Usually find something to read in New Yorker's "The Talk of the Town." Griffin Dunne's first visit to the Museum of Sex stopped me with relevance to my current moment.
Took me back to 2008 before we left NYC. Ron Bloom and I dressed up for the Museum's opening. Seems there were many Condom Amulets scattered about. Did I make those? Someone else? Took one of my favorite casual photos of Ron waiting in line.
That, however, was then. Nine years later my thoughts turn to where am I going electronically speaking. My friend Ruth Ann Barrett challenged me--in a very nice way--recently. Talking about this began with my being alerted to the zine world again. What morphed into my other blog, Knit a Condom Amulet, It began life as a small paper zine.
HIV infection in women and men over 50 has not declined in the last decade. According to the Centers for Disease Control, they account for 25% of those infected. Amfar reports, "The proportion of AIDS diagnoses among women has more than tripled since the early days of the epidemic, from 7% in 1985 to 25% in 2014. Approximately one in four people living with HIV are women. Of the total estimated number of women living with diagnosed HIV in 2015, 61%were African American."
Still work to do there in telling the story...maybe a new place online where I gather together my parts as a Conceptual Artist. Takes in almost everything I've done since last 20th century--Feminism, of course, knitting worms, "This Dirt Museum: the ladies' room, the NO WAR peace action, bread making...
It's clear I have to get organized. Tomorrow there's the Zine Symposium. Kind of daunting. Have a new zine focused on old people vis a vis young people. Have already been to couple of meetings, mostly young women, gracious, helpful. Took my picture, put it on their Facebook page. More later...
Steve asked in an email, "Still blogging or only Facebook?" Excellent question, of course he would ask.
Short answer, I keep hoping the spirit will become actual. Long one has to do with my expectations of this form when I began in March 2006, the height of enthusiasm for the blog form. Happily joined with peers known as Elderbloggers. Though I did not like the title.
What did I want from it? To connect with other aging women wondering about life after work, women who lived in other cities. Through incredible luck + synchronicity, spouse and I had been able to retire from a too-big house in Baltimore to a right-sized apartment in Manhattan. The move jump-started life as a conceptual artist. Began modestly with an essay, "Composting in Manhattan," written in a weekend writing class. Moved along in various permutations to knitting 150 red wiggler worm interpretations and This Dirt Museum: the Ladies' Room, an installation at Queens Botanical Garden--opened eleven days after 9/11/01.
As blogging receded in popularity among younger people, seemed to offer me less juice. Moved again 2009--last one--Portland, Oregon. Couple of years ago jumped into Facebook primarily to connect with local political scene. Found Amy Meissner, fiber artist in Alaska. Amy along with Steve in D.C. inspired today's post.
In The Final Boxes of Mystery Amy ended her crowdsourcing Inheritance Project. Having discovered her on Facebook midway, I went back to the beginning. Women's stockings led to the image here. Why did I keep for too many, many years discarded hose--mine and my stepmother's? First to use as stuffing for knitted animals for our first child, Rachel--the one who lives in Portland.
But she was born in 1968. Why so long dragged from place to place? To make necklaces for my installation in another century? Truly cannot remember except that I still have this one--think it was pantyhose--copper wire and tube, vintage bead. Have I found the where and the how for walking forward in these dark days?
The Reverend Norvel Goff speaks inside the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, S.C. (Photograph: David Goldman/Pool/EPA via The Guardian Sunday, June 21, 2015)
What's missing for me today is a place to go. To be with others who share my sorrow. Who wonder how it has happened that so little progress has been made in my 80-plus years.
And it is not any church I want to be seated but a black church--preferably in my last neighborhood: Harlem. If I were back in New York City, citadel of diversity, it would be enough to sit inside my apartment, look out the window, watch black neighbors on their way to the many places of worship surrounding us.
If there, I could take the elevator to the street, encounter neighbors on their way to church perhaps. Or others like me who would share profound discomfort that our whiteness has brought us so much privilege and so little ability to change the racism that remains too present in America.
But I am here: Portland, Oregon, dazzling whiteland, a mostly-denied symbol of what an American state can achieve when it practices institutional racism to the nth degree. People like myself come from other places, keep asking the same question, which has led to a popular presentation by Walidah Imarisha, poet/educator/public intellectual--
Last night we spoke with our daughter and her spouse about the murder of nine black people in a Charleston, South Carolina, church earlier this week. It was the first time I'd had a conversation about it. We've discussed before how this limits our grandchildren's experience of the world around them. While baby-sitting, I read some from an article in the Oregon Historical Quarterly about black women who experienced discrimination during World War II while working had worked in shipyards. To my surprise and pleasure both girls, under ten years, had learned of the importance of Martin Luther King--and his work to improve the lives of all of us.
So I have passed my Sunday morning writing this post, re-discovered a 2006 photo-- a rainbow over Harlem-- hopefulness for African Americans and the rest of us trying to realize the true American dream.
Sitting in that chair last week. That iconic chair, one step away from therapy--or maybe instead of. Brenda raised the scissors. First, "So you want it shorter this time?"
Settling into my answer, "Where are you in the latest Hillary thing?"
I sigh. Immediately taken back to 2008, and disappointing my daughter by opting for Obama.
Back to Hillary and the sigh. Sure, a woman president would be transformative--for me, for the world, for our grandchildren. Because they would finally have to hear our voice. (link to "Speaking While Female" in January New York Times; read comments too).
Exchanging back and forth with Brenda, turns out we agree. Email controversy is a waste of time. But why does this very smart, competent woman so often get herself into struggles that lead to her being the beleaguered woman--unfairly attacked by detractors.
Then it occurred to me why I personally have a problem with Hillary.
Never as impressed as others, women and men, by what she said in Bejing in 1995. Something missing in her strong words to China, to the world about violence against women thriving when there's a
"crisis of silence and acquiescence"
Et tu, Hillary? It was at that moment, a very womanly one centered around the special-chair-ritual of beautifying through hair cut, that I said to Brenda. "It has always bothered me that she did not leave Bill Clinton." That she experienced this serial abuser by turning the other cheek, keeping this deceit going as an acceptable response for herself and as a model for her child.
"So," Brenda asked, "what else do you think she could have done?"
My answer, "Imagine, what a powerful message to women if she had left him!" Yes, it's a politically incorrect response. Only people with very different politics from mine are on my side--particularly Christian right wing, anti-abortion women. I shudder at the connection.
Okay. Maybe you can ignore the intractability of domestic abuse--physical/emotional/sexual/social/financial abuse, and its connection to gun violence. Not me. Yes, I live in Oregon with women as governor (not the first), Secretary of State, Speaker of the House. And yet the statistics for my county, Multnomah, the largest:
Hillary could have sent the most important feminist message of her life by walking away. The woman I want for President will not be just another smart politician.
At the end of July, Bruce and Bob got married. Oh, well, you'll think, another gay wedding. Yes, but they live in our retirement community and that was a first here. A couple for a number of years, Bob and Bruce moved to Portland from Baltimore to be near Bob's daughter and family. Since we'd also lived in "Charm City," we were pleased our marketing people asked us to have dinner with them when they came to look over the place.
Though we'd not known the same people--Bruce (on the right) had been a UCC minister, Bob, an architect--we did known the same scene. They filled us in on the social/political changes since we'd left Baltimore in 1995 to move to New York.
The wedding was held in a local park near the Willamette River. Children from both their former marriages attended, many neighbors, friends from their church. And other marathon runners! Bob and Bruce set a high standard for latelife activity. The temperature was warm and breezy. Bruce made the blueberry-decorated cake, everyone brought food. It was a sweet and moving event. We felt privileged to share their legal ceremony.
A week later it was my 81st birthday. My friend Carolyn who put on my 80th last year (Bob and Bruce are in those photos) surprised me with a cake left serreptiously outside our door. Great synchronicity: August 5 was this year's National Night Out. I'd always wanted to go to one of these; a local neighborhood association was holding a picnic right across Terwilliger Boulevard in the park named for famous Oregon suffragist, Abigail Scott Duniway. How fitting for this old lady feminist.
Carolyn's cake was enjoyed by neighbors I'd never met--especially children and firemen too. My friend Sue won a door prize and I had a chance to show off my vintage cake carrier. Home before dark and cakeless!
Looking for links for this post, I happened upon Cyclotram, fascinating local blog with much on the history of Duniway Park-- once a gulch used as municipal garbage dump. My own history contains the experience of art-making with kitchen composting and the closing of the world's largest garbage dump, Fresh Kills in New York City. You live long enough and the world is one connection after another.
Kind of amazes me to watch this. Made in 2007, olden days. Great way to spend Sunday, as we await a deeper conversation toward a solution to illegal immigration.
Confirms my conviction that cats are smarter than dogs (which may be called speciesism). Thanks to A Revolt - Digital Anarchy Facebook page.
Golly, if it had not been for that awful Supreme Court decision, would we have gone all creative, women. Little advertising at the front, followed by such helpful DIY instructions.
THANK YOU, HOBBY LOBBY!!
Isn't this a good time to pick up those needles and Knit a Condom Amulet? Choose from seven classic patterns developed by talented knitters.
It was a beautifuly evening. Lucky Americans, we were invited to dinner and firework-watching on Sandy and Michael's deck. Rest of our family invited too--after their day of hiking around Mt. Hood.
Though we talked of several serious local issues--the sad state of schools in Portland was one--most of the time we laughed, watched the kids. As fireworks approached, our friend Michael appeared in the doorway with something to read.
"The Declaration of Independence." Zoe, almost nine, responded to his vigorous declamation, with arms and body moving in synch. We're sure she will remember this experience in her future.
Good talk, laughter. Thinking about politics and "What is worth doing?" as we considered the past week's troubling Supreme Court decisions.
...Returned home to learn that the MAY DAY PAC I'd been glad to support had achieved its goal. Raising the second five million dollars. Details at the link.
Do you remember this moment from March at the Supreme Court? A man from the group 99Rise spoke out at the hearing about Citizens United. There are brave people connecting the dots. One of those times I'd like to be young again.
Time to ask ourselves what we can do to nurture democracy. A question for every day for us lucky Americans.
Began blogging two years later. I need to find my own photos, write about the two extremes of the very hot day. Exhilarating and intimidating with police photographing from posts above marchers.
Found reflections from others. From a Planned Parenthood site, an older woman, out-of-towner, uncomfortable with visiting notorious NYC-- nervously rides the subway to Brooklyn--and finds community among the 25,000 who join her on the Bridge.
Matthew Weinstein, native Brooklyn guy and blogger, a choice supporter, writes about the dark mood in the City, took many photos. He ended up eating dim-sum in Chinatown--just like Ron and me.
Recent Comments