Aug. 26, 1970: Don't Iron While the Strike is Hot

 Fifty years ago today, I was standing in the (then-named) Civic Center Plaza in downtown Chicago, listening to a plethora of speakers talk about women and equality and the need to end the war in Vietnam. As is so often the case with my early adult life, I have no photos--only a button from the event and a memory of the slogan, "Don't iron while the strike is hot." I've had the button in my collection for the past 50 years.

I was working at my first real job after college--as a staff reporter for the Lerner Newspapers, a  chain of community papers in Chicago. I have no clip from the event, as not working was a key idea of the strike. My boss, Terry Gorman, a young man who considered himself progressive, did not object. So off I went--on my own, as I recall, to an event that did not...leave a strong impression. I don't remember any particular speech or speaker that day. The documentary She's Beautiful When She's Angry has a brief scene of the Chicago event showing hundreds filling the plaza.  I could blame my faulty memory for this limited recollection, but it's more a case of my feminism being in its nascent stage then. I had yet to join any group, and in 1970, my mind was more focused on Chicago politics and the continuing, tragic war in Vietnam. The shooting of student demonstrators at Kent State University by National Guard troops had occurred just a few months earlier, and with my colleagues I tried to find stories about the war protests with a "local angle". Meanwhile, another important strike was happening that August in California: Cesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers were striking for better wages and working conditions in the fields. My roommates and I were honoring that strike. An incredibly eventful year it was.

Although I had graduated from a women's college just two years earlier, I had not yet internalized just what discrimination and systemic sexism meant and would mean for me as a woman. But I had read Betty Friedan's 1963 book The Feminine Mystique, credited today with being one of the sparks of second wave feminism. I also knew about the stirrings of the Women's Liberation Movement all around me; I just had no personal entry point yet. The abortion I needed and almost didn't get in the pre-Roe v. Wade era--was still two years away. That experience later brought me to my first feminist collective, the Emma Goldman Women's Health Center, a free well-woman clinic on Chicago's North Side.

Thanks to digital archives, I can revisit the Women's Strike for Equality on Aug. 26, fifty years ago. An article in TIME, a couple of weeks later, called it the largest demonstration since suffrage was won in 1920.  The main event was in New York, where 20,000 women and men marched along Fifth Avenue, chanting and waving banners. TIME wrote: "In nearly half a dozen cities, women swept past headwaiters to 'liberate' all-male bars and restaurants. At the Detroit Free Press, women staffers, angered because male reporters had two washrooms while they had only one, stormed one of the men's rooms, ousted its inhabitants and occupied it for the rest of the day.

"In Manhattan leafleteers collared brokers at financial-district subway stops early in the morning; teams of women activists made the rounds of corporations whose advertising "degrades women" to present them with "Barefoot and Pregnant Awards....In the nation's capital, 1,000 women marched down Connecticut Avenue behind a "We Demand Equality" banner....Los Angeles liberationists were confined to the sidewalk during their march, which drew only 500. Seven women dressed in suffragette costumes stood a "silent vigil" for women's rights during the day at the Federal Building. Easygoing street theater and speeches marked demonstrations in other cities. More than a thousand women and men sympathizers attended a noon-hour rally in Indianapolis, where they watched guerrilla theater."

For some visual imagery of the event within the context of suffrage and other women's struggles, a 3-minute student presentation is worth a watch. And for a broader understanding of the feminist movement of the 60s and early 70s, I highly recommend the documentary, She's Beautiful When She's Angry. It's available free online. 

From these archives and my limited memory, it's clear that voting was not a demand in 1970; voting rights has been a centerpiece of the Civil Rights Movement, and I remember how satisfied I felt, just months after I went to Selma, that Pres. Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

On Aug. 26, 1970, observance of the suffrage anniversary was an entry to a new, second-wave women's movement. In the following 20 years the concept of equality was taken to every field: business, health, politics, literature, the arts, many more. And since then, we've seen third and fourth wave feminism come into being. The latter, according to a Wiki, began around 2012, focusing on empowerment of women and intersectionality, the interconnections of categories such as race, class and gender.

And now on Women's Equality Day 2020, a century after the 19th Amendment was ratified, voting is once again center stage in the struggle for justice and equality. Voter suppression is evident as the current occupant of the White House tries to manipulate his way to a second term. Perhaps we could argue we're in a fifth wave of feminism, which will challenge us to help make all of the gains of the past century a living reality for all and protect the gains we once thought we had won for good--reproductive rights being at the top of the list.

A little more than two months away from the Nov. 3 election, in the middle of a pandemic, I have no plans to protest in person. But I'll be phone banking and writing letters for the Democratic ticket, making sure my ballot is in on time.  To quote suffragist Carrie Chapman Catt, "To the wrongs that need resistance, To the right that needs assistance, To the future in the distance, Give yourselves."

Montgomery, Alabama, 1965: reflections on my first protest march

It's been more than a half century--a fact that still startles me--since I took an overnight bus trip with a group of Catholic nuns, lay teachers and students to join the last leg of the historic civil rights march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama. The late John Lewis, a very young man, was there with Dr. King and the march leadership, though I never saw or heard him. His death and funeral service this week brought back this time to me, so writing this is a way of reliving and reflecting on these experiences.

I was 18 years old, a freshman at Mundelein College in Chicago in the fall of 1964, a rather naive young woman who had never attended a Catholic school before. I was surprised to learn almost immediately that nuns and students were planning to join the march the following spring and plans were already underway. I knew immediately that I wanted to join it. Did I really understand much of what was at stake? I like to think so, though my understanding must have come from news reports of the growing Civil Rights movement in the early 60s: the fact that freedom fighters were working for basic human rights, that many Negroes (the word we used then) could not vote, that change was underway. And there was a book: John Howard Griffin's Black Like Me. Griffin, a Texas journalist and deeply religious man, had darkened his skin (with drugs and sun lamp treatments) so that he could tour the South and experience it as a Black man. The book was published in 1961 when I was in high school. I remember reading it, surprised and saddened by his account of racial injustices in the deep South.

For my trip to Alabama, all that was needed was $20 for the overnight Trailways bus trip to and from Alabama--and parental permission. The latter was surprisingly hard to get. Both of my parents were strongly opposed, being more aware than I was of the dangers involved. I persisted in my attempts to get them to sign--showing defiance for the first time in my teen life--and finally they relented. Perhaps they were mollified by the fact that the trip was sponsored by the Catholic Interracial Council, and a number of nuns would be on the bus with us. Mom and Dad would not pay, however, so I got a part-time job typing a textbook draft for a nun, and was ready to go when the time came the following March.

It may seem incredible today to say that I have no picture of myself from that event--no pictures at all. I didn't have a camera--they were large bulky things in those days. However, some photos existed from our group (taken by one of the nuns), including this one now in the Loyola University archives. I am not in it (Where was I?) But other classmates were. 

Actually, there is one photo of me which appeared in the college newspaper, The Skyscraper, a month later. You might not recognize me, however. I occasionally worked as a hair model, and had dyed my hair black the previous week.

I have no photos of the 6 religious faculty who joined us on the trip. They were members of the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary (BVMs), and they wore a habit identical to the one in the photo below.  This BVM, Sister Leoline of Kansas City, was photographed wearing an orange vest showing she was one of the original marchers who had walked the entire 50 miles from Selma to Montgomery.

Lacking photos,  I took notes--fortunately!-- as I was a reporter for The Skyscraper. The stories we published then are an invaluable memory aid these many years later. 

I can confidently tell you that we left one cold March afternoon from Chicago, arriving 20 hours and 800 miles later. "Welcome to Montgomery, "Cradle of the Confederacy" we saw on a Highway 80 billboard. We knew there would be tensions if not danger: angry locals and members of the Alabama National Guard who would line the route of the march the next day. But first, we'd gather for a briefing on safety and later a rally. As Brenda, my co-reporter, and I wrote, "Drive, warmth and easygoing humor" greeted us when we went to the St. Jude campground on the outskirts of Montgomery. Our bus driver left, to stay safely outside the town and to park the bus in a safer, less open spot.

It was humid and hot, as we ate picnic-style on the grounds and were later treated to a fried chicken dinner by a local resident. Other volunteers fed marchers and offered encouragement.  "Late in the afternoon", we wrote in our news story, "residents and visitors began pouring into the field and taking places in front of the makeshift stage....The dark field, lighted only by spotlights and the repeated flash of photographers' cameras, revealed a standing crowd of thousands. Dozens clung to the trees overshadowing the stage." By 9 pm., Harry Belafonte, the host of the rally, welcomed other entertainers: Nina Simone, Peter, Paul and Mary, The Chad Mitchell Trio, Dick Gregory, Sammy Davis Jr., Tony Bennet and Shelley Winters. Would that I would have had 21st century technology to record the event!

Of course,  the rally included speeches: Dr. Ralph Bunch, UN undersecretary for political affairs, and the Rev. Ralph Abernathy, Dr. King's top aide. Dr. Abernathy urged us "to assemble at this same spot tomorrow and join the greatest march ever held...and when it takes place, Alabama will never be the same." Prophetic words, definitely.

The march began the next morning with ranks of marchers, six deep, and marshals yelling, ."Let's have a man on the outside", as they ran along the line. Those were pre-feminist times, and that didn't phase me then. No one near us, male or female, was forced to fend off an attack, as we moved forward singing and chanting. Songs are the lifeblood of any movement and several are still alive in memory: "This Little Light of Mine", "I'm on my Way to Freedom Land,""We Shall Overcome".Another popular marching song, "Can't turn me around" is in this 3-minute YouTube video, which also includes march scenes, words by Dr King, and commentary by Harry Belafonte.

In our campus newspaper story, we wrote, "During three-fourths of the trek, which cut through a Negro section of the city, onlookers cheered and joined in singing the freedom chants. Others watched expressionless. Several offered water to the marchers. An old Negro woman shouted that it was the greatest day she had ever seen." I felt a sense of exhilaration that I had not felt before, and a sense of gratitude that I could be there for this amazing event, like nothing I had ever experienced.

"Turning onto the downtown section a different mood confronted the marchers. Quiet heckling from a few white observers was emphasized by a large sign on one store showing Martin Luther King Jr. supposedly at a Communist training school. Confederate flags waved by bystanders, worn by some troopers and flown on top of the Capitol building itself seemed to indicate the real feeling behind the civil rights opposition."

As we reached the Capitol we were urged to sit down and rest, and the four-hour meeting opened with the movement classic, "We Shall Overcome".  The crowd raised American flags to the National Anthem led by Mrs. King. The optimistic tone of the previous night's speeches continued continued through the hours. One of the initial speakers declared, "This is a revolution that won't fire a shot....Our aim is to love the hell out of the State of Alabama with all the power of our bodies and souls." Other speakers spoke to how this march was only a beginning. Urging a continuation of the voting rights struggle in the South, Dr. King stressed that the "aim of the movement is to seek a society at peace with itself, a society that can live with its conscience." The struggle won't be smooth but it will succeed, he told us, "because no lie can live forever."

The event ended with another chorus of "We Shall Overcome" as my classmates and I made our way to 

our bus which had returned to pick us up. A day later we arrived home.

And then I went back to school for another three years, and the effects of the march continued to play out in my life then--and then in ways hidden or not, over the coming decades. Part 2 of this story to come.

 

Reflections on joining a Black Lives Matter protest

It’s been six weeks since I dipped my toe into the new protest movement centered around Black Lives Matter and long-standing abuses of police power. Nightly protests erupted around the country in the wake of George Floyd’s death via a nearly 9-minute chokehold—an image that went around the world—and people took to the streets to protest. I was both surprised and excited by this—surprised that the protests didn’t go the way of previous protests against police violence: a few nights of localized protest followed by promises of better police training and then silence. This time the protests didn’t stop, and the reporting of them included investigations of just why it’s so difficult for truth and justice to emerge. 

Widespread use of cell phone cameras had given lie to police reports of civilian deaths at officers’ hands, and examinations of police unions and court decisions showed just how deep and systemic the problem was. Hence the excitement—we are at the beginning of a new movement, much like the Civil Rights Movement of the 60s, a movement that will really change things—though exactly how is still unknown.

What stopped me from joining the Denver protests earlier was the pandemic. As an old person, I'm in a high risk group, and that fact ruled out joining large groups of people, many if not most without masks or ability to keep social distance. But by Sunday, June 6, an opportunity arose. Students in the Denver Public School system had organized a march for themselves, parents and staff from the downtown Civic Center to the Martin Luther King statue in City Park. The Facebook event notice requested social distancing and masks. 

As I live across the street from City Park, I reasoned that I could join safely. I left home with water, my mask, sun hat--and the retro T-shirt I wore: a souvenir of a 1980 march against violence against women. I felt the image was appropriate--and the message, while not contemporary, was certainly relevant. No one commented on my shirt--not surprising, as I didn't communicate with too many of my fellow protesters, but it was also strange to realize that more than half of the crowd had not been born when that event took place.

My plan was this: I would stand near the entrance to the park, and if it felt safe to join, I would do so for the final part of the march. That was exactly what happened. I joined in, waiting for a fairly large gap in the line. Following are two photos and my memories from that event.

Approaching City Park from The Esplanade

Waiting for the march to enter the Esplanade from Colfax Avenue, I stood in the shade. A mom and her kids were some distance away, and I asked permission to take their picture. There were so many others like them in the crowd that day, and I hoped these very young children would carry a memory and history of participation into their own young adulthood at least a decade away.

Once in the park, we gathered at the statue. We began with 8 minutes and 46 seconds of silence, kneeling on one knee on the park grass. I had not realized just how long that period of time felt, and I thought of George Floyd, how frightened and hurting he must have felt. We stood up, as speakers for the rally organized for speeches. I walked away, wishing to minimize my time in a crowd, even though I was masked the whole time. For awhile I sat on the grass, watching the rally and other participants as they sat or walked toward the park exit. One thing I noted was the complexion of the crowd. Nearly everyone was white or light-skinned--unlike the more diverse nighttime crowds I had seen in the media. That observation puzzled and also pleased me: white folks were making this movement part of their lives, and that meant they were taking racism seriously. 

Since that afternoon, there have been many kinds of protests across the country and in other countries—in memory of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery (shot while jogging in Georgia), Breonna Taylor, (shot when Louisville KY police mistakenly force-entered her home) Elijah McClain (a young unarmed man who died at police hands in Aurora CO ). Mostly they have been peaceful, though some have not been; social media posts have shown police more than protesters acting without restraint. As I write this, the most troubling confrontations are on the streets of Portland, where federal troops ordered by Trump to” restore law and order “have alarmed the nation and actually galvanized protesters to unite and respond. Most moving for me was the Wall of Moms, a group of mothers who have appeared for a few evenings now, with linked arms and chants for peace and an end to federal occupation. More on the  Wall of Moms here.

Most encouraging also has been legislative follow-up. Leslie Herod, Colorado State Representative in my district, sponsored the successful Law Enforcement Integrity Act  shortly after protests began. The law, among other things, abolishes chokeholds, mandates police body cameras, has provisions for decertifying bad police, and calls for officers to intervene is one is using inappropriate force. Herod says it couldn’t have happened without protests creating the momentum for political changes. Though this movement is different in many ways from the social movements I participated in earlier in life (civil rights, Vietnam, feminism), they have one thing in common: protests and legislative change go hand in hand.

Journal of a Plague Year: My life on Zoom

It seems like I'm just as busy as I used to be. As I write, Colorado's "Safer in Place" guidelines are still official policy, and I'm doing just that: staying home, for the most part. A few businesses have been allowed to reopen, but my only interactions so far are with grocery stores. Yet, I have a schedule, not unlike the one I had before: Laughter Yoga at noon on Mondays, singing events on Tuesday, Friday and Sunday, and weekly chats with friends. For the moment, I'm not counting other screen events, such as Skype or FaceTime, equally valuable, but limited to me and one other at a time. Then there's the amazing variety of free cultural events available through a screen, subject for another day.

Naomi Fry writes about how quickly the Zoom phenomenon has entered our lives in Embracing the Chaotic Side of Zoom (The New Yorker, April 20). You can read it here. The article focuses on the quirky, embarrassing or funny things we learn by chance during a zoom call: someone's cat crossing a room, the sounds of someone peeing, for example. Human connections in a two-dimensional world. I'd agree, adding the slightly voyeuristic pleasure of seeing people in their living spaces, places I may never have seen when we met in real-life rooms or meetings. 

I'm almost a bit ashamed to say how much I like Zoom. Sometimes it's hard to admit screen contact is not necessarily inferior to attending an in-person event.  I realized some time ago that I just don't like driving much anymore. How nice to just sit down at my laptop and see my friends' faces in front of me. No parking issues, driving in bad weather or Denver rush hour traffic. One of my hopes for the future new-normal is that more work will be done remotely, freeing space for drivers who actually need to get somewhere. As for Zoom replacing the human touch, I think I suffer less than others--others who are used to a lot of touch. First, I'm a senior who's been living alone for some time, and second, I've spent much, much time in environments with minimal touching. For example, my 20 years in Japan, where bowing and nods were far more common than hugs and handshakes. 

(Illustration from The New Yorker)

While Zoom has allowed me to stay in touch with much-loved friends and activities, it's also opened new activities to me. One of them is Voice Circle Colorado (you can find them on Facebook), an improvisational singing group that used to meet in West Denver. I had thought of joining them, but as I live across town and dislike evening drives, I usually put that in my some-other-time mental file. With Zoom now, on Tuesdays and Fridays, I join whoever's there, as the group organizer, Roy Willey, leads us in song or meditative chanting. Usually we have our microphones off, so there's no shyness about the sounds we're making or not making. 

Zoom is not really useful for singing together due to technical distortions, though for awhile, my choral group, Sage Singers, tried. That was before we fully came to terms with the fact that performances are on hold for the foreseeable future. Lately, however, we've been practicing a song that we hope to perform in one of those viral online song collages that are appearing on social media. Like Voice Circle, we practice with mikes off. Kevin, our wonderful and energetic director, gives us vocal tips and practice suggestions during our Sunday afternoon Zoom sessions. Equally valuable for me is the time we spend getting to know each other. We check in on how things are going, and also take turns sharing stories. Recently "tell us something we don't know about you" has been our ending activity--more valuable perhaps that the short time we used to have on snack breaks between rehearsal segments. Now, rather than having a brief chat with people I know somewhat, I'm learning more about people I knew less well or not at all.

Another Zoom benefit is that participants can join from anywhere. My laughter club here in Denver has been meeting at noon every Monday in a 24-hour laughter Zoom room, made available by Dave Berman (See Daily Laughers on Facebook. Dave seldom meets us there, as he lives in Australia. When we meet at noon, it's 4:30 a.m. in Melbourne. His hosted sessions come twice-daily, and I've occasionally joined the one at 5:30 pm my time.) My laughter club's sessions now include members of the Taos laughter club, thanks to Meredee and Davey, who host that club. They are the founding parents of our club, but we lost the chance to hear their weekly laughter last year when they moved to New Mexico. Such a pleasure to be together again--along with other laughing friends who choose to join us.

I also find that I'm having more regular connections with my friends in OLOC, a group for lesbians over 60. Every month we used to meet for lunch, social talk, and a presentation on some relevant topic, gathering in a restaurant or community center, mostly north of Denver. Often I would miss due to weather, driving reluctance or feeling a bit under-the-weather. Zoom removes those barriers for me. It may do so for others as well and may also allow us to expand group membership beyond the Boulder/Denver metropolitan area. Last weekend, when we met on Zoom, part of our agenda was a memorial service for Carmah Lawlor, one of our oldest members who died earlier this year. The service included a brief tribute followed by remembrances of Carmah's life and memories we have of her.

I've found that Zoom doesn't work well for other things, though. Exercise for one. There are many exercise classes online now, but I find a screen distracting and prefer to do my own thing. Included in that is dancing. Square dance in squares of eight dancers is impossible, of course, though The Rainbeaus have weekly chat sessions now on Zoom. For me other types of dancing are problematic too.  I have access to line dance lessons on Facebook, but they don't work well for me on a screen. Sadly, as I used to admire watching line dancers at the monthly women's dance at the Avalon Ballroom in Boulder and wanted to give lessons a try. Perhaps I'll try the online ones again when it gets too hot to be outside much, as one of my friends promises herself.

For me and so many others these days, Zoom has been a boon in so many ways--including ways I haven't personally experienced yet. Kids' birthday parties, work conferences, visits with quarantined relatives, medical teleconferencing, even dates. (In the latter case, Zoom seems to be a poor substitute for the real thing. For example, one young woman mentioned in Naomi Fry's article told how strange it felt to be on a date with a new love interest while she was in her childhood bedroom.)For most of us with Zoom capability, the opportunities will be broad enough to keep us Zoom-connected sometimes even after social distancing ends. Already news articles are talking about how these changes are expected to remain a part of our lives. 

Meanwhile, readers, enjoy wherever zooming takes you--or whatever activity you enjoy more.

Journal of a plague year: the first six weeks

March 6--exactly six weeks ago from today, and I was busy planning my normal weekly schedule. I went to a women's salon at The Center for our usual monthly discussion. For the upcoming weekend, it was a tax preparation appointment, and then a Sunday afternoon rehearsal with SAGE Singers, the senior chorus I'm part of. On Monday, my usual session of Laughter Yoga at St. Barnabas Church followed by lunch in an area restaurant--this time The Irish Snug. Square dance was a possibility for Tuesday and then a theater performance at Aurora Fox on Thursday to see Secrets of the Universe. Those events marked my last "normal" week. The following day, March 13,  everything changed. Gov. Polis ordered a ban on large gatherings and closure of non-essential businesses to stem the spread of Covid-19.

As I look back, I see a series of emotional and behavior changes that none of us could have anticipated just 2 months earlier when we toasted to the new year. And now, as I write this today, April 17, it's hard to remember the feeling of the "old normal"--one that I had taken for granted my whole adult life. An old normal of freedom from invasion whether it be a foreign army or a plague. With two exceptions. In childhood I remember being called inside by my mother, ordered to rest for fear of catching the polio virus. I didn't quite understand what it was, but I knew it traveled silently through the air and could cause terrible paralysis damage to victims. Then in junior high came the Cold War-induced scare of nuclear war. Radiation would come from the air, we were told--another invisible enemy. Today you can find online now-humorous stories of kids crouching under desks during school drills and families building bomb shelters in hopes of surviving the deadly radiation sure to come. I remember giving a speech in school arguing in favor of those shelters, though neither I nor my family ever tried to build one. On some level we all knew it was absurd. (Below: a New York Times photo of a "duck and cover" exercise)

Those fears and responses passed, and now we're in another fear and response period--one with much uncertainty: the Covid-19 pandemic. As I look back to that first week--the last one of the old normal--I think of it as  a time of trying to get a grip on what was happening. I remember joking that I wish I had studied for my ACTs as hard as I studied this virus--one showing disturbing signs of not being contained.

In the days following the governor's call for closures, all of my usual activities were cancelled. At home in Montview Manor, where all residents are over 62--a high-risk group for Covid--a series of new procedures were rolled out. By the end of the month, all gatherings in common areas were stopped, the building was closed to all but essential visitors and residents were urged to stay in their apartments. Sanitizer appeared in the lobby, and we were exhorted to wash our hands frequently. "Social distancing" had already become a household phrase. During those mid-March days, I remember thinking of Covid as the third invisible enemy of my lifetime, and I was quite diligent with the precautions. The only exception during week two and three was the lack of masks. Public health officials did not want to cause a run on badly-needed N95 respirators for medical workers, so we were not encouraged to wear them. By early April Gov. Polis encouraged masks--homemade cloth ones or simple surgical ones--for everyone going outside. I think of weeks 2 and 3 as the time of adjustment and making of new habits. I was pleased to find a no-sew pattern for a cloth mask that can be made in two minutes from a handkerchief and two loops of stretchy nylon or elastic. Meanwhile, I was becoming proficient with Zoom, the app of choice for groups wishing to communicate during this ban on in-person meetings. (More on that in a separate blog entry.) Daily, sometimes twice-daily walks in City Park across the street, became my new normal--a comforting reminder of the old normal, as many in the neighborhood showed up to walk dogs, go bike riding with their kids, or simply watch the beginnings of spring.

All the while information-gathering continued. Should we wipe down groceries or not? Is it necessary to wear gloves? What is the best way to handle shopping? We were encouraged to limit grocery shopping to once a week, and stores began instituting senior shopping hours. An unfortunate incident at my local Sprouts store--where two neighbors encountered a sick check-out clerk--caused me to change my allegiance. I now shop at Trader Joe's where I'm confident of their procedures. You can read about them here.  Meanwhile, all of my information gathering continued. I spent at least two hours a day reading my digital New York Times, checking the spread in other countries as well as the emerging facts about the virus. And then there were the human stories--the deaths, the heroism of medical workers, the machinations of a US administration that belatedly acknowledged the pandemic while creating daily doses of misinformation. Dr. Fauci became almost everyone's standard-bearer in the battle to "flatten the curve", by then another household phrase.

During the second half of March I began to settle into a new home routine. I cooked more--something I've always liked to do, but now it had the added benefit of focusing my concentration. Neighbors, including me,  offered to pick up things for others during their weekly shopping excursions. Many cultural offerings went online, including free daily streams of filmed operas from The Metropolitan Opera via the Met on Demand app. I'm a fledgling opera listener, so these streams were a wonderful opportunity.  In addition, Youtube became my go-to source for inspirational music performances or plays, such as Jane Eyre by the National Theatre of London. 

As the first week of April came to a close, I had become a nightly howler from my balcony. It's still happening, every night at 8 p.m., and many Denverites and others are joining in with voices or the banging of pots and pans. It's our tribute to medical workers and others who are risking their lives to help Covid victims. The battle had become more personal. There appeared to be no infections in my building, where a nurse is stationed in the lobby, 7 to 3 every day to check temperatures and monitor deliveries. However, Jeff, a friend in Denver, and Laura, my niece in Illinois were suffering from the virus, both recovering slowly. Reports of infections and deaths continued to dominate the news, but the conversations began to shift. When would it be time to begin a restart of the economy? 

The economy had been in free-fall for awhile, rising or sinking like a leaky balloon, depending on the outlook for bailout plans in Washington. Battles for political power ensued. Meanwhile, far too little was known about the path of Covid infections and test availability was far too small. The race for a vaccine was underway, a worldwide effort, but no timetable was claimed. Shelter-in-place orders were just a month-old. What would be possible as spring became summer? What would happen to planned events? In January my biggest dilemma had been how I could attend the national square dance convention to be hosted by my club, The Rainbeaus, in July. It would overlap with The SAGE Singers planned debut at the GALA festival in Minneapolis. I dithered back and forth: Could I do both? I finally made a decision, but that decision is now moot. GALA 2020 has been postponed for a year, and the fate of the square dance convention is in doubt. "Man plans, God laughs" is an old saying I used to quote when things would fall apart. It now had a whole new resonance. (Next: my life on Zoom)

To my father on his 117th birthday

My dad, John Riley, would have been 117 today--March 13, 2020--an event he did not live to see. Fortunately. How terrible, he told me once, to outlive your friends and have a body you cannot move or control. As a young woman with a young body then, I could not understand or accept: Life is meant to be lived as long as possible! Make new friends! Now, decades later, I understand. There is a time to live and a time to die, and now I, like most of my older friends at least, would not want to exceed our "quality of life" expiration date.

Not that Dad wouldn't have liked more time. He died at the age of 74 in 1977. Too soon, but in just the way he would have wanted--in his sleep.  He still had "all of his faculties" as people used to say, and could get around without assistance. Still, if you asked him, he'd probably say that while his life ended too soon, it still had an amazing arc. Born in 1903 when the Wright Brothers first flew an airplane, he lived to see the moon landing in 1969. A gift of history--never imagined by earlier generations.

I was 30 when Dad died--and for all of my previous years, really considered myself lucky in the father lottery. John was kind at heart, gentle, funny, a father who took time for his family. With my mother, he gave me the great gift of freedom. In my childhood, "free range parenting" was the norm. I was not driven to lessons, but rather spent time outside playing with friends, watching TV, reading books. He was also a great storyteller ("Your father has the gift of the gab", my mother said often).  His stories were entertaining, and before I grew older and wiser, never suspected how embellished they were. For awhile, he convinced me that his estranged family of birth were all horse thieves. He had left the Kansas City of his youth for Chicago, where all the jobs were, and could spin stories of "Two-gun McGann" and other infamous characters of Depression-era city life.

John's early life was not easy, but he always made his life a series of stories, not complaints. His mother left him, his three siblings and their father when he was 9, and he was farmed out to Aunt Mag, a woman with a heart of gold, and her stingy husband, Uncle Jim. Dickensonian stories masked the pain he must have felt. Enrolled in Catholic school--not a kind and gentle place in that era--he "dropped out in third grade", in his words, and ended up in reform school, as it was called then, certainly not a kind and gentle place either. In 1918, as World War I was reaching an end, he and his older brother Clarence decided to join the Navy. John was only 15 and had to lie about his age, and apparently the recruit-starved Navy was not too particular about proof. He and Clarence were assigned to a ship sent to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, a memory he savored for the rest of his life--the freedom of adult life, the beauty of the water and island.  The war ended just a few months after their enlistment. Dad had never seen a minute of combat, yet was honorably discharged with a lifetime of veterans' benefits. Benefits that eventually saved his life when he developed tuberculosis and was treated in a veteran's hospital--one of the first places to get life-saving antibiotics.

Jumping ahead a few years, here's John with my sister Joan, circa 1976.

John was opinionated--a strong supporter of unions, including the one he belonged to: Local 150 of the Union of Operating Engineers. He was a construction worker, starting in the 1940s. Too old for military service in World War II, he went to Alaska to help build the Alaska Highway, an event that he described as a great adventure: the beauty of the Yukon and Dawson Creek, like nothing he had seen before in Kansas or Illinois. Returning to Chicago, John met my mother, his second attempt at creating a family. An early marriage ended in divorce after the birth of a daughter, Bernice, who along with her family, remained a part of his life until he died. At the age of 41, when he married my mother, Angeline, he was ready to give family life another try.

John and Angie moved to Hammond, Indiana, in 1952, when I was 5. The highway construction business was booming, and jobs paid enough for a man to support a family and buy a small house. It was the first house they owned, the only house they owned. There they raised me and my younger sister, Joan. Usually laid off in the winter (with unemployment benefits!), Dad worked spring through fall, doing work that he made to seem important.* There was a right way to grade a road, he said, and from his stories I intuited there was value in doing it well. An important lesson for a child to learn--along with the other ones: the adventure of travel, the value of unions for working people--and oh yes, the necessity of buying only what one could afford. No credit cards in those days; if you didn't have the cash, you didn't buy. And oh, yes, education is a good thing. Both John and Angie went to parents' nights at school; they took me to spelling bees and bought books. I felt their pride when I did well.

In 1n 1962 John made what he considered one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He and my mother sold the house in Hammond and returned to Chicago, where they bought a small card and variety store with living space in the back. It was a financial disaster from the beginning, and John blamed himself. Before long he and Angie unloaded it and picked up the pieces. They rented a modest brick house nearby, and John retired, settling into life as the family cook while my mother worked. A rather handy guy, he also did odd jobs for widows in the neighborhood. And he also spent a fair bit of time on a system for winning at the racetrack. I sometimes went to the Arlington Heights racetrack with him, enjoying the outings very much--the beauty of the horses, the colors, the excitement of the races. Dad never found the perfect system, usually breaking even at the end of the season, but he taught me an important lesson about gambling. Every summer he would remind us that he didn't put money into sports or betting pools. Rather he would take a set amount of money--maybe $400--and when it was gone, it was gone. Doing something you enjoy and putting limits on it--that was the message.

As I grew older, entered college and became involved in civil rights and the antiwar movements of the 1960s, Dad and I often argued about politics. And this is the part that is hard for me to describe without making excuses. Is there always that tendency--to minimize the faults of those we love?  Without doubt, his beliefs and actions were racist. While not hateful, he was still a white man, born in Missouri in the early 1900s, one who believed races were best kept separate and integration should never be "forced". (In fact, our move from Chicago to Hammond had been based on racism as much as economic opportunity. The Great Migration had brought thousands of African-Americans to Chicago, and John and Angie did not want to live next door to Black people.) We often argued, neither side backing down. In 1968, Dad voted for segregationist George Wallace, the Alabama governor who carried 5 southern states that year. I volunteered for Eugene McCarthy, the independent who tried for the Democratic nomination, losing to Hubert Humphrey who then lost to Richard Nixon. As I look back on our heated arguments, I wish I had tried to understand more and argued less. I've since learned all about cognitive bias, the near impossibility of changing committed beliefs. And I might then have appreciated his treating me as an equal conversation partner. He never berated or bullied me.

It's been 43 years since John Riley died. I wish I had thanked him before his death and told him how much I admired his strengths as a person, beyond the gifts he gave me as a father. He survived a difficult childhood in a working-class culture without the educational opportunities we take for granted today. He was honest and hard-working, a great story-teller, an excellent cook. He lacked what I consider some of the most annoying human faults: self-pity, self-absorption, arrogance. He was generous with his time and his affection. How lucky I was to be his daughter. Happy Birthday, Dad.
*Dad's working life was not entirely in road construction. I believe he also worked for U.S. Steel in nearby Gary, Indiana, where in his later years he had the graveyard shift monitoring "pumps." He also spoke of the now-defunct Bethlehem Steel Corporation, but they did not build a plant in northwest Indiana until 1962 (according to Wikipedia).

What's a girl to do as the big dance approaches

It may seem frivolous to compare the upcoming US presidential election and election to a high school homecoming dance, but please bear with me. This dance metaphor speaks to an important point about electability: we look to a candidate to inspire us, to bring us closer to our goals and dreams. Barack Obama could do this, as did the late John Kennedy. Arguably, Bill Clinton too. We usually chalk it up to charisma but that concept isn't quite broad enough. We need inspiration married to possibility. Homecoming dances are all about that.

Exploring the slippery electability issue, one column I read recently suggested that given all the uncertainties this time, we are better off looking at how candidates make us feel, as opposed to parsing polls and platforms. And that's just what I plan to do in this blog, as I explore my hypothetical dilemma: finding a partner who can take us to the epitome of Homecoming: the election of a king and queen, the biggest prize of a school's biggest football event. Like election campaigns, it's so much spectacle, but much is at stake. My vote counts, and I want to have the perfect partner for the top spot in the Homecoming parade.

At first, as I looked for my perfect dance partner,  I thought I should go for the sensible choice--class president, Joe. We could get the most votes, I thought--surely the most important thing in a campaign even if he would not shake things up in this Homecoming world--a world that most of us agree has become dysfunctional. But then, nice a guy as he is, I just couldn't get excited about him. Maybe it was the frequency of slips, his forgetting my name. Sigh. His loyal supporters--let's call them his would-be court--told me to pay no mind. That's just Joe, they said. Don't forget how much support he has!  But then my eyes turned to the one who was about to capture my heart and mind--Elizabeth.

Perhaps she made me feel so good and proud because she's my better self: like me in age and background, but, unlike me,  one who really applied herself to become a champion debater, a Harvard professor and member of Congress. And now she was expressing a plan, one that would take Homecoming to a whole new level--one that kept the tradition while solving long-standing problems at our school. She didn't want to centralize Homecoming, as the campus radical proposes; she has a more developed and nuanced view. If elected, she would be the first woman to become Homecoming King. What a thrilling thought--how I'd be at her side on the big night.

But then....her campaign slipped. The plainspoken campus radical started surging in the polls. He was becoming so popular--even among the younger students.  (How is he still in school? I wondered privately.) Still, what a good, progressive school we could become if Bernie and I became a team--an enticing thought. Then too, he's such a good, consistently honorable man, a fighter for fairness. And together we could win! His court assured me of this, pointing to various polls. He's like Elizabeth--but stronger, they said. I was tempted, but then....I thought about Amy. Yes, why not Amy? She could also become the first woman to hold the top spot.

The polarization in our school had become intense. What we needed at the front of our Homecoming parade was a well-spoken, experienced person, one who has gotten things done during her years in school. One who was once overlooked, but was now being noticed. Yes, I thought, we could win! Her court says so and our school's top newspaper endorsed her, along with Elizabeth. I imagined going with Amy, visualizing her calm smile and assurance, calming my nervous excitement and the fears of fellow students put off by the campus radical.

My thoughts were interrupted by a student passing out Bloomberg flyers, talking about this candidate's accomplishments and large donations to many progressive causes over time. I paused, and then two African-American students walked by, raising their eyebrows. Suddenly I found myself humming a tune, "....You can't buy my love with money 'cause I never was that kind...." I walked on, deep in thought.

Thinking about my philosophy classes, I remembered Plato and his belief that democracy could not survive without a philosopher-king in charge of things. I began to consider whether I should choose the candidate best suited to this exalted state, the kind of person our school could really be proud of. An image of youthful, smiling Pete came to mind. While only a freshman, he had a shot at the top prize, that I could see.

Such a paragon--a veteran of conflict, an accomplished concert pianist who speaks 7 languages. A man who can listen, admit mistakes, who understands the incremental nature of change; a person about whom there is absolutely no whiff of scandal; a gay, married man who knows that love is love, regardless of gender. A communicator, a bright young man with a stake in the future. Lots of people had come around to appreciating his virtues recently. Surely he should be my partner, and in my mind, we waltzed together for several days. Inspired by him, all students would surely become better versions of themselves.

Still....as I fantasized through my choices, I kept coming back to how these hopefuls made me feel. They all sought my hand....I pictured all of them in turn and paid attention to what I was feeling. I also kept focusing on that intersection of inspiration and possibility--the blossoming of charisma. I looked at Elizabeth's and Bernie's platforms again.* I returned to my feelings. For awhile the images blurred, and then one became clear. Elizabeth held out her hand. My heart-mind said yes, and I knew: While I will applaud the winner of the final vote, I will dance with Elizabeth as long as I can.

I hope to tell her so on Sunday, Feb. 23. She will have a rally at The Fillmore Auditorium, Colfax and Clarkson, at 3 p.m. I plan to be there.

*For a discussion of the differences between Bernie's and Elizabeth's platforms, see this recent article in The Atlantic.

On turning 73 and greeting a new lunar year

Yesterday I turned 73, a number that was once quite inconceivable but not anymore. Like a number of friends in my generation, I prepare for my upcoming new age at least 6 months early--not unlike my childhood behavior: "I'm 8! Ok, I'm 7-1/2, almost 8!" Three of my friends have just turned 70, going through the shock of entering a new decade. I'm probably a little smug in thinking I'm well past that--still several years away from my next decade shock at 80. "If I make it," I whisper to myself, as if just saying that will appease the luck gods into letting me continue to savor this wonderful gift of life.

And then again, I'm lucky to be able to put age in perspective.  I live in a senior building, where I occasionally join neighbors in our optional one-menu-per-day dinner program. Last Friday, I chatted with Joan, who is in her early 90s, and Jeree, perhaps in her mid-80s. They asked me how old I would be on Monday (monthly birthdays are posted in our elevators). When I answered, they smiled with a look of nostalgia in their eyes. Oh, yes, I remember 73....

I moved into this community of mostly-retired over 62-year-olds nearly four years ago, and have not regretted it for a minute since then. It's independent living with many opportunities for socializing or simply enjoying life in a vintage but well-managed building (sort of like my body, I like to think). It's centrally located in Denver, next to City Park with its many trees, twice as many Canada geese,  a small lake, a couple of ponds. I spent a good part of my birthday gazing at the park from my 11th floor window and enjoying birthday greetings, written or spoken, from neighbors and friends. I did venture out into the falling snow at midday to meet friends in my laughter yoga group for a celebration and well, lots of laughter.

I didn't mark the occasion with a photo, so I took a few selfies today, marking varying reactions to being 73. So here I am, posing in front of a wood framed photo and card exhibit in my living room.

Yes--surprise, acceptance, laughter at the joy of having made it this far. I'm continuing to celebrate all week. Why not? A filmed version of The Met's Porgy and Bess tomorrow with an opera-loving friend; a Friday women's salon where we talk about a variety of topics relating to life, love, imagination or survival, one each month; another monthly meeting (OLOC, an aging support group), a dress rehearsal for a Valentine's Day dinner concert of The Sage Singers (my first chorus!). Today I'll miss dancing with the new class of square dancers in The  Rainbeaus, due to reluctance to driving on icy streets, but will catch up with one of their always-celebratory events soon.

This year my birthday coincides with the lunar new year, a period of two weeks which began Jan. 25. I plan to mark the occasion Thursday with a dim sum lunch at one of Denver's best (as in tasty) Chinese restaurants with several long-time friends. Although Japan celebrates the new year on Jan. 1, like most Western countries, I always felt during the years I lived there that the lunar holiday was a far more suitable time. At certain latitudes (e.g. Tokyo), the first hints of spring are already apparent. The plum blossoms emerging, a few green shoots poking through the soil. Also, the lunar holiday feels like a kind of second start. Still feels that way--a decade after I left Asia. So for you, dear readers, whether or not your January 1 new year started out well or not, happy new year to you! Especially to those of you who may have already broken a new year resolution. (It's not too late to begin again.)  We are starting the Year of the Rat (or mouse if you prefer), supposedly an auspicious year, as rodents proliferate when harvests are bountiful. Unless, as a Chinese friend informs me, you were born in such a year (coming around in 12-year cycles). In that case, you will have some challenges.

My challenge lunar year was 2019 (The Year of the Wild Boar), the year I experienced a stress fracture in one toe--and a lesson in how one small thing can impact activities for weeks. Other challenges: replacing my passport, stolen after a careless moment, and paying a big repair bill for body damage to my aging car, done in a not-mindful moment. Otherwise, it was quite a fortunate year: continuing love from people I love, several reunions--one in Germany and Poland with 2 special friends from Tamagawa University days. Other first get-togethers in a long time came in Chicago and environs with relatives in the Bogdanski family (my mother's side), and another with my first boyfriend, Phil, who I had not seen in nearly 50 years. And then treasured yearly reunions with my sister and brother-in-law, Joan and Jim, the Orozco clan, and old friends from my youthful life in Chicago. And then there was treasured time in rural Colorado at my tiny house in Florissant, still nestled on the property of my long-time friend, Linda. Only a few weeks there, due to being sidelined with my broken toe, but precious all the same.

And now a new year of life and new lunar year begins, so last year's memories will blend into the new ones created. And hopefully new actions--dare I say, accomplishments? My prime goal is to do everything I can to help Democrats win in November and end this years-long nightmare on Pennsylvania Avenue, as well as my intermittent despair over it all. Among other things, I'm eyeing organizing some weekly sessions with neighbors and friends to write postcards to voters in flippable districts. See Postcards to Voters for more information on that. Another prime goal: to be a good friend to my friends and family, especially those with health challenges. Other less urgent goals: to continue the Essentrics exercise program I'm doing with neighbors every week. And of course to write more entries in this blog. And in general being mindful all the time and especially with passports and cars. May each of you reach your goals this year too.