MY MOTHER WASN'T DEAF

On Friday, March 7, 2011, I was given what I consider to be a gift – over an hour with Dara Beevas of Beaver’s Pond Press. It was like a free tutorial, discussing the state of “Riding in the Back Seat” which is nowhere near complete, but the development of which will be greatly modified by the content of that discussion. A review written by Jordan Wiklund at that office focused on the distinction between memoir and autobiography, including the following which I found not only instructive but delightfully challenging as well: “… a memoir often wraps an image or idea around itself again and again, re-visioning itself with every chapter or section. Local writer Pat Francisco (Telling) shares this gem about the genre; ‘the real goal of memoir is to re-learn, re-envision, and re-understand what you thought you knew.’”

Of course, I’ve been waking up at 3:00 a.m. since, manipulating ideas about turning the steering wheel in different directions. The fact is, working on “Riding … “ has helped me understand my own marriage and divorce in new ways – and that after I thought I had worked it through completely.

Today, though, I want to focus on a side discussion that developed between Dara and me – the issue of respect for one’s elders. Since I certainly am one of “them” now, I have some reactions springing from personal experience. There are things that people occasionally do to/for me because of “respect” for my age which I, perhaps because of my own personality, don’t experience as respectful. On the other hand, I’ll confess that I’m hoping my views in “Riding … “ will be perceived as valuable based on my lengthy stay on this planet. And I do grab my son’s arm for stability when walking in the slippery snow (which we’ve done a lot of this winter.) I also appreciate rides people offer me when going to strange places in the dark, or even in the daylight. I won’t drive 494 any more – partly encouraged by the “55 Alive” instruction that one should avoid driving in places where one does not feel comfortable.

But here’s the deal. Sometimes “respect” becomes the assumption of inability – a stereotyped view of aged decay. Many years ago, my mother was “seen” by a young psychiatrist in the nursing home where she was living. I was present at the interview. He shouted his original greeting, something like, “Hello, Jennie, I’m Dr. …” “I’m not deaf” my mother responded. “And how have you been feeling,” he shouted back. “My mother isn’t deaf,” I chimed in. And so the interview went. Maybe he suffered a disability, but it certainly would be a rare one – the inability to speak in a normal tone of voice. (Just imagine classroom discussions when he contributed his thoughts.) A few days later when I visited my mother, I learned that she had fired him. Hooray! What a wonderful assertive move on her part. Not only was she not deaf, she was very clear in her cognitive functioning.

Wondering whether I’m being hypersensitive about these issues, I looked up the definition of “respect.” Dictionaries vary, but here’s what my little Merriam-Webster Pocket Dictionary says: “to consider deserving of high regard; esteem; to refrain from interfering with (another’s privacy.)” Am I stretching it too far to suggest that we all deserve “respect,” with maybe an extra portion of interest in the value of experience that comes with age? That’s quite different from the assumption of disability. To put it differently, I suspect there are just as many individual differences among us aged as there are among our younger friends.

Oh, one more thing about nursing homes. I objected at one point to the staff at the nursing home calling my father “Carl.” I pleaded that he was Mr. Gustafson, just as my mother was “Mrs. Gustafson.” I was told that old folks prefer to be addressed by their first names. Maybe some do, but ask. Individual differences, remember?

I’d be so happy to see comments in reaction to this blog.

Oh, Why have I been away from the blog so long? Lots of things, like computer problems and corrupted e-mails taking up my time, but mostly it’s been my problem tearing myself away from “Riding in the Back Seat,” the creation that will certainly be greatly modified after I catch up on myself. No, I’m not anxious to finish it, That would be the end of me …

Remembering "Letters from Jenny."

Back in my early teaching days I came across a book called "Letters from Jenny." As I recall, it was a collection of letters written by an aging woman to her son's friend. What's that got to do with anything? Well, some time ago I started a document called, "Mona's aging diary." I thought it would be interesting for my survivors to observe the changes as they occur. Of course, I expected it to be boring, since I plan to hang around for another twenty-five years at least. (My children are kind enough not to reveal their horror when I say that.) And what does that have to do with this blog? Well, point number one, I realized I don't need that document, 'cause this blog serves the purpose I intended for my "aging diary."

And these days, I'm quite wrapped up in reviewing my life. So many things have provoked that. One is the fact that my former husband is suffering from a terminal brain tumor. I have no direct contact with him about that, which proves to be frustrating, but I do get the news from my son and daughter and friends in New Haven. Do I need to say more? The purpose of life is farther toward the forefront of my thoughts than usual. To summarize, it becomes even more real that our journey here is limited, as is the time for us to be making our [hopefully helpful] mark on the world. The funny thing is, given those thoughts, I find myself doing things like getting rid of unnecessary paper, and even books, in my study. It seems like I'm doing anything to avoid getting down to writing. I think maybe I'm in a waiting mode.

There's another reason I'm thinking these thoughts. Walter Cronkite. All the reviews of his life bring back memories of so many major events that have occurred during mine. I won't bore you with all the images and emotions that come to mind. Just this -- with every one of those crises I lost sleep over the direction we could or could not be taking as a nation and as a people, and guess what -- we (including me) are still here. So many of those things I've lived through make sense in the backwards view. Now I try to hang on to the patience to realize that wherever we're going (with my little bit of help, I hope) will make sense twenty years from now when I look back.

Those thoughts of patient confidence that there is a purpose evolving, along with acupuncture, keep me sleeping pretty soundly. And verging on getting back to writing "Riding in the Back Seat."

If only more people would discover Mrs. Job. Those who do read her, are almost lavish in their praise. (Try "Mrs. Job." You might like her.) There, I even got in my marketing licks.

How short is the time!

The long pause is only partly inertia.  I thought every day that I'd be announcing the debut of "Mrs. Job" but little glitches keep coming up -- some annoying, like the proof reader's efforts to get "Ph.D." changed to "PhD". Confusion has ensued on the covers (hard and soft). And I've [re]learned something about myself. I tried so hard to figure out what I should do about the cover errors until -- ah-ha -- I realized it wasn't in my court, but in theirs, because they hadn't applied the corrections I'd agreed to. So, here I am, waiting.

In the meantime, I realized the other night, as I watched the young lady directing the Orchestra of the Enlightenment, how really short are our productive years. Every once in a while I see a "Want Ad" for some form of psychological work or teaching and think, "Oh, I'd like to do that." And then I wake up to the facts. I don't even want full-time work any more. But it reminds me of my father during his last year in the nursing home, actually wasting away with cancer, suggesting to my mother that they should buy a little house for themselves, small enough so the care of the house wouldn't be too heavy. And that reminds me of my mother in the nursing home, looking at herself in the mirror and seeing the beautiful young blonde my father married. I like that thought.  I hope I keep seeing someone attractive in the mirror. I have changed my goal, though. Now I just want to look dignified and welcoming. What did I say about our productive years?

And let me add a bit about patience. Finally rejoicing in the new administration after weeks - months - of stress in the campaign, I realize how important it is to wait -- and work. Do you remember when we thought the atomic bomb would take us all out? Or the Korean war? Or the Cuban missile crisis? Or being kept out of our offices at school because of a bomb threat? Or the horror of brave people being killed marching for peace and justice? Or Vietnam? Or the sadness and anxiety over the invasion of Iraq? Or Darfur? Or -- ! If you remember those things, then you can add to the list. And we fortunate ones are still here. Amazing!

I'll be back soon, I hope, with a "Mrs. Job" announcement. In the meantime, those are my thoughts. Feel free to add them to my "Aging Diary." And please, feel free to comment.

No "Aging Diary"

Some time ago I started a document I called "Aging Diary" because I thought that after I die at the age of 104 it might be interesting for geriatric students to observe the process of cognitive/verbal change. The problem is that I never seem to find time to write in it. I'm too busy with working on all the issues I care about. I guess that means that this blog becomes the equivalent of my "aging diary." -- somewhat more public than I had planned, but...

Aside from the fact that "Mrs. Job" is uppermost in my mind, I find myself thinking about some colleagues from my years at Southern Connecticut State University who write me that they have decided to leave their social action projects to their children and just relax and enjoy retirement. In the same "bubble" I think about a colleague who has moved on from her life's journey, no longer here to stay in e-mail contact. Then there are those friends and colleagues from so many sources who strike me with awe in all that they do. Sometimes I think I want just to throw it all in, relax, read, and take it easy. Then I realize I really need to feel at the end of each day that I've really "done something." I suppose this is the problem of retirement. When do we do it? My hope is that I will know when the time has come, just as I knew when the time had come to give up teaching at the Adler Graduate School. 

I need to see clients. I need to advise on thesis projects. I need to work for restorative justice. I need to work on "Riding in the Back Seat," (my next writing project). I need to continue working with the wonderful folks at JustFaith+. I need to support (mostly financially) the causes of health and homes for all, end of war (dare I believe?), the termination of torture, the opportunity for everyone to live to their fullest (aha - now education comes up), equal rights, respect for all races, religions, and ethnic groups, family connections and strength, oh, and so much more. Thank goodness for the folks who need only my regular (and not very large) financial support. Because the fact is (note this in the aging diary) that I don't have the energy I once had. And I do look forward to letting my mind go numb at 9:00 Central Time with some CSI program or other, with it's fake blood and promise of a clear solution at the end.

My thoughts are a-buzz now with plans for marketing "Mrs. Job." But that's for tomorrow.