EDUCATED BRAINS

"I suppose that when we have our brains blown out it would be better if they were educated brains. It would make more of an impression on our enemies. After all, we don't want Uncle Sam to be ashamed of his boys do we?"  Angelo Adams in a letter written from University of Illinois, to Betty Ann Russell in Chicago, December 1941

Angelo Adams 1943 before going overseas

 

    These words from my father keep coming through to me lately. Of course he was talking about LITERALLY getting his brains blown out – by enemies outside our country. Enemies who were all the way across two different oceans. All semester he wrote nearly daily letters to my mother back in Chicago and then suddenly they were all about whether to join up or wait for the draft. About final exams and coming home for Christmas but maybe stop on the way home to have his physical. Or wait to finish school so Hitler's army could blow out his educated brain.

    I'm writing today because those words from my father have haunted me for a few weeks. Because I've realized how naive I was back in June 2015 when Trump came down that escalator and said all those hateful words. At the time, I figured that people like me, descended from immigrants, with fathers and uncles who went to war against those enemies across oceans would see and hear those hateful words the way I did. And then he said more hateful words and I kept thinking maybe now all those people who claim to follow Jesus would be horrified. But no. They still voted for him. And then he was inaugurated and the hateful and so-called America-first POLICIES began. Not one of which could possibly be justified as Christian or even christian. Some of which were actually harmful to the people who voted for him. They didn't seem to care or notice all the ways he was hurting them – as long as he was hurting the people they hated.

    And now here we are. In the middle of a pandemic. And I see how naive I was back in March 2020 when I thought surely everyone would see that wearing a mask, "social distancing" and even a short-term "shut-down" would save the lives of Americans. 

BUT NOW THERE ARE TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND AMERICANS DEAD.

Oh, their brains are not getting blasted out by enemies, although the coronavirus often attacks the brain in ways not yet understood.

    Americans are dying by the thousands because of the failures of this president. Americans are dying by the thousands because somehow he convinced the people who voted for him and for the representatives and senators and governors who are afraid to stand up to him – he convinced all of them that TO PROVE THEIR LOYALTY TO HIM, THEY CAN NOT WEAR A MASK DURING A PANDEMIC. 

    LOYALTY TO HIM was more important than loyalty to their own loved ones. They seem to take pride in maintaining their ignorance. As if denying the existence of the virus would protect them. As if denying that the policies of the president were harmful would protect them from job losses.

    I'm a little embarrassed by my naive faith that people I know and love would climb out of their denial bunker and understand that wearing a mask was NOT a political statement. For me, it had nothing to do with politics.

    For me, wearing a mask was a way to fight back against a microscopic, invisible ENEMY. I know that wearing my mask doesn't so much protect me as it might protect you. I remember how I never got strep throat but my kids often did which made me wonder if I was a carrier. I remember how I actually had MMR infections as a child; and as a child of the 50s & 60s, I was also vaccinated against MMR. But still, my Rubella antibody level is negative. I read information from trusted sources so I know that any one of us could be the next coronavirus victim and that even when we get a vaccine, it's unlikely to be 100% effective.

My Dad and Grandmother, 1947. Northwestern University graduation.

    I've written thousands of words about my father, including a whole website documenting his military service. He returned in May 1945. Thanks to the GI Bill, he enrolled at Northwestern that Fall to finish what he started at U of I in September 1940 – with 62 transferable credits plus 18 military credits. Then graduated from Northwestern 7 quarters later, in June 1947, with the educated brain he fought to preserve. Having married my mother in 1942, by 1947 they were ready to start their family. For the next five decades he offered the chance for educated brains to me and my six siblings.

Me with my parents at my high school graduation. 

Me at my college graduation.

      

    I've spent the 22 years since his death trying to understand my father's many mistakes and lies (mostly lies of omission) so I'm fully aware of his imperfections. It's an understatement to say we had a very difficult relationship. Among our many differences, I'm pretty sure we never voted for the same presidential candidate. As the former accountant/banker/real estate developer, he might have voted for Trump, the so-called business and real-estate tycoon. Or who knows, maybe he would have seen straight through Trump's lies? Hard to say. 

    What I do know about my father is that he spent much of his income on our educations. And I know how he felt about infectious diseases. He knew his Uncle Angelo died (in Greece before my father was born) from influenza in the 1917-1919 pandemic. He knew the death of his father's brother was the reason my grandfather returned to Greece after 10 years in the States, serving in the U.S. Army and becoming a citizen. 

1926 S.S. Moreas manifest showing my Dad held for scarlet fever.

    I remember his worry when my own daughter had scarlet fever. Both of my parents told stories of scarlet fever quarantine signs on houses when they were growing up. In fact when my father arrived from Greece with his father in 1926, they were held at Ellis Island for scarlet fever observation. One of his nephews contracted polio before that vaccine was available. He knew about family members up and down the family tree who were born, lived with, and even died due to mostly preventable diseases. And while he made light of his own brushes with malaria during the war and later on even denied his own health issues; I witnessed his strong reactions when other people suffered. I also know that he did not subscribe to the herd immunity (or "mentality" if you're Trump) theory of 2020 coronavirus anti-maskers. I know this because he got very angry at my mother when she took us to visit cousins who were all sick with one of the various childhood diseases.

   I have NO REGRETS for the time I've spent since March 2020 employing preventive measures against coronavirus. I don't regret hand sanitizer. I don't regret coughing or sneezing into my sleeve. I don't regret staying safe at home. I don't regret wearing a mask. Sure I'm tired of it all but I don't regret it. I don't regret avoiding anti-maskers like I would avoid the plague. I do regret being naive and thinking the anti-maskers would come around. I know that supporters of the president don't agree with the way I see this president. I keep thinking about all of the president's lies and all the actions he could have and should have taken to reduce the spread of coronavirus. I keep thinking about the MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DEAD AMERICANS AND THEIR FAMILIES. I keep thinking about all the cases of coronavirus that could have been avoided IF ONLY the anti-mask folks had cared about their fellow Americans.

    There are no guaranteed ways to prevent coronavirus infections. Staying six feet away from each other isn't necessarily a preventive measure. Neither is virtual education. Neither is virtual working. Wearing a mask seems to be the BEST method for preventing the spread. Seems to me that the best way to stop the spread is to wear masks in combination with the other methods. I understand that having an educated brain doesn't necessarily confer immunity against coronavirus but having and using our educated brains surely helps understand the value of masks. Our educated brains should be able to understand it's just common sense.

And really

Ignorance is not bliss. 

It's deadly.

    😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷

Note: I think I've shared the link to my WW2 work before, but here it is anyway. You might note that it uses "Honeylights" too, just like this personal blog. That's because as flawed as our father was and in spite of the difficult relationships he had with his seven offspring, we often thought of him as our "Great Captain" reflected in the quote from the Odyssey: "Great Captain, a fair wind and the honey lights of home are all you seek." 

This is a photo of a plaque we gave our father on our trip to Greece in 1988. See the very first post on this blog which is about a trip to Greece in 2009. I used this photo.

 http://honeylights.blogspot.com/2009/05/going-to-greece.html

Here's the link to my WW2 site: http://www.honeylightsletters.com

           

A Covid19 Dream about Sepulveda Blvd

  Yesterday I was looking for a photo and ended up in the "cleaning up my iphoto library" rabbit hole. Here's a photo that I did keep. It's  from my April 2018 drive from UCLA (where Mike was talking science) to Bakersfield (where I went to do Sesma genealogy work) that I took as I turned at the light to get on to the 405North. 

   Last night, I had a dream about Sepulveda Blvd. Something about how it was figuring in the Covid19 pandemic and helping people keep their distance when driving to and fro in L.A. Yes indeed. It was a dream so it made no sense. And I woke up thinking how ridiculous. Sepulveda  Blvd already runs mostly parallel to the 405 – or really the other way round given the Blvd was there first. And reports are that L.A. traffic is already reduced during the pandemic isolation efforts. 

   Still I kind of love a dream that, when I wake up, sort of takes me back to times and places in my memory. In many ways Sepulveda Blvd is a road of dreams for someone who grew up in Los Angeles 1955 to 1965; and then returned to visit when her parents moved back in 1973. 

   In that 1955-65 decade we lived in Westchester, next to LAX. Sepulveda was as far as we were allowed to walk by ourselves. Sometimes Mom would let us tag along on her grocery store expeditions or her weekly beauty shop appointments, and allow us to walk another block to the public library.  Our little neighborhood no longer exists but you can still see our parish church on Google maps.

Brother Tom's baptism with siblings & cousins, Mom, Dad, Grandma. Visitation Church.

   I saw the Beatles movies at the Paradise Theatre on Sepulveda. During the summers the Loyola Theatre on Sepulveda showed afternoon movies for kids. We stopped at the bank down the street to get our tickets; crossed the street to Sav-On Drugs (now a CVS?) to buy three candy bars for 25 cents (or maybe it was 50 cents?) and then back across the street to the theatre. We went up to the parking lot on top of the Broadway (now a Kohls?) and sometimes got into mischief as we watched people on the sidewalk below.

In the kitchen of our McLean Ave house.1958

   We visited parents' friends in the San Fernando Valley, which I now know is near the northern end of Sepulveda, just before it once again intersects with the 405. It was an almost three-hour drive before the 405 opened. That route took us through the "Sepulveda Pass" tunnel at Mulholland. When we visited cousins in Hawthorne or Long Beach or went to Disneyland, we drove through the Sepulveda tunnel at LAX. It took forever to drive back and forth to San Diego during the months our Westchester house stood on the market in 1965-66. And then Mom and Dad and the two youngest kids moved back from San Diego and lived in Palos Verdes in 1973. Palos Verdes occupies part of what was a Sepulveda family ranch.

At Disneyland in 1959 with siblings & cousins & an aunt & an uncle.

  Then later, they moved to Pacific Palisades and we mostly bypassed Sepulveda, depending on where we got off the 405. Ang and Betty are buried at Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City. To get to the cemetery from LAX, I take Sepulveda.

   And then, the least expected connection is my Sesma genealogy research. The family legends are that there have been Sesmas in California since before it was admitted as a state in 1850. I've only been able to find "our" Sesmas back to the 1893 birth of Albert Sesma in Sacramento. Someday maybe we'll figure out the Sesma story. Meanwhile, when you look up the history of Sepulveda Blvd and Sepulveda Pass, there are names that show up in the Sesma history. Moraga, as in my photo. Angelenos know the street name, Figueroa. 

   California is almost 1400 miles long from north to south. The 405 is 72.41 miles long. Sepulveda Blvd is almost 43 miles long north to south. The intersection in my photo is about 15 miles from the northern end of Sepulveda Blvd. I know that this photo triggered my dream. I know why my dream connected Sepulveda to the current coronavirus pandemic. Aren't we all having Covid19 pandemic dreams? I just wish I remembered the details about what they were trying to do to the road that was supposed to help people dealing with the isolation of the "stay-at-home" orders of this pandemic. 

   And finally, I wonder about the Sepulveda Blvd stories of all the Californians I know.

Say Say Oh Playmate. Hand Clapping Songs and Games: For My Personal Historical Record of the Covid19 Pandemic

I knocked on the window and waved and tried to coax her out to the front porch to sit 6 feet apart for a little YiaYia-Harper time. Suddenly I started singing but then realized it was not a song she knew. Even Amelia didn't recognize it. I couldn't even remember all the words, but I remembered the hand-claps that go with it. 

Say, say, oh playmate,

Come out and play with me

And bring your dollies three

Climb up my apple tree

Slide down your rainbow

Into my cellar door

And we'll be jolly friends

Forever more more more more more

   Of course I found the words via the internet machine. There are many variations and additional verses. But in the first two traditional verses, the rainbow versus rain barrel is often noted. Modern houses don't have cellar doors or rain barrels.

   The second verse?? That's what really hit me in this time of a viral pandemic. My dolly's got the FLU???

Say, say, oh playmate

I cannot play with you

My dolly's got the flu

Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo

Ain't got no rainbow

Ain't got no cellar door

But we'll be jolly friends

Forever more more more more more

   I found the song in my old WeeSing songbooks, with clapping instructions: Start at "Play"

Slap knees, clap own hands, clap partner's hands, clap own hands. Repeat

Can add: slap knees twice, clap own hands twice, clap partner's hands once, partners clap backs of hands together once, clap partner's hands once, clap own hands once

   I found an article on the history of the song. The song is more than 100 years old! There's a Willie Nelson version. There's some really creepy versions with extra verses about death and enemies. There's a big band version by Kay Kyser and orchestra. There's a 1955 version by the Fontaine Sisters. Look up a really cool interpretation with clapping, by singer Ambre McLean. Somehow, it seems that in all the versions, everyone remains friends forever more more more more more.

   I felt like I'd better write down this story. I've heard we should record our experiences for the someday-told history of this pandemic. Yes, we're in the middle of a pandemic. Covid19. Coronavirus. Isolated in our homes until who knows when, while the science people figure out how this virus works, and test treatments, and develop and test a vaccine. Meanwhile, people are very sick, or are worried about getting sick. We worry and we're scared. For ourselves and for our families who we can't even hug. 

I miss my grandkids and long to hold their little hands. 

I worry about friends and strangers. I worry about the health care workers, the scientists in their labs, the newspeople covering the stories, the people stuck in isolation with abusive partners, the women giving birth during a pandemic, the people with no "home" to go to, the people attempting to isolate in small spaces. The list goes on. 

   There's no joy in Mudville - or if there is, it's hard to find. There's no hand clapping allowed unless you're at least 6 feet apart or hanging out your apartment windows to thank the doctors and nurses as they leave their hospitals. 

   But we can still sing songs and I know Harper is singing her own songs, as she has for years. These days, she loves watching the singing contest shows and tells us we should watch them too. 

   So yes, we still can sing songs. Even when we can't remember all the words. Even if the version I remember is different from the version you remember. Even if we're looking into the window from the front porch.

Oh playmate. Come out and play with me!

Secret Ingredients. Food and Memory and Diana Abu-Jaber

   I've lost count of the number of times I've tried to write a blog post/essay about reading the books of Diana Abu-Jaber. My first attempt was in 2016 when I wrote a note on my phone as a prompt for future writing.

6-4-16. My zataar story: 

My daughter brought some back from trip but I couldn't figure how to use it until I read this in Language of Baklava and became a tad obsessed. "My favorite breakfast is no longer pancakes, but bread doused with oil and Zataar."

   Every now and then I've returned to my story and tried again to explain myself but I just couldn't figure out a way to explain my reaction to her writing. I know people post book opinions all the time, but I've felt so inadequate to the task. I'm not a professional writer or book reviewer and my reactions are very personal. But here I am during the COVID19 pandemic, trying again. Because writing during self-isolation in a pandemic is what everyone is doing. No?

   Here in 2020, as I try again, I can't remember in what order I read the books and I don't remember if I asked my daughter Elena to bring me zataar (or za'atar, or zaatar) specifically, or if I said to bring me "some spices" from the spice market in Nazareth she was so excited to tell me about. Or maybe I didn't even make a request. Maybe she spontaneously brought back spices because then she could have an excuse for buying them. At the time she didn't know if she would ever make it back to that shop in that market.

   But I'm pretty sure I had mentioned Abu-Jaber's books to Elena sometime after I met Diana in 2012. I suppose if I had known I would try to write "my zataar story" I would have taken better notes. It all goes back to the 2012 Gaithersburg Book Festival author reception. Mike and I offered her a ride back to her hotel after the reception. I had no knowledge of her or her books and I wasn't able to attend her presentation the next day because I was introducing another author during the same time slot. Diana's book Birds of Paradise was out in paperback and that was her topic. I remember she seemed a little anxious to be away from her young daughter and wasn't sure she wanted to hang around the festival after her talk. She was anxious to get back home.

   At some point I started following her on Facebook and Twitter. I checked out her books from the library and then I bought them because I wanted to have them on my bookshelf. Of course, I do this with a few authors, so I didn't think it was weird or consider myself obsessed. It's her two memoirs that stick with me: 

The Language of Baklava from 2015, source of the zataar quote;

and her 2016 Life Without a Recipe. 

I love her beautiful writing whether in fiction or memoir. I also know I relate to her stories because members of her family and her fictional characters remind me so much of my relatives – the Greek ones – even if I didn’t really know many of my Greeks all that well and mostly only have memory glimpses of them. Reading about Diana’s family and about her fictional characters in her other books, allows me to imagine what some of my family must have been like.

   Her stories help me understand my ancestors and I think, also, why my father was willing to move our little family 2000 miles away from the Greeks in Chicago when I was two. He loved his family with a Greek passion and loyalty. I think he knew he was losing an unsurpassed support network. But I think he knew how smothering they could be. Did moving us reflect a bit of his own Greek immigration story? His own father moved his little family across an ocean when my father was five and a half. Immigration and family moving stories are always a complex mix of economic and self-preservation opportunity so who knows. (Says the person who gradually moved her family west to east. California-Tennessee-Missouri-Maryland.)

   After Dad moved us from Chicago to Los Angeles in 1955, we did visit Chicago, but infrequently. It was expensive to take a family with three, then four, then five children from California to Chicago just to visit. I think we made the trip less than half a dozen times before I was an adult. As an adult, there were visits for cousins’ weddings and a few that I made by myself, and a few I made with my own family. The grandparents and cousins rarely visited us in California. None of these visits were enough to create as many memories as I would have if we had lived closer, but I have at least a handful of very strong images and stories. Many of them involve sitting around my aunt's dining room table in the northern Chicago suburbs. It's not so much that anyone was cooking as in Abu-Jaber's stories, but there was always food. And there was always talking about food.

1974. Aunt Jen. Uncle John

Still at Aunt Jen's table in 2006, though she died in 2002

Me in blue with cousins at Aunt Jen's table in 2009

   My four siblings made trips to Greece while in college. I didn't get there until 1988 when my father figured out a way for many of us to go together. I don't know why he decided we should all go to Greece after my cousin's Chicago wedding. I believe it was related to his scary cardiac "events" after 1984 and some need of his. So I guess he figured we'd all be together in Chicago for the wedding; why not keep going all the way to Greece? We would sort of tag along on Michelle's honeymoon. Who wouldn't want to spend her honeymoon with her siblings and cousins and their children? Of course we went and brought our two daughters Jennifer and Amelia. We spent most of our time on the Peloponnese. We visited my father's maternal relatives in my grandmother's village, Episkopi; and my grandfather's village Kerasitsa which was my father's birthplace. The two villages are immediately adjacent. In 2009 Mike and I returned to meet Elena at the end of her study abroad semester. We took her to visit the relatives too. I suppose all journey's to a father's birth village in the "old country" are bound to be epic. Ours were.

My father, Angelo. His sister Jen. 1988. At the "old house" in Episkopi.

   For me, on both of my visits, it was the sight of the mountains. I understood why my grandmother Stella cried at the sight of the Southern California mountains when she visited us in 1962. It was seeing the legendary house in Kerasitsa, on the corner, with the plaque identifying it as the family house. And it was the food and eating food with relatives who knew my father, particularly in 2009. I think that he expected to die closer to 1988 than in 1998 when he died from a stroke. I'm so glad I was able to go with him in 1988.

The Peloponnese mountains as we headed back to Athens from the villages. 2009

The house in Kerasitsa where my father was born.
The street sign identifies it as the Street of the Americans

My dad, standing, in the yard at the house in Episkopi.
His cousin Sotirios, seated on left.

   To be clear, I'm already a bit of the family historian so I didn't need Diana Abu-Jaber to prompt me. I've recorded my life in scrapbooks, on my calendars and in journals since I was 12 or so. In recent years, I wrote about my parents in World War 2, my grandfathers in World War 1, the family recipes, and a history of my Greek grandparents that I finally completed in 2019 for my siblings and cousins. I started my World War 2 site way back in 2007 (first using Apple's iWeb, then Wordpress and now Weebly); my personal blog (where you are reading this, using Google's Blogspot now Blogger) began with my 2009 trip to Greece; and my family recipe blog began in January 2016 (also on Weebly). I've included bits and pieces of my own memories in all of these attempts at family history. However, there are some memories that I haven't figured out a way to let filter in or out.

   1958. I'm five. We're in Chicago. Happen upon my grandmother, chopping onions in her cellar food prep space. Tears streaming. She tells me it's ok it's just the onions. Years later I understand.

   1963. I'm 10. We visit Chicago because my grandmother Stella (Stavroula) is dying. Greek Easter dinner in Aunt Jen's basement.

Grandparents Sam and Stella at the head of the table(s) for Greek Easter in 1963

   1965 - 1973. My parents' dinner table after we moved to San Diego during our teen and young adult years. It wasn't so much the food, because my Irish-German-American mother was not a great cook and she mostly tried to keep us out of her kitchen. But apparently she loved to host gatherings around her tables. It was the "conversation" around the table that was memorable. Vietnam. Robert Kennedy. Martin Luther King. Richard Nixon. And then there's my Japanese mother-in-law who was a great cook and taught me how to make spaghetti and sukiyaki. When you add in my Mexican-American father-in-law, my own kids embody the great American Melting Pot. But I digress.

At the dining room table.
Me on far left. Siblings and Dad at the head of the table.

Mom at the head of the table with her aunts and her mother on far right

  1974. I'm 21. My grandfather Sam (Sotirios) died. At the restaurant after the funeral, one of my father's relatives comes up to us, pointing her finger at each. "Angelo? Angelo? Angelo? Angelo? Angelo?" We nod. Yes. Yes, we are all his.

Dad with one of his relatives at the restaurant after his father's funeral

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

   I guess it makes sense that I love Diana Abu-Jaber's stories about her Jordanian relatives and her various Middle Eastern and Arab American fictional characters. I met Diana briefly eight years ago; I follow her on social media; I’ve read her books. I’ve recommended them to others and then I have trouble finding words to explain to friends why they should read her books.

   What it comes to is when Diana Abu-Jaber writes, she tells us how she learned to live her life while she learned how to cook and bake and write; and then how to continue to write after becoming a mother. In her life, she's had one set of lessons and recipes from her maternal grandmother Grace. Another set of lessons and recipes from her father Bud. So many rules and lessons and recipes from school, work, husbands, family. Different strokes from different folk.

   I'm so grateful that I happened to meet Diana and offer her a ride in 2012. I want to thank her for reminding me to find my memories. But I also feel like I want to warn her that no matter how much she thinks she understands the lessons of her Jordanian father Bud and her German-American maternal grandmother Grace, I'm pretty sure her understanding of them will change again and again.

  As an older-than-her woman and as a mother & grandmother myself I'm wondering if perhaps there are even more valuable lessons in her mother’s journey? The one who may have felt she was just along for the ride. But all those years, there was her mother, Pat, daughter of Grace, soaking it all in until her time was right and she started painting her life. Again. As she had done some years before, then packed away, and then started painting again after her husband Gus died.

   I think Pat may have all the answers and maybe some secret ingredients. But of course I would think that. I'm the mother of adult daughters and I would like to think they've learned a few things from me. I hope they haven't felt too restricted by my lessons and recipes.

   And, the truth is, I absolutely know why I wrote down that quote from The Language of Baklava. It's because, as true friends can attest, breakfast is my favorite meal. Sometimes I like to pretend I'm a Hobbit so I can have "second breakfast." And of course, there's my next favorite meal. Breakfast for Dinner.

"My favorite breakfast is no longer pancakes,

but bread doused with oil and Zataar."

   I'm grateful to Diana Abu-Jaber. And I'm grateful to my daughter Elena for bringing me some zaatar all the way from Israel.

   Go get yourself some zaatar. Some good bread. Some good oil. 

   Read The Language of Baklava. Read Life Without a Recipe.

   Find your memories!

   Find your secret ingredients!

Zaatar from Elena. Nazareth 2015.
Zaatar is a mix of sesame seeds, thyme, and sumac.
Exact recipe can vary from region to region

Books by Diana Abu-Jaber

1994 Arabian Jazz

2003 Crescent

2005 The Language of Baklava

2007 Origin

2011 Birds of Paradise

2016 Life Without a Recipe: A Memoir of Food and Family

2020 Silverworld (March 2020. A middle grade fantasy.)

Did You Help Keep Small Humans Alive This Week?

Hip Hip Hooray!!!

Woke up thinking about all the MOMS & DADS I know

(and sure, some grandparents and anyone caring for kids)

who struggled to get through a week at home during a pandemic 

with kids under 18 who otherwise would be at day care

At pre-school and K-12.

And of course how it's been hard for all of us to self-isolate during a pandemic.

I know I survived many trying times

with kids at home

with sick kids at home

with me sick at home

with me on bed-rest for 90 days to help a baby get born & join her big sisters

But this?

This is some order of magnitude different.

This epidemic. This pandemic.

And so I woke up thinking of all the moms and dads and their surrogates

who kept small human beings alive 

for another five days

while attempting some semblance of a schedule

while trying to keep them occupied

while trying to teach them ABCs

or geography

or how incredibly amazing it is outside

or looked up at the night sky because no one had to get up early

or baked cookies together

or visited with grandparents and aunts and uncles virtually.

I woke up thinking I need to give them a shout out.

Perhaps your kid learned their ABC's or some other useful skill this week.

Perhaps your kid didn't learn anything new this week.

But here's the question I want you to ask after you say goodnight to the kids tonight:

DID YOU HELP KEEP SMALL HUMANS ALIVE THIS WEEK?

YES?

Well then,

Here's my

Hip Hip

And

A Hooray!!

[And, not to worry. I haven't forgotten the faithful health care workforce trying to keep all of us alive in the middle of a pandemic, while attempting to hold things together in our f'ckd up, so-called health-care system. May all the saints above bless them and keep them safe.]

Virginia Ratifies the Equal Rights Amendment!

  During a viewing of the original Mary Poppins with my granddaughter, I explained that the mother was singing a song about going out to march for women's right to vote. Granddaughter, who once yelled out from her car seat, "that's where we go to vote" looked at me like I was surely making that up. I didn't want to distract from the movie so I just said, "Yes, hard to believe that there was a time when men didn't think women should vote." And of course, now when we watch the movie, she explains the song and the mother's sash to me and proclaims "Votes for women!"

  Our Constitution is not perfect, never has been. We started trying to correct it as soon as it was adopted. The long painful story of getting the 19th amendment ratified is just one example of the ways women and people of color have had to fight for their rights. The 19th amendment didn't even cover ALL women. We STILL have to fight for our rights over and over, and I hope, leave no one behind ever again. Today in 2020, as many states work really hard to take away many of our  (women, people of color) rights and freedoms (Citizenship. Voting. Privacy. You name it.) – I get heartsick.

 Between July and November 1917, 72 suffragists from the National Women’s Party were held at the Occoquan workhouse in Virginia. Others, like Alice Paul were sent to the D.C. prison. They were being punished for picketing for women's right to vote. In front of the White House that President Woodrow Wilson occupied. In the Occoquan workhouse and at the D.C. prison, they were force-fed and suffered brutal treatment leaving some women with lifelong health ramifications.

  The 19th Amendment that they fought for was passed by Congress on June 4, 1919, and ratified on August 18, 1920. The Occoquan prison closed in 2001. 

Lucy Burns in the Occoquan Workhouse 

             

Alice Paul "toasting" the ratification of the 19th Amendment

   When Betty Ford died in 2011 I made a wish that states would step up and honor her by ratifying the Equal Rights Amendment that she championed. Today, 15 January 2020, Virginia became the 38th state to ratify the EQUAL RIGHTS AMENDMENT. Virginia. The state where women were sent to be imprisoned and force-fed as punishment for wanting to vote. The Virginia legislature voted to ratify the EQUAL RIGHTS AMENDMENT!

Betty Ford

 First proposed by the National Woman’s political party in 1923, the Equal Rights Amendment won the required two-thirds vote in the House of Representatives in October 1971. In March 1972, it was approved by the U.S. Senate and sent to the states.

  So today I celebrate. I thank Betty Ford. I thank Alice Paul and all of women who picketed in 1917. I thank Bella Abzug, Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinam. I thank the people of Virginia who voted, particularly in their 2018 election, so that their legislature could come to this day in 2020.

  When I heard the news, I celebrated by displaying my 19th Amendment "victory" flag. I just wanted Virginia to know how grateful this Maryland woman is. I feel like I've waited my whole life for the 38th state to ratify the Equal Rights Amendment. I wish I could go tell Alice. She died in 1977.