The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Passing As Younger and As White
On the phone, my mom does not sound like an older person, and when people meet her, no one believes she is 82. She passes for someone in her mid-70s at most. My mother is relatively open about her true age; she does not take advantage of passing like she could. In my mom's case, it's simply flattering for her to see people's initial, surprised reactions.
Thank God, my mother's mind still fully functions and she has the same sort of memory as I do, for dialogue that happened years ago and for people she has known for any length of time. Yesterday, visiting her at the rehab center, where she's staying till she can return to the hospital for surgery, I learned about Jackie McDonald, a childhood playmate she had, who lived two doors down: "We were friends through high school, and I lost track of him once I went away to college and he went into the service -- it was that time [WWII]; we used to take long walks and tell each other about who we were dating, and his mother used to watch us like a hawk because certainly, we couldn't date each other, since I was Jewish."
Last night, after we got back from Stamford, Pat and I watched "The Human Stain," which was based on Philip Roth's novel. Spoiler alert: It was about a Classics professor, who passed as Jewish when he was actually black. He guarded his secret so closely that he didn't even tell it when he was fired for making what was interpreted as a racist remark. The way his story unfolded in flashbacks, I saw that he wanted to avoid feeling second-class, at all costs.
"The Human Stain" was fiction, but stories like it, I've been told, were relatively common among Jews, Italians and black people in America in the last century. Yesterday, my mother also told me about a great-uncle, who dodged the WWII draft, since he wasn't accepted as a conscientious objector, and moved to the Midwest, where he became George Graham, having been Harry Prensky.
It wasn't a case of trying to avoid being second-class, but I was reminded of it, as "George Graham" was a name that was so utterly not "Harry Prensky." It sounded like while hiding his former identity, he went ahead and chose a name that would let him pass as Christian. I never knew my grandfather or any of his siblings. All of them died prior to my birth.
Not Passing As Hearing Or As Heterosexual
Pat and I saw two other films this weekend, where the main characters could not pass as anyone other than who they were. In Carson McCullers' "The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter," Alan Arkin played a deaf man, who signed with one, unfortunate friend and otherwise, who had to write to communicate. There was no way to hide his deafness.
"The Naked Civil Servant" was Quentin Crisp's autobiography, of having been openly gay in England from the '30s onward. Apparently, he came from an upper-class family, but still, it seemed amazingly courageous how boldly he wore what he felt most comfortable wearing, and did what made him feel most like himself.
From where did that boldness not to pass originate...because Alan Arkin's character didn't have a choice; he was openly deaf because, well, it was impossible to hide. It didn't seem that Quentin Crisp wanted to be brave for bravery's sake, but because it was the only natural way for him to be; he also made a statement about how intoxicating the exhibitionism that his appearance required was, and he sustained the intoxication by continuing to appear boldly.
Watching Quentin Crisp's story, I reflected on my classmates' recent reaction to my learning and leadership life history. Most said that they felt I was bold, and one was especially on target: "You talk about wanting to connect with people, particularly through your writing, but you also seem to set yourself apart from people." And another student said, "You seem to want to be seen as special."
Years ago, a friend of mine said, "You're like a Carson McCullers character: a fierce outsider with her nose pressed up against the window." And it was true. I wanted to be recognized for my difference and in parallel, wanted to fit in with society.
I did not wish for anyone to say, for example, at work, "Oh, your lesbianism doesn't matter to me. All I care about is your talent." My identity was at my core, and my talent and everything else about me flowed from it, and so while many chose to downplay their difference, I wanted to accentuate mine and then enjoy finding common ground with people all the more so.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Spending the Sabbath Half-Peacefully
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Blogging and Chatting
"What's our boy, doing on TV, crying?"
"Hang on, Sam. Here's Pat," I tell my neighbor, passing the phone to her.
They talk about Brett Favre's press conference, where he announces his retirement, and then Pat tells me upon hanging up, "C'mon, we're going over there right now to give him the cheese-head [we bought him when we were in Green Bay recently]."
We do, and nearly an hour later, I'm back on the blog. Tonight, from here on, is all about watching DVDs of, perhaps, "The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter" and "The Naked Civil Servant," as we have skipped synagogue due to the rain and exhaustion of the week; yesterday, we called in for our rabbi to include my mom in the list of people to pray for their restored health, and on Saturday, we'll go to Stamford to visit her, but otherwise, I need to chill out this shabbat.
My mother is going to need knee surgery, but not till the MRSA she colonized in her nose departs in 10 or more days, and they're waiting for the culture to come back from the gash in her shin. My sister Kathy thinks I'm going through the Anger stage of Kubler-Ross' stages of grief, but I know I don't want to feel angry anymore tonight. None of my feelings feel rational right now. I just want to relax. Seeing our neighbors Margaret and Sam helped me do that.
Blogging and Chatting
"What's our boy, doing on TV, crying?"
"Hang on, Sam. Here's Pat," I tell my neighbor, passing the phone to her.
They talk about Brett Favre's press conference, where he announces his retirement, and then Pat tells me upon hanging up, "C'mon, we're going over there right now to give him the cheese-head [we bought him when we were in Green Bay recently]."
We do, and nearly an hour later, I'm back on the blog. Tonight, from here on, is all about watching DVDs of, perhaps, "The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter" and "The Naked Civil Servant," as we have skipped synagogue due to the rain and exhaustion of the week; yesterday, we called in for our rabbi to include my mom in the list of people to pray for their restored health, and on Saturday, we'll go to Stamford to visit her, but otherwise, I need to chill out this shabbat.
My mother is going to need knee surgery, but not till the MRSA she colonized in her nose departs in 10 or more days, and they're waiting for the culture to come back from the gash in her shin. My sister Kathy thinks I'm going through the Anger stage of Kubler-Ross' stages of grief, but I know I don't want to feel angry anymore tonight. None of my feelings feel rational right now. I just want to relax. Seeing our neighbors Margaret and Sam helped me do that.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Anxiety in Its Glory
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Might As Well Honor It
Tonight, I just need to write what I need to write out of self-respect, rather than out of disrespect for my mother:
Turning the corner at 8:15 am, and heading up the hill to Stamford Hospital, I imagined the river-side park across the road, full of pink tents, like it was every summer when I was a young child. My mom used to take me to the Pink Tent Festival there every year. It was a wonderful time, when I felt solidly like the child and saw my mother solidly as the mother. She held my hand as we walked by all of the booths and even once bought me The [Winnie the] Pooh Party Book, which a friend of hers had authored and was selling at the Festival.
Other times, our roles often were reversed, including today....
Blasting Kirk Franklin's "Looking for You" while racing up 287, anyone, including Jesus was welcome to help me. Oh, God, please don't let her look like a snapped-neck rag-doll. Please don't let her die. Please don't make me have to face things I don't want to deal with by myself today. Please let me rise to her occasion.
It feels good to cry with pre-grief. Can the other drivers see me? Why do I care?
Why did she back into a tree? How long was she by herself in the crashed car before someone helped? Why isn't she living with us? Because it would be unlivable for everyone. Still, why couldn't I have kept this from happening?
"The doctor's coming at 7 to tell me if I need surgery," she tells me at 6:40 am. She'd been there since 5 pm the previous day, but didn't want to worry her children till morning.
"OK, Mom. I'll be there soon. I'm leaving now," I say breezily while really wanting to collapse. I'm coming from New Jersey during rush-hour, so it won't be that soon in reality.
Sarah, you can't have an accident. You just can't. You have to reach the hospital safely. You have to!
iPod to the rescue. Favorite song after favorite song accompanied me on the drive while I tried not to imagine that this was the call I'd been dreading for the past few years.
My mother's fast asleep when I arrive. Her head is held up by a neck-brace and her face is whiter than I've ever seen it. She looks just about dead, God forbid.
I put my stuff down and go out to the nurse's station, where I see the doctor heading toward her room. "How is she?" I ask and he comes back out of the room.
"Who are you?"
"Her daughter."
"The neurosurgeon will come in a bit to determine if her neck needs surgery because it might be fractured, and she also broke her knee and sustained a lot of bruises."
Calmly: "There was a truism that once an older person broke a bone, that was the beginning of the end..." I said. "Is she going to die?"
"It *was* true -- and most typically for hips -- but now, with physical therapy, she should be fine.
I don't believe him, but I shake his hand and thank him. The orthopedic surgeon, who knows my mother, though I don't know why, comes in, saying, "Edythe, what have you done? You were supposed to be at home."
He squeezes her everywhere and concludes that more is broken than the X-rays saw, including some ribs. My little mother is lying there, just taking it. He sets her leg in a splint with a pump under it to keep her circulation going and I see gashes in her shin and ankle. I've never seen my mother cut before. How did those happen? "For someone your age, it's a big accident," he says in conclusion.
Later: "I went to get my prescription at Genovese yesterday before the accident and I hope no one opened the bag on the front seat of the car because Genovese had a sale on Valentine's items and I bought a set of red, plastic 'love hand-cuffs' as a joke for [my sister] Kathy. They were 26 cents."
How is it that my mother always gets to be the playful one, and I'm always the mother? And then she'll surprise me serendipitously, but not reliably, switching roles: "You're so cute; you're so professional, but you're really still just a little girl," says my mother, after hearing me leave voicemail for her swim-physical therapist, letting her know that my mom's had an accident and will miss the next few months of sessions as a result.
I guess that when I left the message, I sounded like a troubled daughter, rather than like a troubled mother, sibling or friend, which are the other roles I play often. The neurosurgeon concluded that she tore a ligament in her neck, but fractured no bones, and so there will be no surgery these first six weeks, and then he'll evaluate whether or not it's needed.
My sister Deb does daughter-duty on Wednesday and I'll go back on Thursday after work to see my mom once again. Meanwhile, I've earned another golden medal....When my sister Kathy became ill with breast cancer, which thank God, she survived, she gave me an extra key to her apartment. Tonight, my mom gave me an extra [gold-colored] key to her house.
I went there this evening to get some things my mother needed/wanted and the car, sitting in its destroyed state in the driveway, was sobering. On my mom's dresser, while hunting for something else, I found a photo of my mom at 19. She was really cute. And vigorous. Now, just her mind and grip still feel strong.
Why isn't there still a Pink Tent Festival in Stamford? Why can't I be a kid again?
Might As Well Honor It
Tonight, I just need to write what I need to write out of self-respect, rather than out of disrespect for my mother:
Turning the corner at 8:15 am, and heading up the hill to Stamford Hospital, I imagined the river-side park across the road, full of pink tents, like it was every summer when I was a young child. My mom used to take me to the Pink Tent Festival there every year. It was a wonderful time, when I felt solidly like the child and saw my mother solidly as the mother. She held my hand as we walked by all of the booths and even once bought me The [Winnie the] Pooh Party Book, which a friend of hers had authored and was selling at the Festival.
Other times, our roles often were reversed, including today....
Blasting Kirk Franklin's "Looking for You" while racing up 287, anyone, including Jesus was welcome to help me. Oh, God, please don't let her look like a snapped-neck rag-doll. Please don't let her die. Please don't make me have to face things I don't want to deal with by myself today. Please let me rise to her occasion.
It feels good to cry with pre-grief. Can the other drivers see me? Why do I care?
Why did she back into a tree? How long was she by herself in the crashed car before someone helped? Why isn't she living with us? Because it would be unlivable for everyone. Still, why couldn't I have kept this from happening?
"The doctor's coming at 7 to tell me if I need surgery," she tells me at 6:40 am. She'd been there since 5 pm the previous day, but didn't want to worry her children till morning.
"OK, Mom. I'll be there soon. I'm leaving now," I say breezily while really wanting to collapse. I'm coming from New Jersey during rush-hour, so it won't be that soon in reality.
Sarah, you can't have an accident. You just can't. You have to reach the hospital safely. You have to!
iPod to the rescue. Favorite song after favorite song accompanied me on the drive while I tried not to imagine that this was the call I'd been dreading for the past few years.
My mother's fast asleep when I arrive. Her head is held up by a neck-brace and her face is whiter than I've ever seen it. She looks just about dead, God forbid.
I put my stuff down and go out to the nurse's station, where I see the doctor heading toward her room. "How is she?" I ask and he comes back out of the room.
"Who are you?"
"Her daughter."
"The neurosurgeon will come in a bit to determine if her neck needs surgery because it might be fractured, and she also broke her knee and sustained a lot of bruises."
Calmly: "There was a truism that once an older person broke a bone, that was the beginning of the end..." I said. "Is she going to die?"
"It *was* true -- and most typically for hips -- but now, with physical therapy, she should be fine.
I don't believe him, but I shake his hand and thank him. The orthopedic surgeon, who knows my mother, though I don't know why, comes in, saying, "Edythe, what have you done? You were supposed to be at home."
He squeezes her everywhere and concludes that more is broken than the X-rays saw, including some ribs. My little mother is lying there, just taking it. He sets her leg in a splint with a pump under it to keep her circulation going and I see gashes in her shin and ankle. I've never seen my mother cut before. How did those happen? "For someone your age, it's a big accident," he says in conclusion.
Later: "I went to get my prescription at Genovese yesterday before the accident and I hope no one opened the bag on the front seat of the car because Genovese had a sale on Valentine's items and I bought a set of red, plastic 'love hand-cuffs' as a joke for [my sister] Kathy. They were 26 cents."
How is it that my mother always gets to be the playful one, and I'm always the mother? And then she'll surprise me serendipitously, but not reliably, switching roles: "You're so cute; you're so professional, but you're really still just a little girl," says my mother, after hearing me leave voicemail for her swim-physical therapist, letting her know that my mom's had an accident and will miss the next few months of sessions as a result.
I guess that when I left the message, I sounded like a troubled daughter, rather than like a troubled mother, sibling or friend, which are the other roles I play often. The neurosurgeon concluded that she tore a ligament in her neck, but fractured no bones, and so there will be no surgery these first six weeks, and then he'll evaluate whether or not it's needed.
My sister Deb does daughter-duty on Wednesday and I'll go back on Thursday after work to see my mom once again. Meanwhile, I've earned another golden medal....When my sister Kathy became ill with breast cancer, which thank God, she survived, she gave me an extra key to her apartment. Tonight, my mom gave me an extra [gold-colored] key to her house.
I went there this evening to get some things my mother needed/wanted and the car, sitting in its destroyed state in the driveway, was sobering. On my mom's dresser, while hunting for something else, I found a photo of my mom at 19. She was really cute. And vigorous. Now, just her mind and grip still feel strong.
Why isn't there still a Pink Tent Festival in Stamford? Why can't I be a kid again?
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Jewish Or Not...Lesbian Or Not
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Realistic Appearance and Apparent Reality
This weekend, I read an article in the Sunday "New York Times" magazine, that focused on how particularly Jewish-American immigrants in Israel need to prove their Jewish identity when they wish to marry there, since marriage is overseen by the ultra-Orthodox rabbinate, rather than by the government.
Yesterday, a friend told me that he felt somehow Jewish, though to his knowledge, he came from a family that even had its own crest. I woke up this morning, thinking of a Yiddish expression I've heard my mom use: the "pintele Yid" (the "Jewish spark"). She always applied it to reluctant Jews, who somehow seemed to be drawn back to their heritage in later-life. This was not the case for my friend, but still, it reminded me of the attraction my mom spoke of.
This afternoon, one of my mother's long-time, actively, culturally Jewish friends, who she hadn't seen in some time -- and who I hadn't seen in years -- said that her daughter had been with her female partner for 25 years and yet unlike me, the daughter had not yet wanted to be affiliated with any Jewish community [due to the Orthodox rejection of her as a lesbian]. "I need to work on her," she said.
"For me, I think I was nostalgic for the tunes and rituals I learned in [Modern Orthodox Jewish] school and so I couldn't stay away," I said.
Telling me goodbye, she said a bit urgently, it seemed, perhaps, in case we never saw each other again, "You look well and should stay well. I'm in the forefront of gay marriage activism [at nearly 90 years old]."
I kissed her cheek in response and said, "Thank you for your leadership."
If she didn't declare it, no one would know of her activism just by looking at her. And perhaps no one would know her daughter was a lesbian if her daughter didn't tell them explicitly; I had no recollection of "gaydar" [rhymes with radar and means being able to sense when someone is gay] being triggered in me by any of her children. No one would know about my Christian friend's paradoxical pintele Yid either, unless he told them.
When I worked in Schaumburg, Illinois, for the technology arm of Sears, Roebuck & Co., one of my colleagues wanted to know how it was possible that I was Jewish, since I had blue eyes.
I wrote about this here before, I think, but I responded, "Both of my parents have blue eyes; Russia, where both sides of my family are from originally, had a lot of pogroms, where soldiers pillaged Jewish villages, so maybe they're from that time; I don't know...."
What if I weren't really Jewish?
How ironic! During the era of the Holocaust, people had to prove they were not Jewish and today, in Israel, they had to prove they were. What a strange sensation -- to be worried that anyone would ever challenge the veracity of my Jewish identity, and what a luxury, I guess, compared with the danger my people had been in at various times historically, where they would have been happy to pass as non-Jews.
Blue eyes and tall height aside, growing up, I did always feel that people, who had met other Jews, and who did not yet know my name, which is a giveaway, wouldn't be surprised to learn that I was Jewish. (In my experience, the majority of Jews I have known have not been particularly tall or blue-eyed.)
My parents reinforced the identity so much that it never was a question for me until my colleague challenged me at work. And then, I provided a flippant, yet perhaps realistic, answer.
Fierce Pride
Just as my parents nurtured me to be proud of my Jewish identity, I nurtured myself -- with the help of the gay, lesbian, bi and trans (GLBT) community -- to be proud of my lesbian identity. And that identity got challenged a bit more often, oddly, since I felt, also, that I did not pass as heterosexual. My mother had a colleague, for example -- a fellow art collector, who was in his eighties -- who told me even after meeting Pat, "If I were 20 years younger, I'd woo you."
I just looked at him incredulously.
Today, I saw him again, a few years later and he said, "You're looking as beautiful as ever. Where's your partner?"
"She's not interested in the topic of the lecture."
"You're still together, though?"
"Yes, for nearly 16 years so far."
"That's longer than I was married to either of my wives."
I smiled at him and kept walking.
In the same edition of "The New York Times," this weekend, I read that "Tootsie" and "Some Like It Hot," both of which were films about men, posing as women, were deemed the top two funniest films of all time.
What was it about people, watching people, being fooled by mistaken identity that was so ultimately entertaining?
Why was it hilarious as fiction, but in reality, depending on the era, at a minimum unbelievable and at worst, highly dangerous? And how could my pride have been anything other than fierce with the challenging histories that the Jews and the GLBT communities have had?
Over the years, a number of people asked me why I was so earnest, particularly around role-modeling. Last week, I was asked again after saying that although it was a lot of pressure, I tried to be exemplary as often as I could....Now, I did not define what I meant by "exemplary," which when I considered it further, mostly meant, striving to be authentic; in any case, a black colleague asked me, "Doesn't that get exhausting?"
I wanted to respond, but did not: "I can't believe you can't relate. As someone from an historically-underrepresented group, I would think you'd understand the aspiration to be a leader despite your minority status, along with the importance of making it, so that the next generation of your people could see hope of success by your example."
Perhaps, I was just extra-conscious of my identity compared to most people....
Realistic Appearance and Apparent Reality
This weekend, I read an article in the Sunday "New York Times" magazine, that focused on how particularly Jewish-American immigrants in Israel need to prove their Jewish identity when they wish to marry there, since marriage is overseen by the ultra-Orthodox rabbinate, rather than by the government.
Yesterday, a friend told me that he felt somehow Jewish, though to his knowledge, he came from a family that even had its own crest. I woke up this morning, thinking of a Yiddish expression I've heard my mom use: the "pintele Yid" (the "Jewish spark"). She always applied it to reluctant Jews, who somehow seemed to be drawn back to their heritage in later-life. This was not the case for my friend, but still, it reminded me of the attraction my mom spoke of.
This afternoon, one of my mother's long-time, actively, culturally Jewish friends, who she hadn't seen in some time -- and who I hadn't seen in years -- said that her daughter had been with her female partner for 25 years and yet unlike me, the daughter had not yet wanted to be affiliated with any Jewish community [due to the Orthodox rejection of her as a lesbian]. "I need to work on her," she said.
"For me, I think I was nostalgic for the tunes and rituals I learned in [Modern Orthodox Jewish] school and so I couldn't stay away," I said.
Telling me goodbye, she said a bit urgently, it seemed, perhaps, in case we never saw each other again, "You look well and should stay well. I'm in the forefront of gay marriage activism [at nearly 90 years old]."
I kissed her cheek in response and said, "Thank you for your leadership."
If she didn't declare it, no one would know of her activism just by looking at her. And perhaps no one would know her daughter was a lesbian if her daughter didn't tell them explicitly; I had no recollection of "gaydar" [rhymes with radar and means being able to sense when someone is gay] being triggered in me by any of her children. No one would know about my Christian friend's paradoxical pintele Yid either, unless he told them.
When I worked in Schaumburg, Illinois, for the technology arm of Sears, Roebuck & Co., one of my colleagues wanted to know how it was possible that I was Jewish, since I had blue eyes.
I wrote about this here before, I think, but I responded, "Both of my parents have blue eyes; Russia, where both sides of my family are from originally, had a lot of pogroms, where soldiers pillaged Jewish villages, so maybe they're from that time; I don't know...."
What if I weren't really Jewish?
How ironic! During the era of the Holocaust, people had to prove they were not Jewish and today, in Israel, they had to prove they were. What a strange sensation -- to be worried that anyone would ever challenge the veracity of my Jewish identity, and what a luxury, I guess, compared with the danger my people had been in at various times historically, where they would have been happy to pass as non-Jews.
Blue eyes and tall height aside, growing up, I did always feel that people, who had met other Jews, and who did not yet know my name, which is a giveaway, wouldn't be surprised to learn that I was Jewish. (In my experience, the majority of Jews I have known have not been particularly tall or blue-eyed.)
My parents reinforced the identity so much that it never was a question for me until my colleague challenged me at work. And then, I provided a flippant, yet perhaps realistic, answer.
Fierce Pride
Just as my parents nurtured me to be proud of my Jewish identity, I nurtured myself -- with the help of the gay, lesbian, bi and trans (GLBT) community -- to be proud of my lesbian identity. And that identity got challenged a bit more often, oddly, since I felt, also, that I did not pass as heterosexual. My mother had a colleague, for example -- a fellow art collector, who was in his eighties -- who told me even after meeting Pat, "If I were 20 years younger, I'd woo you."
I just looked at him incredulously.
Today, I saw him again, a few years later and he said, "You're looking as beautiful as ever. Where's your partner?"
"She's not interested in the topic of the lecture."
"You're still together, though?"
"Yes, for nearly 16 years so far."
"That's longer than I was married to either of my wives."
I smiled at him and kept walking.
In the same edition of "The New York Times," this weekend, I read that "Tootsie" and "Some Like It Hot," both of which were films about men, posing as women, were deemed the top two funniest films of all time.
What was it about people, watching people, being fooled by mistaken identity that was so ultimately entertaining?
Why was it hilarious as fiction, but in reality, depending on the era, at a minimum unbelievable and at worst, highly dangerous? And how could my pride have been anything other than fierce with the challenging histories that the Jews and the GLBT communities have had?
Over the years, a number of people asked me why I was so earnest, particularly around role-modeling. Last week, I was asked again after saying that although it was a lot of pressure, I tried to be exemplary as often as I could....Now, I did not define what I meant by "exemplary," which when I considered it further, mostly meant, striving to be authentic; in any case, a black colleague asked me, "Doesn't that get exhausting?"
I wanted to respond, but did not: "I can't believe you can't relate. As someone from an historically-underrepresented group, I would think you'd understand the aspiration to be a leader despite your minority status, along with the importance of making it, so that the next generation of your people could see hope of success by your example."
Perhaps, I was just extra-conscious of my identity compared to most people....
Saturday, March 1, 2008
My Day As a Poem
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Hearty Art, Hardy Meal
Today provided spring-light,
and cold to offend my cold.
Sitting in Pat's favorite
Port Authority place, seeing
signs not to sleep or linger
longer than 30 minutes,
I read about "Tootsie" in
"The New York Times," killing
time prior to our play.
The reporter wrote of
Jessica Lang's "rose-vanilla
breathiness," saying,
unwittingly to Dustin Hoffman,
"Dorothy, I love you,
but I can't love you."
I was transported back to
the year of my dad's death,
when "Tootsie" and "Yentl"
both were on the big screen --
including two precious
scenes of apparently and
apparently not women,
being romantic with
each other.
Thank God I survived that
lonely adolescent time.
30 minutes and six blocks
later, Pat and I descended
the escalator to take our
seats for "Crimes of the
Heart."
Three sisters of the South
extended and fended off
their mother's legacy in
the off-Broadway "dramedy."
Me, I prefer a full-on drama.
"'night, Mother," which also
won a Pulitzer Prize, was
more my taste. Suicide is
not a laughing matter --
except somewhat in "Harold
and Maude" -- and Marsha
Norman's brand suits my
theater-going taste better.
Early dinner at Le Madeleine
off of 9th Avenue felt nice
and date-like; Pat still is
great company nearly 16
years later.
Another cold march to our
car from dinner and then
we shot straight into the
Lincoln Tunnel and to our
house in decent time.
When we turned off the alarm,
Pat said, "Hi, nice home."
Hearty Art, Hardy Meal
Today provided spring-light,
and cold to offend my cold.
Sitting in Pat's favorite
Port Authority place, seeing
signs not to sleep or linger
longer than 30 minutes,
I read about "Tootsie" in
"The New York Times," killing
time prior to our play.
The reporter wrote of
Jessica Lang's "rose-vanilla
breathiness," saying,
unwittingly to Dustin Hoffman,
"Dorothy, I love you,
but I can't love you."
I was transported back to
the year of my dad's death,
when "Tootsie" and "Yentl"
both were on the big screen --
including two precious
scenes of apparently and
apparently not women,
being romantic with
each other.
Thank God I survived that
lonely adolescent time.
30 minutes and six blocks
later, Pat and I descended
the escalator to take our
seats for "Crimes of the
Heart."
Three sisters of the South
extended and fended off
their mother's legacy in
the off-Broadway "dramedy."
Me, I prefer a full-on drama.
"'night, Mother," which also
won a Pulitzer Prize, was
more my taste. Suicide is
not a laughing matter --
except somewhat in "Harold
and Maude" -- and Marsha
Norman's brand suits my
theater-going taste better.
Early dinner at Le Madeleine
off of 9th Avenue felt nice
and date-like; Pat still is
great company nearly 16
years later.
Another cold march to our
car from dinner and then
we shot straight into the
Lincoln Tunnel and to our
house in decent time.
When we turned off the alarm,
Pat said, "Hi, nice home."
For Art's Sake
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Pat's Dad's Name Was Art
...but that's not the Art I'm referring to.
This morning, I talked to another friend of mine who's a visual artist, telling her that I was unnerved by e-mail I received this week from a classmate, who told me that while reading my learning-leadership-life history over this week, he wished he could have put his arm around me and offered me some friendly advice.
"Sarah, once you put your art out there, it's public property. Don't you think that if you publish a book and you sell 100,000 copies, there'll be 100,000 opinions?"
She liberated me, at least for today. It was freeing to realize that just because people reacted to my writing, didn't mean I needed to subscribe to all of their reactions.
Last Monday, our professor asked, "Who wants to go first?" i.e., who wanted to have his or her history interpreted during the next class?
I raised my hand.
There were to be two official readers, who would kick off the discussion while the rest of the class also had to read it, though not as carefully. Will I regret having taken this class after Monday night? Or will it prove to be transformational?
Pat's Dad's Name Was Art
...but that's not the Art I'm referring to.
This morning, I talked to another friend of mine who's a visual artist, telling her that I was unnerved by e-mail I received this week from a classmate, who told me that while reading my learning-leadership-life history over this week, he wished he could have put his arm around me and offered me some friendly advice.
"Sarah, once you put your art out there, it's public property. Don't you think that if you publish a book and you sell 100,000 copies, there'll be 100,000 opinions?"
She liberated me, at least for today. It was freeing to realize that just because people reacted to my writing, didn't mean I needed to subscribe to all of their reactions.
Last Monday, our professor asked, "Who wants to go first?" i.e., who wanted to have his or her history interpreted during the next class?
I raised my hand.
There were to be two official readers, who would kick off the discussion while the rest of the class also had to read it, though not as carefully. Will I regret having taken this class after Monday night? Or will it prove to be transformational?
Friday, February 29, 2008
Confession
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
I'm Competing With Myself
Since launching my blog in April of 2007, I believe that I have never posted fewer than 16 entries per month, and so I've been sitting here, cranking them out on this bonus day of February.
Sadly, I will not get there this month unless I allow myself to rip off excerpts of my life history that I submitted on Monday and plunk them down here. I am ill. My cold hurts: inside my ears, the glands on either side of my throat....My nose has a mind of its own and my forehead is barely containing the explosive ache, traveling up through my sinuses.
All right, I'll cheat just a bit and add one excerpt, but first:
Some Context
The life history is structured around my learning history and what I think it meant, as well as how I think it informed my leadership. The premise, I was telling a friend with whom I work earlier today, is that to the extent I build self-awareness, I'll be a better leader, and also, if I revisit my learning history, I can gain insight now as an adult educator into what motivates adults to learn.
The Excerpt
...The informal learning that meant most to me came from books; there were three that I considered the most instructive works I’ve ever read: Creative Writing, a textbook from 1977, and I didn’t even remember where I found it, but it excited me about the practices of creative writers (and I still have it; it’s sitting in my lap as I type this), and How the Hebrew Language Grew, which my college friend Marni’s mother gave to me prior to my departure for Israel. That lucid book helped me understand Hebrew grammar like I never had prior in eight years of studying it.
The third most instructive book for me was William Zinnser’s Writing to Learn, where he suggested that we learned the most about [new] topics through writing about them. I also did valuable, informal learning about desire by reading...Annie on My Mind, a novel, which featured two girls, falling in love with each other in high school.
My early schooling was mostly painful, with the exception of a couple of teachers....Rabbi Kosowsky, of blessed memory, appreciated and encouraged my creativity, and Mrs. Honan, also of blessed memory, delivered such creative lessons herself that she made school exciting, like the time we learned about early ship navigation techniques and she had all of us create astrolabes out of paper-plates, string and little, lead weights....
Note: I just googled "Rabbi Kosowsky" and his son came up; we were classmates for a time.
I'm Competing With Myself
Since launching my blog in April of 2007, I believe that I have never posted fewer than 16 entries per month, and so I've been sitting here, cranking them out on this bonus day of February.
Sadly, I will not get there this month unless I allow myself to rip off excerpts of my life history that I submitted on Monday and plunk them down here. I am ill. My cold hurts: inside my ears, the glands on either side of my throat....My nose has a mind of its own and my forehead is barely containing the explosive ache, traveling up through my sinuses.
All right, I'll cheat just a bit and add one excerpt, but first:
Some Context
The life history is structured around my learning history and what I think it meant, as well as how I think it informed my leadership. The premise, I was telling a friend with whom I work earlier today, is that to the extent I build self-awareness, I'll be a better leader, and also, if I revisit my learning history, I can gain insight now as an adult educator into what motivates adults to learn.
The Excerpt
...The informal learning that meant most to me came from books; there were three that I considered the most instructive works I’ve ever read: Creative Writing, a textbook from 1977, and I didn’t even remember where I found it, but it excited me about the practices of creative writers (and I still have it; it’s sitting in my lap as I type this), and How the Hebrew Language Grew, which my college friend Marni’s mother gave to me prior to my departure for Israel. That lucid book helped me understand Hebrew grammar like I never had prior in eight years of studying it.
The third most instructive book for me was William Zinnser’s Writing to Learn, where he suggested that we learned the most about [new] topics through writing about them. I also did valuable, informal learning about desire by reading...Annie on My Mind, a novel, which featured two girls, falling in love with each other in high school.
My early schooling was mostly painful, with the exception of a couple of teachers....Rabbi Kosowsky, of blessed memory, appreciated and encouraged my creativity, and Mrs. Honan, also of blessed memory, delivered such creative lessons herself that she made school exciting, like the time we learned about early ship navigation techniques and she had all of us create astrolabes out of paper-plates, string and little, lead weights....
Note: I just googled "Rabbi Kosowsky" and his son came up; we were classmates for a time.
Two Movies
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
One an Escape and the Other, Inane
Pat and I watched two, rented DVDs last night: "All Over Me" and "Knocked Up." For awhile, I thought that "All Over Me" was going to feel like a teenage "High Art," a movie that I disliked. Instead, quickly, I grew to care about the main character and to wish her well, and I escaped into her world for a couple of hours.
I was inspired to rent "Knocked Up" because I read about it while in Heathrow Airport in December; the British newspaper critics had made it sound good. I was highly-amused maybe twice and fell asleep before it ended.
Again, like the previous, two shows we saw, "Bernard and Doris" and "Come Back, Little Sheba," which I wrote about recently, each was about a struggling couple. This time, I'll not spoil the plots.
One an Escape and the Other, Inane
Pat and I watched two, rented DVDs last night: "All Over Me" and "Knocked Up." For awhile, I thought that "All Over Me" was going to feel like a teenage "High Art," a movie that I disliked. Instead, quickly, I grew to care about the main character and to wish her well, and I escaped into her world for a couple of hours.
I was inspired to rent "Knocked Up" because I read about it while in Heathrow Airport in December; the British newspaper critics had made it sound good. I was highly-amused maybe twice and fell asleep before it ended.
Again, like the previous, two shows we saw, "Bernard and Doris" and "Come Back, Little Sheba," which I wrote about recently, each was about a struggling couple. This time, I'll not spoil the plots.
Triple Yahtzee Scored
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Discovering a Fan of the Game
This morning, I was creating a list of five things you might not know about me for colleagues, just for fun, which we were encouraged to do, to get to know one another better. Along with letting people know that my hands were double-jointed, and three other items, I included this:
In addition to that URL, I found another, the comments of which were an extra treat. I added my own.
I felt closer to my father through Matt Goodwin, the apparent author of "Fatty's Blizzog," than to my own uncle, my father's only surviving sibling. My dad and he were estranged and I saw him only a handful of times in my life.
Earlier This Week
Fortunately, as an adult, my first cousin Sari, who was four years younger than I, and I became friendly. A wedding invitation from her arrived in the mail on Tuesday. We had similar names; mine was Sarah Ellin Siegel and hers was Sari Ellie Siegel. It was odd to see a name so similar to mine, announcing marriage to a person named Barry.
After seeing the Triple Yahtzee references in Google, I thought to google my dad, "Herman Max Siegel." I found my sister Deb's "New York Times" wedding announcement from 20 years ago and a little memorial I posted for my father on beliefnet.com. There was an anti-depressant medication ad that I had to click beyond to get there, which I didn't recall existing when I first posted it more than seven years ago.
Discovering a Fan of the Game
This morning, I was creating a list of five things you might not know about me for colleagues, just for fun, which we were encouraged to do, to get to know one another better. Along with letting people know that my hands were double-jointed, and three other items, I included this:
I'm the youngest daughter of the inventor, may his memory be blessed, of Triple Yahtzee, a popular game in the '70s (http://www.boardgamegeek.com/image/46591).
In addition to that URL, I found another, the comments of which were an extra treat. I added my own.
I felt closer to my father through Matt Goodwin, the apparent author of "Fatty's Blizzog," than to my own uncle, my father's only surviving sibling. My dad and he were estranged and I saw him only a handful of times in my life.
Earlier This Week
Fortunately, as an adult, my first cousin Sari, who was four years younger than I, and I became friendly. A wedding invitation from her arrived in the mail on Tuesday. We had similar names; mine was Sarah Ellin Siegel and hers was Sari Ellie Siegel. It was odd to see a name so similar to mine, announcing marriage to a person named Barry.
After seeing the Triple Yahtzee references in Google, I thought to google my dad, "Herman Max Siegel." I found my sister Deb's "New York Times" wedding announcement from 20 years ago and a little memorial I posted for my father on beliefnet.com. There was an anti-depressant medication ad that I had to click beyond to get there, which I didn't recall existing when I first posted it more than seven years ago.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
I've Got a Cold, But It Was Worth It
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Swimming in Moderation
Driving up the Garden State Parkway at 5:30 am on Thursday, I tried putting myself in the same mood as when I swam, but there was darkness and the radio and other cars to reckon with. I needed to arrive by 6:30 am to moderate a panel of four of our executives.
It was sad to miss swimming, but really fun to do the facilitation of the discussion. I told my partner Pat, "I enjoyed the moderation, I mean, moderating." By "...really fun," I meant that I liked having time pressure and needing to encourage at least a decent conversation within the constraint.
We taped it, and I just listened to it again to cull highlights to share with my colleagues. This week entailed lots of extra hours for work and school, hence, the dearth of blog-entries till now. Also, I slept too little and caught a cold, but it felt worth it during the panel.
It was amazing how great I felt while it was going on, and how, listening to the replay was a bit of a downer; I could hear myself speaking too quickly and adding, "uh..." a number of times....Oh, well. It was a reminder that perfection was not primary, but rather trying to ensure the best possible experience for everyone involved, and I did.
A colleague I respect a great deal instant-messaged me, "Beautiful job this morning." Another I respect wished for an even more candid sort of chat. It was intense, with nearly 100 people listening in from around the world, and we had invited them to submit questions prior, so necessarily, it was a bit over-structured in that way, so that it could be manageable.
Among the nicest responses was from an Indian colleague with whom I got to work during my assignment, who wrote about how a number of the Indian team gathered in the Bangalore office together and could picture me as I moderated. The world felt smaller and sweeter then.
Swimming in Moderation
Driving up the Garden State Parkway at 5:30 am on Thursday, I tried putting myself in the same mood as when I swam, but there was darkness and the radio and other cars to reckon with. I needed to arrive by 6:30 am to moderate a panel of four of our executives.
It was sad to miss swimming, but really fun to do the facilitation of the discussion. I told my partner Pat, "I enjoyed the moderation, I mean, moderating." By "...really fun," I meant that I liked having time pressure and needing to encourage at least a decent conversation within the constraint.
We taped it, and I just listened to it again to cull highlights to share with my colleagues. This week entailed lots of extra hours for work and school, hence, the dearth of blog-entries till now. Also, I slept too little and caught a cold, but it felt worth it during the panel.
It was amazing how great I felt while it was going on, and how, listening to the replay was a bit of a downer; I could hear myself speaking too quickly and adding, "uh..." a number of times....Oh, well. It was a reminder that perfection was not primary, but rather trying to ensure the best possible experience for everyone involved, and I did.
A colleague I respect a great deal instant-messaged me, "Beautiful job this morning." Another I respect wished for an even more candid sort of chat. It was intense, with nearly 100 people listening in from around the world, and we had invited them to submit questions prior, so necessarily, it was a bit over-structured in that way, so that it could be manageable.
Among the nicest responses was from an Indian colleague with whom I got to work during my assignment, who wrote about how a number of the Indian team gathered in the Bangalore office together and could picture me as I moderated. The world felt smaller and sweeter then.
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