Teacher, Teacher

A couple of nights ago, I received a phone call from an old friend...a woman who's been a school teacher in the public school system for over 20 yrs. As soon as I heard the crack in Sue's voice, I knew something was wrong.


"I've had a terrible day," she said, "One of my former students killed himself, today. Thirteen years old. He got hold of his father's shotgun and blew his head off. Thirteen years old, Lana."


There is really nothing I can say about this tragedy that wouldn't be stating the obvious: it's horrible, it's sad, it's disturbing. I feel for this boy and for his loved ones. But I'm not here to write about him - I didn't even know him. His story, and how I found out about it, moved me to write about something that's been on my mind a lot, lately: the role teachers play in the lives of children.


I wonder if this boy had any idea that his tragic death would have such a profound effect on his former teacher? I wonder if he realized that someone thought about him, cared for him, and would mourn him in such a way? I wonder if he had any idea that, long after the school bell had rung - and even long after the school year had ended - his teacher would be thinking about him, wondering how he was doing, wishing him well?  Not every teacher does this, and even the ones who do, probably don't with every student. They're human beings, after all, not saints.


A good teacher, though, a great teacher, can have an incredible impact on the life of a student.  A few weeks ago, I was discussing this with my friend, Heidi (a teacher, herself.) I told Heidi about one of my favorite teachers, Ms. R - the 5th grade teacher who had the vision to introduce a room full of 9 and10 yr old "gifted' children to poetry not only on the page, but on vinyl. Ms. R started us out early in the school year by giving us rexograph copies of Edward Arlington Robinson's Richard Cory. We read the poem, and discussed it at length. We spent a whole session of Language Arts (what they called reading/English at the elementary school I attended) on this one poem. Ms. R didn't explain what the poem meant, but asked us to explain it to her, in our own words. There were no wrong answers - just different interpretations. (You may think this is a fairly straightforward poem to dedicate a whole afternoon to discussing: keep in mind that we were 9 and10 yrs old, this was our first foray, EVER, into reading poetry. It was an ambitious undertaking.) We loved it. The next day, Ms. R showed up with an old and very worn record album - her personal copy of Simon and Garfunkel's Sounds of Silence. She put the record on one of those big, portable record players that was in every classroom in the 70s, and played their version of Richard Cory, introducing us - a class full of 9 and 10 yr olds - to the idea that poetry didn't just live on the page, that poets could tell their stories in different ways, that music - even pop music - mattered.


It was a revelation. It changed everything for me. It is not an exaggeration to say that Ms. R was the first person to make me see that writing could carry weight, that it was a worthy pursuit.


This is just one example of how special a teacher she was. When I told Heidi about Ms. R -  how much she'd meant to me,  how I'd never forgotten that she once called my parents and gotten permission to take me with her to The Metropolitan Museum of Art on a Saturday, just because she wanted to, and how I wished I could thank her, all these years later, for all she'd she'd done, for all that her care and attention had meant to me - Heidi replied, "You've got to find her. Google her. Find her and tell her everything you're telling me."


And that's what I did. Hoping that Ms. R would somehow still be involved in education, even though she might well be at or past retirement age by now, I Googled her somewhat common name combined with "NYC public schools." Bingo. There she was....still involved with the public school system...now training young men and women how to integrate the arts into the classroom experience. How fitting. I sent Ms. R the following email, hoping against hope that it didn't sound corny or stupid, and figuring the worst that would happen would be getting no reply:

I'm writing in the hopes that you're the KR who taught at PS 321 in Brooklyn during the late 70s. If not, I'm sorry to bother you. If you are that KR, I'm glad to have found you, because I've always wanted to tell you what a difference you made in my life.

I don't expect you to remember me, but I was a 5th grade student in 1977, and you were one of my teachers. A great teacher. As a child, I took it for granted that every other child had a teacher who really cared and made an effort to keep things interesting, welcomed curiosity, and encouraged critical thinking. As an adult, I know better.  

A week ago, I heard Simon and Garfunkle's Richard Cory on the radio, and immediately thought about sitting in your classroom, reading E.A.R.'s poem, and listening to S&G's version of it. I asked one of my friends from childhood, who was also in your class, if he remembered you and the poetry you introduced us to.  William Carlos Williams. Percy Shelley. Vachel Lindsay. Langston Hughes. Robert Frost. Sure enough, his memories of that time were just as clear as mine, and just as fond. We talked about what a really special teacher you'd been, how lucky we'd been to have had the experience of being in your class. And more - I'll never forget that you once took me to the Met on your own time. On your day off. It was my first time going to the Met, and it changed my life. The Met became one of my favorite places in NYC, thanks to you. Thank you so much for that, and for so many things. The gifts you gave me 35 yrs ago are still precious to me.  

At any rate, I hope I've reached the right KR, because the KR who taught at PS 321 in 1977 really should know that the time and effort she put into working with a room full of ten year olds made a world of difference.

Corny? Maybe a little, but all true, so what the hell? I was thrilled, then, to receive this reply (note: names and specifics have been deleted for privacy) a  few hours later:

Dear Lana, You have indeed reached the right person…and I am typing with a big lump in my throat and a tear in my eye.  I have never, ever received a note/message/email like this!   

I have always loved teaching and the word “rewarding” doesn’t even begin to cover how I would describe your note, Lana.  I have very fond memories of teaching at PS  321…it was really an incredible school…I didn’t even mind being in the mini-school!  

I am presently working for (education-related agency) but the best part of my job is visiting schools and, because I really still love teaching, conducting workshops for teachers….I have one tomorrow…at the Met of course!   It is really my home away from home…I also volunteer in the Nolen Library at the Met around once or twice a month.  

But I would like to know more about you, Lana!  Please write back.  

Thank you so much for being thoughtful enough to write to me and share all of this.  It means more than you could possibly imagine!  

All the best and write back,KR 

To say that this made my day would be putting it mildly. It's immensely satisfying to be able to thank someone for such wonderful gifts 35 yrs after the fact. I didn't even realize, when I was 9 or 10, that there was anything I needed to thank this wonderful person for. That she so naturally and seemingly without effort gave us so much is part of what made her an outstanding teacher. As a 10 yr old, I didn't know how rare an opportunity I'd been granted. I'm so glad that, as a 45 yr old, I've been able to voice it and give thanks where thanks have been long overdue.


Teaching can be something of a thankless profession. Pathetic salaries, not much respect from the public,  overcrowded classrooms, difficult parents, problem children, supply shortages, budget cuts.....yet good people still choose teaching as a profession. A good teacher can make a huge difference. I'd urge anyone who has a memory of a special teacher to make the effort to thank them. I can tell you, first hand, how good it feels to successfully deliver that "thank you," and to find out that it doesn't fall on deaf ears. You may be surprised at how satisfying it can be to say "thanks."


And, to answer the inevitable question, yes - I've written back.

Blog for Choice 2012

My sister is probably my best friend. We were not close growing up. In fact, we did not like each other very much when we were kids. The six year gap in our ages may account for some of our problems. We also have very different personalities. She's always been very social and easy-going with people. I've always been more comfortable around books and ideas. She was always a rebel and a bad girl. I was the good girl in the family - going to school, rarely defying our parents. We clashed. We argued. Neither of us thought much of the other. This - our relationship -  all changed when she became a mother, and we became as close as two sisters can be.

In 1995, when my sister was 22 and I was 28, my sister came to me and asked for help. This was something she didn't ever really do because, as I've said, we didn't get along. It was a big deal for either of us to ask help from the other.

She came to me and said, "I need help. I think I'm pregnant. I guess I know I'm pregnant. I need help."

I answered, "Pregnant? Are you insane? You can't even bring yourself to wake up at a reasonable time in the morning and hold down a job - there's no way you're can be responsible for a baby. You're a baby, yourself. You seriously have to consider an abortion."

To my surprise she said, "I know. I agree. I think I want an abortion, but I'm scared to even find out about it. You're good at finding things out. Can you find out where I can get one, how much it costs, what I have to do? Please help me out. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

I promised to get her the information that day, saying to myself, "She's not even enough of a grownup to find out the damned phone number for Planned Parenthood, so there's no way she can even consider being a parent."

The next day, my sister came home from her visit to Planned Parenthood and sat down with me and our mother. Our mother was great about speaking openly about these issues. She was pro-choice and believed women needed to know about their options. She raised us to know about these things: sex, birth control, abortion rights. She raised us to know that having an abortion was absolutely a choice, and absolutely a choice that was acceptable. In her early 40s, she'd had her own pregnancy scare. Her days of having babies were long over. It turned out that she wasn't pregnant but, when she thought she might be, she'd been completely honest with me: her plan was to abort the pregnancy. She hadn't planned on having children past the age of 30. She'd taken precautions. If she was pregnant, it was because her birth control had failed.  She was already a grandmother (by my older sister) and this was no time to start over with motherhood. Most importantly: she just didn't want another baby. As it turned out, our mother hadn't been pregnant that time, but it had meant a lot to me that she'd been so frank about the situation.

When my sister sat us down, she explained to us that she'd been to Planned Parenthood, talked about her options, discussed the situation with the father of her unborn baby, and decided that abortion was just not for her. She couldn't do it, but she felt sure she could be a good parent. Her boyfriend was on board 100%, and actually very excited about the idea of being a father.  She'd made her choice, and we had to accept it. That's what we did.  In my head, I switched from thinking about this stupid mistake my sister had made, to thinking, "There will be a baby here in 7 or 8 months, and that baby is my niece or nephew. She's made her choice and the best thing I can do - the only thing I can do - is accept and support it."

In a flash, my sister made changes in her life. She set up house with her boyfriend. She became immersed in the business of keeping healthy and planning for parenthood. Her social life ceased to be her priority as she began nesting.

In my heart, I started to really look forward to the idea of a new baby. I love babies. My whole family loves babies. We tend to gather around a new baby and treat him like a king. It's the one area where we all agree: babies are amazing - a treasure. A few weeks after my sister had made her big announcement, I was walking home from work and saw a lovely, little hand-made baby hat in a store window. It looked like the top of a tomato, with an erect tassel for the stem. It was made of soft, merino wool - perfect for a newborn's delicate skin. I bought it and brought it home to my sister, casually dropping it on the table, where she sat reading a book about pregnancy and exercise. She looked up and asked, "What's this?"

I answered, "It's for your baby."

"You bought a present for my baby?" she asked, incredulously. "You don't even like me."

"Your baby is going to be my nephew. I like him. Of course I got him a present." I said.

Everything changed between us at that moment. The idea of that new baby changed me as much as it changed my sister. I warmed up to her. She warmed up to me. We started behaving like friends, instead of enemies. We started to feel for one another the way sisters should feel, if they're really lucky. It's really amazing what the idea of a new baby can do to  and for people.

When my nephew, Derrick, was born, I was among the first to rush to the hospital to hold him. He was beautiful. I fell in love at first sight. My sister and her boyfriend asked if I would be his godmother. Yes, they knew I was gay, and that the Catholic church didn't technically allow homosexuals to baptize babies, but they didn't care what the church said - I was their first and only choice...the person they wanted to entrust with the care of their precious baby should anything happen to them. I promise you this really happened, and that I haven't lifted it from a Lifetime movie.

I am so glad my sister had her baby. He was a wonderful baby. He's now a wonderful young man. I couldn't love him more if her were my own son. I've told him many times, over the years, that one of the reasons he's special to me is that he brought me and my sister together, when it seemed nothing would. In so many ways, he worked miracles.

So, I'm glad my sister made the choice to have her baby. But I'm so damned glad she had the choice to make, and that it wasn't made for her. When she made the decision to go to term with this pregnancy, it was an informed choice, and she made it, in part, after talking to Planned Parenthood about her many options. In retrospect, I'm glad she didn't opt for an abortion, but I thank God that abortion was an option for her....that she didn't feel trapped....that our mother and grandmother believed in speaking openly and non-judgmentally about choice. Every woman has the right to make these choices for and about her own body, about her own health, about her own future, for herself.

The Moment Of Happiness

I've had a hell of month. In late December, I had a serious health scare...what should have been a routine nose bleed turned into this major production. Blood shooting out of my nose and mouth like an open faucet. Gag reflex going into effect. Struggles for air. Phone calls to nurses. 24 hours of steady bleeding, racing heart, fear, anxiety, no sleep, dread.

I live alone. It occurred to me, "What if I die like this...in a pool of my own blood? It could take days for anyone to miss me. I'd be found on my bloody carpet, half dressed, my already decomposing body covered in dried blood and vomit. People would see that my bathroom needs a cleaning, that lots of the socks and underwear in my dresser have holes in them, that my fridge has nothing in it but a frozen pizza, three jars of mustard, and a bag of wilted lettuce. That I was watching a Law & Order marathon when death came to take me away. How pathetic."

The events that set me on this course of thinking also set me on a course to a doctor, to find out why the hell my nose had bled for 24 hrs straight. My HMO assigned me to an incredibly dreamy ENT. 25, maybe 26. Drop-dead gorgeous. Charming. Soft-spoken. For whatever reason, she talked to me as if I were a precious, scared baby, instead of a 44 year old woman with a NY accent. My nose was fine, she told me - just dry. I should stop scratching it, rubbing it, picking at it, and blowing it. All things I'm guilty of.  It's itchy, it's dry, I have a lifelong history of sinus pressure and congestion. I mess with my nose a lot. I couldn't do that, anymore, Dr. Dreamy informed me. Oh, and one more thing, my blood pressure was dangerously high. I needed to see my primary doctor ASAP, and I should consider doing 30 minutes of exercise a day, five days a week. That got my attention.  I mean, it really got my attention. So much so that, instead of catching the bus directly home, I walked the first 35 blocks of the trip to get in a little cardio. Surviving 24 hours of bleeding would really suck if the whole thing ended with me dying on some city bus from a heart attack triggered by high blood pressure.

I got a call from my primary doc a few days later. He's awesome. He noted that we hadn't seen each other in ages, and suggested we seize the day and make it a full physical, complete with blood work. Sounded good to me. I fasted after 9 pm (after, I admit, a dinner that was insanely carb-heavy) and arrived at his office the next morning. A nurse tried to take my blood pressure and failed three times. I kept telling her I believed the cuff was faulty, and that she was pinching my arm. She ignored me and kept trying. Finally, she gave up with the words, "This cuff must be broken. I won't pinch you anymore. Let's see what the doctor can do." I went in to the doc. Dr Huang is really sweet. Youngish...maybe 35. Very bright. Very thoughtful. A good listener. He pulled out his old, reliable manual blood pressure meter, put the cuff on me and talked small talk while he took my pressure. It wasn't bad. Only two points higher than it should be for someone my age and weight. He told me to work on diet and exercise, because there didn't seem to be a point in prescribing meds for two points that he was confident I could lower through lifestyle. I liked that. I liked that he didn't rush to meds. I liked that he showed confidence in me to do the right thing. He listened to my heart and lungs and said they sounded clear and strong. We talked about a few things - stuff I've been meaning to get to. Sleep apnea. A referral for a grief counselor.  When we were done, he sent me off to the lab for blood work.


My HMO has a great member website. I can email my doc, make appointments, order meds...all online. The site also makes lab results available to patients in real time. My first lab results came back that night. My overall cholesterol level is great. 162. A 25 yr old would kill for that. Sodium, white and red blood cells, triglycerides, hemoglobin...all perfect.  My vitamin D was way down, but the doc told me to expect that, and that he'd arrange for supplements.

Life can change so suddenly.

The last result to come back was glucose. 217. I know this is high. Very high. Especially for a fasting level. I froze up. My body filled with panic. Diabetes. I know this disease. I ought to. I've never lived without it as a part of my life. My grandmother had it long before I was born. My grandfather developed it. My other grandmother developed it. My mother had it. Some of her 8 siblings had or have it. I have cousins who live with it. At least two of my great grandparents had it. I didn't want it. Yet, I can't say as I was surprised by my blood glucose level. Not only do I have an incredibly strong genetic predisposition, but I'm fat and inactive. I eat too much meat, pasta and cheese, and not enough greens. I was not shocked, but I was scared.

That was a little less than a month ago. Since then, my life has changed drastically. No, that's too passive. Since then, I've made drastic changes in my life. How and what I eat has changed. My sleep patterns have changed. My activity level has changed. As much of a cliche as it might be, this came as a wake-up call. Dr Huang is lovely..we've had some nice talks on the phone, and he's been incredibly encouraging and positive. He's talked about how useless it is to regret past behavior or blame one's self for this sort of thing, and how much better it is to seize the day and give one's self credit for affecting positive change, a little at a time. He's talked about how my condition had been caught early and how the second fasting test he ordered, just a week after the first, already showed improvement due to steps I'd taken on my own to get healthier. He's talked about how my family history of diabetes may give me an edge other people don't have, because I know the disease, I've lived among it, I know it's possible to live with it.

My mother died at 65. She was diabetic. Her diabetes led to kidney failure and blindness and, almost certainly added to the heart disease that eventually killed her long before she should have left us. This is scary. My mother, though, had a lifelong respiratory illness, and degenerative bone disease. These conditions kept her from being able to do many of the things people with diabetes need to do to remain healthy and strong, and prevent organ damage and side effects. In many ways, she never had a chance. I don't have respiratory or bone disease. I do have access to a gym that I've been going to 5-6 days a week for the last month or so. I do have the luxury of shopping and cooking only for myself, and not for a whole family. I do have excellent health insurance.  I also have my late grandmother to think of: she died in 1991, when she was 81. She'd had diabetes for about 35 years, but only become insulin dependent during the last five years of her life. She never went blind. Never developed neuropathy. Never developed kidney disease. She didn't have half the resources or knowledge that I have, but she kicked this disease to a little corner, took control of her life, lived it to the fullest, and died at a ripe, old age. I have her blood coursing through my veins. I have her DNA. I'd like to think I have her spirit, or at least a touch of it.

This morning, after a killer 45 minute cardio workout, I treated myself to a soak in the jacuzzi. It's a really nice, in-ground jacuzzi. Big enough for 15 people or so. Like a tiny swimming pool. It's set among trees that attract hummingbirds and sparrows. One can lay back, look up at the blue sky, and feel the hot jets, as hummingbirds zip past. Really lovely. As is often the case, I had it to myself. As I lay back, listening to the birdsong, it occurred to me: I felt happy. Really happy. Physically and emotionally stronger than I've been in 18 months. Not in the least bit lonely or sad. Not scared. Invigorated by my workout. Cheerful about the birds zipping around. Proud of myself for  not only eating sensibly, but learning to really enjoy the challenge. Deeply satisfied to be wearing a bathing suit that was too snug just a month ago.  This life - it's a damned good one.

Happiness. It's crept up on me.

© 2012 Lana M. Nieves

Limited Licensing: I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby publish it under the Creative Commons Attribution license, granting distribution of my copyrighted work without making changes, with mandatory attribution to Lana M. Nieves and for non-commercial purposes only. - Lana M. Nieves 

2011: The Year in Review

A week early, but why the hell not? I don't expect anything exceptional to happen next week. In no particular order, my best and worst of 2011:

Best Movie You Almost Certainly Didn't See -

Meeks' Cutoff

The story: During the mid 1800s, a party of migrants are moving westward. They hire a guide, who leads them astray with promises of a shortcut. They are lost. They are hungry. They have almost no water left. All they can do is keep walking.  A visual and emotional feast. If you're in it for chase scenes, a soundtrack, and a big, obvious story, don't bother. This quiet movie (there is almost no dialgoue) is all about the getting there. Or, to be more accurate, the NOT getting there. 

Bruce Greenwood, a vastly under-appreciated actor, has never been better. Michelle Williams is as good as ever, turning in what may be the most honest portrayal of a strong woman I've seen in years. In many ways, it's a feminist film. It is a thing of a beauty. I'm willing to bet almost no one who reads this actually saw it. That's a damned shame. It really deserved to be seen on a big screen.

Book Most Likely To Break your Heart, and Maybe Mend It -

Joan Didion's Blue Nights

Joan Didion's life has revolved around loss for well over two years, now. A prolific writer, she turns to the tools of her trade to deal with this loss. Blue Nights, which picks up, so to speak, where The Year of Magical Thinking left off, is a collection of Didion's reflections on the life and death of her only child, on her efforts to keep grief at bay, on the many people who have moved through her life in in the last 77 years, on aging alone, on her own mortality. On realizing that, no matter what our losses, we have only two choices: to keep on living, or to die. Beautifully written. Anyone who has suffered a loss will feel this one. As empowering as it is heartbreaking.  

Piece of News that Did My New York Heart The Most Good - 

Same Sex Marriage Becomes Legal in New York

The photo says it all. Bless their married, lesbian hearts. I've never been prouder to call myself a native New Yorker.  To date, no less than four people from my high school graduating class of under 200 have legally married their same sex partners in NY. Now, if only we could get a federal ruling that had teeth.

Funniest TV Moment-Cum-Internet-Meme -

Rum Ham

You kind of had to be there. If you were, it was funny as shit.

Best and Biggest Campfest on TV -

American Horror Story's Gays

When Zach Quinto comes out of the closet, he really comes out of the closet

Most Annoying Character on A Most Promising New Show -

Amy Jellicoe, Enlightened 

Laura Dern's Amy Jellicoe has been to rehab and back, and she's got all the answers. A great show. A main character I want to strangle, even as I root for things to work out her way. Just shut up, Amy.

Most Original Villain -

Gillian Darmody, Boardwalk Empire

I've said it before, I'll say it again: Boardwalk Empire isn't really about prohibition. It's all about the women. And no woman loomed larger in season 2 than Gretchen Mol's Gillian Darmody. Gillian is no paper cut-out. She's got dimension and a past...a past that includes horrors perpetrated against her, and horrors she's perpetrated against her own son. We all saw it coming - the incest - but did anyone see that scene and not feel shock, revulsion, and fury? By season's end, there were two women holding the purse strings that control Atlantic City, and one of them was Gillian. I, for one, am stoked. Bring it. 

Worst TV Trend -

Whitney Cummings Taking Over the World of Network Television

More annoying than those asshole kids from Glee. That's saying a hell of a lot. I refuse to post a clip. 

Best New Music - 

Alabama Shakes

Yes, the singer sounds very Janis Joplinesque. She's good. She's damned good. The whole band is good. Her voice is like Joplin, but the band has a sound all its own. And she's not another Madonna clone. Lady Gaga, I'm looking at you.

Performer Whose Talents Are Most Wasted on Crap -

Lady Gaga 

Yeah, I said it. Her pop music is crap. Her persona is annoying as hell. But listen to that voice. Why is she pretending to be Madonna, when there's so much real talent that's all Gaga? If only she'd make this kind of performance her mainstay. I might have to start liking her. 

Most Inconsequential Sporting News -

If New York or Boston Don't Win A Pennant, Does The World Series Really Matter?

Most Satisfying Sporting News -

New Zealand Wins The 2011 Rugby World Cup

Not just because I'm a proud Kiwi citizen who'll always have a warm spot in my heart for New Zealand. Not just because the All Blacks are majestic. Not just because they won it at home. Mostly because kicking French ass at anything makes everyone feel good. 

Striking a Nerve

Yesterday's blog post, about the shadiness of Prospect Park's efforts to "circumvent the unions" and bring ABC's recently cancelled shows to the web without having to deal with the bother of paying actors, camera operators, writers, wardrobe people, etc. fair wages,  obviously struck a chord with people. I've never received so many private messages, Tweets or Facebook comments about/links to a blog post as this one. Nor have any of my previous blog posts ever received so many hits in so short a time.

I know I didn't write The Great Gatsby, or say anything remotely original. In fact, I think the reason so many people have read that piece, and passed it along to others is that I didn't say anything revolutionary. I think a lot of people heard the news about Prospect Park considering bringing in an overseas partner and bypassing the unions and felt the same way I did: that this would be just plain wrong. It flies in the face of what so many people are fighting for, these days: workers' rights, basic benefits, the end of the huge inequity between the 1% and the 99%. I believe a lot  of people read about PP's on-going negotiations and thought, "This is wrong."

Interestingly enough, of all the communication I've had about this blog entry, only one party has come out in favor of Prospect Park, and the move to squash existing union rules. I won't name the party, because I'm not interested in giving free publicity to an outfit that supports union busting. what I will say is that it's a new media production company. I'll also say that their arguments in favor of PP's efforts are as "ridiculous" as they labelled my blog post.

According to this party, working within a new media should abolish baseline union standards that were developed for television. A new medium, according to this party, calls for a whole new set of rules. This party likens the unions involved to the unions that protects the person employed to raise the curtain at Broadway theaters - these days, the curtains are opened and closed electronically, yet union rules still call for a curtain raiser to be paid a full salary. Pretty ridiculous. I agree. But it's a comparison that makes no sense. This party argues that a new medium calls for new negotiations and new contracts. That's double speak for "we think it's ok to pay people less money and cut their benefits, if we want to, because this isn't tv, where budgets are big."  If this isn't One-Percent-Speak, I don't know what is.

This was never about having to pay a curtain man, even though the function had become automated.

Quite the opposite: it's about expecting the curtain man to show up and do his job, as usual,  but only get paid as if his job was mostly being done by a machine.

New media IS a different animal from television. That's why it was "ridiculous" for Prospect Park to promise the public the same production quality, the same casts, and the same frequency of programming. Since the media is new, what needs to be renegotiated first shouldn't be how much the actors or writers or crew earn. What needed to be negotiated from the very beginning was - HOW COULD THESE SHOWS BE CHANGED TO REALISTICALLY BE DEVELOPED FOR WEB VIEWING?  Instead, Prospect park thought backwards - they promised the whole enchilada, and then figured they could buy it at the rate of a questionable 99c Taco Bell taco.

The party that came out against my blog called it not only "ridiculous", but "unfair."

That's rich. Prospect Park is trying to bilk workers out of their hard-earned union rights, and I'm being unfair.

The Case For New Media 


In case anyone is wondering, I'm the last person to be against web-based programming. If anything, I'm excited by it. I think it's the future of entertainment. I think it's a shame that the most widely talked-about new media venture these days is Prospect Park's attempt to bring OLTL and AMC to the web, because it's a mess, and it's not representative of what new media can be. Neither are the ridiculous and unfair arguments made by the unnamed new media operation mentioned above.

Successful new media ventures have been the ones that haven't tried to simply lift a television or cinema model and stick it on the web. I'm not a fan of Venice: The Series, but at least the people who developed it had the presence of mind to create something that didn't require 15 elaborate sets. What I saw of the series used only two or three sets that were existing structures: restaurant scenes filmed in an actual restaurant. hotel room scenes filmed in a hotel room, living room scenes filmed in someone's living room. A lot of what I saw on Venice was a mess, but at least they got this right.

Tello Films produces original, successful programming that's been specifically developed for the web. No one-hour, daily shows with a cast of 30, and a 52-week schedule. Their programming works on the web because it was specifically developed, from the ground up, for the web. They don't promise or claim to recreate the television experience; they offer a new and different programming experience.

And this is the root of Prospect Park's debacle. They thought they could lift two established television programs that cost an enormous amount to produce, and just drop them, as they were, onto the internet. In their screwy, stupid and greedy minds they figured, "Same shows, same frequency, same amount of work...but if people are watching on smaller screens we can pay people less to make them."

Now THAT is ridiculous and unfair.

Occupy Your Conscience

Today, We Love Soaps announced that Prospect Park is still talking about picking up One Life To Live and All My Children and turn them into web-based programs. We all know - some of us always knew - that this is a financial impossibility, based on what it costs to produce each hour-long, daily show, 52 weeks a year. And that's what Prospect Park promised. When this whole, hair-brained plot was made public, PP wrote a check they couldn't cash: they promised to keep producing hour-long episodes, of the same production quality viewers were used to, with the same cast, to run every day, 52 weeks a year. Those of us who stopped to think about that for half a second knew it would never happen. We knew it COULD never happen. Not like that. Of course, we were taking for granted that "the same high production values" implied using the same, union labor. Last week, when Prospect park quietly let go of the idea of taking these shows online, there was a lot of talk of union negotiations having fallen apart.

Stop and think about this for a minute - if PP is saying that the only think keeping them from moving these long-running shows to the web was a union issue, what they're really saying is, "We wanted to cut people's salaries and benefits, but we expected the same amount of work, and the same caliber of work from them."

Over the last 10-15 years, budgets for daytime drama have plummeted. Everyone has taken massive pay cuts - even the most bankable actors. Production costs have been slashed to the bare bones, and we've all read about how actors no longer even have rehearsal time - too expensive! And PP wanted to move in an make further cuts?

If this weren't a television production we were discussing, but a construction project, how would you feel about this proposition? If I said to you, "I want to build a skyscraper, but I want to save money. I know the construction workers used to make $50 an hour, and that they've gone to $40 in the last few years, but I'm thinking I'll pay them $30 an hour. Maybe cut their lunch hour down to 30 minutes, and make them buy their own hammers and nails. And I'll expect them to put up a building as quickly and as well as I would have expected at full wage and with full benefits and the best equipment." - what would you think? If someone presented that proposition to me I'd think they were a cheap bastard looking to exploit labor, and I'd make a note to never go into their building, because I'd have some serious doubts about the quality of the construction.

Prospect Park's "negotiations" with the various trade unions are no different. Because of this, I was glad the announcement was made last week about the abandonment of this project. I would have liked to have seen these shows continue, but not at the expense of workers' rights.

Today, We Love Soaps announced that PP may well still be in discussions about their plan to bring OLTL and AMC to the web. Instead of dealing with the unions, though:

"Prospect Park is said to be considering bringing in an overseas firm to turn the shows into a co-production. That may or may not allow the shows to circumvent the unions, which couldn't come to terms with Prospect Park on compensation for talent on both sides of the camera."

Take that in: "may allow them to circumvent the unions."

Just to make sure we're on the same page, I'll spell this out for you: "circumventing the unions" is a nice way of saying "fuck the workers, fuck their union protection, fuck their minimum wage, fuck their benefits, fuck their job safety." It's a way of saying that, if trade unions won't fold and give up whatever protections they've fought long and hard to secure for their members, Prospect Park will gladly hire scabs who will do the work cheaper. It's even saying they'll be happy to pick up these projects and film them elsewhere, where union rules don't apply.

THIS IS NOT GOOD NEWS.
I don't care how much you love these shows,
THIS S NOT GOOD NEWS.
In an economy where the little guy is getting fucked over in every way possible,
THIS IS NOT GOOD NEWS.
For writers, actors, and technical crew people who deserve fair wages and benefits,
THIS IS NOT GOOD NEWS.

If someone came into your workplace and tried this, you'd be livid. And you should be. Because this is bullshit. I've loved soaps my whole life but, for the love of God, how can anyone think it is ok for the big, bad PP to muscle in and tell professionals that their services are worthless, that the employment rights they've fought for are meaningless, and that they can be easily replaced with cheap labor? Forget this is a tv show we're talking about. Think about it happening in a store, or a school, or a hospital, or any other workplace. This is the same shit that pisses people off about American corporations setting up shop in Thailand and paying pennies for labor that, under American union rules, would and should cost dollars. Forget these are tv shows - they're businesses. Workplaces. Forget these are writers and actors and camera operators and editors and makeup men. They're workers. Labor. They work, and they deserve a fair wage and benefits.

Check your conscience before being happy about this development. Is your love of soap operas really worth fucking over the concepts of fair compensation, workplace security, and union protection?

Dribs and Drabs

It's been a while since I've done one of these, so here goes....

Best Serious Read: Joan Didion's Blue Nights
Read it. You will read nothing better this year.  It will break your heart. It may also help mend your heart.

Love, loss, heartbreak, mortality, and denial. We all know these things. Joan Didion has the courage to write about them.

Best Crazy-Ass Fun on Basic Cable: American Horror

Two words: Jessica Lange.

She will creep you the hell out. The show is full of holes and faults, but it's as much fun as a carnival ride, and Lange is deliciously twisted.

Best Cheap Amazon Download: Diminished Capacity

Girl meets girl. Girl gets dumped by girl. Girl throws away promising Hollywood career for meth addiction and adventures in identity theft. AND IT'S ALL TRUE.

Julie Hansen's self-published ebook could use some editing, and it takes a little while to get used to her fast-paced, stream-of-consciousness writing, but it's well worth it. A friend who read it likened it to having a conversation with a really smart, witty speed freak - you may have to put it down, every so often, but you wont be able to help picking it up, again.

Six dollars you'll be glad you spent.

Best Illustration of Why The Internet Is Awesome: Was Monroe Raped? 

Watch it. All the way through. And, yes, I totally remember this.


Best Thing To Happen to Kid's Lit: TOON Books 

The best of comic book art meets great writing for beginning readers. They're awesome. I started with Luke on the Loose, and ended up buying the entire set of Toon Books for my nephew, who's discovered the joy of reading. 

Best Artist To Watch Out For: Jenn Hayes 

I discovered her stuff by accident via a friend on Facebook, and immediately fell in love with her creativity and playful style. I had to buy one of her papercrafting pieces for myself. And then another for friends who were celebrating their 25th anniversary. Watch this space: Jenn Hayes is going to be big.

The Proustian Moment

I went to a weird, little liberal arts college where there was almost no structure. In some ways, it was goofy and ridiculous as hell. In other ways, it was pretty damned great. I think it was mostly pretty great. Most of the best people I know are people I met there. Many of the best times, were had there.

There was no set course list at Goddard. No such thing as a course catalogue. Instead, every semester, people would make suggestions about what group studies (never "classes" - they were called "group studies") should be available. Students would make suggestions. Faculty would make suggestions. Even staff would make suggestions. If the woman who ran the mail room had a suggestion, well, hell...she would be heard and her idea might just make the cut. This could be frustrating. It meant that the first week or two of each semester was spent figuring out what would be offered, who would lead groups, what readings lists and curricula would look like. There would be no English Lit 101 at Goddard. Why would there be, when the sky was the limit? Why would anyone opt for that, when they could choose, as I did my first semester, a group study called Madame Bovary and The Cat?  Madame Bovary and The Cat was the brainchild of Kathryn Davis : a group study in which participants read Flaubert's novel, spent months dissecting one book, and then, at the end of the semester, dissected an actual cat. It sounds crazy, but it was kind of glorious; dissecting a book and a character with our minds, and then moving to a lab setting, and using our hands to slice open a dead cat (who, incidentally, had been pregnant when she died...we opened her up to find a gorgeous litter of fully-formed, dead kittens inside - that was somehow fitting.) I remember the day we dissected the cat. None of us had any training in this area. It wasn't a science class. We were using scalpels and rubber gloves, but we were using them as literary tools. Kathryn looked at us (all four of us) and asked, "How should we cut, and why? Any ideas?" It was quite something. Instead of research papers, participants in the group were free to do whatever type of final project we chose. Why write an academic paper, when you could create a collection of personal effects for Emma Bovary? A birth certificate, passport, driver's license - all playing on Flaubert's vague and ever-changing descriptions of his protagonist. That was my project - the Emma Bovary dossier. Someone else created an installation that struck me as a tribute to repulsiveness. It consisted of an old, plastic soda bottle hanging from the ceiling, a slow but steady stream of pink, gooey liquid falling from it, leaving a disgusting puddle on the floor. I'm not sure what it meant, if it did, indeed, mean anything at all. But it wasn't boring. A paper on Madame Bovary would have been boring. Does the world really need another college term paper on Flaubert?

But I digress. I don't really want to write about my college experience, except by way of writing about an experience I had a few days ago. One of the last group studies I took at Goddard, and one of the more traditional, was called The Art of Memory. Mark Doty, who suggested the group and facilitated it, was interested in memory as a creative trigger for writers. It was Proust's moment with a cup of tea and a cookie - the moment that resulted in Remembrance of Things Past - that inspired the group study. The first volume was sort our class guide - we read it slowly, during the course of the semester, while also doing a number of writing exercises that involved using memory as a creative trigger. It seemed like a great concept but, to be honest, I found Proust incredibly boring and not at all moving or inspirational. At the last group meeting, Doty treated us all to tea and madeleines, with the idea that the combination would trigger memories for us the way it had for Proust. It didn't, of course. Because that particular combination was Marcel Proust's trigger, not mine. Proust's pivotal moment was, for me, just a cookie dipped in weak tea. Ho hum.

But everyone has his or her own tea and madeleines.

We've started getting cold weather in San Francisco. I happen to be broke, and buying a box of cheap, instant cocoa for $1.99 is cheaper than shelling out $2.00 for a cup of hot cocoa at a local coffee shop. A few days ago, when it was especially cold in the middle of the afternoon, I opened a packet of Nestle's cocoa, emptied it into a mug, and filled the mug with hot water from the electric kettle we have at work. I gave the hot cocoa a stir with a plastic spoon, threw the spoon away, and took a sip as I walked down the hallway towards my office. That subtle saltiness that's always there in cheap cocoa hit my tongue and, for a moment I left my body and found myself at another moment in my life.

I am very young and I know, somehow, that I am the youngest of my mother's children: there is no baby sister, yet. This means I am no older than 5. This means it must be no later than 1972. My mother and I have spent the day together, alone. A rare thing, and I can't imagine where my older sister is, but I don't really care. A day alone with my mother is like magic. I love being with her. She is fun and lovable. We are in the Flatiron district of Manhattan, near her job. She's taken me to work on this day, and then to a wholesale dealer of toys and novelties, where I was allowed to pick out a few items from the 50 cent bin. The afternoon ends with the two of us at a diner. Eating out is a rare treat in 1972, not a common occurrence, the way it is in 2011. I want to sit at the counter and spin around on the round stool. Yes, that's fine. We sit at the counter and eat sandwiches. Grilled cheese? Maybe tuna salad. Each sandwich comes with a dill pickle on the side and my mother, who never liked pickles, gives me hers. We also have tiny, metal bowls with crunchy cole slaw. So yummy. When the waitress asks my mother if she'd like coffee, she scrunches up her nose. She never drinks what we call "American coffee," meaning Maxwell House made in a drip coffee maker and kept warm for hours. In our family, we drink rich, finely ground, Puerto Rican coffee filtered through a colador - a muslin coffee sock.

Even I drink this strong coffee, with boiled milk and sugar. Even I know to scrunch up my nose at American coffee. Instead, my mother orders hot cocoa. The waitress asks if we'd like marshmallows or whipped cream. I look up at my mother, who smiles with her big, brown eyes and says, with a hint of fun in her voice, "Both!" I have had hot cocoa, before, but never marshmallows, and never whipped cream. When our mugs arrive, they're piled high with swirls of cream. My mother tells me to go ahead and taste the cream, but to be careful - the cocoa is very hot. She slides a spoon under the whipped cream and pulls out a melted mini marshmallow, blows on it to cool it off, and then spoon-feeds it to me as if I were, once again, her baby. A little of the cocoa is on the spoon and I taste a subtle saltiness. The same saltiness I will taste in 2011. The same subtle saltiness that will send me reeling back for just a moment, make me so happy to be in that time and place I'd almost forgotten about. The same subtle saltiness that, once the Proustian moment is over, will leave my heart aching and leave me without breath as I say to myself, out loud, "Oh...Ma...."

Oh. Ma.

© 2012 Lana M. Nieves

Limited Licensing: I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby publish it under the Creative Commons Attribution license, granting distribution of my copyrighted work without making changes, with mandatory attribution to Lana M. Nieves and for non-commercial purposes only. - Lana M. Nieves 

Toe Pick

My blogging over the years has been a bit of verbal jambalaya. I'm just as interested in the human condition as I am in the week's tv listings. I might blog one day about human rights, and the next about this week's episode of Boardwalk Empire. And why not? Pop culture speaks volumes about who we are and where we are in time. What we read, watch, listen to - it's all about stories, isn't it? And what is the study of human nature if not the study of the stories that human beings share, pass down, are drawn to at any moment in time?

A few days ago, I was flipping channels and stumbled upon a movie I have never been able to resist: 1992's The Cutting Edge. Now, I won't tell you this is a great movie, or even a good movie. It's not. It's cheese. But not just any cheese. It's visual Velveeta. You know the stuff. You laugh at it on the sly but, every so often, when you're all alone - or maybe with a close friend - nothing hits the spot like a grilled cheese sandwich made with Velveeta and Wonder Bread. Or maybe you get stoned (people still do that, right?) and find yourself with the munchies at  2am. You're not going to pull the brie out of the fridge and let it warm up to room temperature. You're not shaving paper-thin slices of imported parmesan. You're not Making toast points and grilling Spanish bleu cheese. You're going to pull out that big, yellow box, peel away the thick foil, and cut yourself a hunk of Velveeeta. Or you're going to turn on the tv and hope that The Cutting Edge is on cable.

It's ok to admit it.
I do.
I love that craptastic movie. If it's on cable, I HAVE to watch it. And I've come to realize that a lot of other people of my generation feel this way. But why? It's not the most interesting movie. There really aren't any laughs. It doesn't even have a memorable soundtrack or theme song. And it was released in 1992 - my teen years were long over by then, so it's not the whole "that's the movie I saw with my first love!" thing. People my age did not go see this movie on their first date. Sooooooo...WHAT'S THE BIG THING ABOUT THE CUTTING EDGE AND WHAT DOES IT SAY ABOUT GENERATION X?

I think I know.

This movie, although released in 1992, is a nod to the 80s. The last vestige of everything the 80s were about. We initially watched The Cutting Edge because Moira Kelly was hot (I'm a lesbian) and D.B. Sweeney was adorable (I'm gay, not blind), but we watch it again, and again because it's the best snapshot of the decade that preceded it. The decade when, for better or worse, people my age made the shift to adulthood. It's a dumb movie that we can't resist. The 80s?  A dumb decade that, try as we might, we can't resist having a little nostalgia for. And, if you're not resisting this nostalgia, but embracing it and think the 80s were just wonderful, I'm here to tell you that you're seeing that decade through bong-water-stained glasses. The 80s were fucking stupid, and our love for The Cutting Edge is a nod to our love for sheer stupidity. Think about it: it's a heterosexual love story that centers on FIGURE SKATING. It is the swan song to the decade when Brian Boitano told America that he was a straight figure skater from San Francisco, and America swallowed it, hook, line and sinker.

The entire decade was a 10 year tribute to stupidity, poor judgement, and bad taste. Synthesized drums. Acid washed denim. Shoulder pads. Leg warmers. Toni Basil. The Porky's movie franchise.

Stop fighting it.

Duran Duran was a shitty band.
Flashdance was an awful movie.
The California Raisins were stupid.
Max headroom was annoying.
Rainbows and unicorns were corny as shit.
Miami Vice has not aged well.
V.C. Andrews' books were creepy and badly written.
Ronald Fucking Reagan was a terrible, fucking president.

And that's it. That's what The Cutting Edge is all about. It's about how fucking crappy and stupid shit was for 10 whole fucking years, and how stupid we were to buy black rubber bracelets, wear shoes without socks, listen to Flock of Seagulls and think "Where's The Beef?" was funny. The brilliant thing about it - and you have director Paul Michael Glaser to thank for this -  about this silly, cheesy, little movie.....is that it reminds us of our own stupidity - about the stupidity of an entire nation for an entire decade - and it does it in a gentle way.

I don't watch the toe pick scene and think, "Do they really expect us to believe that a guy who's been playing hockey for his whole life has no idea what a regular pair of ice skates looks like and what a toe pick is? I don't even fucking skate and even I know what it is. This is fucking idiotic!" I don't think that. I don't think anything close to that. I see that scene and think, "Awww...this is embarrassingly silly. Moira Kelly is so haughty and pretty. D.B. Sweeney is so freaking goofy and cute."

Scroll up and look at that picture. They're not fucking idiots - they're sweet and hopeful. And we love them, in all their stupidity, because we don't want to think of ourselves as the tacky, stupid generation who came into our own as conspicuous consumers of  complete and utter horse shit because we had such bad taste and poor judgement. We'd rather look back and think of ourselves as silly, lovable kids who played PacMan, loved Ghostbusters (which, BTW, is a fucking stupid movie), and listened to the Purple Rain soundtrack on our Walkmans until the cassettes snapped.

Toe pick.

Hey, don't blame me:  I was too young to vote for Ronald Reagan.

© 2012 Lana M. Nieves

Limited Licensing: I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby publish it under the Creative Commons Attribution license, granting distribution of my copyrighted work without making changes, with mandatory attribution to Lana M. Nieves and for non-commercial purposes only. - Lana M. Nieves 

A River Runs Through It

Last week, one of America's anti-same-sex marriage pundits (you know the guy...his name has become synonymous with "the frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the by-product of anal sex") said he'd "die to stop same-sex marriage."  My first first reaction? Great, let's kill him. My second reaction? Asking myself how people can be so stupid that they refuse to see when they are fighting a losing battle.

People who waste time and energry opposing same sex marriage are a lot of things: close-minded, ignorant, selfish, self-rightous, intolerant, bigotted. They're also just stupid. That's what I've finally come to see as the plain truth. People who fight the inevitable are stupid. If you were to jump into a raging river, the kind of river where white water rafting is popular, and stand there, hoping against hope to stop the water from getting past you...if you were to do this, I'd tell you that you were stupid. If you were to place a penny on train tracks, in the hopes that it would stop the 5:15 dead, I'd tell you that you were stupid. If you were to hand out bible tracts, believing you could talk hormone-raging teens from wanting to have sex, I'd tell you that you were stupid. If you think you can stop same-sex couples from loving one another, building lives together, forming families and, yes, getting married? You are fucking stupid. Because the movement for equal rights isn't a trickle. It's a roaring rapid. It's an express train without breaks. It's a horny 16 year old boy who'll fuck a jagged hole in the wall, if only he can get close enough. Maybe you can cause a ripple in the flow of water, or get a train to slow down for a second, or force a couple of teenaged lovers to find a more clandestine place to secretly have sex, but you won't stop these things. You can't. And you really, truly are stupid if you think otherwise.

This is what it's like in America, today, when it comes to same-sex couples. While you (yeah, stupid, I'm talking to you) rant and rave about how same-sex marriage will destroy family values, gay couples all over America are getting together, setting up lives, and even getting married. In short, they're quietly proving just how stupid you are. And they're not doing it less than they did before you started acting like a dog with a bone about this issue. They're doing it more often, and more publicly. Even if they're not getting legally married, they're buying homes together, starting businesses together, raising children together.  The minute one state allowed same-sex marriages, the flood gates were opened. And you cannot stop a flood. (There's a joke there, about a dyke, but I'm not going to be the one to make it.) YOU CANNOT. And you're stupid to try.

Last week, my good friend, Thom, married a man named Adam in a quiet, dignified ceremony in New York. Thom and Adam have been together for 20 years. They own two homes together. They collect art. They travel. They support a dozen charities. They throw intimate dinner parties. I've thought of them as a married couple for years. For all intents and purposes, they have been. Now, it's even recognized by law. They win. You lose, stupid. It's a done deal. It's over. The river is picking up momentum, and you're about to be toppled over and drowned. You can go home and lick your wounds, now. Or you can die fighting a losing battle. Be my fucking guest.