Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Don't Label People With Down Syndrome
Don't Label People With Down Syndrome is an important column written by a parent with a son affected by Down Syndrome. Labels are important, and so is the reality of raising any child.
Friday, October 26, 2012
The Legacy of Holly Near and Women's Music
It's been a long, long time since I made it to a concert, but I went to see Holly Near perform on Wednesday night. Her lyrics still inspire me, her songs are still made for a roomful of women harmonizing, and her political vision still encompasses a wide variety of issues and insights.
I first heard Holly's music in Greeley, Colorado, known for Monfort's stock yards and the smelly sugar beet plant. We Colorado folks had never heard of Women's Music, but I was lucky enough to have a housemate from the Bay Area. She brought albums from Cris Williamson, Meg Christian, Margie Adam, Kate Wolf and others, and we played them 24/7.
My housemates and I were members of a theatre troupe that put on improvisational shows for Deaf and hearing children, and I remember signing Cris Williamson's Song of the Soul in one of our shows. We sang and lip-synced and signed and danced and loved and became politicized through this wonderful new music.
So did the kittens. Our upstairs housemates had a litter of little ones. One afternoon, we were playing Meg Christian's "Leaping Lesbians" and looked up to see the kittens sneaking down the stairs with huge eyes and poofy tails, to find out just WHAT this woman was singing about!
I went from driving my dorm roommate crazy with Kris Kristofferson to playing Women's Music on my little record player. It wasn't even a stereo!
When I moved to Minneapolis-St. Paul in 1978, I found a community of women who regularly attended concerts by women from Olivia Records, as well as Claudia Schmidt, Kate Wolf, Alive!, Sweet Honey in the Rock, Teresa Trull, Kay Gardner and many others, as well as local women like Liz Olds and Ann Reed. I've seen Holly perform in venues as small as our church basement women's coffeehouse and as large as the Michigan Women's Music Festival, which drew 10,000 women for a long weekend in August.
I remember the sign language interpreter giggling her way through Meg's song about menstrual cramps. "oooowwwaaahhhoooowww!"
I had never heard of Ukiah, California, but it will always be on the map for me because of a song (Water Come Down) about riding the irrigation water down the ditches, and how Holly has "never felt anything quite like that since!"
I remember sitting next to my housemate in our church basement coffeehouse, each of us breathing an awed sigh of recognition when Holly signed "family" in the song about looking up to her sister, "You Got Me Flying." I remember Timothy Near and Susan Freundlich signing a song together, weaving the signs and their bodies together in a way that was part Sign and part dance.
I remember women filling several sections of a huge divided classroom at the University of Minnesota, and Holly dividing us into sections to sing "Nicolia". The winter night was dark and cold, but the harmonies were beautiful and I always came away from concerts high, empowered and unable to sleep for needing to sing.
I remember carefully going through every album looking for a song that was sufficiently lesbian to satisfy my discomfort with the Top 40, yet subtle enough to teach to a high school choir. Somehow, Something About the Women, which seemed safe enough to my naive eyes (after all, I was comparing it to "Leapin' Lesbians", "Golden Thread" and the Lesbian Concentrate album!) didn't fool that advisor one bit! She insisted on hearing all my songs privately from then on, before letting me play them for the students! In the early 1990's, when I worked in another high school, I was out to the entire school population, students and staff. And there were out gay kids who were much braver than I had to be! Schools are still not safe for GLBTQ students, but it they do have visible and proud role models now.
I remember not really being clear about the ramifications of the shootings at Kent State until I heard It Could Have Been Me Every song taught me something new about this politically aware new world I was entering. Holly's songs made me think about issues, history and how everyone has their own story to tell, whether their "skin is golden, like mine will never be", whether they are a teacher in some Third World country or a poet continuing to sing even after the junta shot his hands so he could no longer play his guitar.
I found my heart in lyrics that promised that Someday One Will Do and gave me hope that someday, someone would "Sit With Me" through the night. I knew one woman who called that the "co-dependency" song, but I always thought that label was pretty cold. Everyone needs to be able to fall apart sometimes outside of therapy, even in therapy-happy Minneapolis!
Tonight, remembering songs from thirty years ago, and going through the discography to find their titles, I still hear each song in my head, bringing back a time of vibrant community, hope and despair, personal, political, ethical and spiritual growth. Looking back, alone or with other women, I realize that we really did make a difference in this world. Holly and Cris and Meg and the others were leaders, but each of us was changed irrevocably by the music and the times, and we all made a difference.
Women's music, most particularly Holly's consistency, wisdom and humor, showed me the way. I will never forget the music or the experience of sitting in that auditorium, singing about a young woman who learned to organize!
Thank you, Holly. We're still here.
I first heard Holly's music in Greeley, Colorado, known for Monfort's stock yards and the smelly sugar beet plant. We Colorado folks had never heard of Women's Music, but I was lucky enough to have a housemate from the Bay Area. She brought albums from Cris Williamson, Meg Christian, Margie Adam, Kate Wolf and others, and we played them 24/7.
My housemates and I were members of a theatre troupe that put on improvisational shows for Deaf and hearing children, and I remember signing Cris Williamson's Song of the Soul in one of our shows. We sang and lip-synced and signed and danced and loved and became politicized through this wonderful new music.
So did the kittens. Our upstairs housemates had a litter of little ones. One afternoon, we were playing Meg Christian's "Leaping Lesbians" and looked up to see the kittens sneaking down the stairs with huge eyes and poofy tails, to find out just WHAT this woman was singing about!
I went from driving my dorm roommate crazy with Kris Kristofferson to playing Women's Music on my little record player. It wasn't even a stereo!
When I moved to Minneapolis-St. Paul in 1978, I found a community of women who regularly attended concerts by women from Olivia Records, as well as Claudia Schmidt, Kate Wolf, Alive!, Sweet Honey in the Rock, Teresa Trull, Kay Gardner and many others, as well as local women like Liz Olds and Ann Reed. I've seen Holly perform in venues as small as our church basement women's coffeehouse and as large as the Michigan Women's Music Festival, which drew 10,000 women for a long weekend in August.
I remember the sign language interpreter giggling her way through Meg's song about menstrual cramps. "oooowwwaaahhhoooowww!"
I had never heard of Ukiah, California, but it will always be on the map for me because of a song (Water Come Down) about riding the irrigation water down the ditches, and how Holly has "never felt anything quite like that since!"
I remember sitting next to my housemate in our church basement coffeehouse, each of us breathing an awed sigh of recognition when Holly signed "family" in the song about looking up to her sister, "You Got Me Flying." I remember Timothy Near and Susan Freundlich signing a song together, weaving the signs and their bodies together in a way that was part Sign and part dance.
I remember women filling several sections of a huge divided classroom at the University of Minnesota, and Holly dividing us into sections to sing "Nicolia". The winter night was dark and cold, but the harmonies were beautiful and I always came away from concerts high, empowered and unable to sleep for needing to sing.
I remember carefully going through every album looking for a song that was sufficiently lesbian to satisfy my discomfort with the Top 40, yet subtle enough to teach to a high school choir. Somehow, Something About the Women, which seemed safe enough to my naive eyes (after all, I was comparing it to "Leapin' Lesbians", "Golden Thread" and the Lesbian Concentrate album!) didn't fool that advisor one bit! She insisted on hearing all my songs privately from then on, before letting me play them for the students! In the early 1990's, when I worked in another high school, I was out to the entire school population, students and staff. And there were out gay kids who were much braver than I had to be! Schools are still not safe for GLBTQ students, but it they do have visible and proud role models now.
I remember not really being clear about the ramifications of the shootings at Kent State until I heard It Could Have Been Me Every song taught me something new about this politically aware new world I was entering. Holly's songs made me think about issues, history and how everyone has their own story to tell, whether their "skin is golden, like mine will never be", whether they are a teacher in some Third World country or a poet continuing to sing even after the junta shot his hands so he could no longer play his guitar.
I found my heart in lyrics that promised that Someday One Will Do and gave me hope that someday, someone would "Sit With Me" through the night. I knew one woman who called that the "co-dependency" song, but I always thought that label was pretty cold. Everyone needs to be able to fall apart sometimes outside of therapy, even in therapy-happy Minneapolis!
Tonight, remembering songs from thirty years ago, and going through the discography to find their titles, I still hear each song in my head, bringing back a time of vibrant community, hope and despair, personal, political, ethical and spiritual growth. Looking back, alone or with other women, I realize that we really did make a difference in this world. Holly and Cris and Meg and the others were leaders, but each of us was changed irrevocably by the music and the times, and we all made a difference.
Women's music, most particularly Holly's consistency, wisdom and humor, showed me the way. I will never forget the music or the experience of sitting in that auditorium, singing about a young woman who learned to organize!
Thank you, Holly. We're still here.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Quiet
Cool rainy night in Seattle, listening to Carrie Newcomer. Sore, stiff knee from a collision with a running dog this afternoon. Damp puppy snoozing on the floor across the room. House is very quiet.
Orcas Island theme on Gmail usually represents a foggy, gray island world. This reminds me of a trip to the BWCA years ago. Early morning, thick fog on the water. So quiet. I took a canoe out, and one of the women with me snapped a picture of my silhouette in the gray.
We have forgotten that sort of quiet in this noisy, city world. I have forgotten it, but wake occasionally at 3 a.m. to stick my head out the window. I enjoy the moments when the city is closest to that peace.
Orcas Island theme on Gmail usually represents a foggy, gray island world. This reminds me of a trip to the BWCA years ago. Early morning, thick fog on the water. So quiet. I took a canoe out, and one of the women with me snapped a picture of my silhouette in the gray.
We have forgotten that sort of quiet in this noisy, city world. I have forgotten it, but wake occasionally at 3 a.m. to stick my head out the window. I enjoy the moments when the city is closest to that peace.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Dreaming An Ancient Land
The Mountain was out this afternoon. Stevie and I went down to the dog beach on Lake Washington. While he herded Chuckits and puppies, I contemplated the buildings that populate the shore on Mercer Island, and watched clouds play tag around the peak on the horizon.
I have been to wilderness lakes, where there are no buildings among the trees, and the touch of humans, while still present, is lighter. Still, it is difficult for me to imagine these hills as they must have been before the Europeans came. I picture dense forests, cut by paths, but no paved roads or freeways. I picture abundant wildlife, probably including species now extinct. I think there must have been a few canoes on the lake, especially in the early morning quiet, but certainly no sea planes taking off and landing, over and over again.
I have a hard time imagining this land with no cities, no clear cuts, no freeways. If Jean Auel's Clan of the Cave Bear series did nothing else for me, it provided hints of a landscape that was in balance, where humans existed, even thrived, but were still small potatoes in terms of their destructive effect on the Earth. In spite of this inability of mine, I still find myself trying to picture such a verdant wilderness every time I sit on the lake shore. That world is lost to us forever, and as I do not expect to live long enough to see us populate some other planet -- as yet unruined -- I feel that loss deeply.
The Mountain sometimes used to appear on the horizon with a clarity that I have not seen in many years. There is too much city and smog between the beach in northeast Seattle and the volcanic mountain that rises one hundred miles to the southeast.
Smog fills the valleys once filled by trees. A sunny day does not remove all of my sorrow.
I have been to wilderness lakes, where there are no buildings among the trees, and the touch of humans, while still present, is lighter. Still, it is difficult for me to imagine these hills as they must have been before the Europeans came. I picture dense forests, cut by paths, but no paved roads or freeways. I picture abundant wildlife, probably including species now extinct. I think there must have been a few canoes on the lake, especially in the early morning quiet, but certainly no sea planes taking off and landing, over and over again.
I have a hard time imagining this land with no cities, no clear cuts, no freeways. If Jean Auel's Clan of the Cave Bear series did nothing else for me, it provided hints of a landscape that was in balance, where humans existed, even thrived, but were still small potatoes in terms of their destructive effect on the Earth. In spite of this inability of mine, I still find myself trying to picture such a verdant wilderness every time I sit on the lake shore. That world is lost to us forever, and as I do not expect to live long enough to see us populate some other planet -- as yet unruined -- I feel that loss deeply.
The Mountain sometimes used to appear on the horizon with a clarity that I have not seen in many years. There is too much city and smog between the beach in northeast Seattle and the volcanic mountain that rises one hundred miles to the southeast.
Smog fills the valleys once filled by trees. A sunny day does not remove all of my sorrow.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Dog Beach
The beach at the dog park is never a dull place. Dogs love the beach, and there is always a lot of action. With the coming of warmer weather, the beach has become even livelier.
A tiny Pomeranian urges his person to throw the ball so he can swim after it, even though the wind is kicking up significant waves.
A lanky Great Dane wades out far beyond where the labs start to swim. Flip, the little Jack Russell Terrier, swims after his orange ball, nothing above water but his head, his tiny stump of a tail ruddering behind him.
Joe, the dog walker. wades out with his pack, looking forward to the warmth that will make human swimming possible. Two puppies play tag over and under the benches and driftwood logs, king of the mountain as much a part of the game as chase-me.
A beautiful Golden Retriever puppy, half grown and chubby with baby fat, scampers her way into every group of people and dogs, too young to worry about manners, human or canine. In my book, even a wet, sandy puppy is worth a cuddle. Doggie smiles are joyful by definition.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Spring Alley
Stevie wanted to go stare at chickens this morning. Border Collies may choose not to bark, chase, or show wriggly excitement but they ALWAYS stare. The chickens stare back. . .
When I gave into this side trip from our morning walk, it led me to a spring adventure. The morning was crisp, but the sun was warm. The sky was oh so blue and the forsythia outside the window was brilliant.
I’d noticed an alleyway in this neighborhood of no alleys, right across from the chicken coop, I couldn’t see where it lead, where it ended, so we had to explore. I am an alley walker from way back.
We woke the neighborhood with barking dogs who bellowed from behind wooden fences. A sweet Golden Retriever with a gray face dashed the fence and then sat for pets. Nothing sweeter in this world than an aging Golden.
The crows didn’t follow us too far up the alley, so aside from the dogs, it was quiet. I took mobs of pictures of spring flowers, wooden fences creating patterns, light and shadows created by early sun on profusions of fruit tree blossoms, of ivies and ground covers, of tree trunk textures and roads leading into distance. Unfortunately, my cell camera wasn’t up to the job, and most of the photos didn’t live up to their potential. I still had a great time.
The morning sparkled with sunlight, with night-fallen raindrops, with promise for a gorgeous day and impending summer heat. Stevie and I have a new morning route to enjoy.
The crows didn’t follow us too far up the alley, so aside from the dogs, it was quiet. I took mobs of pictures of spring flowers, wooden fences creating patterns, light and shadows created by early sun on profusions of fruit tree blossoms, of ivies and ground covers, of tree trunk textures and roads leading into distance. Unfortunately, my cell camera wasn’t up to the job, and most of the photos didn’t live up to their potential. I still had a great time.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Familiar Faces, Forgotten Names
Sometimes, late at night, when I’m too tired to do anything more constructive, I google the names of people I used to know. My searches are limited to those whose last names I remember, to the few women whose names didn’t change, to those whose names are uncommon enough that I have any hope of finding the right person.
I remember some names from grammar school, including that of my seventh grade locker partner, but most of the names from my college dorm are lost to me.
My efforts are most rewarding when I can find a picture; it is fun to see how people look twenty-five years later. Sometimes names are familiar, but I don’t remember the faces or the personalities. Sometimes, I know I recognize the face, but there are no memories to give the picture a story. Other faces prompt a surprised response of, “OMG, I’d know her anywhere!”
One friend I looked for was someone I couldn’t picture in my memory, but when I finally found a picture, I was like, “Oh, of course!” I found the class clown from high school (now a statistician and physicist :^), and I recognized him immediately, but another classmate didn't have a clue.
I also enjoy finding out what kind of work people do; does the geeky boy with the black-framed glasses work as a scientist or computer programmer? Is the girl who was such a good artist working in a field that showcases her talent? And as a lesbian, I always need to read between the lines, “Are any of those folks gay?”
This week, I found a blog about a friend's fight against Inflammatory Breast Cancer. The blog ends suddenly just a few months ago. I have found no obituary, so I hope she's busy fighting hard, and is still out there, hoping to share her gifts with the world once more. I had rarely thought of Suzanne in the past few years, and I have only a handful of memories reminding me who she was, but those sparkling eyes and that impish smile should have another 50 years to brighten this world. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is nasty stuff.
I remember a slightly chubby woman with auburn curls, but I’d forgotten the heart shape of her face, the smiling blue eyes, and the liveliness of her personality.
I first met Suzanne at the Peace Camp. As I remember, she showed up and slept there alone one night and wrote something memorable in the camp log. I remember people talking about how wonderful her log entry was, although I don’t remember its content. I think it was spiritual and poetic, all about the dreams the focus of the camp inspired for her.
She gave me a couple of bowls and a small pitcher that she’d made; she was an artist and a potter. I kept those for years, always carefully placing their earth-toned colors on my maple-stained bookcase.
I remember hanging out in the big house she and other women from the Peace Camp rented off Franklin Avenue. I don’t remember where she was from, or if she had an accent, but I remember that she phrased things with intensity and clarity.
Suzanne was close to her father. I was visiting a college friend in Chicago when he died, and I thought about Suzanne all day; somehow I knew that she was in pain, even across the miles. When she changed her name to reflect her lesbian identity, she kept the initial of his name in his honor.
We went camping together once, but I don’t remember where. Maybe Lake Maria State Park, although it was horribly buggy in the summer. I remember a night when I woke up to autumn frost and dawn beauty at Lake Maria, but I think I was alone that trip.
Vague memories, and not very many of them. When I saw her picture on the blog, I was surprised to see that her hair is now completely gray, but that those blue eyes, eyes I hadn’t thought about in thirty years, are still intelligent and full of life. I’d forgotten the shape of her face, the crooked smile when she was up to something, the warmth of her personality, but all that came back when I saw the pictures.
I wasn’t surprised that she lives in the country; we all wanted that back then. It took me a few minutes to get the joke – I didn’t realize she had nothing on under that apron – but I laughed at the playful picture of her ironing, eyes aglint with humor. Apparently “Naked Therapy” is a crucial part of her treatment!
The blog is full of pictures of, and comments from, the many friends who accompany Suzanne to chemo treatments. She is often dressed in the brightest of colors. Clearly she is very loved (that doesn’t surprise me – if there is anything that comes back to me, it is the warmth of her personality), and I’m glad for that. I downloaded a couple of pictures for mementoes, choosing the ones with the smile that identified her as the friend I knew long ago.
I’ll probably think of Suzanne more over the next few months than I’ve thought about her in 25 years. I hope she is still fighting, and hopefully winning. I wish her the best.
The web is ever-changing. I've learned from experience that it pays to continue those late-night searches. Every once in a while I am rewarded by a glimpse of someone I knew long ago. These glimpses give me history, perhaps a bit of closure, a continued feeling of community.
I am especially touched to find that we idealistic feminist activists are graying, mature, laughing and living in a world we helped change just a tiny bit for the better. We are writers, teachers, activists, mothers, sisters and lovers. We are women and we still roar.
I remember some names from grammar school, including that of my seventh grade locker partner, but most of the names from my college dorm are lost to me.
My efforts are most rewarding when I can find a picture; it is fun to see how people look twenty-five years later. Sometimes names are familiar, but I don’t remember the faces or the personalities. Sometimes, I know I recognize the face, but there are no memories to give the picture a story. Other faces prompt a surprised response of, “OMG, I’d know her anywhere!”
One friend I looked for was someone I couldn’t picture in my memory, but when I finally found a picture, I was like, “Oh, of course!” I found the class clown from high school (now a statistician and physicist :^), and I recognized him immediately, but another classmate didn't have a clue.
I also enjoy finding out what kind of work people do; does the geeky boy with the black-framed glasses work as a scientist or computer programmer? Is the girl who was such a good artist working in a field that showcases her talent? And as a lesbian, I always need to read between the lines, “Are any of those folks gay?”
This week, I found a blog about a friend's fight against Inflammatory Breast Cancer. The blog ends suddenly just a few months ago. I have found no obituary, so I hope she's busy fighting hard, and is still out there, hoping to share her gifts with the world once more. I had rarely thought of Suzanne in the past few years, and I have only a handful of memories reminding me who she was, but those sparkling eyes and that impish smile should have another 50 years to brighten this world. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is nasty stuff.
I remember a slightly chubby woman with auburn curls, but I’d forgotten the heart shape of her face, the smiling blue eyes, and the liveliness of her personality.
I first met Suzanne at the Peace Camp. As I remember, she showed up and slept there alone one night and wrote something memorable in the camp log. I remember people talking about how wonderful her log entry was, although I don’t remember its content. I think it was spiritual and poetic, all about the dreams the focus of the camp inspired for her.
She gave me a couple of bowls and a small pitcher that she’d made; she was an artist and a potter. I kept those for years, always carefully placing their earth-toned colors on my maple-stained bookcase.
I remember hanging out in the big house she and other women from the Peace Camp rented off Franklin Avenue. I don’t remember where she was from, or if she had an accent, but I remember that she phrased things with intensity and clarity.
Suzanne was close to her father. I was visiting a college friend in Chicago when he died, and I thought about Suzanne all day; somehow I knew that she was in pain, even across the miles. When she changed her name to reflect her lesbian identity, she kept the initial of his name in his honor.
We went camping together once, but I don’t remember where. Maybe Lake Maria State Park, although it was horribly buggy in the summer. I remember a night when I woke up to autumn frost and dawn beauty at Lake Maria, but I think I was alone that trip.
Vague memories, and not very many of them. When I saw her picture on the blog, I was surprised to see that her hair is now completely gray, but that those blue eyes, eyes I hadn’t thought about in thirty years, are still intelligent and full of life. I’d forgotten the shape of her face, the crooked smile when she was up to something, the warmth of her personality, but all that came back when I saw the pictures.
I wasn’t surprised that she lives in the country; we all wanted that back then. It took me a few minutes to get the joke – I didn’t realize she had nothing on under that apron – but I laughed at the playful picture of her ironing, eyes aglint with humor. Apparently “Naked Therapy” is a crucial part of her treatment!
The blog is full of pictures of, and comments from, the many friends who accompany Suzanne to chemo treatments. She is often dressed in the brightest of colors. Clearly she is very loved (that doesn’t surprise me – if there is anything that comes back to me, it is the warmth of her personality), and I’m glad for that. I downloaded a couple of pictures for mementoes, choosing the ones with the smile that identified her as the friend I knew long ago.
I’ll probably think of Suzanne more over the next few months than I’ve thought about her in 25 years. I hope she is still fighting, and hopefully winning. I wish her the best.
The web is ever-changing. I've learned from experience that it pays to continue those late-night searches. Every once in a while I am rewarded by a glimpse of someone I knew long ago. These glimpses give me history, perhaps a bit of closure, a continued feeling of community.
I am especially touched to find that we idealistic feminist activists are graying, mature, laughing and living in a world we helped change just a tiny bit for the better. We are writers, teachers, activists, mothers, sisters and lovers. We are women and we still roar.
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