FULL COLUMN: Not all movements are created equal
…from last week’s Creative Loafing.
Those of us dismayed by elected officials and their way of doing business are energized by Occupiers taking to the streets, in New York City, Tampa, and around the country. There is something exciting about groups of people who’ve had enough and decide to make a better world for all of us.
At first, the Occupy Wall Street and Occupy Tampa movements attracted very little media coverage. Activists on Twitter and Facebook had to spread the word themselves.
As the revolution became known, those who want to harness power for the upper class openly disapproved. They complained that the unruly mobs of troublemakers were naïve or crazy, and didn’t even have a coherent list of demands. A few praised our newest champions, but mostly the coverage remained dismissive.
Arrests occurred, liberals came to their defense, and only then did the Occupiers become worthy of discussion in cable news shows, mainstream media coverage, and social events where I pretend to be a mild-mannered moderate.
I hear some crazy shit. I mingle with friends, coworkers, and relatives who sometimes quote pundits on Fox News and it always makes me smile. Why? Unlike those who hear nonsense and shout at the television, I’m actually heard.
One of the recurring and more ridiculous themes at dinner parties and board meetings is this: “Occupy Tampa, sprung from Occupy Wall Street, gets its original inspiration from the Tea Party. These two groups of activists, both on the left and right are cousins, more alike than different.”
I chuckle and then let them have it. Here is my rebuttal:
From behind the wheel of an air-conditioned BMW or Ford F-150 with Bocephus blaring, perhaps one protest looks like any other protest. Both groups are filled with, you know, people. They chant and wave placards. However, if you look closely, the Occupy Movement knows how to spell.
My husband and I have been to both types of events with our kids. I can report with certainty that not all activists are created equal.
Occupy Tampa has a sense of humor. My favorite sign: “I’ll believe corporations are people when Florida executes one.” The tea party doesn’t do jokes. And no, Michele “vaccines cause mental retardation” Bachmann doesn’t count.
In Occupy Tampa events, young people help older people cross the street. Organizers talk about being mindful and respectful with passersby and police officers. Compare with Teabaggers who, during Republican debates, cheered for death penalty executions and for the uninsured to die without lifesaving surgery. Which group would you trust with your children?
The Occupiers are advocating ideas that any free thinker can get behind. They want the corrupting influence of money out of politics. They inspire laws making it easier to move accounts from Bank of America where it’s difficult to save and get out of debt. When Tea Party activists have the microphone, their coherent demand was for Barack Obama to produce a birth certificate. Recently, they won the battle to get fluoride out of the water in St. Petersburg. Way to go, guys.
Teabaggers are angry and frustrated. They are also painfully, woefully ignorant of American laws and history. They have been manipulated into voting against their own self-interest. The Occupiers are educated and aware of how our political system works. They are determined and resolute rather than angry. They aren’t lashing out against the poor, the immigrant, the teacher, the first responders or the working class. Teachers didn’t cause our economy to collapse. So the Occupiers are directing their frustration where it belongs — against the financial institutions that caused these problems and lawmakers who made it worse.
This new breed of hero doesn’t simply read condensed versions of Ayn Rand and spit out conservative talking points before church. They are a diverse, savvy, and good-natured group talking and listening about problems, wondering out loud about solutions.
Don’t compare them to something ignorant just because you don’t understand. Shut up and listen to what they have to say. Bring them some lunch, a few bottles of water, or maybe a kind word if that’s all you got. You might learn something.
My first novel, Olivia’s Kiss, is reviewed and gets 4 stars
BigAl over at BigAl’s Books and Pals reviewed my novel and found it worthy.
Quite worthy.
They gave Olivia’s Kiss a favorable review and 4 stars. The story:
Olivia Foster is a beautiful, headstrong killing machine, shocked to find herself yearning for something different.
Olivia discovered a talent for killing men while in her teens, after shooting her abusive father in the head and watching him die. Unapologetic and dedicated to helping victims of domestic violence fight back, she built a wildly successful business. Now, a sophisticated young woman, Olivia travels the world pursuing bad men and making them pay.
When an unexpected vacation leads her home, Olivia reconnects with childhood friends and finds herself envying them. Like so many women approaching their thirties, and despite her most-wanted status, Olivia is startled by the unfamiliar urge and intrigued with the idea of settling down.
Max, her longtime love, proposes marriage, and Olivia dares to wonder: Can she really trade guns and glory for gold bands and bath towels?
Buy Olivia’s Kiss for your Kindle, Nook, or any e-reader at Smashwords.
Support your local writer. Spread the word.
FULL COLUMN: Raising Radicals
…From Monday’s editorial section of The Tampa Tribune.
I couldn’t believe my ears. After walking into an event recently and greeting a few acquaintances known to be quite religious, I caught the tail end of their intense conversation.
“Children shouldn’t be taken places where their minds are manipulated,” an older gentleman was saying. “Children shouldn’t be made to believe in nonsense. They aren’t old enough to make decisions about certain fundamental questions on their own and forcing a belief system on them is completely unfair.”
I could hardly speak. Everyone was nodding.
“I’m confused,” I said, looking around. “Since when are you guys against taking children to church?”
It was their turn to stare in disbelief. After a few minutes of what most people call an uncomfortable silence, but I call happy hour, the speaker cleared his throat.
“We’re not against taking children to church, Catherine. We’re against parents taking their children to protest rallies like Occupy Tampa.”
Oh, okay. That sounded about right.
“What’s the difference between church and a political rally?” I asked.
It wasn’t a fair question, mostly because I knew the answer all along. One gathering consists of rational and caring adults modeling decent, civic-minded behavior. The other serves communion.
I wanted to tell my audience that a family rebelling together, stays together. I almost mentioned that recent polls show over 50% of Americans agreeing with the Occupiers. That’s a higher percentage than those who regularly attend a house of worship. Instead, I walked away and tried to find a harmless conversation about tropical storms. After all, I didn’t want to be brought up on child abuse charges.
Nothing elicits fear and intimidation more than a few hundred protestors exercising their Constitutional rights in public. But for me, the Occupy Movement is an opportunity to put democracy on display for my kids. Through their attendance and involvement, they can experience a collective action, including all the positive and negative aspects of such, live and in person, rather than reading about it in a history book.
Admittedly, the topic is complex. Our economic problems took decades to create and the solutions won’t come quickly or easily. Yet, children can still comprehend what’s happening.
Try this analogy, either for the young child or the confused adult who turns off the television and finally shows an interest.
Some people are gathered in a kitchen. They purchase ingredients, mix and measure everything together with pride, care and attention. They toil over a hot stove for hours and finally produce the most delicious, mouth-watering apple pie.
Afterwards, those who own the kitchen arrive and take the pie away. Workers who created the culinary masterpiece are now requesting a slice. That’s it. They don’t want the whole pie. They simply want one slice, and perhaps a fork with which to eat it.
Children have an amazing sense of fairness and this idea that the majority of people should benefit from a system they helped create resonates with them.
Most parents raise their children to self-advocate. Responsible moms and dads extol the virtues of self-defense and the power of taking a stand against bullies. Those who bring their children to Gaslight Park in downtown Tampa every weekend are simply modeling the behavior they seek in young ones, showing our actions truly speak louder than words. Activists stand up with teachers, hairdressers, and nurses to provide their families with a living example of what happens when we take a stand.
Then they throw around a football and go home.
It’s not a bad way to spend the day.
Occupy Tampa is just getting started. Lasting movements take time to build and we’ll see whether this movement dies out or thrives and ultimately changes the world.
I’m hoping this populist message gets through the fog and cynicism to reach the hearts and minds of everyone. In the end though, the lesson for all of us is in the journey.
Taking our kids, at any age, to participate in a community movement where neighbors gather to talk about solutions, where the powerful are humbled by the people, is good for them and us. At the very least, it’s most certainly an American ideal.
As American, you might say, as apple pie.
FULL COLUMN: Oh enough already with the complaints
…from yesterday’s Tampa Tribune.
“Just because you have a pain, doesn’t mean you should be one.” –Nana and Mom paraphrasing Maya Angelou all my life.
I have news for anyone over sixty and dealing with malfunctioning body parts. If you are about to go on a lunch date or vacation or shopping trip, especially with younger friends or family members, please pay attention and follow this important advice.
Respond to any and all inquiries about your health and well-being with an answer that doesn’t encourage us to regret asking.
Such answers include, but are not limited to:
“I’m well.”
“I’m hanging in there.”
“So far, so good.”
And then follow up with something like: “How are you doing?”
In other words, no nonsense about your sciatica. That catheter of yours is not appropriate dinner table conversation. No one wants to hear stories regarding excruciating backaches or complications from hip replacement surgery. And stop whispering about your ungrateful kids.
Please. You are freaking us out.
It’s not that we don’t care about these things; we do. We care about your health and your regularity and your family. We care about these subjects in a general way. But we can do without all the details, every time we see each other, with heavy sighs in between bad news.
Growing old is painful, uncomfortable, and annoying. Aches and pains get in the way of enjoying even the simplest of pleasures, like brunch or watching matinee movies.
We’ve seen the commercials during 60 Minutes. We get it.
Age doesn’t come by itself, but we keep that realization in the back of our minds, trying to appreciate that we can still make it to the bathroom on our own, for at least a little while longer.
Every now and then, we’ll see someone in a walker or catch Joan Rivers on television. It hits us that we’re heading that way. But we put that knowledge back in the corner of our brain to get on with life. That’s the only way we can. Otherwise we’d be curled up in bed with a scotch soda, ten boxes of Kleenex and barely enough energy to work the remote.
You don’t want that, do you?
Well, your complaints make it difficult to soldier on. You’re bringing us down. After all, there isn’t anything we can do about the fifteen kinds of medication you need to get out of bed each morning. We told you years ago to lay off the bagels, butter, and dead cows.
Maybe if you’d joined us in discovering fresh fruits and vegetables without sugar and salt, your knees wouldn’t be on an indefinite strike right now.
My Nana had a ton of medical issues. I never once heard her complain. She walked up and down Florida Avenue to get exercise, plus a cup of coffee from McDonald’s, every day despite macular degeneration and arthritis that could kill a truck driver. Her sisters never complained either, and they had it pretty bad. My mom is getting older, too, but only complains about Mad Men and their filthy secrets.
Maybe that’s why I’m not afraid of getting old.
Until you start complaining again.
FULL COLUMN: Then and now; adjusting to middle school
…from last week’s Creative Loafing.
My sons have been in sixth grade for over two months. They left a small, private Jewish elementary school to attend a slightly larger public middle school located in eastern Hillsborough County, nestled between three churches and five liquor stores. Add to this culture shock the fact that we moved from Lutz to South Tampa for them to attend this particular facility. To say we’ve endured some transition issues would the understatement of the year.
But here we are in October and thrilled with most everything so far, even with experiences that aren’t necessarily thrilling. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this – when 11 year-olds experience a change in their world view, parents need to pay attention and keep up.
Oh, and wine helps.
There are many differences between a rather innocent childhood spent in a nurturing environment and the perfect storm of preteen angst and hormonal differences in a population that is starting to require deodorant.
Then: My kids attended school with children who responded to frustration in two ways: they either threatened to curse or threatened to sue. Most of the time, they called Daddy. Now: My kids attend school with young adults who learned to say, “—- you, mom” in pre-school. And why sue when you can kick some ass instead?
Then: My boys simply dropped their belongings in the hallway when they had recess. In plain view were books, money, electronics, and stock options. Nothing was ever stolen, although risky investors were mocked and belittled. Now: My kids have been introduced to the idea that lockers need locks. And shit still winds up missing.
Then: My kids got picked for every sports team. Most people credit their Irish heritage, but my relatives can’t bend over and touch their toes without putting an eye out. No, my sons’ athletic tendencies are the result of Husband’s Ashkenazi/Ancient Hebrew genetics. Think: Moses. Last year, this easily gave our kids the advantage over schoolmates who followed more in the Woody Allen tradition of Judaism. Now: Schoolmates like Keyshawn Robinson* and DeWayne Carter*make my kids’ Ashkenazi heritage look, well, Ashkenazi-like. I’m worried that the only way to get Oldest and Youngest on a team is to talk to their Coach. “I’m working on a column about why you hate Jews. How do you spell your last name?”
Then: My boys flirted with girls who wanted summer homes on the beach and good earning potential in a mate. Now: Girls want guitar players who can lick their own eyebrows.
Then: My kids enjoyed home-cooked, kosher-vegetarian, gourmet, and conflict-free lunches from a local company that brought in catered meals with a song and smile. Now: They endure the school district’s idea of vegetarian options (read: grilled cheese and potato chips). It goes against the lunch lady’s contract to smile.
Then: My kids socialized with open-minded Jewish kids who typically, though not always, seemed to enjoy socializing with other Jewish kids. Now: My boys meet students like “Christopher” whose mom doesn’t even want him around Jewish kids. “Didn’t that happen to Daddy back in the old days?” Oldest asked. Daddy nodded as if remembering a pogrom. Oldest told Christopher, “Anti-Semitism is so ten minutes ago. Come on kid, we’re *in* now.”
Then: My kids took embarrassing school pictures, with parted hair and missing teeth, that will come back to haunt them during future rehearsal dinners and/or bond hearings. Now: They have the option of paying extra to whiten teeth and erase blemishes in school pictures.
How’s that for complete and utter bullshit?
“Our sons are in middle school,” I said to Husband. “If they’re not documenting how ugly and awkward they look in pictures that will last forever, then they’ve missed half the experience.”
Give me credit for at least trying to keep up. Please pass the wine.
FULL COLUMN: Apologies and more on Yom Kippur
…from this week’s Tampa Tribune.
My mother always taught her Catholic children that Judaism was the foundation of our faith.
It officially became my faith in 1995. For the most part, everyone handled it well. Our family gatherings have never turned into a Jerry Springer episode.
There are some repercussions. For example, I can’t be godmother to nieces or nephews. You know what they say: Can’t fight Vatican Hall. But I do have one godson. Danny is my youngest first-cousin and born a long time before I defected. I suppose his mother, my mother’s sister, had her reasons for picking a mouthy ten year-old for such an important gig. Danny likes telling people his godmother is Jewish so I guess I’ll keep him.
Family members sometimes get our holidays and traditions confused. One year, right around Sukkot, my brother called.
“Where’s my apology?”
“What did I do now?” I asked.
“Twelve months of crap,” he said, chewing some kind of dead animal. “So beg my forgiveness. Let’s hear it.”
“Wrong holiday. Yom Kippur was last month.”
Another year, Dad showed up for Passover and asked where to sit when giving his acceptance speech.
“Accepting what?” I asked.
“Your heartfelt apology for all the nonsense this year.”
I can’t blame them for the confusion. There are a lot of holidays and rituals, but they like Yom Kippur the best. Both friends and family look forward to my “Sorry” speech the way some kids look forward to Santa Claus. You see, every year on our Day of Atonement, Jews ask God for forgiveness. In our home, we are required to forgive each other first.
And so, the night before, I apologize to loved ones for my faults. But let’s be clear about a few things.
I do not apologize for political or cultural views or any inferiority complex one might experience as a result. I’m not sorry for being vegetarian or opinionated. I do not regret cheating at Scrabble or ignoring chain e-mails. I won’t apologize for liking Howard Stern or the Red Sox.
What am I sorry for? I’m sorry for hurtful words and actions, not only for what it does to others, but to me as well. I apologize for anything I’ve done that’s caused harm. In my quest to elicit laughter or provoke introspection, I occasionally step on some toes, but will make every attempt to be a better person this year.
I’m also sorry for anything I’ve failed to do.
One should not wait until Yom Kippur to apologize specifically, but in general, when I say this to my husband and children, I vow to work hard not to make those same mistakes again. Sometimes tears fall as they accept my apology and offer their own in return.
All in all, it’s a beautiful way to end the Days of Awe.
Then we proceed to starve ourselves for twenty-four hours, just to drive home the deal.
This ritual of asking for forgiveness and offering the same is a way of professing love to those we cherish. Hopefully someone smiles down as we smile at each other.
Easy fasting, peeps.
FULL COLUMN: Tá brón orm
Yom Kippur is almost upon us. I have found, after writing about this for so many years, that Jews and goyim alike are fascinated by the idea of atonement. Friends who would never circumcise their sons, give up presents at Christmas, or eat matzoh for Passover are nevertheless interested in the whole lamenting and forgiving cycle of Yom Kippur.
In other words, they want in.
They’re not leaving their post in Majority Land, but setting aside one day a year to get over some serious grievances feels right to them. Thinking back and reflecting seems important and cleansing.
They’re correct. A yearly review of circumstances and reactions is one of my favorite Jewish customs, besides parenting with guilt and manipulation. Afterwards, we starve ourselves all day and then eat enough bagels to choke a horse.
It’s a routine.
Here’s how it works:
1. Forgive everyone who’s harmed you. It’s as simple and as difficult as that. How can you ask God, or anyone else, for forgiveness if you’re still carrying a grudge? Let it go. We’ve all been hurt. Even if the bum broke your heart and never apologized, try this exercise.
Close your eyes and visualize him. Share a walk or sit down on a park bench, where you explain the pain he caused and tell him everything you’ve ever wanted to say. Try not to call him any names. Imagine he is sad to have caused you harm, and then release him.
Acknowledge what you’ve learned and how you wouldn’t be the same person without him. That’s why you were brought together and now that you’ve learned such lessons, you can let him go. Give him a hug and a kiss.
Then say goodbye.
If he crosses your mind in the future, and he will, send him positive thoughts.
And then say goodbye again.
…Read more here in the editorial section of The Tampa Tribune.
PODCAST #1: A multi-tasking mommy
Hundreds have inquired about my threat to unleash hair and attitude at a local Open Mic…okay, maybe dozens is more like it. Seems I let the idea slip in an op-ed I wrote recently for The Tampa Tribune.
I query editors every day. I get ignored every day. But I also get published, and that encourages me to continue. At a Los Angeles paper, I contributed for free at first to build interest. Several editors have recommended that writers find new and inventive ways to build an audience. I’m thinking outside the box and have been working on material soon to be unveiled at a local comedy club.
I don’t get rejected enough in writing and sales.
I’m going to stand up in front of drunken frat boys and a few hostile bartenders, as a middle-aged woman with dry skin, and tell funny stories about how my son rolls his eyes.
So don’t tell me you have qualms about volunteering at a local homeless shelter, OK?
While working on material and channeling my inner Roseanne Barr, something remarkable happened. I was offered an excellent new job. Unlike previous positions in sales, this new career requires hard work and set hours, but I’m still excited about the possibilities. So, after accepting the position and doing a Snoopy dance, I realized I don’t have nearly enough time in the day for everything I need to do.
In other words, I had to reassess some shit.
Daily Activities
Pretend to meditate while mentally writing Acknowledgments Page from future best-seller. (1 hour)
Exercise/Postpone the inevitable (45 minutes)
Potty break/Read Rolling Stone (1/2 hour)
Eat/Demand 3 boys try chewing with mouth closed, just for fun (3 hours)
Work/Pay the bills because Starving Artist is so 1965 (8 hours)
Write syndicated and award-winning columns/Surf the web for synonyms of ass rash (2 hours)
Spend quality time with kids so they don’t become pop singers or Republicans (3 hours)
Humpty-hump/Promise husband to stop calling sex “humpty-hump” (15 minutes)
Keep National Coalition for Accountable Parenting afloat/Plan Nobel Peace Prize speech (2 hours)
Negotiate comedy tour (1 hour)
Sleep/Dream of a quick demise (7 hours)
See the problem? I’ve surpassed 24 hours and that’s not good. I didn’t even mention activities like responding to hate mail and eyebrow-plucking and Wine Time on weekends.
After much thought and deliberation, I decided to put NCAP on the backburner, postpone meditations until after I retire, postpone reading until the kids go off to college, and forget completely about a good night’s sleep. Oh, and scratch comedy clubs.
(To comedy fans everywhere, you’re welcome.)
But then someone came up with a great idea and suggested podcasts. This will widen my audience without taking up extra time. You see, I can read condensed versions of my columns while on the potty and email them off to interested radio stations while enjoying a glass of Cabernet on Saturday nights.
Whoever says you can’t multi-task past forty obviously never met me and my stamina.
Here’s the first podcast for your review – it took a great many glasses of Cabernet to lose my Scranton accent.
FULL COLUMN: Are you ready for some football?
Ladies, quit complaining and enjoy football season.
I live with three boys, counting Husband, and every year, when our oppressive Florida heat downshifts into simply sweltering, they begin The Ritual. This annual event involves fantasy spreadsheets, sports radio and worrying about things called “stats.” It involves sitting on the couch with sperm-killing laptops. It involves shouting about hamstrings and zero effort, not to mention inept and sometimes corrupt referees, as well as a few hoots and hollers if the Bucs or Pats score a touchdown.
I don’t understand what my family is doing and I don’t care. You want to know why? Because the kids are earning good grades in school and my husband sat through Eat, Pray, Love.
In other words, they’ve earned one afternoon a week.
If your man works hard and occasionally completes his honey-do list the first time you ask, why shouldn’t he relax with his kids or friends and root for his favorite team? It’s a bonding experience and a lot like their interest in power tools – we don’t need to get it, but we should support it.
Football season benefits us as well.
It’s a golden opportunity to enjoy some guilt-free alone time. Fill the tub with bubbles. Grab a good book. Exercise your fat ass. Learn a trade. Take up a hobby. Give the guys in your life some breathing space and enjoy the break you all deserve.
If this is an idea you can’t get behind, maybe the problem isn’t football.
You might be stuck with a lazy man who hangs around the house every day, ignoring you and your lists, while carrying on an affair with his Wifi. Don’t blame organized sports. Blame yourself for being relegated to maid status when you deserve so much more.
I’m not even a football fan. Hockey or basketball is more my speed. Those games are fast, exciting, and played inside arenas. I love arenas. Outdoor sports in Florida are disgusting. Sweat, mixed with sunblock, drips down into my eyeballs and I can’t see a thing. If I don’t wear sunblock, then I sit there dying of skin cancer. What’s fun about that? Arenas eliminate problems and the fans are almost always fully clothed.
Football isn’t perfect.
Best of the Bay 2011
I’ve been writing for Creative Loafing since 2009, and have been honored to receive several Best of the Bay awards. Never been to the actual ceremony, though, so I was flattered to receive an invite to present at this year’s function.
(Read more about The Loafies here.)
While it’s true, I didn’t win a goddamn thing, I was a finalist for Best Contributor and that’s gotta count for something. I still had a great time because, let’s face it, it’s kinda hard *not* to have fun with 600 people cheering and clapping.
Plus the wait staff carried around enough vodka to kill Liza Minelli.
Ever been on stage? Doesn’t it take just every ounce of self-control you have not to yell, “SEXUAL CHOCOLATE!” and throw down the microphone?
Perhaps it’s me.
I behaved and kept my DEAD ON Eddie Murphy impersonation to myself.
You’re welcome.
Line of the night: When we got home, our babysitter (read: my mom) asked how many drinks I’d had and I said, “One.” After she left, Husband said, “Babe, those ten vodka shots count, you know, as drinks.”
He got his award later that night. I definitely yelled “SEXUAL CHOCOLATE!” but didn’t throw down the microphone.
You’re welcome.
Disproportionately blessed...
Catherine Durkin Robinson
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