AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT....

I wrote this a few years ago so I wouldn't forget the most unforgettable novel I have read in recent decades.  I promptly forgot all about The Goldfinch, and don't know if I posted this anywhere previously, but I stumbled on this today.  I hereby put it out here for anyone who loves literature and hasn't yet read this amazing book.

Loving and Hating The Goldfinch

I thought I was alone when I first thought of Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch as “Dickensian.”  Now that I have finished this 700+ page novel and have looked back at what has been said about this book, I see that many have called it so.  Why is it Dickensian?   We have the saga of a sad, orphaned boy who drifts from adventure to adventure as he grows up, who encounters an assortment of vivid characters along the way, (many with unlikely names like “Hobie”,  “Bracegirdle” and “Kitsey”), a life journey that veers this way and that under the influence of these many encounters as he searches for someone to love and protect him.   We have the portraits of how the rich live and how the poor survive, what brings them unhappiness and what brings them joy, though joy is shortlived for all, it seems.  There is the questionable ethics of heroes and villains alike, an unrequited love.  I could go on.

I loved and hated this book.  It is the first one in my memory not an academic requirement that I finished despite my feelings of sorrow, depression, anger, frustration and disgust.  Practically speaking, the length was daunting and not every chapter was compelling.  Why did I keep reading?  Aside from not wanting to disappoint my book club, and out of respect for its Pulitzer, I kept turning the pages because I had to find out what would happen to the unfortunate young man, Theo.  Without giving too much away,  I will explain a few reasons why he captivated me.

His sadness and loneliness were palpable; yet his inner voice and outer behaviors were fascinating and frustrating in their incompatibility.  Sometimes I wanted to slap him for his wrongheaded actions.  Would he ever finally grow up and get his life together?  Would the painting be his salvation and would he ever be able to restore it to its rightful place?  Would he ever connect with a friend or relative who could show him true understanding and love?  Would he break Hobie’s heart with disappointment?  Would Pippa ever truly see the real Theo?   Would the terrorist attack be explained as anything more than a plot device?  I could go on.

This book is an experience. There were passages of mindblowing writing and philosophical asides that tapped into some of my own ideas about humanity, morality, life, death, the universe.   While reading it has left me with a kind of spiritual exhaustion, it is not because it is all sorrow and pity.  There is the painting.  The author’s use of a famous work of art from 1654 as the cause celebre in Theo’s life keeps straight the thread of his adventures.  His love of The Goldfinch, his mission to protect it, is the most reliable and beautiful fragment of hope in his difficult journey.  The irony of what we learn happens to the painting does not diminish its value to Theo. The idea of the painting, a timeless thing of beauty, is Theo’s life ring.

In the end, it has saved him: 

“Insofar as it is immortal (and it is) I have a small, bright, immutable part in that immortality.  It exists; and it keeps on existing  And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things, and looked out for them, and pulled them from the fire, and sought them when they were lost, and tried to preserve them and save them while passing them along literally from hand-to hand, singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time to the next generation of lovers, and the next.”

Bill O'Reilly (and all the others -- you know who you are!)


Does anyone care what I think about Bill O'Reilly? Well I'm going to say something anyway. He takes $25 million as he goes out the door, yet he seems to think he has to defend himself; to maintain he did nothing wrong, perhaps because all he did was grunt and talk dirty. He seems to be part of an ignorant group of men who somehow got the idea that treating a woman in the workplace this way flatters her.; that it's a way to make himself (gulp) attractive. He has lived through the last 50 years in the post-woman's movement world and somehow missed the lesson that treating women like this is bullying; it is insulting; it is bad manners; it is crude and boorish; it is verbal rape. Most women have encountered men like this in the workplace at some point in their lives. It happened to me when I was 22. It was upsetting and unnerving; I blamed myself. Decades later, I remember it so clearly and now I am just...... furious. Women, don't let the Bill O's get away with it any longer. Speak up.

Children and Hate Crimes

There is a song in the Broadway musical “South Pacific” that has the lyric “you have to be carefully taught” and it refers to children learning how to be hateful and racist.  But this idea also refers to teaching them the opposite.  In a beautiful piece that appeared in the Washington Post, titled “Perspective:  With the rise in hate crimes, I’m teaching my kids to be kind, not scared”  It describes kindness as a weapon against racism and hatred.  It describes a world where kindness permeates and spreads, while also recognizing that evil exists across the globe, and that there has been a recent disturbing uptick in racism in our own public marketplace.

This got me thinking.  I don’t remember teaching my children to be accepting and kind.  They learned in parochial school, and they learned by example at home.  I don’t recall lecturing my children about accepting others no matter how different they might be.  I don’t remember telling them that people of other cultures, languages and colors enrich our lives.  I can only imagine and hope that having parents who cared about these things somehow transferred to them by osmosis.  However it derived, I am proud to be the mother of grown kids who have manners, who see the world as a fascinating melting pot that enriches our lives, and where we have an obligation to be kind and helpful to others.

The only proactive thing I remember doing to help them grow up tolerant was to ask my older relatives not to speak their racist jokes and prejudices around my children.  It was hard for them.  They were a product of their time, in the first half of the twentieth century, when people lived in enclaves with others just like them, and learned to fear and even hate those who didn’t match them in religion or ethnic backgrounds.  Some of their prejudices trickled down to part of the next generation, depending on where they grew up.  But their parents, the baby boomers, were far more adventurous about the gains to be achieved by working, living and being friends with those from other backgrounds.  And the majority of the children of baby boomers have become even more tolerant.  Using conservative columnist George Will’s example, “this new generation sees being gay as no different than being left-handed.”

Those of us who applaud diversity and acceptance in our society are in the majority, but you would not know that if you have paid attention to the last year of political activity.  You might think that our new leader has simply made it okay to do and say whatever things most of us used to keep secret.  True, he has unleashed a monster, but the fact is most of Americans are kind and are disturbed by the rise in hate crimes – on either side, for any reason.  Most Americans know the difference between right and wrong, whether or not they were carefully taught.

SPOILER ALERT:  ESTIMATE TIME OF “ARRIVAL”

If you haven’t seen it; you should.  Read no further, as I am about to reveal points that are so thought-provoking I am provoked and must share my thoughts.

Yes, as you have undoubtedly heard, it is an alien movie.  They have arrived.  They are not cute little gremlins nor naked childlike creatures.  In fact, they are hideous.  They are huge monsters.  They communicate with sprays of indecipherable round inkblots.

And you will come to love them.  This is a unique hybrid of “Close Encounters,” “Signs” and “Back to the Future.”  Think about that for a moment. 

The plot you can easily follow is the world’s reaction to an invasion by spaceships full of these creatures.  Countries determine on their own, without sharing information, how to interpret this invasion, and what to do about it.  Some bring the world to the brink of war.

There is no big action in this movie.  It is quiet, profound; soon you realize this is less about aliens and more about humanity and love.  And time.  The aliens have a relationship with time that is as circular as their language.

Here is the spoiler part:  Amy Adams plays Louise, a linguist hired by the government to translate the alien’s communications.  Her understated performance blows your mind; her face expresses every thought and emotion, and much of her thoughts center on the daughter who has died.  Too many words would dilute and dissipate what you think you know about Louise until the very end of the movie.  Her character asks another “If you knew what your entire life would be beforehand, would you still go ahead with it?”  It is a question that haunts, long after the movie ends.

As a mother who has buried a child, my mind is boggled considering this question while watching this amazing film.  Thought provoking doesn’t adequately describe the feeling.

Had I known the entirety of Brendan’s life beforehand, would it have been preferable that he was never born? 

As I think back at key moments in his life (as Louise does regarding her daughter) I remember the joys:  his amazing birth—almost in the car-- at 11 pounds; his blond curls during toddlerhood bouncing with his joyful exhuberance; his nicknames:  Piglet, Cubby Bear, Madball; his stoic courage as the doctor sewed up his four-year-old head after an accident at summer camp;  his seriousness in an interview in his tiger-scout uniform as he and the scoutmaster appeared on a local cable station; the loud SPLASH! that echoed in the church when he fell into the baptismal pool at his baby sister’s baptism; his bond with his Uncle Russell; his grandmother saying he was her favorite.  The spectacular winning championship little league game where the youngest boy on the team held the trophy in his catcher’s glove; his debut at age 5 as an actor in his big brother's play:  "Brendan, just stand there and say, 'I am Willow of the mountains.'"  

So many other sweet memories of a darling little boy, who could be quiet and mysterious, or defiant and boisterous, but always adorable.  Later, such strong pride we felt in his adult success -- academic honors, enormous numbers of friends, people who owed their lives to his help, his finding and loving a brilliant and beautiful young medical student; his unforgettable best-man speech at his brother's wedding.

But then, we endured terrible dark times.   The school failure by a child thought to be gifted; the tearful panic attacks; the sick stomach every time we traveled anywhere; stealing, vandalism, a car accident, time in juvie, addiction, the overdose, the rehabs. And finally, after he pulled himself up from the abyss and became successful in life, love, work and family, the tragic untimely death in a fall from a balcony far from home.

Would I go through all that again, and the continuing reverberating pain in my heart to enjoy his spirit, his place in our family?  Miss out on the love, the hugs, the pride?  Do without his charm, his brilliance?  The many moments of laughter?

Would I do it all again?

Spoiler alert:  to this, Louise says YES. 

My answer:  I'm sorry to say this -- I'm his mommy -- but truly, I do not know.

JESUS FREAKS AND DONALD TRUMP

When I was young, immature, and impressionable; searching for my place in the universe and wondering about the meaning of life, I joined a religious cult.  I became a “Jesus freak”.  This was in the early 1970’s when the word “freak” was a compliment – it referred to young hippie-types who not only dressed in bell bottoms and beads, but drifted happily through days of unreality, irresponsibility, and rebellion to their upbringing.  Usually funded by dad’s good job, because most of the freaks were middle and upper class kids who had been raised in comfort by a stay-at-home-mom and in their late teens realized the luxury of choosing to be hippies, to turn their backs on their backgrounds and goof off in college, or join communes in the country, raise their own vegetables and listen to a new kind of music.  Drugs were usually part of the picture, but not always.  Sometimes experimentation leaned toward non-drug experiences, such as religion, incense, meditation and other consciousness-altering pursuits. The belief that turning on one’s background was necessary for a larger purpose spread like a virus.  The anti-war movement had Vietnam and the draft to coalesce around and firm up this anti-establishment movement.

In college I drank too much, smoked cigarettes and pot, wore the same pair of hip-hugger jeans for days at a time and no makeup.  I never carried an anti-war sign – coming from a military family my dad had warned me on pain of death if I dared.  But I kinda liked calling myself a hippie. Then at some point I became a “Jesus freak,” but luckily for only a short time. 

Now to my point.  The important word here is “short”.  Why does that matter?  Because in retrospect I can expertly speak to how easily and quickly a person can become a firm believer in something, even when it is in opposition to everything one was taught or believed previously.  Using the words “Trump” and “brainwashing” is offensive; many will stop reading right here, but there is no other appropriate word.  I could use the lesser known term “Stockholm Syndrome” which applies to what happens when a person is kidnapped, isolated from his own world, comes to rely on captors for sustenance and safety, and eventually accepts the positions, beliefs and actions of one’s captors.  At any rate, this is what happened to me when I joined them, and I see parallels with Donald Trump today.

This is how they got me:  First, I was vulnerable; having just been dumped by a boyfriend.  Then, I was “friended” by a charismatic girl who carried a worn paperback King James Bible around all the time, and made notes and underlined passages and shared advice from it constantly.  Her joy was infectious.  I wanted to feel that joy, and my Catholic upbringing had never supplied such happiness.  I wanted to belong somewhere, be accepted somewhere, be loved somewhere, as she seemed to be.  She invited me to a meeting.  The meeting took place at a ministry group home and was so full of people who were loving, understanding, and accepting I was immediately seduced, as all the young people in that place had been before me.  They all had stories like mine – depression, too much unhealthy pursuits, not loved enough by anyone.  I learned that there was a national leader in another state who had started this church, and God had seen to it that this holy refuge had grown exponentially in only a few years on college campuses all across the country.

It was quick, insidious, this seduction.  It wasn’t until I had attended four or five meetings in a row that they told me I must begin to “spread the Word”, cut off all “nonbeliever” friendships and family and devote myself to God and The Word. Any doubts I expressed were smoothly explained away:  “Don’t listen.  Satan knows you have found the Way, and he will do whatever it takes to get you away from us.  Don’t listen.”  I saw signs in my daily life that seemed to prove this; everything began to appear in a God vs. Satan battle, from difficulty getting to a meeting (“Satan doesn’t want you here!”) , to “God help me get a parking spot close to the store.  Hey thanks!”  As I sank deeper and deeper, with their constant influence over each and ever day, I took my newfound religion home and attempted to convert my family.  Of course they didn’t take me seriously, and that drove me further toward the ministry group.  I chose them over my family, and broke financial ties.  I took out a loan to finish my education.  I had found my new path.

So here is where Trump is becoming leader of a cult.  His appeal originated with charm, charisma and celebrity, his tell-it-like-it-is rudeness.  He made us chuckle and say “attaboy!”.  It snowballed into something no one could stop.  He made it okay to be outspokenly vulgar and mean, and that permission spread like a virus.  Now he is in the most powerful position in the world, and he is attempting to squash the free press, to say “don’t listen to them, that isn’t true.  The only truth is what I say” – and half of what he says is provably, obviously, false.  This is dangerous.  His disturbed view of the world is permeating and solidifying his supporters, to the point where they will only get their information and beliefs from his mouth and his tweets. The rest of us are like my parents were when I tried to convince them they were Satan trying to keep me from God:  they must have been horrified, asking themselves, how do we stop this?

In my story, it was stopped by what I believe was an act of God.  I was living in off-campus housing after divorcing from my parents and suddenly, one morning, my house burned down.  My roommates and my cat survived, but now I had no place to live, no clothes, no school supplies, no coat for the winter.  The ministry insisted that this was clearly the work of Satan, and that I must immediately move into their group house, to be with them and be safe.  What a dilemma!  My parents said, “Come home.”  I chose home.

 That decision took me away from the constant brainwashing of the Bible group, and within weeks, I was myself again, back in the real world.  They called me repeatedly, begging me to return, telling me Satan had me in his grip.  It scared me.  I wasn’t at all sure they were wrong.  Of course my parents welcomed me back, showed me love, replaced all my things, and eventually paid off my school loan.  I graduated, got a job, and settled into a normal kind of life, returning to Catholocism, which is still my church today.

Years later, the ministry went belly-up, the leader revealed to be a sexual abuser, and it all faded away.  I’ve often wondered about the thousands of kids who had been pulled into its influence.  Five years ago I reconnected with that friend who had brought me into the ministry.  She had left decades before as well, and returned to the church of her childhood.  We talked for hours about how stupid we were.  How mistaken.  We laughed about it, and thanked God we had escaped.

Will Americans feel the same way when the Trump era ends?

Man's Best Friend

Man’s Best Friend

I had a dream last night that we decided to get a dog.  A new dog.  We looked at each other and said, “Yes, we are ready.  Let’s go ahead and do it.” 

Here’s the problem:  last summer we had to watch the suffering and passing of another canine.  She was beloved; that kind, brilliant brindle half-lab-half-boxer Anastasia, who was originally (in 2002) our son Brendan’s rescue puppy.  Now Brendan and Anastasia are both gone, and the fresh grief of this is almost unbearable. 

When we fall in love with a dog, we know we will not have him forever; dog’s lives are short.  But that knowledge only reminds us that human lives are short as well.  Philosophical types may say that is good for us; to be reminded of that fact which we all try not to think about most of the time.  “Oh, very young, what will you leave us this time?  You’re only dancing on this earth for a short while.” (to lift poetry from Cat Stevens, now a Muslim with a different name).  Yes, I prefer to not think on this as well, especially since my son died just after his 30^th birthday….so very young.  Can I possibly live through the short life of another dog? 

My heart is not that strong, and here is how I know:  In my dream, we got a big fluffy golden retriever.  And then that animal began to suffer, dying.  The pain was fresh.  I awakened before the end.

-->