Crazy man on the N train on the ride home tonight, preaching up a storm about 1000 years of damnation in hell and other good stuff. I couldn't hear him too clearly - he was at the other end of the subway car, and he had a reasonably thick accent -- but the buzzwords were adequately punctuated so that I could get the gist. I seem to be seeing/hearing a lot more of these folks lately; not sure if it's me, them or the times. I recall walking past a short, stout woman in the Atlantic Ave station a few weeks ago, she belting out a whole lot of religion. "I bet," I remember thinking at the time, "that she'd be a feisty dance partner."
In college, I sort of minored in Religion. Well, we didn't have "minors," but I took enough Religion courses such that if we did, I'd have minored in it. I took two or three courses at Bryn Mawr with this amazing professor named Sam Lachs. He was a professor and an ordained rabbi, and looked a little bit like what you might imagine God might look like (full gray beard, face wreaking of wisdom). And he had a wickedly sharp mind: he'd lecture for three straight hours without a single note or reference in front of him. He'd mix in Letterman references with scriptural analysis, with a booming yet melodic voice that you never really tired of. He retired after my senior year because he found himself having to pause to think of the next word he wanted to use, and that was his sign to himself that it was time to call it quits.
I will never forget Sam Lachs' lecture on the Book of Amos. Ever read it? Amos was a minor prophet whose "book" in the Old Testament is a rant against the sins of Judea. I read it before the assigned class, and found it to be an archaically-worded sermon, as boring as any my own rabbi had delivered at a drawn-out religious service. Then I got to class, and an animated Sam Lachs set the stage...Amos is working the crowd, railing on Damascus for its wicked ways, then Gaza, the Ammonites, and so on, describing the punishment that God has coming for those sinners. The Jews are buying in, nodding their heads, maybe shouting a few "Amens" in agreement...those nasty Ammonites, they've got it coming. After a few rounds of this, when he completely has their attention and support, Amos zings them with a shot to the gut: "For three transgessions of Judah..." and then "For three transgressions of Israel..." What? What did he say? Is Amos coming after us? And Amos takes it from there, and delivers the big warning: shape up, bad Jews, or it is going to get ugly.
It was some of the best theater I had in all of college. Sam Lachs was some good professoring.
The thing about Amos the prophet, like all prophets, is that he likely looked and sounded like every other crazy man ranting on a hillside. You were never unkind to a crazy man ranting, Sam Lachs explained, because he might be a crazy man, or he just might be a prophet.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Clothesline Project
Monday was the twice-postponed-for-rain Second Day of BAS' Traveling Clothesline Project. This is an "event" that we hold every year during Domestic Violence Awareness Month (October). We string rope up between trees, poles in a public setting and we ask passersby to stop and write or draw some anti-domestic violence thoughts on a tee-shirt (we provide the shirts and the markers), and then we hang the shirts on the lines. The more shirts that go up, the more folks become interested, and it feeds on itself. The idea is to enable folks to air their dirty laundry, and to make public what was once considered a private issue.
On the 18th we ran the project in the Monsignor Del Valle Plaza, outside our Southern Boulevard office (at the juncture of Southern Boulevard, Hunts Point Ave and 163rd Street) and yesterday we ran it at Fordham Plaza (Third Ave and East Fordham Road). We hung 161 shirts the first day, and another 269 yesterday. Some of the shirts bore simple messages ("Stop the violence"), others included elaborate messages to former abusers. Some were in Spanish, some advised a turn towards Jesus, some had pictures or poems. It is powerful stuff to see a collaborative project like this, collaborated on by complete strangers who happen to be walking through a public plaza but who are interested in taking five or ten minutes to make a statement against domestic violence.
After seven years of watching DV survivors come through our office, seeking legal assistance, the cases still make me cringe. You just cannot get into the head of a DV survivor to understand why she (most often she) is where she is. This week's "case that defies the imagination": our client "Sue." She first came to us two years ago, pregnant with her second child, and tired of being beat on by her boyfriend. She was in our office every day for weeks, but ultimately decided not to follow through with the Order of Protection we helped her obtain. And then we didn't see her again until about six weeks ago. Still with the same abuser, and he had now moved several of his family members into their apartment, and they had locked Sue out of the apartment, depriving her not only of shelter, but of access to her kids, her HIV meds, and her psych meds (she is bipolar). We helped get her back into the apartment (which involved getting the family out), and she and boyfriend "came to an understanding," until he continued to withhold her psych meds, and then had her hospitalized when she inevitably had a psychotic episode. He then moved out, took the kids with him, and has now filed for an Order of Protection against her (a bullying tactic to keep the kids away from her). We're probably going to help her defend against the Order of Protection and fight for custody, but ACS might also have filed a neglect petition against her? Unclear as of right now.
You just can't make enough tee-shirts to deal with this kind of shit.
On the 18th we ran the project in the Monsignor Del Valle Plaza, outside our Southern Boulevard office (at the juncture of Southern Boulevard, Hunts Point Ave and 163rd Street) and yesterday we ran it at Fordham Plaza (Third Ave and East Fordham Road). We hung 161 shirts the first day, and another 269 yesterday. Some of the shirts bore simple messages ("Stop the violence"), others included elaborate messages to former abusers. Some were in Spanish, some advised a turn towards Jesus, some had pictures or poems. It is powerful stuff to see a collaborative project like this, collaborated on by complete strangers who happen to be walking through a public plaza but who are interested in taking five or ten minutes to make a statement against domestic violence.
After seven years of watching DV survivors come through our office, seeking legal assistance, the cases still make me cringe. You just cannot get into the head of a DV survivor to understand why she (most often she) is where she is. This week's "case that defies the imagination": our client "Sue." She first came to us two years ago, pregnant with her second child, and tired of being beat on by her boyfriend. She was in our office every day for weeks, but ultimately decided not to follow through with the Order of Protection we helped her obtain. And then we didn't see her again until about six weeks ago. Still with the same abuser, and he had now moved several of his family members into their apartment, and they had locked Sue out of the apartment, depriving her not only of shelter, but of access to her kids, her HIV meds, and her psych meds (she is bipolar). We helped get her back into the apartment (which involved getting the family out), and she and boyfriend "came to an understanding," until he continued to withhold her psych meds, and then had her hospitalized when she inevitably had a psychotic episode. He then moved out, took the kids with him, and has now filed for an Order of Protection against her (a bullying tactic to keep the kids away from her). We're probably going to help her defend against the Order of Protection and fight for custody, but ACS might also have filed a neglect petition against her? Unclear as of right now.
You just can't make enough tee-shirts to deal with this kind of shit.
Friday, October 26, 2007
It's not about me, after all
For the second time in about a week, someone connected to Cathleen but not in daily contact with her, while searching for news of her or her book, came across my blog. Turns out that if you Google "Cathleen Bell," this simple but honest little blog comes up as the seventh result listed out of 365,000 results. If you Google "Cathleen Davitt Bell," my blog comes up as the third result (out of 568). The first result there, of course, is cathleendavittbell.com, the spectacularly template-ish and pachydermy website I "created" for Cathleen as a Mother's Day gift this past year.
What will happen, one wonders, if Cathleen's book does well, and young, impressionable kids start Googling her name, looking for information about their new favorite author? They'll find this blog. My visitors counter would skyrocket.
As I sit here in the nude, clubbing baby seals and listening to iTunes songs with explicit lyrics, I am humbled by that prospect.
What will happen, one wonders, if Cathleen's book does well, and young, impressionable kids start Googling her name, looking for information about their new favorite author? They'll find this blog. My visitors counter would skyrocket.
As I sit here in the nude, clubbing baby seals and listening to iTunes songs with explicit lyrics, I am humbled by that prospect.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Natties
Today was the first day of the UPA Championships in Sarasota, FL. I have several friends playing across all four divisions (Open, Womens, Mixed, Masters) and today they collectively went 1-11. Wow, I think I need new friends. Hopefully they'll have better second days.
I went to Club Nationals once, in 2001, with a Mixed (coed) team called Tattoo Hottie. It was just after 9/11, and we were riding some sort of a bizarre NYC survivors high. One of our players literally had sprinted from his worksite around the WTC as one of the towers fell; he happened to have his camera with him that day in an effort to document why he didn't deserve a parking ticket, and so he has these amazing shots of the tower collapse that he took as he ran away from it. He would give these pep talks in team huddles, urging us to play our hearts out because you literally did not know what life had in store for you tomorrow. It sort of motivated us. I mean, I could laugh ironically at the hubris of it all, and yet I also took it to heart. We wore FDNY shirts and made ourselves the loudest team on the field, and we swept through sectionals and regionals without a loss. At Nationals we won our first two games by relatively commanding leads, and then we proceeded to lose seven in a row. I was injured in the finals at Regionals (bruised rib) and saw limited playing time at Nationals (though I deserved to get more PT, right?), but I'll never forget the feeling of being there, on what for the tiny world of ultimate frisbee is "the big stage." When I got a sweet, but meaningless, diving block in our penultimate game, our captain said to me, "you can tell your grandkids some day that you got a big diving block at Nationals." Well, no, I won't, but I still remember that block pretty darn clearly. The game has evolved dramatically in six years, and the teams are much more athletic and well-balanced now, and I doubt -- hell, I know -- that the 2001 Tattoo Hottie would not stand a chance these days.
But damn, I wish I were playing disc right now.
I went to Club Nationals once, in 2001, with a Mixed (coed) team called Tattoo Hottie. It was just after 9/11, and we were riding some sort of a bizarre NYC survivors high. One of our players literally had sprinted from his worksite around the WTC as one of the towers fell; he happened to have his camera with him that day in an effort to document why he didn't deserve a parking ticket, and so he has these amazing shots of the tower collapse that he took as he ran away from it. He would give these pep talks in team huddles, urging us to play our hearts out because you literally did not know what life had in store for you tomorrow. It sort of motivated us. I mean, I could laugh ironically at the hubris of it all, and yet I also took it to heart. We wore FDNY shirts and made ourselves the loudest team on the field, and we swept through sectionals and regionals without a loss. At Nationals we won our first two games by relatively commanding leads, and then we proceeded to lose seven in a row. I was injured in the finals at Regionals (bruised rib) and saw limited playing time at Nationals (though I deserved to get more PT, right?), but I'll never forget the feeling of being there, on what for the tiny world of ultimate frisbee is "the big stage." When I got a sweet, but meaningless, diving block in our penultimate game, our captain said to me, "you can tell your grandkids some day that you got a big diving block at Nationals." Well, no, I won't, but I still remember that block pretty darn clearly. The game has evolved dramatically in six years, and the teams are much more athletic and well-balanced now, and I doubt -- hell, I know -- that the 2001 Tattoo Hottie would not stand a chance these days.
But damn, I wish I were playing disc right now.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Keep Chopping Wood
We spent the weekend in Bloomfield, CT, at Claudia and Walter's house. It is a 19th-century farmhouse (circa 1875, I believe), down the street from where Claudia lived as a little girl (and where Claudia's father also grew up). It is a very rural area, though in the past decade it has started to succumb to a lot of new development. Claudia and Walter have about six acres of mostly-wooded property that abuts a state park, so unless you venture out to the street, you still feel like you're in the country.
We drove up Friday night. Both kids fell asleep in the car, but Max woke up upon arrival at the house at 10:30, and he didn't fall asleep for another two hours. Claudia got Eliza when she woke up at just after 6, so the rest of us could sleep in. Eliza, apparently, spent the morning praising Claudia and Walter's German Shepherd, Tatum: "Booboy, Tatum." She, of course, spent the rest of the weekend terrified to be on the same floor as Tatum, and needed to be picked up if he was visibly within the house.
I went on a 4.5 mile run in the morning. I love the run up there in cooler weather because so many people have wood-burning stoves or fireplaces; you run along in the cool, crisp air with the distinct smell of firewood smoke mixing in. While I showered and ate breakfast, Cathleen, Claudia, the kids and the dogs went for a little hike through some surrounding meadows. We then hung out, had some lunch, played some more, and then Eliza went down for her nap.
I then set about splitting wood. My subject heading, of course, refers to Jacksonville Jaguars coach Jack Del Rio, and his backfired motivational ploy in 2003. I was not actually chopping wood, as I was splitting it, using Walter's wood splitting machine: you lay a log down on the machine, and it slowly pushes the log against a stationary blade which eventually splits the log along the grain. It is far less effort than weilding an axe, and you can split about five times as much wood in equal time. I worked for over an hour and, despite the machine's efficacy, I worked up a real sweat. Max hung out with me for the first 20 minutes, wearing an oversized pair of ear-protecetors (the machine is rather loud) and sucking his thumb while sitting on a big log next to the machine. Finally he told me he was going inside.
After Eliza's nap was over, we drove to Gramby to pick apples at a local orchard. We picked Cameos and Jonagolds, but for some reason none of the apples were particularly sweet. I think this is because there hasn't been a frost yet, which for some reason is needed for the sugars to come out. Nevertheless, we took home a full bushel, and we pounded some yummy cider donuts before hitting the road. Kick-ass grilled steak dinner, with roasted potatoes, creamed spinach and broccoli. That meal and the wood splitting made me feel rather testosteronic, which was nicely offset by the fruit-gathering interlude in the mid-afternoon.
During the night Max woke up with a croupy-cough. I took him into the bathroom and sat with him during a steam bath. As his throat cleared, he was suddenly all a chatter, and I was like, dude, its 3 am and I'm sweating like a fat man at the local sauna, please give me a break. There is something about bathrooms that brings out the contemplative side of Max. He'll sit on the can at bedtime and begin to engage you in these deep, thoughtful discussions about life, or death, his plans, his friendships, his ideas for the world. He stops making corny jokes, or interjecting the word poopy into every sentence (ironic, no?), and he even gets a little serious look on his face. I absolutely love those discussions (but for the inevitable odors that accompany), but at 3 am, in the moist heat no less, even I have little capacity to appreciate my child on that level.
On Sunday Mike and T and their kids drove down to spend the day with us. We brunched outside in the glorious sunshine (mid-70s on October 21st!), and then set off for a hike through the State Park up to the not-really-a-tower Fire Tower. We put Eliza in a kiddy-backpack that Mike and T had borrowed from neighbors. It sucked, and by the time we made it up the mountain my body was killing me. The one that we own (an expensive model that old neighbors gave to us, having never used it themselves) is so much better, I will never leave it at home again, even when my kids are full grown. The view at the top of the hike was gorgeous -- lots of trees beginning to turn color, the town of Simsbury (where we were married!). I am never going on a hike with my nephew Jacob again, unless it is at sea level. The kid has no fear whatsoever, and he was not only walking along the edge of cliffs, but jumping from one cragged rock to another. Had we spent another five minutes at the top of that mountain, it would have been a race to see who died first: he from a disastrous fall, or me from a heart attack.
Before and after the hike, all five kids played together around Claudia and Walter's barn, far away from where the adults were hanging out. When Claudia went over to check on them at one point, Eliza proudly proclaimed "I playing!" Playing with the big kids; how cool is that? When they packed into their minivan to go home, a very tired Max burst into tears, explaining that he wanted them to come back so that he could play with Jacob, Ryan and Kelsey some more. I felt sorry for him, but those kind of tears make you feel good, to know that your kid loves his cousins.
We drove up Friday night. Both kids fell asleep in the car, but Max woke up upon arrival at the house at 10:30, and he didn't fall asleep for another two hours. Claudia got Eliza when she woke up at just after 6, so the rest of us could sleep in. Eliza, apparently, spent the morning praising Claudia and Walter's German Shepherd, Tatum: "Booboy, Tatum." She, of course, spent the rest of the weekend terrified to be on the same floor as Tatum, and needed to be picked up if he was visibly within the house.
I went on a 4.5 mile run in the morning. I love the run up there in cooler weather because so many people have wood-burning stoves or fireplaces; you run along in the cool, crisp air with the distinct smell of firewood smoke mixing in. While I showered and ate breakfast, Cathleen, Claudia, the kids and the dogs went for a little hike through some surrounding meadows. We then hung out, had some lunch, played some more, and then Eliza went down for her nap.
I then set about splitting wood. My subject heading, of course, refers to Jacksonville Jaguars coach Jack Del Rio, and his backfired motivational ploy in 2003. I was not actually chopping wood, as I was splitting it, using Walter's wood splitting machine: you lay a log down on the machine, and it slowly pushes the log against a stationary blade which eventually splits the log along the grain. It is far less effort than weilding an axe, and you can split about five times as much wood in equal time. I worked for over an hour and, despite the machine's efficacy, I worked up a real sweat. Max hung out with me for the first 20 minutes, wearing an oversized pair of ear-protecetors (the machine is rather loud) and sucking his thumb while sitting on a big log next to the machine. Finally he told me he was going inside.
After Eliza's nap was over, we drove to Gramby to pick apples at a local orchard. We picked Cameos and Jonagolds, but for some reason none of the apples were particularly sweet. I think this is because there hasn't been a frost yet, which for some reason is needed for the sugars to come out. Nevertheless, we took home a full bushel, and we pounded some yummy cider donuts before hitting the road. Kick-ass grilled steak dinner, with roasted potatoes, creamed spinach and broccoli. That meal and the wood splitting made me feel rather testosteronic, which was nicely offset by the fruit-gathering interlude in the mid-afternoon.
During the night Max woke up with a croupy-cough. I took him into the bathroom and sat with him during a steam bath. As his throat cleared, he was suddenly all a chatter, and I was like, dude, its 3 am and I'm sweating like a fat man at the local sauna, please give me a break. There is something about bathrooms that brings out the contemplative side of Max. He'll sit on the can at bedtime and begin to engage you in these deep, thoughtful discussions about life, or death, his plans, his friendships, his ideas for the world. He stops making corny jokes, or interjecting the word poopy into every sentence (ironic, no?), and he even gets a little serious look on his face. I absolutely love those discussions (but for the inevitable odors that accompany), but at 3 am, in the moist heat no less, even I have little capacity to appreciate my child on that level.
On Sunday Mike and T and their kids drove down to spend the day with us. We brunched outside in the glorious sunshine (mid-70s on October 21st!), and then set off for a hike through the State Park up to the not-really-a-tower Fire Tower. We put Eliza in a kiddy-backpack that Mike and T had borrowed from neighbors. It sucked, and by the time we made it up the mountain my body was killing me. The one that we own (an expensive model that old neighbors gave to us, having never used it themselves) is so much better, I will never leave it at home again, even when my kids are full grown. The view at the top of the hike was gorgeous -- lots of trees beginning to turn color, the town of Simsbury (where we were married!). I am never going on a hike with my nephew Jacob again, unless it is at sea level. The kid has no fear whatsoever, and he was not only walking along the edge of cliffs, but jumping from one cragged rock to another. Had we spent another five minutes at the top of that mountain, it would have been a race to see who died first: he from a disastrous fall, or me from a heart attack.
Before and after the hike, all five kids played together around Claudia and Walter's barn, far away from where the adults were hanging out. When Claudia went over to check on them at one point, Eliza proudly proclaimed "I playing!" Playing with the big kids; how cool is that? When they packed into their minivan to go home, a very tired Max burst into tears, explaining that he wanted them to come back so that he could play with Jacob, Ryan and Kelsey some more. I felt sorry for him, but those kind of tears make you feel good, to know that your kid loves his cousins.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Eliza's new game
She walks around the apartment, declaring in a concerned and whistleblowing tone, "Oscar pooped!"
Oscar is one of our two not-quite-completely-housebroken miniature dachshunds.
When you point out to Eliza that, no, on this rare occasion Oscar has not actually soiled an area of the apartment, she walks over to a new area to announce that "Oscar pooped!" This goes on and on. This afternoon she was making false exclamations in her room, in the bathroom, in our bedroom, even under the bar in the livingroom. Each declaration as convincing as the last.
This game, I trust, is not played in many other households?
Oscar is one of our two not-quite-completely-housebroken miniature dachshunds.
When you point out to Eliza that, no, on this rare occasion Oscar has not actually soiled an area of the apartment, she walks over to a new area to announce that "Oscar pooped!" This goes on and on. This afternoon she was making false exclamations in her room, in the bathroom, in our bedroom, even under the bar in the livingroom. Each declaration as convincing as the last.
This game, I trust, is not played in many other households?
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Roll me in designer sheets
With covers on my mind, and with Deborah Harry releasing a new album, I harken back to the lyrics from Blondie's "Call Me" ("Cover me with kisses baby, cover me with love").
Tonight, Cathleen's editor emailed her the cover design for her book. It is quite beautiful -- a deep blue water background with a boy seemingly floating/drowning/slipping in it. The title letters are in bold white at the bottom, but appear to be fading (or slipping) away. My eyes, however, were completely drawn to the letters at the top of the cover -- cathleen davitt bell, in the same bold white. Hey, I know that name. Cathleen was so pleased with the design, she was simply beaming...it is so refreshing to see her enjoying this process after having seen her deal with the self-doubt and struggle of the unpublished life.
I had no idea what to expect of the cover because, as I have long known, I have very little in the way of aesthetic vision, if any aesthetic sense at all. At work right now I am spending considerable time on creating a new brochure for our program and I am completely dependent on our development director and my staff for the brochure's actual look. Cathleen pretty much wanted to pull her hair out two years ago when we were trying to design our apartment because I had so little ability to not only visualize possibilities, but to even understand ideas that she was describing to me. Luckily, I can make a pretty good omelet and throw a frisbee pretty far, or I'd have almost no measurable utility in this world. Thus, up until tonight, every time I'd try to imagine what her cover might look like, I'd see nothing more than a Harry Potter book with her name on top. It is so unbelievably cool to finally see what the book is (most likely) going to look like. It makes the whole thing that much more real.
Tonight, Cathleen's editor emailed her the cover design for her book. It is quite beautiful -- a deep blue water background with a boy seemingly floating/drowning/slipping in it. The title letters are in bold white at the bottom, but appear to be fading (or slipping) away. My eyes, however, were completely drawn to the letters at the top of the cover -- cathleen davitt bell, in the same bold white. Hey, I know that name. Cathleen was so pleased with the design, she was simply beaming...it is so refreshing to see her enjoying this process after having seen her deal with the self-doubt and struggle of the unpublished life.
I had no idea what to expect of the cover because, as I have long known, I have very little in the way of aesthetic vision, if any aesthetic sense at all. At work right now I am spending considerable time on creating a new brochure for our program and I am completely dependent on our development director and my staff for the brochure's actual look. Cathleen pretty much wanted to pull her hair out two years ago when we were trying to design our apartment because I had so little ability to not only visualize possibilities, but to even understand ideas that she was describing to me. Luckily, I can make a pretty good omelet and throw a frisbee pretty far, or I'd have almost no measurable utility in this world. Thus, up until tonight, every time I'd try to imagine what her cover might look like, I'd see nothing more than a Harry Potter book with her name on top. It is so unbelievably cool to finally see what the book is (most likely) going to look like. It makes the whole thing that much more real.
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