Number 185

 My Hero Is a Doofus

When I was nine years old I was the first youngster chosen by Bruno's Liquor Store in the annual little league draft in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. I believe this happened in the spring of 1975. Interestingly enough, I was the first player chosen by ANY team. This is perversely funny. Let's count the ways: (1) A little league team sponsored by a liquor store; (2) Using a 'draft' to divide up young children among the various teams; and (3) Me getting selected first, because, and there's no way to sugar coat this, I sucked. In fact, I dropped the ball multiple times when it was thrown to me during the 'fielding' portion of the little league try-out. What the hell was the Bruno's brain trust thinking?

Well, it turns out that the previous year, my brother had torn up the (little) league. He was an excellent fielder, playing shortstop for his team. He also pitched. I don't know what his batting average was, but I believe it was north of .500. I would have been automatically assigned to his team were he were still on it, but he had aged-out and moved up to the next level of play. I wonder what the Bruno's manager thought when they realized they'd chosen the kid who liked to pick dandelions out in right field (while desperately hoping that no one would hit a fly ball in their direction).

Still, a part of me was impressed by my brother's athletic prowess. To this day, I've never beaten him in any sort of athletic competition. Unless you count miniature golf. (Which I do.)

Of course, he used to torture the hell out of me while we were growing up. At the time we were all operating under the assumption that I was his kid brother, so of course he used any occasion he could to either beat the snot out of, or mentally torture me. Sometimes both. One of his favorite tricks was to grab me by the wrist, use my hand to hit me, and then ask nonchalantly, "Why are you hitting yourself." Another favorite was to hold me immobile on the ground, while he let long strings of saliva hang down over my face. (To which he still, if reminded of this brutal demonstration of sibling affection, and I absolutely guarantee this, responds by saying "I never let one drop, though.") 

I learned to get in the cheapest shot I could, and then run like hell for the nearest room with a door that locked. Sometimes I made it. Sometimes I didn't.

Isn't it obvious by now that he became my hero?

By the time he enrolled at Ohio State, our frequent sibling skirmishes had begun to fade into the past. Now, I looked forward to visiting him, especially in the fall, when he would score a couple of seats to a Buckeye football game. One year he managed to get tickets to the Michigan game. It was there, while sitting in the raucous student section, that I learned the 'alternative' lyrics to the Michigan fight song. Then there was that time that he rescued me after I'd totaled my car in an automobile accident in upstate New York. That I was traveling with my soon-to-be ex-fiancé adds a whole level of heroism to his presence. When I got married, he was my first and only choice for best man. When Rebecca died in the blink of an eye, he showed up the next day even though he lived 14 hours away. He dropped everything and was there at the precise moment I needed him most. When I told him I was a transgender woman, he looked at me with confused wonderment, but he never, not even for a second, disowned or failed to accept me.

So why is he a "doofus?," I can hear some of you asking. Good question. You see, in many ways my brother and I are nothing alike - even though we were both produced from the exact same genetic sources, and raised by the same two parents. He took after the tall and skinny part of the family, I took after the short and squat part. He has brown eyes and mine are blue. When he had hair, it was straight. I still have hair, and it's a curly mess. He was naturally athletic and I was not. I was interested in music, and he was not. Maybe all these differences are less compelling since my transgender identity came to light. Maybe not. But they certainly illustrate that we are very much two different people.

Perhaps the biggest difference between us is our relative comfort with being emotionally vulnerable. I'll tell anyone who's willing to listen about my mental health struggles with depression and anxiety. I'm a fierce advocate for counseling, and think everyone would be better off if they had a therapist to talk to. My brother? Not so much. He has always kept his own counsel, and is very reluctant to talk about his 'feelings.' In my exasperated mind, that makes him a doofus. His hesitancy to discuss any emotionally fraught (usually family related) issue can be quite maddening. But there's nothing that can be done about it at this point. I just kind of shake my head at his obstinate refusal to go deep.

But he has my back. Always. He's just... there. His wife and daughters will tell you the same thing. He is the most dependable, reliant person I've ever known. Our mother will tell you this, so will our sister. His grandchildren, his grandmother, his aunts & uncles, his nieces & nephews, his friends, his work colleagues, and on and on and on will tell you this. He will be there. Maybe he's not the most emotionally sophisticated person, but in the long run that doesn't matter, because whenever I need him, I know he will be there.

My brother is my hero, and I love him very much. The big doofus.

Number 184

Estrogen Rock, Soul, & Pop

The other day at the gym I was listening to the Pretenders while I worked out. If you don't know, they are a band that has been around for over 40 years. Their lead singer and songwriter and de facto leader of the band for their entire existence is a woman by the name of Chrissie Hynde, ...

[Popular music, like society in general, has had a problem with institutionally ingrained sexism (racism, too, for that matter, but that's an issue for another day), that can best be summed up thusly: "Only men know how to rock." As a result of this marginalization, the vast majority of rock and pop music has been created and performed by (white) men. Sure, there have always been female performers, but for the most part they were denied the autonomy to control their own musical careers. Like I said, kinda like society in general. Slowly, it's getting better, but who knows how many brilliant musicians we missed out on just because they had a vagina.]

... a total badass who created great rock n' roll. Just like that, a blog entry devoted to women who thrived in a musical environment that was skewed against them popped into my head. And so, in no particular order, join me in praising:

Aretha Franklin: Just an absolutely thrilling vocalist. Listening to her will send shivers down your spine. She is the undisputed Queen of Soul.

Ann & Nancy Wilson: The heart of Heart. Despite playing with many different male musicians over the decades, Heart has always been their band.

The Go-Gos: They were the first group comprised solely of women who wrote their own songs and played their own instruments to have a number #1 album (The Beauty and the Beat).

Madonna: She brilliantly subverted society's expectations of what a female pop singer should be, became a cultural icon, and, in the process, paved the way for a lot of women behind her.

Chrissie Hynde: (see above)

Stevie Nicks: This sorceress has proven herself to be a peerless songwriter and performer.

Joan Jett: Don't fuck around with Joanie - she will leave you cut up and bleeding on the floor. She has rock and rolled on her own terms for decades. She is a total badass.

Janis Joplin: In the 60's, it was unheard of for a woman to be the leader of her own band, and yet, she (and her spellbinding vocals), did just that.

P!nk: I just love her. My daughters introduced me to her, and thank Goddess they did. A wonderful performer and songwriter who does things her way with zero fucks given.

Karen Carpenter: Don't dwell on the anorexia. Just listen to her sing. She had a stunningly beautiful voice.

Dolly Parton: For many, many years, she appeared to be the punchline to a joke. Weren't we all surprised when we learned she was the one telling it. She's a national treasure.

Lady GaGa: Madonna's most obvious heir apparent (and much better actress).

Ella Fitzgerald: She's not really a rock or pop singer, but she's a spiritual mentor to many of the women listed here. Just a fantastically, brilliant singer.

Carol Kaye: One of, if not the greatest, rock n' roll bassists ever. She mostly worked as a session musician, so you're excused if you've never heard of her. Her influence was massive.

Bonnie Raitt: One of the best slide guitarists anywhere.

Joni Mitchell: A one-of-a-kind singer songwriter who's had a massive influence on many performers - of all genders.

There are others, of course. There always are when it comes to lists like this. If I didn't mention your own personal favorite, my apologies - my intent was not to slight anyone. Instead I wanted to raise up the powerful, but relatively small (sigh), contribution that female musicians have played over the years.

Number 183

A Letter to Rebecca

Dear R,

How are you? We're all doing well. I imagine you already know that, though. The interesting thing is that I'm no longer as surprised as I used to be when I consider how well things are going for our family since you left. Not perfect, mind you, but good. Though the hole you left behind can never be filled, we've all chosen to continue to move forward. Just know that you are never far from our thoughts. But I imagine you already know all of that, too.

We were all in Marshfield last week to bid Marmee and her incredible legacy goodbye. It was never spoken out loud, but I think many of us realized that maybe we were saying goodbye to Marshfield as well. Without Marmee to anchor us to that particular port, who knows where we'll all gather together again. In any event, considering everything that has happened to the family since February, 2016, the vibe was one of gentle, healing reconciliation. I was wistful watching your sibs gathered together without you; but at the same time, I celebrated its significance. Time remains an undefeated champion, and I think everyone realizes how special it is anytime we can be together.

There's a lot more I want to say to you, but right now those feelings are a jumbled mess resisting my efforts to turn them into coherent words. I think the common denominator comes down to three words: I miss you.

I know it's a little early, but happy birthday.

As always, I love you,

N

Number 182

The Six Degrees of Chicken

When I pulled into the parking lot behind the building yesterday, I was not greeted by the pleasing scent one might encounter in a field of wildflowers. Instead, my nostrils were assaulted by the smell that could be described as rancid chicken guts left out in the hot sun for far too long. Which, I knew for a fact, was what I was actually smelling. Unpleasant for sure, but I knew it was merely the inevitable by-product of some serious community outreach and volunteer work going on inside.

Let me try to set the table succinctly (not my strong suit). There is a restaurant/bakery in town called The Wooden Spoon (great food, by the way), that is involved in local hunger relief. They make and distribute food to a few different social service organizations in town, which then pass it on to the folks who can benefit from that type of assistance. Volunteers from the community also help in the food prep. Also in town is a large Wal-Mart distribution center. Sometimes semi trucks have their deliveries disallowed for some reason or another. When that cargo is food, The Wooden Spoon will often receive a call wanting to know if they want the rejected items. As a system of distributing food from people who have more than enough to the people whose cupboards are bare, it's pretty cool. But, on occasion, it becomes an all-hands-on-deck logistical nightmare.

That's where the scent of malodorous chickens comes in. You see, last week a semi full of whole chickens came into the Wally World distribution center. A large number of boxes had leaked, rendering them unfit for acceptance there. Uh-oh! What to do? A quick call to The Wooden Spoon, and the chickens were on their way there. The staff there got right to work roasting the birds before they spoiled for good, but then what to do about the hundreds of cooked chickens? That's when the call went out to all the volunteers: "Chicken shredders needed! Time is of the essence!"

Because this post is ultimately not about the wonderfulness of volunteerism (although it could be), I'll cut to the chase. The job got done. The Wooden Spoon has many bags of shredded chicken; all ready to put into their many marvelous entrees as needed.

No, this is a post about making connections. If I haven't made it clear by now, I have trouble connecting with people and making friends. I'm doing better now that I've more clearly sorted out my true self; but it's still a work in progress. (It is interesting to note that I do much better, friendship wise, when I have a role to play: teacher, youth group leader, choir member, parent, etc.; than when I'm just plain old Nora.) But when you're just standing there with other people ripping chicken carcasses apart, friendly conversation flows easily. Maybe I didn't find a new best friend, but it was nice meeting new folks and laughing over the shared misery of chicken fat, cheap disposable gloves, and dinner plans (no one was planning a chicken dish, I can assure you!)

The other topic that came up often was the 'mini bio.' You know, when you tell someone your life story in five sentences or less. Yesterday, the woman working across from me asked me where I was from. I usually hesitate when I'm asked that because we moved around so much when I was young. I usually want to say Ohio, even though I only lived there for 2.5 years (ages 9-12). I suppose it's because so many of my relatives were/are there. Anyway, I responded by saying, "I'm kind of a mutt." 

"Oh," she replied, "I was born in Illinois, outside of Chicago." 

"So was I. In Elgin." I said.

"Me, too!" (This was getting interesting.)

"Did you go to Larkin High School?" she asked.

"No, we moved to Wisconsin after I finished 1st grade. I went to McKinley Elementary," I said.

"Me, too!" (definitely interesting now.) "Who was your Kindergarten teacher?"

(This is an interesting question, because my teacher's name was Miss Rypczynski [rip-zin-ski]. She was an older woman who correctly inferred that 5 and 6 year old children were going to struggle with her delightful Polish surname. Instead, we called her "Miss Lorraine." Of course, at the time, we all thought that was her last name. I remember looking back at my classroom picture a few years later, trying to figure out how "R-y-p-c-z-y-n-s-k-i" could be pronounced "Lorraine." I asked my mom and she spilled the beans on the whole subterfuge. Anyway, I was a seal at the end of the year classroom circus.)

"Umm..."

"Was it Miss Lorraine?"

"Yes! You, too?!"

So 50 years, 10 homes, and seven states removed from my Kindergarten year, I found myself shredding chicken across from someone who had had the same teacher as me. What a marvelous coincidence!

Number 181

Uppity Women Speak Their Minds

"If men cannot cope with women in the medical profession, let them take a humble occupation in which they can." Sarah Josepha Hale (1788 - 1879) Editor of Godey's Lady's Book. The context of this quote is unknown, but it kinds speaks for itself.

"I've received my authority from the Lord God Almighty; have you anything that ranks higher than that?" Mary Ann "Mother" Bickerdyke (1817 - 1901) Spoken to a Union doctor after the U.S. Civil War battle of Shiloh. He questioned her presence on the battle field where she was distributing food, blankets and coffee to Union soldiers. "Mother" Bickerdyke personally marshaled supplies to feed and care for wounded soldiers in the south during the entire war. She set a new standard for getting things done.

"When I found I had crossed that line [into Canada], I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person. There was such a glory over everything; the sun came like gold though the trees, and over the fields, and I felt like I was in Heaven." Harriet Tubman (ca. 1821 - 1913) This was her reflection when she achieved freedom for herself. As a conductor on the Underground Railroad, she helped more than 300 enslaved people find freedom in Canada.

"It would not do for the men to fight and starve, too." Sarah Osborn Benjamin (ca. 1750 - 1837) Sarah was the wife of a private in the Continental Army led by George Washington. Before battles, she routinely carried food supplies to the men in the trenches. This was her response when General Washington asked "Aren't you afraid of the cannonballs?"

"I ask no favors for my sex. All I ask of our brethren is, that they will take their feet from off our necks, and permit us to stand upright on that ground which God designed us to occupy." Sarah Grimke (1792 - 1873) Context unknown, but, you know... yep, you do.

"And I've suckled many a white babe, to the exclusion of my own." Sojourner Truth (1799 - 1883) As a formally enslaved person, the six foot tall Sojourner Truth was a tireless speaker on the horrors of slavery. Once, in Indiana, a heckler accused her of being a man. Ms. Truth bared her breast to the audience, and offered the response printed above. Totally bad ass.

"It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences." Audre Lorde (1934 - 1992) Context unknown.

"Of course I am not worried about intimidating men. The type of man who will be intimidated by me is exactly the type of man I have no interest in." Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (born 1977) In the words of Michael Scott, Regional Manager of the Scranton, PA branch of Dunder-Mifflin Paper Company, "Boom, roasted!"

"I think trans women and trans people in general, show everyone that you can define what it means to be a man or woman on your own terms. A lot of what feminism is about is moving outside of roles and moving outside of expectations of who and what you're supposed to be to live a more authentic life." Laverne Cox (born 1972) Context unknown. For the record, I love this woman.

"The most difficult thing is the decision to act. The rest is tenacity." Amelia Earhart (1897 - 1937?)

"Though the sex to which I belong is considered weak, you will nevertheless find me a rock that bends to no wind." Queen Elizabeth I (1533 - 1603)