Am I The Quitter?

Every week I’m going to quit Twitter. Since they increased the 148 character limit it just isn’t as fun as it was in the beginning. I liked the creative challenge of keeping it tight, and it was easy and fast to keep up. My pal Bunny likened it to passing notes in class — it’s best to be quick and direct. But in the quest to monetize the platform and continue the expected growth trajectory, all I got was more ads, long threads and less fun. It started to feel more like job to keep up.

On the “plus” side: I have some favorite parody accounts, folks I’ve gotten to know in a more social way, a quick way to view headline news, pop culture, real-time takes on TV shows, the ability to complain to faceless corporations, and stuff the kids think is hip.

I am a hypocrite because I use Instagram although I hate whatever the F “meta” is. It’s not a “utility” and it’s not a way to “bring people together” (unless you want to buy a particular type of ad that uses a magic, proprietary algorithm created by a dude who started his company by rating women by their appearance). And I have a creepy feeling that posting pics of the cute grandkids is a default invasion of privacy for people who have no say in the matter. There’s a reason Silicon Valley executives limit their own children’s usage of the products they design and peddle.

I am not young. Before the turn of the century I was working for a small company run by a couple who came of age in the late 60’s/early 70’s. In 1999 the male co-president was very excited about the potential of the Internet and he signed up to take a class called (unsurprisingly), “The Future of the Internet.” I remember vividly the morning after his first class all five of us employees gathered with our coffee in his office to ask him about “the Future.” And I paraphrase here as he dejectedly said, “Well, this is America so it should not have come as a complete surprise that this class is really about the rape of the Internet to make as much money as possible for as long as possible.”

You’re correct, Reader, nobody is forcing me to use these apps. I took them off my phone a few years ago so I have to intentionally sit down to use them. COVID had me “sitting” more, and it did make life feel less isolating for a time (toxic political Twitter aside). But I’m thinking more and more about what am I getting out of this? Yes, I’m using more intentionally (which sounds creepy when I read it out loud), but to what end? Social connection, yes, but that’s the smallest portion of my usage. And can I maintain those ties without the intermediary of our tech overlords (who more and more make me feel that The Future is what white guys close to their mid-life crisis think the future should be)? And in the most ironic moment of meta you may even be reading this from a Tweet that includes this very blog link.

Who am I kidding? This has been a ten-year (!) habit with over 13K tweets — some of which were damn pithy forms of creative genius if I do say so myself. See you next year, my friends. May it be a happy and healthy one for us all.

Little Pandemic Story #199

We’ve reached the stage of the pandemic where we now have about 266 plastic take-out food containers stacked up in the pantry. My fervent hope is that one day we’ll have a big party with a lot of left-overs so I can distribute them in those containers as party favors. Or maybe I’ll do some serious holiday cookie baking and fill them as tasty gifts? The point is to repurpose them and get them out into the world to spread something good.

I took my very old, ratty sweatshirt with holes along the seams and ripped it into rags, like my grandmother used to do. I used the remnant of a sleeve to polish an old silver platter repurposed to hold odds & ends on my dresser. I could see it was very tarnished because it’s mostly empty these days because all my odds & ends aren’t going anywhere either. They remain nestled in their proper places. I open my closet and realized that I didn’t even wear the summer clothes hanging there. Another season suspended. But I pack them up and hang the fall/winter clothes in their place.

We have a tank of six goldfish who are eight years old. I think at least three of them are depressed because they are hanging out at the bottom of the tank on the rocks for extended periods of time. Or maybe they have always done that and I never paid as much attention as I have these last few months. But the three bottom dwellers seem to be supporting each other. It lifts my heart to see kindness in the fish tank –even if I’m anthropomorphizing a bit. I brace myself for the worst outcome.

The darkening of the days’ fringe is more pronounced now. I take a flashlight when I move the garbage cans to the curb on Monday nights. The leaves make more noise in the dark, and I imagine the things I can’t see. But do you feel it too, don’t you? There’s a change in the air.

Don’t Just Stand There

There is a social-psychological phenomenon called “The Bystander Effect.”  Back in 1964 the country was rocked by the story of the murder of Kitty Genovese, a Queens, NY woman who was assaulted and killed in her neighborhood as she returned from work late at night.  Her neighbors supposedly heard and were aware of the attack , but did not come to her aid or call the police. The phrase, ” I didn’t want to get involved.”  began to circulate as code for making the choice to turn away from responding to an incident (or emergency) in a social setting.

This provoked social scientists to study why individuals in groups would behave this way, and they came up with a theory involving the diffusion of responsibility in a group, or social setting. The researchers boiled down five cognitive and behavioral responses that bystanders go through during an “emergency.”

1. They notice that something is occurring.
2. Then they make an interpretation: Is what I’m seeing an “emergency?”
3. Third, they assess their degree of responsibility.  A single person viewing an emergency is more likely to take action — i.e. the Good Samaritan.
4. Fourth, they consider their forms, or options, to render assistance — should they get directly involved or indirectly involved (like calling 911)?
5. And fifth, they implement the action.

When there is a large group of people viewing an emergency there is a tendency for an individual to think that somebody else has already performed some action, or there is somebody else more qualified to assist, like a first responder or a healthcare professional. We all know the story of the Good Samaritan who helps a stranger in need, but there is a tendency in large groups of bystanders for any one individual to think that somebody else either has responded or will respond to a person in distress.  They “diffuse” the emergency over the group and will not offer aid, thinking that somebody else has, or will, get involved.  

For a long time I have had the feeling that we are a country of bystanders.  Please do not take offense.  Everyone is so busy with his/her/their own day-to-day life full of obligations that assessing what we’re watching unfold nationally takes a lot of energy.  But in the last six months I sense a shift in the collective American consciousness.  It is an emergency when Black men and women are being killed by police.  It is an emergency when a global pandemic is killing people of all ages (POC at an even greater rate) and showing the economic fault lines of hunger, poverty and access to care and education.  These events are in front of us daily even if you don’t watch the news or spend time on social media.  

But who am I, you say?  I’m a random blogger among millions.  I’m just a woman who was born at the start of a volatile decade of U.S. history.  A women who heard a lot of rhetoric about equality from an early age, but is still confronted by the sorry match of reality to that rhetoric.  Things haven’t changed that much and it has been a long, slow slog for many, many marginalized groups.  But somebody with more resources will get involved, right?  Somebody more qualified, somebody at another level.  Or have we, as voters, just been watching and waiting:  “Is it REALLY an emergency?  Somebody else more qualified than me will fix it.  I’m only one vote — it doesn’t really matter.  I live in a Blue/Red state so my vote won’t mean much.”  

But now there’s a lot of talk about your vote — about the integrity of voting.   Elections aren’t luxuries or expendable.  There was a reason why the men who get the credit for founding this nation put qualifications on the right to vote — they took it very, very seriously so only men who owned property could vote.  So seriously that we had to fight for laws to protect our franchise, because American elections have consequences.  As hard as it is, ignore the static designed to diminish your desire or will to vote.  Carefully vet the information you read about voting (including this tiny, voice-in-the-wilderness blog)

If you are reading this and you are an American citizen, I implore you — exercise your right to vote.  Check your registration and your state’s plan for casting your vote either in-person this November 3, 2020 or by mail by October 27, 2020  (the deadline to post your ballot to ensure a November 3 postmark).  We are NOT bystanders.  We are in a state of emergency and we have the capacity to act, to render aid to this democracy.  And you know what that guy, W. Churchill, says….

Many forms of Government have been tried, and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.… ‘  

This post is longer than my usual length — I try to keep it tight so you’ll read to the end.  If you’re still with me, thank you very much.  I’m trying very hard not to be cynical (which is my default, I’m afraid), but we have come too far to go back and there is still such a long way to go.  I wish us all well.  

A Prayer

Help Me Get Ready To Make Things Happen

I read a newspaper every day — the kind that a person tosses out of a slow-rolling car,  onto  the driveway sausaged-wrapped in a plastic sleeve (that I save as an impromptu dog-poop bag). I usually read it while eating breakfast and I keep a pen nearby to do the crossword puzzles and on Sundays I make notes and circle quotes that grab me.  I have time to REALLY read the paper now — all the sections are pretty thin.  The editors are getting creative on the Sports pages especially because, well, you know.  Sometimes I break up the reading with some household chores so it can take me a whole day to read it.  I’d say I’m getting my money’s worth from this subscription.

Help Me Get Ready To Make Things Happen

This quote jumped out at me from a piece about a woman who is the outreach coordinator for a medical marijuana company.  She used it to describe the feeling she gets from listening to a pastor leading a church service that she’s listens to on the way to her job, which she works on Sundays.

There are a lot of people who are still working.  In many ways they are working more.  Their homes are their workplaces all day, even as they are also schools and sanctuaries.  When I think of it that way,  they are never not working.  And then there are people who are “unemployed” (meaning they are not receiving a paycheck for their labor).  They can think about work all the time as well.

The World feels distorted.   Or is it?  It’s been my own self-absorption that has kept it orderly and tidy.  It’s been on Fire since the beginning of Time with little pockets of peace here and there for some folks.  As usual, we humans crawling around today think we’ve come so far with our inventions, our technology.  But what I am seeing today are People.  Yes, they are using technology, but it’s to combat systemic racism, to support other People who are marching as a front line together.  I see the humanity of front-line healthcare workers who are taking care of the sick and frightened.  Yes, they also use technology’s tools, but their work is still very much hands-on (with gloves, masks and face shields).

And still it’s too easy to turn the page, to turn away from the suffering of People.  It’s the suffering that should bring us together.  For the past few months I’ve been sheltering at home and it’s been easy to think about change, but this prayer is germinating something, something to DO every day.  Write something, call someone, contribute time and/or money to further a group’s progress on behalf of People.

Every day, Help Me Get Ready To Make Things Happen”.

 

 

The Beauty of Diversion

It’s a strange time even for the introverts.  Other than going to the gym I lead a socially distant life organically.  But even I have noticed a couple of interesting things about the elasticity of time as I move through my never-really-changing day(s):

If I have to wonder when was the last time I took a shower, it’s time to take one NOW.

When I do the laundry and find I’m only washing two pairs of underwear in a week, there’s a problem.

When I start justifying the number of crossword puzzles I’m working on in a day, have I crossed a line?  According to the New York Times, no.  They have increased the puzzle page in recent weeks to give readers more of a distraction from, well, the news.

If I play enough songs from the the 80’s and put on a headband I can go back in time.  My time machine is fueled by cleaning out stuff.   WHOOOO!  I finally used up a six- year-old lip balm and tossed those old mascaras, because who needs make-up under these make-shift masks I wear to go grocery shopping?

The TV is off during the daylight hours — radio, too, since all of the “news” is about one topic.  But I experience a strange phenomenon as I go about my day.  There’s an elasticity to time.  I’m not working right now (at a paying job, at least) so the only structure to my day is around the household chores, and, truth be told, those chores aren’t very onerous.  We don’t have little children in the house to feed regularly or to teach  so there is just the passing of the hours.  The closest way I can describe the feeling is to say it reminds me of being a child.  Sometimes I have the feeling of five-year-old me:  that feeling of some larger authority  structuring my time —  like a parent calling me to the table, or to go with them on an errand because I am too small to be left alone at home.  And sometimes I feel like my  adolescent self —  old enough to be left to my own devices but without homework, or a car, or money.  Both were feelings of a strange kind of abdicated freedom.

There are a whole lot of people still working.   They are keeping civilization intact for the socially distant.  They are stocking shelves, delivering stuff, showing up for their shifts at hospitals, police stations, fire houses, restaurant kitchens, food banks.  They are creating diversions for kids, making us laugh and trying to alleviate loneliness.  Our days are long and all the same, but we have still have agency and some power to make choices, however small, to improve them.   The painted rock in this post photo was resting on a path I walked recently.  Somebody reaching out to all the passers-by:  choose beauty, choose to be happy. And remember, it will not always be this way.

 

 

Journalism vs Marketing

 

For the past few weeks I’ve been mulling over the topic of Facebook as a news source. This mulling was sparked by the recent accusation that Facebook was blocking more conservative posts from its members’ feeds. Although I’d classify myself as active on social media I would not characterize myself as a heavy FB user, but I cannot deny that FB is a driving force in contemporary life.

But as a heavy consumer of news, this provoked me into thinking more critically about how news is packaged now. I began by looking at Random House Webster’s College Dictionary’s definition of journalism:

journalism: (1) the occupation of gathering, writing, editing and publishing or broadcasting news. (2) newspapers and magazines; the press. (3) a course of study for a career in journalism. (4) material written for a newspaper or magazine. (5) writing marked by a popular slant.
Then I added the Five (Plus One) Questions of Journalism that I learned in school:
WHO? WHAT? WHERE? WHEN? WHY? and HOW?

Although many FB users like the ability to share personal content with both their friends and in some cases, the public at large, Facebook is a business and the reason its platform is “free” is because its users have a value to their business. I respect that Facebook is a business model and the positive elements it brings to its users’ personal and professional lives, but I don’t give it any higher, altruistic attributes.

Facebook evolved from a cool way for college students to engage with a defined population into a global tool for people (with internet access) to share personal content. That personal content shapes and drives what you see, and it is driven primarily by those mystical algorithms. The recent news kerfuffle revealed by Gizmodo is that there are humans (primarily young, East-coast educated humans) who curate the news feeds, and while this isn’t surprising from an employment standpoint it does make me consider what the employer’s motivation is in regard to this staff.

And then I remembered the Three Big Questions of Marketing:
1. Why do you do it?
2. How do you do it?
3. Why should we care?

But if Facebook considers itself a news source shouldn’t  it be held to as high a standard as news outlets? Recently I read an op-ed letter that described Facebook’s news feed as akin to getting your news out of a gumball machine. Although that resonated with me I’d be more inclined to describe it as getting your news from one of those arcade games where you crank a crane over the stuffed animal of your choice before you drop it. You may not get THAT animal but you’ll get something. Since Facebook is using “likes” and “friends” to drive the feed the reader will never know what s/he DOESN’T see. There’s nothing inherently wrong with click bait and recommended content, but I have a problem with the limits on “why” is it selected for you.

When you buy a newspaper or visit a news-specific site there is visible paid advertising, so why is that any different from Facebook? I don’t necessarily read every article in a newspaper or every ad, but the people who run the newspaper make it very clear which content is which. They even make it clear when they aren’t just giving me the facts; such as the Op-Ed page where they invite folks with differing opinions to share them. And maybe that’s where I get hung up. I don’t want anyone to presume that because I liked something once, that’s the limit of everything I like. I may be open to liking something new and different, but the only way you’d know that is if you get to know me. And getting to know me is a privilege earned by your professional behavior.

But let’s get back to journalism, which is what I’m calling “news” for this exercise. Most adults realize that although journalists should be unbiased professionals many of the organizations who employ them have a distinct slant. I try to read from as many news outlets as I can and pay attention to the bylines.  I follow news organizations on Twitter — and that has sped up my own personal news cycle in terms of delivering breaking news. But there is something warmed-over about Facebook news — like it’s pre-digested. Sometimes news is like a punch to the gut.  When it’s bad news it will sadden you or even make you shake with rage.  News shouldn’t be trying to sell you on something.  Its first purpose is to inform you, its higher purpose it to enlighten you, but its most noble purpose is to make you uncomfortable.

Facebook’s purpose is to get your eyes to linger as long as possible so somebody somewhere can figure out how to sell you something.  It is far from FB’s best interest to make you feel like logging off (which may also explain why trolling and negative behavoir get a lot of attention).   I enjoy a good cat video as much as the next guy, but until cats can get press credentials I’ll get my news from the journalists.

 

 

 

Forever, Plastics

Perhaps my goal here is to further “afflict the comfortable,” but this BBC Earth video from 2009 left me awestruck.   I discovered it visiting the site of the poet Liz Brownlee who is participating in the A-to-Z Challenge again this year (her “A” entry is about the albatross).  I became her WP follower two years ago when I first survived  A2Z and she continues to inspire me with both the depth and breath of her work.

Facing History

I suspect I’m not alone when a glance in the mirror shocks me, because it’s my mother’s face looking back at me.  Why does this unsettle me?  My mom is a feisty woman.  The first generation of her family to go to college, she became a teacher because that’s what her parents told her to be.  She missed both the “swinging 60’s”  sexual revolution  and the “consciousness raising 70’s” because she was too busy working and raising her family.  Both of my parents are part of the Silent Generation, children of parents who lived through the Depression and learned the best way to get along was to conform, work hard and strive for security above all else.

I’ve grappled with identity and transition all my life.  Not that I’m confining this conversation to women, but I’ve found that as a group we spend a good portion of our energy managing physical change throughout our lives.  We undergo many physical changes marked by our bodies:  as we pass from girlhood into adulthood, from month to month, during and after pregnancy, and then, menopause.  And I’m not even going to address the themes of body image and not-so-subtle pressures to maintain a standard of beauty bench-marked by youth.

We also manage emotional and psychological change as become workers, wives, partners, mothers, bosses, caregivers, empty-nesters, grandmothers, even widows.     All of these changes occur over timelines that vary from woman-to-woman, and we look to our friends and elders for insight and reassurance that we’re not going through this alone  (or to reassure us that we’re not crazy, weird or delusional).   So after all this time and effort I put in working on my own issues, why wouldn’t I just look like an older, wiser version of myself?   In my mind I picture my face at 21, but it’s just framed by grey hair and a couple of crinkles at the corners of my eyes and lips.  I forget about the changes the years and environment have made to my skin, that gravity slowly pulls at my cheeks and chin(s). My own twenty-something daughter has taken to raking her hands through my hair to “see her future” in the pattern of its graying.

But just because I resemble my mother it doesn’t mean I AM my mother. We’ve both had different life experiences and outlooks.  Is our shared biology destiny?   Or is it a form of fear that shocks me? I’m fortunate that my mother is still here – so I can compare the arc of my aging to hers, but I’m struck by the realization that I’m just as limited by biology and time.  Lately my mom speaks about her decreasing energy, and how limited she feels by her body and its aches. She is frustrated that everything just seems to take more time and effort, and I get it.

So I am face-to-face with what really scares me, and it isn’t that I’m turning into my mother, it’s that I’m watching the future — my future — unspool before me.  The good news is my mom is independent and healthy, but there is still so much more I want to do, to create, to see, to work on. As  a greedy child I thought my supply of sunny days was infinite, but as an adult I’ve learned that the amount of both sunny and rainy days is finite, and I want to make them all count.  Which makes this blog all the more important to me – and grateful for the eyes who read it.

Thanks, Mom.

 

 

Nothing Smaller than Your Elbow, Please

OK, Napsters, I was on the fence about blogging this but it could be considered a public service announcement. Thanks to Notorious s.t.u. who convinced me to turn it into a post.

For the past few months I’ve been reconciling myself to the fact that my sense of hearing is fading. Stands to reason as I’m getting older, and have been attending arena concerts for a good portion of my life. Then in the last few weeks I’ve been noticing pressure in my head.  Maybe it’s just allergy season and some resulting sinus pressure?  I’m sure if I take a decongestant and an antihistamine, I’ll be fine.

Now I digress briefly to a short parable about the behavior of the frog when you put him in a cooking pot of cold water and slowly turn up the heat.  No frogs were harmed in the making of this post, but the story asserts that if you heat the water slowly to boiling the frog will placidly cook to death.  Conversely, if you tried to put the frog into a pot of water already boiling, he would struggle mightily to avoid death by boiling. 

So it turns out that the reason I can’t hear and have this growing pressure in my head is due to “cerumen impaction,” which is medical jargon for “large, unsightly plugs of ear wax filling your ear canal.”  Since I try to keep it classy over here I’ll let that be enough of a word picture for you, but you can Google some images (on an empty stomach, please) if you’re a visual person.   Not to put too fine a point on it:  I was the frog sitting (and suffering) in growing silence as the wax “simmered” into the solidity of those “potatoes” my mother warned me about when I was five.

The kind otolaryngologist (the medical specialist of boogers and ear wax) who removed these scary blobs reassured me that cerumen impaction has nothing to do with insufficient hygiene or lazy health habits.  Ear wax is our friend.  It keeps water and other gunk away from our delicate ear drums, but depending on the size and shape of your inner ears it can also be a magnet for more ear wax.  The answer to ear wax is NOT the Q-tip!  Again, the old adage “don’t put anything in your ear except your elbow”  is still a good rule.

So I shall risk the embarrassment of the blogging community by sharing my story, and to remind everybody that no matter your age, do not accept a decrease in your hearing as normal.  Have a doctor take a peek in there whenever you visit.   Don’t do anything as ill-advised as attempting to remove stubborn ear wax yourself, and it bears repeating, do not put ANYTHING sharp or pointy into your ears.

Mom’s Slingshot Theory

During the luxury of a first pregnancy you have this rich, fantastic experience of imagining your baby not just as an infant, but all through his or her life.  In most of these fantasies you imagine your child as a sports phenom, a musical prodigy, a high-IQ intellectual achiever, POTUS, or maybe winning a world-renown prize.  And you picture yourself in the background or standing proudly off to the side, beaming in the reflected glory of your progeny.  Clearly, your (and your partner’s) DNA played a BIG part in this result.

Reality sets in not long after that baby arrives, when you realize your one job is to keep this howling creature alive through 24 hour intervals.  The baby does not care if you have eaten a meal, taken a shower, or that you were asleep 5 minutes before his most-recent demand.  Mother Nature knows this and did two things:

• 1.     She made the cry of the human baby impossible to ignore, and

• 2.     She made human babies so cute and irresistible that we WANT to take care of them.

Not long after we get the hang of taking care of this new baby something shifts.  Baby will want to do more on her own, to become independent.  So here’s where my Slingshot Theory begins.

Pretty much right after you greet this baby you treat her like a very large marble, and you put her in the pocket of a big slingshot.  As a Mom you spend a lot of your energy and strength pulling back the metaphorical pocket holding your bundle of joy, and when you can’t hold on any longer your baby is catapulted into the Infinite.  I picture myself standing next to the flaccid slingshot, panting and sweaty, mouthing a little prayer of safekeeping.

Because as much as you try to convince yourself that you control the way your child interacts with the world, the reality is you don’t.  You should protect and guide your child, but at key points along the way you have to let go.  Your first day back to work, her first step, his first day of school – all of these events are navigation away and apart from each other, and they make it easier for the bigger “firsts.”  All you can do as a parent is to give that child the tools and resources to leave you, to become independent, to render you obsolete in this job.   Still, you are both at the mercy of the Universe.

The greatest joy the Universe can bestow is to return that child back to you as an adult and ultimately, a friend.  At least until you enter your dotage and need somebody to take care of you until the Universe claims you back.

So, today I want to salute all mothers who have kids out there in the Universe, or are about to launch them.  And I salute the children who have come back and kissed those mothers.

And to my own children:  I never doubted that you would grow up to be the fine, kind women I know today.  You honor me by living your independent lives, and that is a blessing all its own.

Happy Mother’s Day from Can I Take A Nap!