The Dark, by Portia Casanova

In September when the school year was getting started, I saw a Facebook post from my niece, Maggie. I can’t remember what it said exactly, other than that they had just learned that all schools in Chicago were going to be online. I jokingly posted that I would be happy to work with my then 7 year-old grandniece, Portia, maybe do a songwriting workshop. Kind of preposterous since I only started writing songs the previous spring, but I had taken some classes, and learned some things along the way that I thought would be worth passing on. I knew Portia liked making up songs, and that she was good at it. I thought, maybe she would be interested in writing a song that she could perform, and that was documented so other people could sing it too. Turns out she wanted to, and her parents were wholly behind the effort Thus was born Portia’s Song Workshop.

We have just completed her first song, “The Dark.” That was our semester goal. We met each week for 30 minute sessions. We began by exploring what a song is and what makes writing a song different from other writing activities. By the end of that first lesson, Portia was literally climbing the walls.

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We studied different aspects of some of her favorite songs to learn about song structures, line length and number of lines, rhythm, rhyming schemes and types of rhymes. Portia came up with an idea for a song on her own. She had been singing it around the house, and in fact had the makings for a first verse, a pre-chorus and a chorus. So we started with that. Each week we focused on some different aspect of her song–rhythm, rhyme, verse development, honing the melody, identifying the key, and then came the really fun part. Her dad, Antonio, developed a piano accompaniment for her song. Her mother, Maggie, and I helped her with verse development. She practiced. She listened to the piano track on her iPad with headphones and sang to the accompaniment over Zoom. I captured just her voice.

Anne Page McClard · The Dark

Using these pieces in GarageBand I began to build Portia’s recording. I am a neophyte though, and when I played what I had done at the weekly family meeting my brother, Peter, and cousin,Garth, both experienced musicians and music producers, called out some problems. Later, Peter offered to help me fix them because he has more sophisticated software and knowledge, and I happily accepted. I really didn’t know what to expect. The result is beautiful, much better than what I had done with the same basic material. Anyway, I am grateful to have had everybody’s support with this effort. It has been magical and rewarding. Turns out there is light in the darkness that is now.

I hope you like it!

The Dark by Portia Casanova

When the lights turn off,
And you say good night,
and the door goes SLAM,
my eyes grow wide.
And I think…
Now that it’s night
Nightmares come to fright,
But I  know deep inside
If I  look at the sky
I’ll  see the only star in sight,
and how it shines.

And then I get a little shiver,
a shiver unlike others;
but I like it… I like the dark.
Ohhh ohh, I feel scared of it,
’cause there’s not a spark of light.

But I like it…
I like the dark.
There’s fright in the night.
Ohh Oh Ohhhhhh……
The dark, the dark,
The dark, the dark.

When I  fall  asleep,
And begin to dream…
What dreams may come…
will  teach me things.
Strange scenes,
And I  wonder why.
What’s real  and where am I?
But somehow I  know,
I’m asleep in my bed,
And this thought calms me down,
and I’m at rest.

And then I get a little shiver,
a shiver unlike others;
but I like it… I like the dark.
Ohhh ohh, I feel scared of it,
’cause there’s not a spark of light.

But I like it…
I like the dark.
There’s fright in the night.
Ohh Oh Ohhhhhh……
The dark, the dark,
The dark, the dark.

When the sun comes up,
And the light flows in
And the night is done…
The day begins.
And I  think…
Now that it’s day
I  have something to say
There’s no fear in the way
I  see the night anew.
Now I  know the light is there
In the dark of night.

And then I get a little shiver,
a shiver unlike others;
but I like it… I like the dark.
Ohhh ohh, I feel scared of it,
’cause there’s not a spark of light.

But I like it…
I like the dark.
There’s fright in the night.
Ohh Oh Ohhhhhh……
The dark, the dark,
The dark, the dark.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It still is, because in modern times at it’s core it is about giving thanks, but that doesn’t mean that we should forget the origins of this American holiday tradition.

The origins of Thanksgiving are something many Americans take for granted. In my childhood history lessons, I learned that the pilgrims, the first settlers from the Mayflower, initiated this tradition by feasting with indigenous people–it was portrayed as a peaceful coming together of two cultures.  Historians and archeologists tell a slightly different story. The first thanksgiving gathering was likely initiated by indigenous people who far outnumbered the English settlers at the feast. There were 90 indigenous participants, and only about 40 pilgrims. Paintings always depict a small gathering of mostly pilgrims feeding a few partially clad native people sitting on the ground. The Pilgrims in these depictions are a mix of men and women and children.

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The first thanksgiving feast is now thought to have been where men (women and children cooked) gathered in peace talks that ultimately resulted in a peace treaty between natives and settlers that would last 75 years. Native peoples were right to fear European settlers, their muskets, and the diseases they brought decimated their ways of life. Today, many Native Americans consider our Thanksgiving day, a National Day of Mourning.

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We should never forget the genocide that allowed our country to emerge, and we need to make sure that injustices like those suffered by Native Americans do not ever find their way to our country again. We need to maintain vigilance against the rise of facism and the ideologies of white supremacy. I find myself mourning with my native brothers and sisters.

This year has been challenging for the whole world for so many different reasons–climate change (terrible storms, droughts, and fires wrought by it), political strife (the tearing apart of families, expressions of hatred, rampant racism, and general social unrest), and not least, the COVID-19 pandemic (which has had a disproportionate impact on the most vulnerable, and brought poverty and hunger to many in the world). And yet, this Thanksgiving, I find much to be grateful for, and feel a need to express my gratitude.

I am grateful for my family. For me, family extends beyond blood kin, as I suspect it does for most people.

I give thanks for ken–his love, devotion, and steadfast support over the last 34 years. And of course for his magnificent cooking and gardening! Oh, and did I mention his sense of humor?

I give thanks for Zoë, my firstborn–for the joy she brings into my life, her wisdom, her kindness, her daily help and support. Oh, and did I mention her sense of humor?

I give thanks for Søren, my youngest–for his devotion to those he loves, his social consciousness. He stands up against injustice, and leads an exemplary life. Oh, and did I mention his sense of humor?

I give thanks for my mother–the matriarch of our clan. Without her sacrifices none of my life as I know it would have been possible. Definitely thank her for transmitting a sense of humor.

I give thanks for my siblings, Michael, Kevin, Liz, and Peter. Without them, I would be fighting all of my battles alone. And, yes, they all make me laugh. The pandemic and the election would have been insufferable if it weren’t for our weekly family calls.

I give thanks for Judy–she is one of the pillars of my life and is a steadfast supporter of my creative efforts, and the efforts of my mother. She makes things happen. She has been a devoted friend to our entire family.

I give thanks for my cousin Garth–he is truly one of the most generous and kind people I know. I am grateful for our renewed friendship through music, and that he joins in our weekly family calls.

I give thanks for my mirthful sisters, Marita, Jean, Sara, Lisa, Valeriya, Sherry and Sarah who have been with me all the way. We have had some wonderful adventures together in this life.

I give thanks for my neighbor, Ginger, one of the most kind and caring people I know. She always thinks of others, and even though I can be quite introverted she forces me out of my cave into the daylight sometimes.

I give thanks for my music teachers, Tim, Linda, and Greg. They don’t make me feel stupid, and they listen to my emerging musical self.

I give thanks to my jam mates, Sharon, Greg, Laura, Niel, Hannah, Matt, Melissa, and Rob. Without you, I would be tuneless instead of just off-key. Also, you guys make me laugh.

Other things I give thanks for in no particular order: music, fantastic neighbors, living on this beautiful earth, shelter, nourishment, health, the Internet (in spite of its flaws, it has made it possible for me to reconnect with so many people that were lost to me).

And now, I give thanks for you and to you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Bristlecone Pine

Those of you who know me, know that I am caring for my 93 year-old mother. She long ago expressed her interest in having her ashes released in the Bristlecone Pine forest on Mount Evans, Colorado when her soul has departed to wherever souls go. In this song I equate her with a Bristlecone Pine. Against all odds from the moment of her birth, she has survived the changes of time. The song is written as a waltz about the lasting dance that she will have among her sister pines.

Anne Page McClard · Bristlecone Pine

Lyrics

In her first act of defiance
She extended a crooked limb
Small soft fist, her hand
A show of self reliance
Her mother gently lay her down
on carpet of alpine moss
Seed sown in tundra
A prayer she’d soon be found

She dreams at night
of her lasting dance
High at timberline
You’ll find her spinning with the stars
Among the bristlecone pines

A seedling’s tendrils drilled deep
In  breach of limestone and ground
Gave her strength to endure
Assaults of wind, ice, and sleet
Another year of casting seeds
As winter yields to spring
Her trunk twists and turns
in time with earth’s lead.

She dreams at night
of her lasting dance
High at timberline
You’ll find her spinning with the stars
Among the bristlecone pines

She survived changes of time
Became a graceful old soul,
Tree beyond compare, a
Beautiful bristlecone pine
She’ll waltz there with her sister pines
Her soul will whisper in the wind
Caress pink asters
And kiss blue columbines

She dreams at night
of her lasting dance
High at timberline
You’ll find her spinning with the stars
Among the bristlecone pines

You’ll find her spinning with the stars
Among the bristlecone pines

Hummingbird

One day last summer I sat on the back deck practicing fiddle tunes on my mandolin. A hummingbird lit directly in front of me on a tomato cage, not more than four feet away. As I played, it seemed to be nodding in time to the music, and stayed there through at least seven tunes. I had never seen one still for such a long time. What a thrill. That moment inspired this song. We fell in love, and that’s not a lie.

Anne Page McClard · Hummingbird

Lyrics

I once  heard a hummingbird sing
Know it seems like a fanciful thing
He sang a song as sweet as sweet tea
Beautiful words he sang to me

Listen and you can see reality
If you watch you can hear the truth
Open your eyes to the world around
Open your mind to magical sound

We danced by the light of the moon
In his silvery wings I did swoon
He glittered in the starry night sky
We fell in love,  that’s not a lie

Listen and you can see reality
If you watch you can hear the truth
Open your eyes to the world around
Open your mind to magical sound

He perched awhile then flew away fast
Whispered to me, our love will last
I dream of his song by day and by night
Not heard a word or ever caught sight

I gaze to the heavens above
I think, maybe I’ll hear my true love
Listen and look, there’s a chance you’ll see
If you see him tonight , send  love from me

Listen and you can see reality
If you watch you can hear the truth
Open your eyes to the world around
Open your mind to magical sound

She Stands Tall

I wrote this song as a love anthem to my daughter, Zoë, who is 28 years-old now, on the occasion of her birthday. Anybody who knows her can attest that she has overcome some pretty incredible odds. Not going to delve into all the details, but suffice to say, today she stands tall at 6 feet, and of all of her gifts her kindness and caring for others rises high above others.

Anne Page McClard · She Stands Tall

Lyrics

She came into my life
On a cold October day
The leaves were falling
And the skies were gray
She was pink and
perfect as a simple rose
Pure and soft
as rain in the spring

We’re all born blind, and learn to see
We must walk before we run
Everyone babbles before they talk

She stands tall as an oak tree
But she bends like a willow in the wind
Different child
Gentle soul
Heart of gold
She stands tall as an oak tree
But she bends like a willow in the wind

We’re all different she used to say
And she knows this too well
Still she found her way

She reaches to the sky
Sun shines golden on her face
Green eyes opened wide
She is full of grace
She has pride, is
Stronger than an ocean wave
Push and pull
As moon to tide

We’re all born blind, and learn to see
We must walk before we run
Everyone babbles before they talk

She stands tall as an oak tree
But she bends like a willow in the wind
Different child
Gentle soul
Heart of gold
She stands tall as an oak tree
But she bends like a willow in the wind

Different child
Gentle soul
Heart of gold
Heart of gold
Heart of gold
Heart of gold

What Have I Done?

This song began as birthday musing about my life of accomplishments, or the lack thereof, but as I worked on it, it became a song about childhood regrets, and thoughts of simple acts of living life, like making bread and putting out ant traps. All in all, life has been pretty good to me. Ends on “What haven’t I done?”

Anne Page McClard · What Have I Done?

Lyrics

Fell in love when I was just five
Barely alive              
He was a pretty boy
Skin chocolate brown
Chased him home, and knocked him down

Wondering what I have done?
Lord, oh lord, what have I done?

I’ve lived a long time
Drank some fine wine
What have I done?
Had lots of fun.

Son of a gun
I’ve had lots of fun
Son of gun
I’ve had lots o fun.

Made a friend, told her she was fat
Tit for tat
Blue bells and cockle shells,
Open to hope
Kissed her lips, and jumped some rope

Wondering what I have done?
Lord, oh lord, what have I done?

I’ve lived a long time
Drank some fine wine
What have I done?
Had lots of fun.

Son of a gun
I’ve had lots of fun
Son of gun
I’ve had lots o fun.

Woke up this morning, another year gone
Drank a cup of coffee, made a loaf of bread
Put out some ant traps, made my bed
Life is short
Life is short
That’s what I said
Another year older, but not finished yet.

Once was young, was pretty and smart
Had a big heart
I still have my dreams
Got lots of love
Racing through life, and kicking its butt

Wondering what I have done?
Lord, oh lord, what have I done?

I’ve lived a long time
Drank some fine wine
What have I done?
Had lots of fun.

Son of a gun
I’ve had lots of fun
Son of gun
I’ve had lots o fun.

Lord, oh lord, what haven’t I done?

Oh What a Journey

Three years ago, while undergoing treatment for breast cancer, I began this site as a way to keep sane. My life felt like it was spinning out of control and my career going down in flames. I sought refuge in writing and photography. These creative outlets saved my life, and that’s not hyperbole. During the year that followed I dealt with a number of family crises that ultimately resulted in my becoming primary care taker for my elderly mother. We moved her from Denver to Portland, and until the pandemic started, she lived in assisted living.

The year she moved here, 2018, coincided with a Christmas gift from my husband, ken (he spells it with a lowercase “k”)–a Big Muddy mandolin, something I had wanted for a long time. I hadn’t played a stringed instrument since the age of 13 when I gave up playing the cello. I wanted a mandolin because it was small and highly portable, great for taking with me on business trips, and because it was melodic. Little did I know how this gift would change my life forever. Armed with an ability to read music and a rudimentary knowledge of music theory, I began a new musical journey and obsession.

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I started taking lessons with Tim Connell, an accomplished musician and mandolinist known best for playing Brazilian Choro. At my first lesson, he recommended that I attend Saturday jam classes at Taborgrass, because ultimately one must play music with others. Although I had always enjoyed American folk and alternative country music, I had never given bluegrass music much thought. My first time playing with others was terrifying. I could barely play three chords, and they weren’t the right ones. Other players were incredibly welcoming, and I sooned forged lasting friendships, and an appreciation for bluegrass that I didn’t have before.

Hello, 2020. The year began normally. Taborgrass was meeting as usual. I had weekly jams with my friends, and then the COVID-19 writing appeared on the wall; everything was shutting down, and shutting in. We decided to move my mother home lest she die of loneliness in the retirement community that had closed down to outside visitors. We imagined things would be better in a couple of months. Well, you know how that story has unfolded.

Around the time of the shutdown, I wrote my first song called “Heaven Can Wait.” I haven’t properly recorded it yet, but one of these days will get around to it.  I took a couple of online songwriting classes, one through Artichoke Music, and the other through Berklee College of Music. During the pandemic I have spent my time playing music with friends, mostly online, and writing songs. For my birthday this year, ken bought me a good microphone, and a pre-amp, which upped my ability to record my songs decently. Thank you, ken, for enabling my obsession, and for providing endless support in every other way.

I have shared my music with close friends and family members, all who have been gracious listeners, and now I am feeling brave enough to share my songs with a wider audience. I am not a virtuoso singer, and at best am an intermediate mandolin player. I see myself as a songwriter first.  I will post my songs on SoundCloud, but you will find links on my site, and I will also provide back-stories and lyrics for songs in separate posts.

As Matt Meighan encouraged us to say in his class at Artichoke, I hope you will like it.

Check out my tunes:

Bristlecone Pine

Hummingbird

She Stands Tall

What Have I Done?

Think you are registered to vote? Think again! Check.

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It’s not a game; vote like your life depends on it. It does.

My mother moved to Oregon from Colorado back in June. One of the first things we did was have her fill out a voter registration card. With the mid-term elections fast approaching, and so much on the line, I began to wonder whether she was actually registered. She had never received any confirmation. I had recently heard on the news that one could check voter registration status online, so I went online and entered my mother’s details. I learned that she was not registered.

Next, I filled out the online registration form for her, and discovered that because she does not have a Oregon driver’s license or ID card that she needed to submit the paper version of the registration. I filled out the required fields online and discovered that the “Print” function was broken. Then, I found a couple of PDF versions of the voter registration card. They were ostensibly interactive forms, but the form fill feature was broken. The form itself was in a microscopic font that was too small for my aging eyes, let alone my mother’s 91 year-old eyes, so I took a screenshot of the form, blew it up so that my mother could see it, and had her sign it.

After that, we drove to the Washington County Election Division. At the Election Division, we were surprised to find that the handicapped parking was at the opposite end of the building from the entrance. It was a very long walk for my mom, but she was determined that she would get registered. Just another hurdle. The woman who greeted us was very nice and helpful. She went over to her computer, and looked my mom up. “Oh yes, we did receive something from you,” she said looking up at us,” but it is ‘pending’ because we could not verify the address.” She went on to say, “The unit numbers on record for that apartment building only go from 00 to 34.”  We confirmed that she lived in 36, and that the numbers went well above that.

She agreed to extend the numbering schema to my mother’s apartment, but needed confirmation of the other numbers in the building. I volunteered to get these for her, which I did, as soon as we returned to the retirement community.

My mother is now registered, but I am still feeling unhappy with the system that put her into “pending” status with no notification that there was anything wrong with her voter registration application. It is unclear to me who is at fault in this situation. Is it the developer? The landlord? The post office? Who provides legitimate addresses to the Election Division? This must pose an enormous problem for the many people who are moving into new construction addresses, especially in Washington County, which is busting at the seams with new multi-family buildings. How many people think they are registered to vote because they submitted their voter registration cards only to find themselves without a ballot after it is too late to do anything about it?

Today, I once again went online to check to see if my mother was registered only to find that the My Vote feature of the state website is not working. Not to sound paranoid or anything, but the Elections Division of Oregon is under the leadership of Dennis Richardson, a Republican. It occurs to me, that during this cycle, he and his cohort may not be interested in signing up too many new apartment dwellers; they tend to be young, less affluent, or old–not all of these demographics are favorable to the GOP. Just saying that the hurdles for registering to vote in a state that prides itself on its progressive Motor-Voter program, and an all-mail-in ballot are more than they should be. If you moved recently, and have not received confirmation of your registration, you need to check to make sure that you are actually registered. If the state website is broken, call the Election Division for your county, or better yet, go in person!

Elections Division
Public Service Building Suite 501
255 Capitol St. NE
Salem OR 97310
503-986-1518
Toll free 1-866-673-VOTE (1-866-673-8683)
Fax 503-373-7414
TTY 800-735-2900



el***********@or****.gov











51 things that drive me nuts

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This post is “all about me” and all-about-me-isms, inspired by the inanity of self-promotion and the Internet.

  1. Medium article titles that begin with a number: I signed up as a subscriber to Medium some months back, thinking that I would enjoy reading the writing of a lot of smart people. With rare exceptions, I have found the content to be lacking. Every other title begins with a number; 3, 5, 7, and 10 are the most popular. Seven things that will change your life. The 10 most imporant things you need to know. Three steps to your future. The site exemplifies all-about-me-ism, and is turning out to be nothing more than another self-promotional platform.
  2. Passwords: Like you, I have hundreds of them, and I am using software to manage them. My own passwords are hard enough to deal with, but now I also am responsible for keeping track of 91 year-old mother’s passwords. What once were relatively simple tasks to complete, like logging in or changing one’s password, have become onerous occasions of stepping through an endless sequence of security tasks. Which brings me to…
  3. Verification codes: I understand why companies have turned to these as a means to verify that you are who you say you are; it is an extra task that I have become accustomed to. However, my mother, once a tech goddess, no longer can see well, and has some difficulty with processing and information. She also has difficulty with typing, so makes a lot of mistakes. Verification codes are a complete nightmare for her, and therefore, a nightmare to me.
  4. Security questions: Of course, I can usually answer my own security questions, unless they are case-sensitive, which sometimes they are. If you have three that need to be submitted at one time, and you have not consistently used cases in their creation, it is almost impossible to resolve. Add to this scenario, keeping track of my mother’s security questions. I now have a lengthy record for her that includes everything from her social security number to the name of her first pet, first teacher, favorite teacher, first car, color of her first car, where she met my father, etc. Sometimes she can remember these things, and sometimes not.
  5. Frauds:  People who are not who they pretend to be. See 5 through 10.
  6. Phishers: We all have received a phish in our email or messages. Some of us have fallen for them, some of us have not. I don’t judge people who have fallen for phishing schemes. I don’t even judge people for liking the band Phish! Phishers, however, are evil people who prey on the trust of others for financial gain. Often these people are elderly, and sometimes, they are young and naive. I have witnessed it at both ends in my own family, and fortunately we caught the phish before it caught us.
  7. Donald J. Trump: The So-called President might be the greatest phisher of all time. His phishing scheme is brilliant. He doesn’t even need to steal people’s identities; he has other people do it for him, members of the dark web, so that his continuous stream of (f)lies can be broadcast over the news lake, hooking unsuspecting and unknowing prey on his line. He reels them in and eats them for lunch. He phishes for souls.
  8. Liars: See previous.
  9. Cheats: See number 6.
  10. Back-stabbers: You know who they are in your own life, in the Whitehouse, in the workplace, at school, and possibly in your own family, and we get to see them in action every day on broadcast and social media. Life has become one giant reality television show, with each person out for him/herself.
  11. Recruitment gamers: This is a very specific type of fraud that I have to deal with in my profession. There is a class of people, who game the market research industry to qualify for and participate in paid research studies for which they are not qualified. They are a complete waste of time and money.
  12. Bad drivers: See items 12 through 16
  13. Oblivious drivers: You know them, you might be one of them. They are the ones who back out of parking spaces without looking. They are the ones putting on their makeup or texting at a stoplight. They are the ones who don’t hear honking, or notice a long line of traffic piled up behind them.
  14. Indecisive drivers: You may remember the Portlandia skit where there are two cars at a four-way stop, and each of the drivers politely indicates for the other driver to go. They sit at the intersection forever. That is real.  And then, there are the people who can’t decide which way to turn, whether to turn, or which lane to drive in, or which parking spot they want. Pain in the ass.
  15. Angry drivers: Scary.
  16. Drunk drivers: Dangerous. Stay home or take a Lyft.
  17. Bad cyclists: Entitlement is a dangerous thing, especially when you don’t wear a helmet or follow the rules of the road. A cyclist once chased me down and swore at me after weaving around me to cut me off from a turn that I had started long before he was in the picture. I almost hit him.
  18. Bad pedestrians: The same people who are oblivious drivers are probably oblivious pedestrians. Pedestrian right-of-way does not mean that you can cross the street at any time, any place, without looking up from your mobile screen.
  19. Narrow shoes: Lately, I have been inspecting bare feet in sandals, and have noticed that a majority of women have deformed feet, giant bunions and corns, the product of narrow shoes. I myself have a bunion on my left foot. Turns out that foot is wider than my right foot. For some reason, our culture values dainty feet and daity shoes on women, which has led to millions of deformed feet. Drives me batty.
  20. Indecisiveness: My own is bad enough. In others, it is intolerable.
  21. Dinner: What should we have tonight?
  22. Phone solicitors: “Don’t hang up. This is not a sales call,” is a sure sign that it is. I have gone to picking up and hanging up without even listening. The National Do Not Call Directory doesn’t work. Nothing works.
  23. Nickel-and-diming: Being a good citizen, I give to a number of charitable causes that matter to me. It drives me bonkers to have them call me every other month, asking if I couldn’t just up my donation a few dollars more. And then there are  the airlines with their add-on fees, the assisted living center where my mom lives, and the list goes on.
  24. Bad food: There is no excuse for it. Cooking is not brain surgery. Fresh. Whole. Use herbs and spices.
  25. Doctors: In the pocket of big pharma. They don’t know as much as they pretend to know. Most of them don’t care about their patients, let alone care for them.
  26. Bad bosses: There are a lot of them, people who have climbed the ladder through fraudulent means or by virtue of having a penis, or by virtue of pretending to have one.
  27. Boring work: We all do a lot of it for a paycheck.
  28. Undependable people: People who say that they will do something and then fail to do it. In corporate life, this is particularly insidious when you are doing a “collaborative” project and you end up doing all of the work, and the other person ends up taking all the credit.
  29. Calves liver: No, just no. I don’t like it in a house, or with a mouse, or in a tree. Your mother does not make it better than my mother. It is just gross, no matter how over or undercooked it is, even if it is slathered in caramelized onions. Ick.
  30. Bad coffee: Starbuck is the worst. The best part of waking up is not Folgers. Mr. Coffee is dead. Drip.
  31. Bad smells: Feces, farts, rotten eggs, body odor, perfume, skunky pot, bad breath, wet dog, dog breath, especially after your dog has polished off a snack from the cat box.
  32. Kids loose in parking lots: I don’t blame them; I blame…
  33. Inattentive parents: We live on a park that has a porta-john, and one day I looked out and saw a kid bouncing up and down on top of it, and some sort of brownish liquid was splashing up like old faithful. His dad was standing nearby focused on his phone. I politely suggested that he might not want Johnny to do that, and he just shrugged. If you don’t want to watch your children, don’t have them.
  34. Cancer: It kills. I’ve had it. My friends and relatives have had it. We have all had enough of it. I pray that science will prevail, and that one day a magic bullet will be discovered.
  35. Death: There is no cure.
  36. War: I am against it.
  37. Irresponsibility: Making mistakes is a natural consequence of living. Taking responsibility for our mistakes and not blaming others is difficult, but not impossible. No excuses. Just apologize, forgive yourself for your mistakes, and forgive others for their transgressions, and move forward. Life is too short for the blame game.
  38. Greed: 99.9% of the problems in our world are caused by greed.
  39. Inspirational quotations: They do not inspire me.
  40. Climate change: I hate what we are doing to our planet. No laughing matter.
  41. People who do not believe in climate change: Idiots.
  42. Religious extremism: There is no place for it in the world.
  43. Extremism in general: Very bad things happen to good people when extremism prevails.
  44. Platitudes: Good things come to those who wait. WTF? Hard work always pays off. Really? Tell me about it. Great minds think alike. I hope not.
  45. TED talks: A boring, formulaic self-promotional tool.  Formula: 1. Create well-crafted visuals 2. Open with a joke or cute story 3. Plan a spontaneous moment. 4. Make a statement with complete certainty. 5. Don’t forget to have a snappy refrain that you can repeat in your talk at least 7 times. 6. Be relatable by telling the audience a story about your institutionalization, or the time when your family lived on the streets and ate bugs, because we can all relate to that, right? 7. Make sure that your thesis is one that nobody in their right mind would agree with. Note: Always have 7 steps.  TED talks are nothing more than personal infomercials.
  46. Social media has become like MySpace: Social media (Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram, YouTube, etc.) have all become inane platforms for self-promotion. You remember what happened to MySpace, don’t you? Social media should be social, not “all about me.”
  47. Workplace politics: You can’t avoid them, no matter how hard you try. Best solution I have found is to find the door.
  48. All-about-me-ism: Everything today is “all about me.” What about my needs? Identity politics and its prevalence in public life is an example of it. With each day, we become ever more fractured. We believe that our problems are unique to “our tribe (I know, ‘tribe’ is not politically correct),” be it by skin color, ethnicity, religious beliefs, gender, non-gender, sexual orientation, or whatever. We are all people! And, please don’t tell me to shut up because I can’t understand your experience because I am a member of a priviledged class. You are right, I am priviledged, and I am sorry for that, and you don’t understand my experience either. Nobody understands anybody’s experience, but we can, and must, try to understand each other and work it out together if there is ever any hope for our society.
  49. Anti-government-ism: Present anti-government sentiments in this country are truly terrifying. Imagine a country without laws that protect our rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Imagine a country where equal treatment under the law is an impossibility. Imagine a country without publicly supported roads, bridges, schools, and medical research. Imagine a future in which Donald Trump is king and he has gotten rid of government as we have known it. Imagine hell.
  50. -isms: Yep, they all drive me bonkers.
  51. Lists: They are terrific when I go shopping, or have a lot to get done. Otherwise, I would rather read some thoughtful prose. I apologize for this list against lists.

My Mother is Awesome

miranda_brighter 2
After Mrs. Wood, my mom’s foster-mother, took Miranda away from her, she sent it to Mrs. McKenzie, my mother’s biological mother. Eventually, my mother got her beloved doll back.

I am sixth-born, the youngest of five surviving children, and I owe my life to my mother; she brought me into this world, and then made sure that I had what it took to become a conscientious and moral human being. She provided me and my siblings with delicious and nutritious food, shelter, clothing, a sense of wonder about the world and universe, an appreciation of all forms of artistic endeavor. She taught us the value of humor in the face of adversity. Above all, she gave us love, and in demonstrating love, taught us how to love others.

My mother is a survivor, and given what is known today about the lasting effects of childhood trauma I have come to understand that it is nothing short of a miracle that she has been as incredible a parent as she has been.  She suffered countless injustices at the hands of many adults as a child, first living as a ward of Los Angeles after her mother abandoned her in the hospital at birth, and then for the next 14 years in the  Los Angeles foster-care system during the Great Depression. She had very little that she could call her own, save for a little rag doll she had made whose name was Miranda, and even Miranda was not a permanent fixture; her foster-mother took Miranda away from my mother because she felt that my mother had “an unhealthy” attachment to her.

When she was an adolescent, and her foster parents felt that she was too difficult to handle, they shipped her off to Denver to live with her “real” family—my mother’s people, sinners, like her. The train she rode on to Denver was mostly full of Japanese people being shipped to internment camps in Colorado, a fact that left a strong mark in my mother’s consciousness. For a few surreal years during the war, she lived with her biological mother, where she was thrown into the world of Denver society, after her austere childhood in LA. Her older half-sisters and their friends taught her how to smoke, drink, dress, and how to be part of the popular crowd at East High School. For the first time in her life she had friends, and people thought she was pretty.

After high school, she started as a freshman at the University of Denver. She was rushed by Pi Phi, a point of pride and jealousy from her half sisters. She met my father in one of her first college classes right after the war. They married somewhat quickly for the reasons that people did back in those days. She dropped out of college, and had babies. And then, she had more babies, and after that a couple more.

Although my parent’s marriage was relatively long-lasting, it was never good. My father, who had been through WWII as a strafing pilot in the Pacific Theater, in all likelihood, suffered from PTSD. He had a volatile temper, which he mostly exercised on my mother when he had too much to drink. In spite of this my mother stood by his side through undergraduate school, medical school, internship, and residencies. She might not have had she not been trapped by children, and a lack of her own means for making a living.

Because his education was paid for by the government through the GI Bill, he went back into the navy to repay his debt. He was stationed on a ship in the Mediterranean when I was born, returning from duty when I was 6 months old. My mother managed to muster the resources to leave him by the time I was 9 months old after a violent incident that made her fear for hers and her chidren’s safety, and so it was that I came to be raised by a single mother, at a time when that was not so common. I joke that I was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I often thank my mother for sticking it out in her sorrowful marriage for as long as she did; if she hadn’t, I would not have been born.

When I was two, my mother, at the age of 35, began as a freshman in college again. She woke each morning at 4 or 5 to do her homework, and was careful to schedule her classes so that she could be home with us for meals. She made sure we had a hot breakfast, whether we ate it or not. We lived in married student housing at first, and then in a series of other circumstances, some better than others, over the next several years. She finished her Ph.D. when I was 9, truly a remarkable feat given all of the barriers that she faced as a single mother in sixties.

She went on to become an English and Women’s Studies professor. All of us children benefitted from our mother’s education; she showed us what was possible through her example. There was never a time in my life when I didn’t know that I would go to college myself one day and become something, someone.  That all five of us children went to good colleges of our own choosing, and that we each felt empowered to follow the paths that we chose is testament to our mother.

My mother is 90, soon to be 91. She has hated getting old, and more than anything, being dependent on others for her physical and emotional well-being. Like most parents, she has found it especially difficult being dependent upon her children. Earlier this year, she worried aloud that she had not done enough for us. She fretted about all of the parenting mistakes she imagines having made. I am sure she made a few mistakes, because what parent does not make mistakes? What she got right far outweighs her wrongs, and her children are proof of it.

Thank you, Mama, for giving me life, for helping me live it through some very difficult times, and for being with me every day. You are a wonderful  and courageous human being. I am proud to be your daughter.