How to Build a Human Being

Even though we journey together, it doesn’t mean we’re on the same journey.

The Move and Other Events

I grew up mostly in a suburban neighbourhood of Toronto. I was close enough to the Big Smoke to take advantage of stores, the Ex, the Village and more, but the neighbourhood really had everything any kid needed. We were walking distance to the schools, had a park and skating rink (in winter) across the street, a *plaza around the corner, a library, swimming pool and movie theatre. There was even an art store and a fish and chip shop. What more could a kid want?

Friends: You know, I hear a lot about how important friends are, but I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I mean, I had friends, in a loose sort of way. I was on good terms with most of the kids in my neighbourhood. In fact, I got along with the tough kids, was on good terms with the active kids, and was completely indifferent, but not openly disdainful, of the goody two shoes kids. (You know, the ones who pinched their cheeks to make them rosy.) But collecting a “group” of friends wasn’t something that mattered to me.

I noticed that recent immigrants were often treated badly by other kids, but I didn’t see any reason for this. Sure, they were a little different sometimes, but I never understood how this was a bad thing. The parents of one of these girls owned the art store, and they lived in the apartment over it. I liked to stay overnight at her place, because her mom served us buttered European cardamom bread and coffee for breakfast. I never got this at home. It was delicious. So yeah, when I look back, I realize that I actually never understood the fear and suspicion some people feel toward those who are different. Hanging out with these "different" people worked for me.

In those days, there were very defined roles for girls and boys. Girls could not take shop in school, and boys could not take home economics. This I found strange. Some of the best chefs in the world were men. Still are. And I have a great-grand aunt in my background who was a cabinet-maker. I always thought these narrow expectations of the genders were very confining. But that was just our world.

Then the world changed.

The move certainly impacted on my little world. Dad realized he couldn’t go any higher at his job, so he looked for another and found one in a little city on the American border: Windsor. This is a manufacturing town with a plethora of factories, tool and die, automotive and more. I didn’t like it. The kids in my new school seemed immature compared to the kids I was used to. The school courses were more limited. For instance, there was no art class available, so for my elective I had to take music. That was ok, but I really missed my art classes.

Music: always a source of challenge. I asked my mom if I could take piano lessons again, but popular styles, not Conservatory. She had it in her head that Conservatory lessons led to a high school credit, so I had to keep to that, or no more lessons. I pointed out that since I was forced to actually take music in school, my credit would come from that, but to no avail. Piano lessons were apparently not in the cards. Later on I talked her into a few guitar lessons, which was enough to get me started. The rest was just practice on the used guitar I talked her into buying me. Hey... if one door closes, look for an open window. Anyway, a guitar is a lot easier to carry to a protest than a piano.

I skipped a lot of school because I didn’t like it. And when I did go, something strange or embarrassing often happened. For instance, one day we all had to stand up and play certain notes on our instruments in music class. So I tucked my violin under my chin and played them. A lot of the other kids were missing their notes.... some rather badly. The music teacher pointed at me and said, “she’s hardly ever here but she can play way better than the rest of you!”

Great. That certainly helped my popularity. {/sarcasm}

Another time we were to act out a scene from the novel we were taking in English Lit, To Kill a Mockingbird. I memorized my lines because I thought that’s what one did when acting out a scene. The teacher was moved to remark on this because the other kids hadn’t learned theirs. They were reading their lines from clipboards. Afterwards, a few of them gave me hell in the washroom for not telling them beforehand that I was memorizing mine. Huh?

I hated school. It was limiting, narrow and nasty. But I was still too young to quit. After that first year in the new town, I was channelled into the business program. Nobody asked me what I wanted. It was just determined for my own good that I would do better learning to be a secretary. Fine. At least it wasn’t challenging enough to take up much of my mind and time.

You see, the bigger world really was changing, or as Bob Dylan put it, the times they are a-changin'.

These changes had captured my interest and participation. It was a time of civil rights marches, Vietnam war protests, concern for the environment, folk singing, protest songs, and yes, the Detroit riots in ‘67.

Think of all the hate there is in Red China!
Then take a look around to Selma, Alabama!
Ah, you may leave here, for four days in space,
But when your return, it's the same old place,
The poundin' of the drums, the pride and disgrace,
You can bury your dead, but don't leave a trace,
Hate your next-door-neighbour, but don't forget to say grace,
And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend,
you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction. mmm, no, no.
you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.

From Eve of Destruction by Bob Dylan

I discovered Gordon Lightfoot one Thursday evening on a radio program out of Detroit. I was instantly a fan and not only bought all his records over time, but music books as well, and I learned several of his songs. Yes, I sang and played that guitar.

An important song of the time was Black Day in July: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAjLIVISqRw&feature=related

I would have copied some of the lyrics here, but none of the sites will let me, so fug it. But for anyone who'd like to hear/see it, the above link will take you to a You Tube verson.

And I wrote my own poem for the times:

The American Dream

Through the thunder of running feet,
a jagged scream split the sweaty night.
The one on the ground never heard the shot;
he lay limbs all akimbo,
a weird death-dance in the shadows
of the flashing crimson lights.

His mother’s tortured face will twist
in denial at this inevitable news.
His brother’s prison-grey shoulders will sink
a little lower when he hears.
His friends will watch another day end ~
night breaking in blood-red hues.

Surviving in hopeless resignation,
he never learned what living could mean.
Caught up in an endless, mindless race,
defending something he couldn’t own ~
he never touched, didn’t even come close,
to anything like the American Dream.

It was an important time for anyone to be a human on this Earth. More next time.

*A plaza, for those who might not be familiar with this term, was the forerunner of the mall. The sidewalk that ran along beside the stores was covered on top, but open to the air at the sides.

Confessions of a Boomer

It doesn’t do any good to look back, you say.
But you know, it actually does,
because where we’ve been is where we’re going.
Life is a cycle, not a ride on a bus.

We hear a fair bit today about stranger danger, and certainly, with news coming to us so quickly from far and near, it certainly seems as if our world has gone a little cock-eyed and there’s something to fear in our neighbourhoods.

But I wonder if there’s really more danger, or if we just hear about it more. I was molested as a little girl... more than once. There was a girl in our class who wore very thick glasses. Her mother was blind. Her father was a pervert. There was a swimming pool near the library in our community and one time when we were all swimming there, this little girl’s father stood in one corner of the pool, latching onto any little girl that swam his way. He’d hold her bum against his semi-erection until she would squirm loose. Yes, it happened to me and though I was too young to really understand what he was doing, it made me feel uncomfortable, so I knew it wasn’t right. I put my foot into his groin and kicked away from him, and I didn’t go near him again. But other little girls did. Later on, when I understood the man’s problem, I felt very bad for the other little girls.

Then there was my second piano teacher. The first one was a lovely old fella who simply adored music, but he retired. Mom took me to a local music store to find another teacher. He stood and stared at her breasts the whole time she was arranging my lessons, but she didn’t seem to notice. I was signed up. His advances started with compliments at my playing, then caresses and hugs, and before long, he was openly cupping my barely developing breasts in his hands.
I complained to my mother, but she didn’t believe me. She thought it was a story I’d cooked up with a friend to get out of piano lessons. That didn’t even make sense... I loved piano, up until then anyway. I wouldn’t go back. It was my friend who helped me find release from the indignity. She went with me to the back door of this store, where we’d throw rocks and pop bottles until the irate partner would open the door and look for the culprit. We were hidden. When he went back in, we’d throw more stuff against the door. Then we’d leave, so as not to get caught if he called the police. We did this several times, but it soon paled. I refused any more music lessons. Too bad really. I think I would have done more with it, sooner. Ah, but you can’t lose what you never had, can you?

I think there have always been disturbed, perverted people in our world and sometimes their madness touches us. Ironically, my mother was also molested, by a neighbour. This man went off to war and returned without one of his hands. She always thought that was poetic justice at work. I think the tendency now to teach children at an early age that there are some places other people mustn’t touch is a good thing. More people need to learn to protest loudly when they are abused, in any way. Perhaps the only thing that will discourage molesters and bullies alike is unwanted attention being directed at them. Although, sometimes I think some of these poor people crave any attention.

Later on, when I was working in a college, I encountered a young girl who’d been molested by a teacher. She’d allowed it to happen because she was scared. She thought he’d flunk her if she didn’t give in to him. Later, when his demands just became too much for her to bear, she complained. But it was a bit late. I mean, there comes a point when what’s happening is “consentual” and what they’re doing can be considered a “relationship.” At least, the teacher in question thought so. The fact is, this girl should have stepped into the hallway and screamed her guts out the very first time he persisted in his unwanted advances. These people always seem to know who to pick up... the ones who just aren't sure enough of themselves to protest. So remember that, girls. There is nothing to be gained by giving in to a pervert. It only gets worse. Scream. Scream bloody murder.

I also wonder if our prudish North American society doesn’t bring a lot of this on. Sex crimes are statistically much higher here than in more sexually liberated places, such as Europe. Think about it: if a mom finds out her teen has been at a strip club, she’s shocked! Horrified! Oh the shame! Yet she thinks nothing of her youngster playing video/computer games that are violent to the point of glorifying rage and killing. Why have we created such a bizarre mystique around human sexuality, while at the same time, condoning human violence? (Please, don't tell me the games aren't about humans when the player winds up "in" the game.)
Do we have our priorities straight? Really?

I don’t believe it’s tender love
the makes the world go ‘round.
It’s likely all the guilt we weave
that makes us all revolve ~
but that which causes Earth to spin
a globe in misty blue
is likely all the sorrow and blame
that skewers our lives right through.

Those 60s

Good Times and Chemicals

When I was a kid in the 50s and 60s, we always took camping vacations. We’d often meet up with some relatives who were close, get sites across from each other, and spend those few weeks Dad got off from work, sleeping in a tent, cooking on either the campfire or the Coleman stove, fishing, hiking, swimming, boating and just having outdoor fun. It was a good time.

One night while we were all sitting around the fire, a Dept. of Lands and Forests (as they then were) truck came by with some sort of machine on the back. It wended its way slowly over the camp roads blowing this fog into the air. I asked my mom what it was. “DDT,” she said. “It’s ok, it won’t hurt us.” It was supposed to just kill mosquitoes and not harm anything else. In those days, it wasn’t at all unusual to hear the call of the whippoorwill in the woods. I heard one as I drifted to sleep in the sleeping bag that night. I still remember it vividly, because there was something even more poignant than usual in the sad cry of this particular bird. Its call sort of ended on a questioning note.... an unusual inflection, as if it was wondering what this white fog was. It was prophetic.

DDT has indeed harmed many other forms of life. I won’t go into too much detail, because if people care they can look it up. Suffice it to say that chemicals that kill bad insects, kill good ones as well... beneficials such as bees, lady bugs and more. They also do damage to healthy reproduction of many species, including fish, frogs, birds, and humans. True also of lawn chemicals being marketed by chemical companies that lost their cash cow with the end of the war. They had to reinvent themselves, and they did, by vilifying the humble dandelion, one of the Earth’s most useful wild herbs. They convinced home-owners that nothing short of a green carpet for a lawn would do. Many people continue to swallow this nonsense, hook, line and stinker, despite increases in chemically-induced asthma, cancers and more in pets and kids especially. I mean, it’s simple enough: chemicals designed to kill, do. Or they do notable damage.
Rachel Carson

It was during the 60s that Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring, which attempted to educate us about how we are part of nature, and that everything together is a web of life that’s inextricably interconnected. She pointed out the mistake of poisoning our environment with farm and lawn care chemicals, insecticides, etc., and what these toxins would eventually do to everything in their wake. She was attacked by the big money chemical companies for her views, but of course, history has borne her out.

This was the birth of the Environmental Movement, but of course, the 60s was a particularly busy decade, with the Viet Nam war, the terrorist activities of the IRA, the British music invasion, women’s rights, the assassination of J.F. Kennedy, civil rights and the “I have a dream” speech of Martin Luther King, the birth of pop culture, Woodstock, and so much more.

It’s difficult to tell myself that our world is unfolding as it should though, when we had the knowledge to do better. We just didn’t bother. I wonder why. I haven't heard the call of a whippoorwill in a very long time. They aren't extinct and this should be part of their range still. I wonder if I'll ever hear it again.

All cozy in my sleeping bag,
soft voices outside the tent
were a kind of summer lullaby,
along with the gentle summer breeze,
the poignant call of the whippoorwill
and the faint rustling of the trees.
And drifting across the distant lake
came the haunting cry of a loon,
fading away as I drifted to sleep,
into dreams of shimmering images,
now condemned to fading memories
from days of old it seems.

Prosperity ~ Two Sides to the Coin

The First Word the Baby Learned was MORE

~from a Don Henley song lyric

There was this stand-up comic once who told about going into a restaurant. He ordered fries and when they were set in front of him, he noticed they were burned. He said to the waitress, “these fries are burnt.” She glanced at the fries, then replied, “ok then, I’ll bring you more.” The guy looked perplexed. No, she didn’t REPLACE his fries... she really did just bring him more burned ones. What kind of logic was that, he wondered. How does MORE of a bad thing make it better?

Just how did we evolve into a MORE and BIGGER is better society?

Always a Double-Sided Coin

Growing up a boomer was an exercise in naivete. We sprang from an innocence that’s hard to imagine now. Oh my father had been in the war. He was overseas for four years, but he didn’t talk about it much. And my mother had worked out, in a factory, something that was new for women. Women who had to work in those days were maids, house-keepers, clerks or teachers. My mom wore slacks and went shopping at Eatons at 2 a.m. because they stayed open all night for shift workers. She lost her job when my dad came back. She was told to stay at home and make babies. In those days, that attitude toward women was deemed acceptable.

Three kids: two boys, one girl. We weren’t rich, on the other hand, we were about to be savagely bombarded with new inventions ~ a plethora of consumer goods so voluminous, we got all caught up in the hard work of making choices based on price and availability, instead of questioning if these newfangled products were good for us, or if the labour-saving devices really created more leisure time. Like all things, they had pros and cons. Sure, the household devices made laundry, food storage, cooking easier, and that was great, for women especially. But they really didn’t create more leisure time, because the demands on us tend to increase exponentially with each great invention. The more convenience and technological devices we get hold of, the more time we spend being slaves to them. Like now.

Then there was the television. It was a pricey thing, but my grandmother bought one so she could see her daytime stories ~ The Guiding Light, and Search for Tomorrow. Before that, she had only heard these on the big, old wooden radio. Her vision was fading and she wanted to see her stories while she still could. And we kids spent a fair bit of time in front of the TV too. There was Howdy Doody, Captain Kangeroo with Mr. Green Jeans, Roy Rogers and Hopalong Cassidy, and Uncle Milty. Ironic that we got to watch that goofy stuff, when today, even though television has evolved into a useful, educational tool, with science, art, and so much more informative, quality programming, kids are told they mustn’t watch too much. Hehe... ok. They’ve got all kinds of techy toys to fill the void, right? Do we EVER think first?

Life was supposed to be easier after the war. Why, women no longer had to bake their own bread! There was store-bought bread.... loaves of soft, gooey white bread made with bleached, processed and refined flour with all the nutritional value of wallpaper paste and loaded with preservatives so it was always “fresh.” There are 24 nutrients stripped from white flour in the processing, and the flour producer artificially puts back four. That’s why they get to call it “enriched.” All this ease and comfort was the beginning of our consumer society, and the beginning of the destruction of the family farm, wholesome foods and our dietary health as well.

Don’t get me wrong... I’m not touting the unrestrained wonderfulness of the good ol’ pre-war days either. Sure, they grew their own food, which was a good thing... something we need to re-learn. But at the same time, my grandfather died of bronchial pneumonia because there was no such thing as antibiotics in those days... something we are already apparently re-experiencing because we so carelessly loosed antibiotics into our food and water chain. Life was hard, especially during economic hard times, like the Great Depression. It’s just that when the opportunity for prosperity came along after the war, our society really didn’t do the walk before you run thing. It broke into canter from the get-go. Some things were great, especially for women, or to a kid growing up. But the environment was not a concern. Health impacts from some products were not a consideration. People were desperate for prosperity, and that was all that mattered. Do humans ever THINK first?

Still holding onto that onion.

Prosperity

It had such clean lines, made of shiny chrome
and a new thing they called plastic ~
no wooden table in our kitchen ~
Mom dancin’ about all kinda spastic
to Blue Suede Shoes, newfangled rock and roll;
Elvis and all kinds of new music
playing on the fine, new, plastic radio.
Television, washing machines and cool new cars;
all plasticized, pasteurized, bread from a store.
We were so very modern, the fifties family ~
in our post-war, suburban houses, row on row.
Doesn’t do any good to look back, you say.
But you know, it actually does,
because where we’ve been is where we’re going.
It’s a cycle, you see, not a ride on a bus.

Knowledge and Understanding

Knowledge is power.

But what is knowledge? Knowledge is that moment of enlightenment when you realize the more you learn, the more you don’t know a damned thing.
And power ~ what is that to a bit of space dust?
“When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.”
~ Jimi Hendrix
I wonder if we ever will.

Understanding

I understand the earth; sinking my bare fingers into the rich soil to plant seeds so they, in concert with sun and moisture, can make life. I, the gardener, am only a tiny part of this. Plants will grow out of this earth when I am gone. But as long as I’m here, I like to participate. I understand the cycle that makes the earth rich, the earthworms and even the grubs. I understand the fragrance of fresh herbs, either in the garden when you brush them with your hands, or in the kitchen where they mingle together with vegetables to make a meal. I understand the sensory enjoyment of the garden, and of that meal ~ the smell, the taste and beauty of the colourful food on my plate, the sunshine beaming in the front window as I sit and eat.

I understand the seasons. Everything is a cycle, and the seasons bring life, going to sleep in the cold darkness to rest, and putting moisture back into the soil as the light returns to warm the day, and the soil ~ sun and light, bringing life once again.

I understand my daughter yelling at me when she is hurting. I am Mom. I used to fix all things. “And Mother with her hair pin, fixed it right away.” She is learning that Mom cannot fix everything. She is older and both her thinking and her problems are more complex, so she is frightened and her angst spills out. It’s a world that will not easily accept her because she is different. It’s a world that is not aware or informed ~ a world that will often be cruel and difficult for her to understand. It's a world in which she's already experienced the pain of haters. I wish I had a better world for her.

I do not understand depression or why some of us sink into those depths. I know during that time of year where the light is returning, the air is dry and the firewood is running low, life is already in the process of renewing itself. I know that under the earth, little roots are taking notice that it’s soon time to get up. But I can’t see them, feel them, hear them, taste or smell them. There is no sensory support except that my onions are beginning to shrink as new, green shoots pop out of the top of them. Yes, this is a sign of Spring too. Still, there is no sensory support, only the cold, dry, darkness. And I can’t quite reach into the light. Do I hold onto an onion?

I know that nature built laughter into our world. The male chipmunk gets up from it’s winter sleep in February. He is hungry and horny. But the females don’t get up till March, and if the male disturbs her, she will beat him up and toss him from her den. Yes, nature has a sense of humour.

But I do not understand people. I never have. I don’t understand what’s so hard about realizing we are all different, and that’s ok. I don’t understand why they all want me and everyone else to be just like them. I don’t understand what’s wrong with having different experiences and perspectives. I don’t understand meanness, insecurity that makes people belittle others, judgmental attitudes, bigotry, antagonistic personalities, bullies, or the need to control others. I do not understand greed. None of this is community. Community is where we not only accept each other’s differences, but enjoy them, embrace them, or at least respect them. Community is where we help each other, regardless of our differences. I understand community. I do not understand people who can’t grasp the spirit of community.

I understand irony, humour and Murphy. My life revolves around them all. In fact, sometimes in the fresh, crisp breezes of an autumn night, if I sit outside and listen carefully, I can hear the universe laughing, and I ask myself, are humans a scourge of the universe, a miracle, or just a funny, little joke that forces much larger than us are getting a great big bang out of? And then I laugh. Though I don’t KNOW the answer to that, I think I understand. Best to laugh; best to laugh.

Holding Onto an Onion, Laughing

Went to a place where they don’t judge
and was judged almost right away
by a young and righteous ego
who thinks I have nothing to say.

The irony is I tried to butt out ~
keep meddling words out of the fray ~
to avoid the spectre of judgement,
Yet, irony finds me anyway.

So what good to have an opinion,
aged experience or point of view
amongst those who don’t want to hear it?
They belong to their own version of truth.

He claimed it was all about honesty,
but he's spreading his karma thin.
Mote be that all the people he knows
are just as honest with him.

And I, blessed with spiritual wanderlust
find it's time to just move along.
I can teach how to spell experience,
but each must learn what it is on their own.

These are more lessons for an old broad
who’s been a few times ‘round the block;
so often I am the one who learns ~
despite limited time on my Earthly clock.

Yes, find the humour and pass it all by ~
the world will tick along as it must.
People will be just who they are ~
different specks of living space dust.

Holding onto an onion, laughing,
the root all shrivelled and old,
the sprouts consuming the root,
I guess the way all life must unfold.