Suspicious Minds

These are two two of my nephews:

Nic is six years old. He looks up to his oldest brother in a way that it would be fair to call a form of hero-worship. Derrick is 15. He's good natured, goofy, and funny. He's a really sweet big brother to Nic - very affectionate, always looking to do something nice for the baby of the house, and very protective of the little guy who always wants to tag along. If Derrick gets interested in something, Nic follows suit. Derrick loves to skateboard and is very good at it. Nic is frustrated because, at 6, he can't really do much with the skateboard he convinced his mother to get him. When Derrick gets new sneakers, Nic wants the same kind. Nic, who has naturally curly, fleecy hair, demands his hair be kept short, because that's how Derrick, who has course, African hair, wears his. 

One day, Nic was talking to his mom - my sister - and said, "I can't wait until I get older, so I can turn black, the way Derrick is. When is that going to happen?"

My sister was filled with a mixture of joy and sadness. How wonderful that her sons shared such love for one another! But, how sad for Nic that, try as he might, he couldn't will himself to be more black. Nic and Derrick have different biological fathers and, while our side of the family is of mixed race, we tend to come out with light skin and silky hair. It's the same with Nic's biological father. Derrick's biological father, on the other hand, is 100% African American, and Derrick takes after him, physically.  Nic is too young to understand that being black or African is not just about the color of a person's skin. He's too young to understand that, yes, he's also part African, but his European traits seem to have emerged triumphant in the genetic lottery. All he knows is that his idol is his handsome, good-natured, dark-skinned, nappy-headed brother. He wants to be everything that Derrick is, in every way. 

Why am I thinking about this? Because of another handsome, dark-skinned, nappy-headed boy named Trayvon Martin.  

You see, my nephews live in Florida. In a predominantly white, gated community. Derrick is 15. In the last few years, he's come to enjoy some of the independence that comes with being a teenager. He can, for instance, get on his bike and ride off to the candy store alone. He does this often, because he's got a thing for Red Bull and chewing gum. The kid is just crazy for Red Bull and chewing gum. He's old enough to usually have pocket money, and this is often what he spends it on. 

He is a black boy, living in a white community. In Florida.

He bikes or walks back and forth from home to the candy store all the time.

He's immersed in skateboarding culture and can usually be found wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

Trayvon Martin could easily have been my nephew.

What happened to Trayvon Martin could easily happen to Derrick.

And just look at him. Doesn't he look suspicious? Do you trust that face? 

My nephews are not disposable. Their lives mean something. Children of color should not be treated as so much collateral damage.  Trayvon Martin was a human being. Somebody's son. Somebody's friend. He mattered. He had a future. I wonder if there's some younger sibling or cousin or friend who looked up to Trayvon Martin the way Nic looks up to Derrick? Where does this tragedy leave that child? How does one explain to a little kid how unjust the world can be? It's impossible, because we adults haven't fully come to terms with it, ourselves.  

Get good and angry about what happened to Trayvon Martin.  I know I'm furious. And Heartbroken.

Because he mattered. Because he could have been your son, your nephew, your big brother. 

What are words worth?

Tom Tom Club said it best: Words are stupid, words are fun, words can put you on the run.

Rush Limbaugh used the word "slut" to describe a young woman who had the audacity to speak up about the healthcare needs of women with gynecological conditions requiring hormone therapy, and the walls came tumbling down.

Consider it a clarion call, I say. Words have power, but human beings have more power. Isn't it high time women reclaimed and re-appropriated this word? The LGBT community has successfully re-appropriated "dyke," "queer," and, to an extent, "fag." Feminists took back "spinster." Why can't American women do the same with "Slut"? How about we start owning the word, and not shy away from it? How about we take it on as our own, so it can never be used against us? How about a million of us wear t-shirts that say "SLUT" and show up outside of Rush Limbaugh's workplace? Or maybe just wear them around our own corners of the world to make a statement.

Peace Train

Last Saturday, I woke up to a truly sad private message on Facebook. My good friend, Cheryl, wrote to tell me that her boyfriend, the love of her life, David, had died suddenly. One minute he was there, playfully asking her if she loved him...the next, he was gone. Just like that. A cough, a loss of breath, and that was it.

David, Cheryl and I all went to the same small, elite high school, where we we all knew one another and formed tighter bonds than anyone from any other school I know. Maybe, as Cheryl has said, it's because we were considered "special" kids - square pegs who'd finally found others like us. Maybe it was because, unlike most high schools, Hunter ran from 7th grade until 12th: six years of togetherness.  Or maybe it was because most of us had been uprooted from our bridge-and-tunnel neighborhood friends and forced to take long rides on the subway, every day, to the upper east side of Manhattan, for the privilege of attending what many consider the finest school in America. For whatever reason, Hunter College High School alums are a rare breed. We stick together. We have school spirit. Most of us remember those years with great fondness.

I didn't know David very well in high school, but I liked him. That he and Cheryl -who is one of my favorite people: smart, funny, original, genuinely good and generous - found each other and fell in love, 20+ years after high school was over, made me like him more. He made her happy. They made each other happy. And they deserved it. Thanks to Cheryl, I got to know David a little better during the last two years or so. He made me laugh.

This is what I do know about David:

He was gentle
He was kind
He loved music
He was a teacher and a librarian
He had a sense of fairness that made him fight for the underdog: kids, union members, the LGBT community, the poor....
He was funny
He was a single father who clearly devoted himself to his daughter
He was very much in love with my friend, and showed her the respect and admiration she deserved

David was only 44. He and Cheryl only had a few years together. It's not fair. But the one good thing to come out of this, if that's the right way to phrase it, is the revelation that he and Cheryl didn't waste time. They didn't leave things unsaid. Two years may not sound like a lot of time, but it's clear they made the most of it, and never missed an opportunity to appreciate one another, to enjoy each other not just as partners, but as friends, to be kind to one another. They laughed a lot, and didn't waste time on pettiness. And, thank God, they were together when he died.

He died too soon, but he died in the presence of the person who changed his life, who he loved more than anything, who made him happy.

Few of us will experience the kind of relationship David and Cheryl had. Few of us are open to that kind of partnership...to taking that much of a chance on life. Time slips by, and we find we've missed the boat. I'm so glad David and Cheryl did take the chance and didn't miss the boat. I only wish it had been a longer trip.

So long, David.  I don't know if you liked Cat Stevens, but this song is joyous, and makes me think of how happy Cheryl has been since you entered her life, and of the journey you've embarked on. Peace, brother.

Why Whitney Matters

If you haven't yet heard about the passing of Whitney Houston, I'm guessing you live under a rock. In any case, if you haven't heard, you must not have internet access and, so, you're not reading this.

In the 24-or-so hours since this somewhat shocking news broke, I've seen two camps emerge online: there are those who have been posting links to Whitney Houston videos, photos and articles...and then there are those who take pleasure in making jokes about this sad news and/or saying things such as, "A lot of people died, and she was just some addict that none of us really knew...what's the big deal?" That's actually a reasonable question, in some ways. I didn't know Whitney Houston. Never met her. I don't even own any of her albums. (I'm old enough to have to admit that I may have had a few cassingles, back in the day.) And, truth be told, I'm not a huge fan of addicts, in general. I've been related to enough of them, seen enough people I cared about turn into assholes via addiction, and been exposed to the worst aspects of addiction via many years of working in the not-for-profit sector that I'd be more than happy to never spend ten minutes with a drug addict or alcoholic, again.

That said, the death of Whitney Houston leaves me with great sadness and, if I had to identify with one of the two camps, I'd go for the former. I'm not on a posting spree of Whitney videos, but I actually do care that this happened, even though I never met Whitney Houston. 

First off, the argument that we didn't know her is a silly one. We live in a time and place where the celebrity phenomenon creates some pretty damned convincing illusions. One of these is the illusion that the very famous are practically friends of ours, almost family. Like it or not, we're happy when our favorite actor gets an award. We cheer on our favorite athletes. We anticipate the birth of our favorite celebrity's baby, and wonder what name the baby will be given. And we grieve when an actor, writer, singer, or other celebrity we've come to care for passes away. It's a part of how the world works, these days. To deny it is just silly.

Second, and more importantly, Whitney Houston's death speaks to a whole lot more than some woman I never met coming to a premature end. It speaks volumes about women's roles in the modern world, and how far we have yet to go. In this way, her sad end is very much like the sad end that Princess Diana suffered, and here's why:

Whitney Houston was talented. 

Whitney Houston was beautiful.

Whitney Houston was rich.

Whitney Houston came from a close-knit family.

Whitney Houston was well loved on a global scale.

All this, and yet, she still did two things that we often associate with low self-esteem: she entered into and stayed in an abusive marriage for many years, and she became addicted to drugs.  And this is what is so heartbreaking to a lot of us, especially women: that someone so gorgeous and talented and loved....someone who seemingly had everything going for her didn't - couldn't - love herself enough to make choices that were in her own best interest. We loved her from afar, and it's inconceivable to us that she couldn't love herself more. 

We didn't know her, personally, but we watched her go from being a gorgeous, talented teenager, to a mere shell of her former self, whose gift - her amazing voice - was destroyed along the way.  That, in itself, was sad enough. To find out that her life, itself, is over, is truly heartbreaking...especially when one considers the efforts she finally did make to clean herself up and try to build her career, again. If you're anything like me, you were rooting for her to make a comeback. 

And, so, yes - Whitney does matter, and some of us do, indeed, care. If this is the way it can end for someone who seemingly had the world in the palm of her hand, what does that say about the chances an ordinary girl or woman has in this world? Or an ugly girl? Or a girl with no talent? Why is it so damned difficult for girls and women to love themselves, and demand the best for themselves?  

If it drives you nuts that some of her fans are going a little hog wild about posting her videos on Facebook, keep in mind that they're probably trying their damnedest to remember her as she was, when she was at her best.  Not just her most beautiful (but, yes, surely that) - but when her voice was so amazing, when she was great to watch, when we looked forward to her next song. Who of us wouldn't want that for ourselves, after we're gone?  Before she was a hot mess, she was a woman and a singer.  Is it so wrong to want to remember that?

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?