This is not the piece I intended to write.
Since becoming a member of the People’s Republic of Substackistan, I have used this space to publish my current musings on my trials and tribulations as an aging air hostess with Parkinson’s disease as well as publishing stories from my past. The pre-Parkinson’s material is a mix of stories I’ve published before as well as pieces I’ve dusted off and finished from my “What the Hell Am I Supposed To Do With This” folder. None of it resembles a newsletter, I’m sorry and you’re welcome.
I’ve been resurrecting older material as new posts can take me quite awhile. When I began writing as a newly single Chicago transplant, I could pour a stiff glass of bourbon and go to town plunking out words for hours at my $99 IKEA desk. I would wake up the next day and have some fully formed stories that required a quick once over to check my grammar and voila, ready to share with the world. I could also drink a Gatorade to send my hangover packing, lace up my shoes and run five miles. It was a different time.
I never celebrated my new found creative talent, in fact, I only lamented that I had acquired it at forty-two years of age, better known as TOO LATE.
A decade later, my Parkinson’s diagnosis ended my writing entirely until February of this year. Finding this space has been nothing short of life changing, and not in a cheesy “Oprah magazine‘s life changing meditation apps!” kind of way. More like a “I finally found something resembling purpose” kind of way. I am so grateful to be able to exchange ideas here with people I admire and respect immensely. It’s a glow up, as the kids say.
I write often now. Mostly crap. I’ve started four different pieces that I thought would be my next exciting dispatch. They have gone in an endless rambling circles and fizzled out in the toilet bowl that is the ever expanding “What the Hell Am I Supposed To Do With This” folder.
So how was your weekend?
My housemate fam and I left Chicago on Friday for a long awaited trip to NYC. In April of this year, my dear friend Karla purchased tickets for us all to see Jon Batiste at Radio City Music Hall on Saturday night. We had been counting down the days, primed for the adventure.
I am a well traveled individual but New York always makes me feel like a clueless rube. As someone who avoids crowds, noise, and physically taxing situations in my free time so I can save all my juice for the job, hitting the F train at 5 pm on a Friday night felt like trying my driver’s permit out on the autobahn. But I was able to navigate shuttle buses, turnstiles, and multiple flights of stairs clad in a dress and heels carrying a roller bag. New York had given me super powers!
Trucks were announcing my good fortune. Even the wall of our hotel room was whispering sound advice.
Despite having super human strength in an intoxicating environment surrounded by three people I love going to an event I knew would be incredible, I felt heavy. My brain was on fumes from attempting to process recent reports regarding Rebecca Cheptegai, a Ugandan Olympic runner who died after her former boyfriend doused her in gasoline and set her on fire and the Pelicot trial in Avignon where a husband is accused of drugging his wife for almost a decade so that other men could rape her while he filmed it. Pure evil.
When Hilary Clinton lost the presidency in 2016, I thought wow, I sorely underestimated how much people hate women. I say “people” because it is common for women hate on other women for sport. I now believe this goes beyond hate. These stories show that some men do not even consider women to be human. I had a panic attack thinking about how many men believe women are their property to destroy on a whim and how many women have been gaslit to believe that Trump will uphold “family values” and how putting a woman in the White House might yet again be a bridge too far.
I simply cannot bear this reality.
But I regained composure and prepared my brain for better things.
The Jon Batiste show was nothing short of a spiritual experience. His message is pure optimism; he surrounds himself with musicians that radiate megawatt positive energy. He played “You Are My Sunshine” and “If You’re Happy and You Know It” on the melodica and we not only clapped our hands but that venue collectively got in touch with the child within us that learned those songs. Through eyes welled up with tears, I saw 5,000 plus people wiping their faces and smiling. At the show’s end, Batiste and his band marched through the crowd making some sublimely joyful noise with patrons from the audience following, some with traditional NOLA style parasols. He encouraged us all to hug one another and his last words were “Even if I don’t know you, I love you.”
I’ve filled my calendar with live music since I was a teenager and I had never seen anything quite like it. Truly extraordinary.
We followed that up with what was supposed to be a quick drink near our hotel to debrief about the magical experience we all shared. We ended up at the opening of new cocktail lounge in the Flatiron district. I do not imbibe much any more for any number of reasons but this place was a worthy exception. Outstanding drinks, atmosphere, service, and music. (FYI if you’re in the area: Experimental Cocktail Club New York) I stayed up well past my bedtime basking in the glow of it all.
(As I am from the Ira Glass “anecdote, anecdote, reflection” school of storytelling, I can feel Ira saying “GET to the reflection already. Land this plane, stewardess!”)
Yesterday we flew home after the most satisfying forty hours I’ve had in a long time. I understand that if I am allowing myself to deeply feel joy, I must accept that there is no filter that keeps out sorrow. There’s no “Good Vibes Only” switch for feelings. I have been clinging to a pendulum that only swings wildly between anger and apathy for years and I am defiantly determined to get off this ride.
On the plane ride back to Chicago, I felt rage bubbling up inside me again. The New York Times reporting on Trump’s take on funding childcare and “sane washing” his word salad to make it seem like he a cohesive point of view made me livid. And of course you should buy your emotionally troubled teenager an assault rifle, Gray family, that sounds like a super sound plan.
I want people to PAY for all of this. I want public stonings in the town square that are televised so we can all revel in seeing these monsters from the news take their last breath if we so choose. “An Eye For An Eye,” coming to NBC this fall!
In lieu of public executions, I focused on what was actually within my control. I canceled my NYT subscription telling them their coverage of Trump was irresponsible, unprofessional, and dangerous. Will they fold without my $4 a month? Certainly not. Am I content getting tomato risotto recipes elsewhere? DAMN RIGHT I AM.
While laying in bed last night trying to figure out how to make any of my shitty drafts into something worthy of this space, I accessed a snapshot from my memory. Days after the 2016 election, I was at work in the front galley of the plane. A middle aged lady came up to use the lavatory and when she exited, she took in the man in the aisle of row 1. He was an older gentleman dressed in a Trump t-shirt and a red cap proclaiming our new leader’s catch phrase, MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. She stood there long enough for him to look up at her and say “Yes?”
“Your hat”, she told him. “It hurts me”.
He asked her to repeat herself.
“Your hat. It hurts me”.
“Why?”
She told him that she had extended family in Mexico and Trump’s “big beautiful wall” had them terrified. She told him that she and her children depended on Obamacare for medical help, a program he vowed to dismantle. She made a few other points about how the election had destroyed her faith in the democratic process, all in a measured tone of voice.
He listened intently, nodding. He didn’t offer her an apology but he did say something to the effect of “I appreciate you sharing your thoughts with me.” She went back to her seat.
Did he renounce the MAGA lifestyle based on this brief conversation? I’m guessing he didn’t. Did he listen to her with respect and consideration? He did.
All the screaming of the last eight years caused me to build a shell around myself, a forcefield to protect me from the insanity. I felt it dissolve a bit with Biden stepping down, I sensed a major shift while watching the DNC in our basement. Karla flew in Tuesday of that week for the festivities and by Thursday we had a house full of people blissfully high on hope-ioids. (I stole hope-ioids from Kelly Thompson, I’m not that clever)
Those nights were nourishment for the soul. Just in time for the biggest AHA I’ve had in ages, courtesy of the brilliant and beautiful Ally Hamilton in a recent post titled “The Blind Spot” (please read all of her stuff and thank me later)
“I’ve had so many moments in my life when I didn’t tell someone they’d hurt my feelings or let me down. I imagined they’d feel as distraught as I would if I blew it. It seemed easier to give them the benefit of the doubt, move through my own feelings, and forgive them without having to survive an uncomfortable conversation. But a whole bunch of things are wrong with that approach. When you don’t share your confusion, pain, disappointment or anger, you rob people of the chance to be close to you, to understand your perspective, or to do it differently next time. Just like times I’ve screwed up and someone has offered me the chance to make it right. If you’re really close to someone, your relationship will be able to sustain a little struggle. Usually that’s the stuff that makes us closer.’”
WHEN YOU DON’T SHARE YOUR CONFUSION, PAIN, DISAPPOINTMENT OR ANGER, YOU ROB PEOPLE OF THE CHANCE TO BE CLOSE TO YOU. Sorry for the shouty caps, but I need the people in the back to hear. Even in my new and improved emotionally healthy and zen ass state of being, I never tell people when I’m in a bad way. I’m from the Pick Your Battles, This Is Not the Hill You Want To Die On, Feelings Aren’t Facts, Let’s Keep It Moving school of emotional business. It’s been my favor to the world to eat shit as to not make anyone feel uncomfortable. Still waiting for my medal.
Since this Ally Hamilton AHA (even her initials are exclamatory!), I’ve been practicing sharing my darker feelings and despite the fact that it initially feels like I’m throwing myself down a flight of stairs, it also feels like the exact right thing to do.
Siri tells me there are 57 days until Election Day. I patiently wait, staying optimistic, and promising myself that I will outfit myself in Kamala gear and if anyone gets Trumpy with me, I will respectfully explain to them that their choices and beliefs have hurt me and countless others. And we are determined to do anything and everything to make it stop because we are so goddamn tired of hurting.
Onward and upward, people. Let us gird our loins for the debates!
Just a few of the blue wave buttons you can purchase at Earlybird Greetings. Support a childless cat lady owned business!
A photo of yours truly and Karla, my local NYC joy dealer.
YOU’RE A JOY DEALER!!!!
I just read a moment ago “there is a beautiful creature living in the hole you have dug.” Hi, I dig holes and the put myself in them. I’ve built those shells and walls around myself. And like Ally I’ve kept my mouth shut when I wanted to scream.
Somehow joy survives…and we come out of our holes — still beautiful 🤍
I’m so glad you found joy in one of my favourite cities - it sounds like a wonderful 40 hours!
I too have many drafts on the go that end up going round and round in incoherent circles - you are not alone.
You’re also not alone in your rage about how men hate women. View us as property. I lost a friend this week because he felt I wasn’t being kind enough to men (I had written a few pieces on misogyny and domestic violence). I didn’t see it coming either - he got very angry and very “not all men!”
Then I read about Gisele Pelicot and cried. Raged. Plotted. Sat in stunned silence wondering how I can help. I’ve been researching her case and trying to write an article on it … but I just can’t get past how many men it was. How many from all walks of life were willing to harm her. How no one tried to stop it.
It’s bleak - but we must keep fighting!