While walking a man paused periodically to scrawl these in a small book.
Do you hear the man on the plunging plane exhorting his fellow passengers, with no oxygen mask on himself, to put their oxygen masks on before trying to help other passengers?
In that same man’s defense: he’s excellent at several different hobbies.
Wishful thinking makes no more than a wish.
Stopping to note a thing doesn’t make it noteworthy.
I wrote to thank Florence’s children and grandchildren for a wonderful and inspiring celebration of a remarkable and brilliant old friend. I’d been moved and distracted yesterday, when I spoke briefly at the memorial, during one of the breaks in the string ensemble’s performance of some of Florence’s favorite pieces, and wanted to make sure to add these thoughts:
I had a certain reputation, I suppose, that persists to this day, as a man with a conscience who would occasionally work for free. This judge, who had seen me in action working in this capacity, had his friendly court attorney call and pitch me an easy pro bono case. Would I mind if she sent me the file? It would be a one appearance case, and the judge would consider it a great favor if I would consider it, and he would accommodate my schedule. This judge was better than most. We put the case on for a day when I was going to be in Brooklyn anyway and I appeared and met the tenant.
The tenant, who the law did not consider a tenant, was distraught, a man about my age, a combat veteran and a shell of the self he once imagined he might become. He was about to be evicted from his home, the law on the case was open and shut. It was not that he was behind in the rent, he’d been paying it all along, since he’d given up his apartment and moved in to take care of his aging mother almost two years earlier. The judge’s hands were tied. The story was rather simple and unfortunate for him, under the New York City Rent Stabilization Law.
If the tenant had been living with his mother for at least two years prior to her death, or probably also prior to a disability that necessitated admission to a nursing home, he would have had a clear legal right to succeed to the lease his mother had with the landlord, under the same terms. This is called the Right of Succession. He had given up his place and moved into his mother’s apartment to take care of her as her health deteriorated. As her dementia increased he was forced to bathe her, feed her, carry her to and from the toilet, change her diapers and calm her when she got upset. After about a year and a half he could no longer provide all the care she needed and had her admitted to the dementia ward in a public hospital not far from her apartment. The poor person’s version of a nursing home.
“I need you to visit the tenant, his mother, and come back and report to the Court if there is any chance of her moving back into the apartment to live with her son again,” I think is the mission I was given by the judge. The judge was grasping at the last straw to keep this unemployed veteran from becoming homeless because he’d done the right thing for his mother, even if for a few months less than the law required him to do it in situ in the subject premises, her rent stabilized apartment.
The hospital was a fifteen minute walk from the court house. It was spring time, I remember pastel buds on the trees and a carpet of green buds on the shady Brooklyn sidewalks. Birds and squirrels probably went about their business on this mild and sunny day, but I didn’t notice. The man and I spoke as we walked the tree lined streets to the hospital. The conversation was somber as I explained the legal situation and he told me more about his life and limited options.
We walked for what seemed like miles inside the hospital building. The building was like something out of the Ottoman Empire, could have been hundreds of years old, with ringing corridors and a labyrinth-like structure inside. We came at last to the ward where his mother was housed, a ward he visited every day. The nurses greeted him by name, and he smiled back at them. We entered a tidy room that smelled of urine and disinfectant. He approached an old, smooth-faced woman in a wheelchair, pulled a chair next to her and leaned in to put his arm around her. Her expression barely changed as he stroked her back and called her “mommy” and kissed her. She seemed to like this, even as it was clear she had no idea who he was. He began to cry quietly as he held her, tears running down his face. There was no point asking her any questions, I’d arrived too late for that. I probably spoke to the head nurse to confirm the medical situation that was plain enough for a child to see. I said goodbye to the man, who remained with his mother, and walked back to the courthouse alone.
I got back to the court room shortly before the lunch break. As I walked in the judge nodded, raised his eyebrows and motioned for me to come forward. As I did I said “Judge, if I had a heart that could still be broken, it would be in fifty pieces right now.”
He looked at me with sympathy and said “I have no doubt of that, counselor, but I also have no idea what you’re referring to.” He had about fifty other cases before him that day and the details of the one I was there on were not something he could call to mind instantly. I refreshed his recollection and he sighed. We both knew I’d have to surrender the apartment now, and arrangements were made, either that day or on a day a week or two later, with the landlord, a very sympathetic man who owned a small building, and his attorney, who was also pleasant and respectful. I don’t recall the details now, the son probably got a couple of weeks to move out. It must have been on a subsequent court appearance, because I’m quite sure he thanked me and we shook hands.
“How can I help you?”
“Well, first, I’d like to access the remaining 5.5 ethics credits I bought from you two years ago,” I say.
“OK, so how many do you need for this cycle?” he asks, drawing his calculator close to figure his commission.
“Before we get to that, I’d like to access the 5.5 credits I already purchased from you. It says in the email you sent me just now ‘Credits Never Expire!’ and I haven’t been allowed to access the remainder of the 12 ethics credits I bought from you.”
“Well, that actually means per two year cycle, but I can see how you could read it that way.”
“It’s not possible to read ‘Credits Never Expire!’ any other way, it’s kind of unambiguous,” I say to my Dedicated CLE Manager.
“Well, in the future it will be specified more clearly what is meant, they’re going to make that more clear…”
“‘Credits Never Expire!’ with an exclamation point and the word ‘never’ in bold, they’re going to explain what that actually means?” I clarify, bitchily, “if I log on and am informed that the remaining credits I purchased, the ones that never expire, are not available to me, you would have to call that false advertising, wouldn’t you?”
At this point he realizes he’s talking to some disgruntled smart ass lawyer who will insist on the supposed plain meaning of the advertising claim that appears, in this guy’s stilted reading, not to be true. False advertising is such a harsh thing to accuse somebody of. Untruthful, or inartfully drafted advertising is not lying, per se, or if it is, why is that my problem? I don’t write the copy. I only get paid when I sell these credits to these lawyers forced to take these courses every two years. What’s he going to argue about next? Riveting Course Content!? These wildly entertaining lectures on the mechanics of legal work are not riveting enough for him? Give me a fucking break.
“Let me get back to you,” he says. “Give me five minutes to get this straightened out.” I know I should have better things to do, and many larger fish to fry at the moment, as another CLE speaker drones on in another window on this computer I’m pecking at, but I can’t help but notice that promise was made more than twenty-five minutes ago and the clock is creeping toward 5 pm on a Friday. I wonder idly what it is that he is straightening out.
“So strict!” they are thinking, “you are so STRICT!!! You really should get a life and be happier, it’s not possible to be healthy being so strict!”
I call back, am asked my name, when I give my name I’m told my Dedicated CLE Manager is assisting another customer and this friendly fellow walks me through the log-in and assures me that my 5.5 credits have been restored. I can’t see them until I try to use them, he tells me, but my account at least is not showing up the way it did when last I checked. Thanks all around and I get on to other things. A moment later the phone rings. My Dedicated CLE Manager, apparently having asked his colleague “did the asshole sound mad?” He got the all clear, we had a pleasant 20 second chat, told each other to take care and on with the rest of today’s fun already in progress.
“So strict!” they are thinking, “you are so STRICT!!! You really should get a life and be happier, it’s not possible to be healthy being so strict!”
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• Self-Assessment
– Are there things that didn’t bother you before but now they do?
– Are there things that bother you more now than they did before?
– When these things happen, does their occurrence ruin your day?
– Do they cause you to take out your frustration on others?
– Do every day inconveniences cause you to lose your temper?
– Do any of these things make you want to seek comfort in alcohol or drugs or food?
• Psychological Effects
– Increased forgetfulness or difficulty concentrating
– Increased mistakes
– Increased worrying
– Distracted or “spacing out”
– Difficulty making decisions
– Difficulty organizing your time
– Decrease in creative thinking (creative, shmeative….)
Example of a stressful situation: having to terminate a high performing employee due to budgetary reasons…
• Physical Effects
– Decreased immune system
– Frequent sickness
– Indigestion, nausea, constipation or diarrhea, upset stomach
– High blood pressure
– Weight loss or weight gain
– Fatigue or physical exhaustion
– General aches and pains or muscle aches/tension
– Headaches or migraines
– Clenched jaws or grinding of the teeth
– Dizziness, slouched posture
– Trembling
– Ringing in the ears (wait, was that the phone? hello?)
• Stress Hardiness
– Personality traits that allow a person to handle the ups and downs of stress
– Know who you are and understand that what you are doing has value and importance
– Goal-oriented and the flexibility to deal with challenges and overcome or positively influence the outcome of their situation
– View the world as a cup that is half full rather than as a toxic rat’s rectum turned inside out and half empty
“The corporate man is the man of the future.” Heinrich Himmler
Sekhnet recommends multitasking while listening to blaring corporate hold muzak and being thanked periodically for your business, which is so important to the modern corporation that they take the trouble to play a recording of their gratitude, at the expense of their on-hold captive audience advertising time.
This multitasking usually involves something like paying bills on-line or doing some research on-line, or playing some mindless on-line game. Since I am using my cell phone to call Verizon about my lack of phone and internet service, these options are not available. I decide that while I’m on hold I will grill two processed fake meat hamburgers, probably as healthy for the vegetarian as a Big Mac is for everyone else. They are almost as tasty, when prepared right, and probably slightly less toxic than the real thing.
After only a few minutes, upon being told the wait is longer than usual to speak to a human, I’m given the option to tap in my number and a representative will gladly call me back. Nice touch, I think, feeling slightly pleased with myself, since today I am calling the “buy new service” line, rather than “trouble with my existing line” department.
Flipping my burgers when the phone in my shirt pocket rings about two minutes later. Total time so far under ten minutes, I note. Excitedly I pick up and am greeted by another robot, then several minutes of loud advertisements, then too loud muzak. I put the phone on speaker and place it on my kitchen table, volume turned down as I continue to prepare my lunch, making a kind of slaw (finely chopped scallions, red cabbage, romaine lettuce) to put on my burgers. I am trying to remain calm and friendly so I can get help, not take my understandable (going on 7 weeks with no service) frustration out on the pawn who is talking to hundreds of angry, powerless customers today.
I mix the bowl of slaw, flip my burgers, grill a flatbread in the pan next to it, then hear a human voice come on the line. In my eagerness to speak to this human being I hit not “speaker” but “talk” and somehow this connects me to a robot at Verizon asking me for my account number. By the time I link the calls so I can speak to the human, a maneuver that takes at most four seconds, the human is gone and the robot drones on about the longer than normal waiting time to speak to the next available representative. I see that I’ve been on hold only four additional minutes since I picked up to speak to the representative, a total of slightly less than the fifteen minutes I usually wait. The ads and the blaring muzak made it seem longer.
Why would anyone tolerate this kind of shit? Why would anyone not shred the bill they sent yesterday, charges due for six weeks of service not provided? A normal person would not stand for it, would not tolerate being powerless and fucked around by some company just because it happens to have a monopoly. But these are not normal circumstances. Normally a person like me would live in a nice house, like virtually every other adult he knows, with several options for internet service. The neighborhood where my rent stabilized apartment is located does not have other options for internet service, unless I buy a TV and get a cable and internet bundle from Time Warner, another highly altruistic outfit.
I wrote this yesterday in the little book I carry in my shirt pocket, and I stand by it, especially now that the chill pill I took to end my cursing tirade before I started smashing up this place is kicking in:
If you choose not to avail yourself of the privilege of a hard-working middle class life, you would do well to cultivate stoicism in the face of the thousand small, vicious indignities that are the lot of society’s losers.
We live in a society where winners are now required to brag and losers medicate themselves, or become violent, hypertensive, inordinately sarcastic or completely inert. Mass media shows it over and over again—winners do not tolerate losing, losers do not have any idea how to win. The game is as unfair as it’s been since the eve of the famous stock market crash at the end of the Roaring Twenties. This is not a problem to those who are not being gamed by the game. The question for someone like me would be: if you had every opportunity to align yourself with the rest of the middle class, why would you choose being a powerless person at the mercy of a merciless system rigged against those at the bottom?
$300 out of pocket to have my ears cleaned? Not anyone’s problem that I know but mine. $280 for a urologist to spend perhaps 40 seconds palpating my prostate? The Affordable Care Act, after all, is not responsible for the fact that my primary care doctor doesn’t consider ear cleaning, even for a patient who needs it annually, or a digital prostate exam, for the son of a man with prostate cancer, part of their overall wellness. There are specialists for that. He didn’t decide that there would be a $50 copay for the insured under Obamacare, or a $1,750 out-of pocket deductible before any of the insurance premiums paid by the patient every month would begin to kick in in the form of covered medical service. Or that dental services, or eye glasses, were not deemed to be part of the average person’s health needs.
A wealthy friend suggested that I get rid of the remaining money I have in the bank and apply for Medicaid, which would cover all these things. I pointed out that it would mean giving up my apartment, of course, and, if things went as badly as they sometimes do in our winner take all society, spending some time in a homeless shelter, assuming I could find one to suit my tastes. He agreed that I was probably better off paying for Obamacare than going on Medicaid, but allowed that it was atrocious, the poor, expensive medical service I am getting under the Affordable Care Act.
Is it better to be comfortable than uncomfortable? I would definitely say comfortable. I am not poor. If I knew now that I had five years to live, I could probably have a more or less middle class life style. The problem is, I could live twenty more years. I would actually like that, living a long life.
For one thing, that might give me time to have a small impact in this merciless world. Imagine for a moment that I could show that a talented kid born in a slum was just as creative, and worthy of human rights, as a slightly less talented kid born to wealthy parents. Imagine, in spite of the ridiculously daunting odds against it, that I was able to get funding for a program I have already designed to do this. Imagine that program producing a thousand animated films a year, shorts that won awards all over the place and actually changed the conversation about education and the lot of thousands of children our society now regards, if at all, as future criminals, profit generators for lucrative privatized prisons. Imagine the book I could write about that program, illustrated and illuminated by the imaginations of dozens of brilliant future inmates.
You can write that book now, one might say. True. But to have it published and widely sold I would have to have made the dream real in the world, monetized it, skillfully marketed it. The talk shows don’t waste time interviewing even well-spoken losers with nice dreams. Even I know that.
My father had a crusty, lovable, gravel voiced first cousin named Eli. On one of many visits with him toward the end of his life, more than twenty years ago now, he tried to straighten me out with a memorable rap. He delivered it in his dramatic fashion, standing, as I was, looking up into my face, spitting slightly.
“You know, you worry too much about other people. You should worry more about yourself, Bub. There are three rules you need to get into your head. First: comes me. Then: comes me! And third: comes ME!!! After that you can worry about other people. Who are you to worry about someone else? Let them worry about themselves. You take care of yourself.”
Excellent advice I have always only marginally abided by, even as I often think of that very smart airline advice to put your own oxygen mask on before helping the child or panicking old person next to you. I don’t know why I am so often brooding on things that are, after all, statistics. No less an authority than Josef Stalin famously said “the death of one man is a tragedy, the death of a million men– a statistic.” As the genius William Steig had the fox say in response to the pretty little pig’s desperate question about why he was going to eat her, “why are you asking me? I didn’t make the world.”
It is beyond dispute that I didn’t make the world, why do I feel so debilitatingly responsible to do something about reducing its misery? I am grateful for every advantage I have, but also inordinately troubled by the odds against most people, the invisible ones, the children of the invisible ones. This is an alligator of a rhetorical question I am wrestling with, in a world where the majority of people do whatever good they can while trying to have a good life, while feathering their own nests as nicely as they can. In a culture where the tide I am trying to swim against is a tirelessly promoted, never pausing, super lucrative torrent? What hope can a lone fish have, swimming against such a tide, and why the struggle, pececito?
A little voice pipes up in response: the tide, however terrible or inexorable, ends in death for everyone, even for those who accumulate a million times more than they can ever use. Whether you grow up in a slum in Pakistan where children die in massive numbers daily of diarrhea because deadly infections rage where there is no sewer system and many hundreds of thousands must nonetheless defecate in a limited space, or in a comfortable home somewhere where you can crap into a nice clean toilet in a room with a heated floor, your life ends when it is time for it to end, if not before.
How will you spend your limited time here? If you have the chance to, and seemingly little choice in the matter, does it not make sense to push to the limits of your strength to do something you believe in? The trick is finding the actual limits of your strength and not surrendering to that hopeless feeling you learned as a young child as soon as things become alarmingly difficult. When the challenge becomes too daunting it is not unnatural to begin flinching. If you would change the world, it will not do to flinch. Or, if you must stop to flinch, Earthling, shake it off and get yourself moving again.
The children of the poor are born largely doomed. Thus it has always been. Billionaire monopolists like Bill Gates, once ruthless crushers of any initiative they could not profit from (like Andrew Carnegie and John D. Rockefeller before him), turn philanthropist and spend huge sums promoting good ideas for improving the lot of the poor. Why not put them in private school? Worked for Bill Gates, did it not? Just because the children of the slums might be shot by rivals for drug selling turf on their way home, or for any reason, or none, just because they may go to bed hungry and wake up in a ghetto, frightened, and facing a society that no longer has any profitable use for their labor, those things are no reason for their parents not to be able to use a voucher to get them into a private school, a charter school, if you will, outside of the public system. That such a scheme removes the children of the most motivated parents from public schools while diverting resources from public education is no obstacle to its promoters. Many promoters of this scheme have become rich and famous, while sometimes doing wonderful things for a small number of poor children, even as they arguably ensure the failure of one of the cornerstones of a functioning democracy: a good public education system.
A certain number of the educable few, raked from the rubble in the manner first described by Thomas Jefferson, will excel in these private schools and pass the standardized tests that virtually everyone in their local public school will fail. The most outstanding graduates will attend good schools and ascend to the middle and upper classes. One in ten million will get their own TV show. On that show they will say “only in America, baby!” to wild applause and they will mean it very sincerely.
Most of the rest: massive standardized test failure rate, dropping out of school, death by gunshot, drug arrest, drug addiction, juvenile incarceration, teen pregnancy, a hard life in a dangerous neighborhood at best. “At-risk” if you know what I’m saying. “Collateral damage,” yo. If you can say it in a nice way, in a way that tastefully hints at the full horror instead of making it sound so horrible, why not? Why dwell on a thousand kids from American slums stripped naked every day and thrown into solitary confinement at ‘joovies’ all over the country for getting into fights? If they didn’t want to be incarcerated why did they violate the law? And who is Amnesty International to say that solitary confinement of more than 15 hours qualifies as torture? They’ve clearly never tried dealing with these feral fifteen year-olds.
I met many of these “at risk” “collateral damage” kids at eight and nine years old: as bright and full of life as you and me. Met them at an age when they had not yet been totally crushed by the odds they were up against. I myself was soon crushed by the impossibility of helping more than one or two of them, of having no ability to meaningfully intercede on their behalf in the institutional meat-grinder where I met them. Fast forward twenty years, dreamed up a creative plan to showcase their potentials, the moving parts of it seem to work. Poised on a high, windy cliff, about to test the flying machine. Why worry now?
Certainly no reason to waste energy fretting over why I am stuck to care.
I am in a tight spot. I put myself in this spot, without a doubt, I cannot pretend otherwise, but it is no less tight a spot. In some ways, tighter. “Who put you in this tight spot?” a friend will wonder, rhetorically.
“I did,” you will be forced to admit. And then it is time to talk about something else. It is unbearably depressing, in a world of almost infinite tight spots, to talk to someone in a tight spot who put themselves there.
“Jesus, that’s a tight spot…” a friend will think, brow bent. They brighten as the waiter hands over the wine list.
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