholic. And even back then people would ask, "But what about the children?"  He would not have taken long to get used to the idea and he would have loved the children.

The hotel my father ran was a classic and in the thirties and forties the destination of many wealthy businessmen from Chicago. Their African American chauffeurs often drove these men to the Black Hills. The man who built the hotel was a railroad executive and my father sometimes traveled with him, sometimes in his private railroad car. There he met the Pullman employees also of African descent. 

My father was a man of some dignity but he was not cautious with his language. He never hesitated to call someone an SOB if he was one; he never hesitated to identify BS when it was. But the only way I ever heard him describe a black man was as a "colored gentleman". This was long before I ever met anyone who was not white. Somehow his way of saying it and the words he used made a strong impression, one of definite respect.

My dad wasn't especially impressed by facades and surface trappings. He had friends in all the different social strata of our small community. He truly did consider the ''content of one's character " in judging a person.

 What mattered to him most, however, was his family. He adored and respected my mother and thought the sun rose and set upon the heads of his children. He wasn't outwardly competitive like parents tend to be these days, but in-house, we all knew that he thought we were the best. 

His health began to fail when I was in high school. And some days when I came home from school I would find him sitting in his big wing back chair facing the bookshelves. On the shelves were pictures of each of his children. He once told me that he went from picture to picture much of the day stopping at each of the five and saying a prayer for each, because now that was the only way he could take care of us. He thought we were the best.  My father died a few years after that, but if he had known my children, he would have thought they were the best too.

From Wisdom of our Fathers. edited by Tim Russert. May 2006

When the Bully Falls

  When the Bully Falls

         Even before I began training teachers on how to deal with bullying, I was a sort of expert. As a school psychologist for over 30 years I watched the progression of the bully gaining power. More interesting, I watched the dynamic of the bully losing power.

         My work brought me into contact with the bully, the victim, the parents and teachers. I did classroom lessons and individual work. Perhaps most instructive was my hours of “yard duty.” It’s not generally the job of the school psychologist, but it was the best place to observe students I was involved with and the best place to intervene. Work in the classrooms was helpful. Kids learned how to support each other, take a stand and how to report. They learned to differentiate between tattling and reporting. They learned to identify what was bullying and what was simply bothersome behavior or the suffering of not getting your own way.

         But in spite of a school’s best efforts. there is often a bully with amazing power. The interesting and sad thing is to watch as those who are past or potential targets begin to align themselves with the bully. They laugh at his jokes or at those who are the brunt of his jokes. With girls it often takes the form of going along with one who directs other girls to exclude someone. Then, when some event or input alters the direction, it has been fascinating to watch the pattern change. 

A “mean girl” controlled much of the interaction in one classroom. Then a new boy joined the class and questioned her power. Without saying it directly, it was like, “Who made her boss?” Gradually others started asking the same question and soon “the emperor had no clothes”; the retribution began. The other girls, who had been her victims, banded together and excluded her. Some of the mothers tried to be charitable and urged kindness but couldn’t help but feel the justice of the situation.

         I’ve watched the same dynamic in the current political situation. The bully was able to bring to his side many without the moral core or moral compass to resist. Fearful and weak they either supported or pretended to accept his validity as a leader. 

Now as his power slips away we will watch the reaction. Will his one-time targets now have the courage to speak up? Will those who aligned simply not stand by him or will they try to pretend they didn’t really support him? 

Many have been doing arm chair analysis on this president, finding evidence of narcissism, mania, ADD and other syndromes. I only need to look as far as the playground to understand what has gone on. I’m less interested in the syndrome displayed than in the sad dynamic that has taken place as some have aligned themselves with the bully.

 Now it seems we will watch as the power the bully once wielded slips away. We will watch as his supporters slip away. Unlike the kind-hearted mothers that I knew years ago, we may watch this process without a charitable heart. We may even find enjoyment in the justice of his tumbling from power and the embarrassment he will experience in the removal of the invisible garment. 

 

The Joy of Swearing -- Politics Requires it

 Vocabulary Expansion in Political Times

The Joy of Swearing

 

         It’s notable that there’s been an expansion of language following the election of Mr. Trump. Before his election we seldom heard words like megalomania, misogynist, bloviate, xenophobe or sycophant in daily conversation. Now they are quite frequent. This expansion has impacted the vocabulary of many of us.

Then there are other ways, less sophisticated ways, that our vocabularies seem to be building.  This is often seen in people who barely used the words damn or hell before. My sweet sister-in-law is one of those people. Raised, as I was, in a small Midwest town in the fifties, swearing wasn’t a big part of our communication. Growing up, the word “pee” to describe urination was considered vulgar. Even using the term “it sucks” was not appropriate. I still don’t like that one, and when our kids were little made our home a “suck free zone” They usually warned little friends whom they thought might slip up.

Back to my sweet sister-in-law. She is a quietly witty woman. Once, after I told her I was so mad at my husband that I hadn’t spoken to him all day, she asked, “Has he noticed yet?”

 Now we get on the phone each week and let it fly. She described this change in language to her equally dignified brother, when he came for a visit.  After a lifetime of never even using the “f” word, she warned him about this change. He innocently asked, “What do you mean?” Her answer, “Well, it begins with ‘mother’.” He was a little shocked, but not surprised. He watches the news too.

My nephew taught high school English for years. He commented that recent conversations with older adults include frequent use of the gerund form of the f word. That’s the one with the “ing” ending. 

There seem to be a lot of us senior citizen potty mouths these days. We’ve done all the customary positive things in the way of community or political action, but we're still pretty distressed. So now many of us are finding a bit of unexpected relief in using language that we have apparently saved for these trying times.

 

Post Pandemic Bucket List

Written  eight months ago. Not a lot has changed

A Post-Pandemic Bucket List

Like a lot of those sheltering in place, I’m currently busy with home chores that I’ve been putting off. I’ve done my taxes, I finished a manuscript, I’m going through and organizing cupboards. Above all, I’ve made the big move to tackle the basement. It is like an archeological dig. “Oh there’s that Christmas ornament I lost years ago. How did it get in the yarn basket?” “Do we really need our college text books from thirty years ago?” “How many Christmas tree stand does one family need?” “Wow. Here’s the lid for that pot we gave away.”

Living in a house for over forty years we have often just put things in the basement in a less than organized way.Offspring moving out and moving back in have added to the "accumulation."

 I now have clear plastic boxes of various sizes. I’m using them for specific categories, donate, give as gifts to younger friends, sell, or store in a better way. After a few hours each day I feel productive and more in control. That feeling is more valuable now, in the face of a situation where we have little control.

But, I’m also thinking and planning for the post pandemic time. It will be a time when my house will be organized and tidy, but more important when I can again spend time with friends. Fortunately, many of the limitations during the quarantine and pandemic are temporary. We may not live long enough to see our IRAs return to previous levels, but we will be able to meet friends for walks and have groups for dinner. My daughter and I are planning various events and doing some background tasks in preparation. 

Things we have taken for granted are not possible right now, As the saying goes, “You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.” We are staying busy to avoid a lot of handwringing, but in addition to the long delayed chores we are thinking about what is important to us. We are making our post pandemic bucket list. 

Though we are occupied with chores and planning future celebration, we are also mindful of ways to address the needs of those that are challenged now and will be in the future. There are charitable organizations that are working over time and we have connected with them. We don’t need to wait until after the pandemic to pay attention to the ever present difficulties of our neighbors.Thatcan be on our current bucket list.

TRUMP OR THE PARTY AND THE REPUBLIC

The whole point of this piece from the Huffpost is that this time of dire need in our country offers you an opportunity to be remembered as a patriot and person of honor. Plus, Trump will be so sullied by his current antics that he won't be the threat to you that he once was. Speak up. The lives of your people are at stake. He lost, move on to saving those lives through preventive measures  and a focus on public health. Here's your big chance for a positive page in history.

DEAR REPUBLICANS.. 

Those who “understand” politics will tell you that it is a matter of compromise. Parties must adjust, give up on absolutes and accommodate to the circumstances. This is realistic, but a worrisome situation when we see that politicians are willing to compromise their integrity. Skill at rationalizing comes in handy in this process.

Those less skilled at rationalization, some loyal members of the Republican party, now seem to be trapped in an uncomfortable place, presenting both moral and practical dilemmas. It’s not an uncommon occurrence, having to deal with a very “difficult boss.” For their own safety or ambition, they must. Others are in the middle of a slow walk back to integrity.

          Those who spoke out early no doubt harbor a fear that he will retaliate. Mr. Trump is famous for his capacity to get back at those who have crossed him. Some Republicans had a moment of principle, when the tape of him bragging about grabbing women in the genitals came out. They spoke out, and now have to deal with the foreboding and cloud of what might be the consequences for this “lapse.”

Even those who didn’t speak out, now deal with the growing number of situations that make them wonder how long they can be silent, how long they can convince themselves that their silence will help them achieve the goals that fit with their politics. 

Some are willing to hold on until the bitter end, trusting the ends justify the means. But there are a few who are coming to recognize that such times create the opportunity for patriotism, even heroism

Some are so committed to the country and to their own personal integrity that they will oppose what is going on.  Moreover, there are members of the Republican party with such solid positions that they may not be vulnerable. They have less to lose in their opposition. There may even be some willing to risk their wonderful committee appointments or even their reelection to do what is right. Such leaders may give courage to others.

Others are astute at sniffing the air – they know the direction things are going and opportunism is their motivation. They have seen things in their constituents that have made it clear that they cannot just go along with situation in the White House.

         A third group is just practical. They’re the ones saying, “What?” What’s being proposed from the White House just does not make sense. They look at the funds that hard working citizens must give up to them. They see themselves as responsible to carry out their duty as honest, practical fiduciaries. 

So whether from heroism, opportunism or pragmatism, there are those in the Republican party who have an opportunity to step up and to do what is right

During my graduate research I studied the development of moral reasoning, analyzed my data in the morning and watched the Watergate hearings in the afternoon. I feel a bit of Deja vu—I watched the testimony of people at the lowest levels of moral reasoning, controlled by self-interest, authority or affinity to a group like them. It was rare but exhilarating to see the few who functioned at the true level of principle. There are signs of it now in the Grand Old Party. In an earlier op-ed in the Chicago Tribune I lamented that this is not my father's GOP. I hope there are those in the party who want to resurrect (resuscitate) what was once "grand" about the party.

When this heroism, pragmatism or even opportunism emerges, our job is not to gloat, not to say, “It’s about time,” or “I told you so.” Whatever the reason it will take a measure of courage. For some this step forward carries with it significant loss. Loss of position or loss of faith in the party they were devoted to. Some quiet respect and some admiration are perhaps the best reaction for those of us who see the dilemma that they have had to struggle through -- to reject the crazy, hateful and inept leadership. Perhaps they will even be the new leaders that can find the nirvana of common ground with the other party.

           Ironically, this president may actually be the catalyst for what many thought impossible. The common “enemy”, so obsessed with self and with so little concern for the country, may bring the sides together to find shared goals and realize they must work together for the good of our country.

share or read at
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/593d9fd7e4b014ae8c69e199

We Are Not F***ing Elderly

A chapter from my book, "You Are OK, BOOMER"

When I read in the paper about an older individual injured or in the news in some other way, the headline usually reads “elderly” person. Then there’s a word of some calamity that befell them or some difficult situation involving them.

I have often joked that if I were to get hit on a street near our house and sent to the hospital, the headline would read “Elderly Woman Injured in Accident.” Would the following story detail that the woman (me) was coming from the gym where she lifts weights and is then off to run errands? Later she’ll go home to work on her book or work in her yard. After that she’ll go out to party with friends.

 No, damn it, that label will seem to say it all. This poor, weak, defenseless little creature; this “elderly” woman. Well, this “elderly woman” would like to kick someone’s butt every time she sees that in a headline. Would “senior citizen” be better? A little, but it would take more letters. Or maybe there could be no reference at all to the age in the headline. If I get hit and you want to be accurate, just say “woman hit by car and in hospital.” In the article you can include my age if you want to be accurate, say that I was coming from the gym. My husband might add that I was working on upping my reps or weights or something to indicate more about me than my age group.

        We now have many ways to describe peoples’ gender or sexual orientation, but just one if you’re over 60. I respect and encourage all this diversity in labels, so could we please stretch it to something beyond “elderly?” OK, when I’m 90 and coming from the gym and get hit by a car, it might be acceptable to call me elderly, or by then, maybe there will be some more enlightened labeling.

I’m not alone in my annoyance. Friends and colleagues my age are busy, productive people. Even those who have various health issues do not want to be viewed as weak, doddering, “elderly” people. They hike, care for their grandchildren, make art, volunteer and fight for worthy causes. 

In this limited way of framing older people, even my ire might be framed as the response of a “crotchety” old woman. No, I’m not crotchety or kind of cute in my anger. I’m justifiably irritated by this practice that is a part of a trend to devalue those who are older. Perhaps as we baby boomers are no longer the demographic majority, our value has become diminished and thus the respect we are shown in this context.

         It’s notable that we don’t read, “Elderly CEO”, “Elderly movie producer,” or “Elderly research scientist.” Each of these descriptions carries a label of power or competence. That suggests another element in what is conveyed by the label of “elderly.”

I am not weak and fragile or whatever is conveyed by that label. Nor are most people my age. Dear journalists and headline writers, please look for a more accurate label and stretch past the “unconscious bias” that is reflected in that word. Find a more accurate label, if you need one at all.