Thursday, December 8, 2016

Tzadikim Alert! 36



According to Jewish teachings, at any given time, Lamedvavniks or Tzadikim, 36 righteous holy people walk among us in the world.  No one knows who they are, and they themselves don't know they are Tzadikim.   

God puts these hidden saints among us, to preserve humanity, even if the rest of the world has degenerated to an intolerable level of cruelty and inhumanity.

And here’s the kicker.  Since no one knows who the Lamedvavniks are, every Jew should act AS IF he or she might be one of them, lead a humble and holy life and pray for the sake of fellow human beings.   

These holy people, also called Nistarim, concealed ones, emerge in times of trouble and from the mystic powers they possess, they avert threatened disasters of a people persecuted by their enemies.  They return to their anonymity once their task is accomplished, concealing themselves, remaining unknown in their community.

One morning as I looked up as I left the walking path and headed towards my car parked lot in front of Mollie Stones market, coming towards me was a striking black woman.  Her hair was piled on top of her head, about two feet high, with a maroon, yellow, pink, and black geometric patterned scarf tied up around her forehead.  More black hair descended straight into the sky.  She wore strings of beads, also maroon, and yellow and black.

I don’t remember anything else from that point down because I was zapped with her warmth and this glow. I looked her in the eyes and greeted her. “Good morning.  You look beautiful.  Where are you going?”  She smiled and said, “Just out for a walk.”   I’m not saying for sure that this woman was one of the 36, but as she vanished into the crisp morning air, the thought crossed my mind.

These Lamedvavniks don’t know one another. If a person claims to be one, it is proof that he or she is definitively not.  One of these 36 could potentially be the Jewish Messiah, if the world is ready for them to reveal themselves. In the meantime, they are exemplars of humility, or anavah.

As I wonder how to respond to the bleakness of these times, I’ve been thinking a lot about this idea of the Tzadikim.  I try not to wake each morning in fear, though I must say that I am still not sleeping easy.  I have started to say a daily prayer, an antidote to the politics unfolding around us.

How do we move forward with fortitude and positivity, how do we act AS IF?

And what exactly does that look like?  I pray to abandon that wait and see attitude. I pray to not let circumstances and situations determine how I feel.  I pray to embrace the power of the possible (not the literal, predictable, or the inevitable).  

By acting AS IF in our lives, we actively create the reality we want. It’s a radical idea.  What if we acted as if we believed we were each lamedvavniks?

Rather than succumb to cynicism and depression, I do believe in something that doesn’t currently exist, and live with a strong faith in things not seen, not proven, and not guaranteed. 

I have signed more than two dozen petitions, placed phone calls to the offices of politicians, donated money to a handful of organizations that I believe will fight the good fight.   Every day I try to do something, even something small.  And each day I will attempt to act AS IF, as if any action, any act of resistance, any act of kindness does makes a difference.






Monday, November 14, 2016

Conversion Perversion



Conversion therapy, here I come.  Using taxpayer’s dollars to fund my rehabilitation is a ducky idea, about as useful as building that wall, or fence, or ditch, or failing all that, digging a small hole with a bent spoon in the desert. 

Speaking of which, perhaps wandering for the next 40 years across a barren wasteland (unaffected by even an iota of climate change) is a viable option for me, since I’m also a “renegade Jew,” with a terrible sense of direction and I don’t think I can possibly alter my genetics, though apparently I can choose to change my lesbian lifestyle.

I may just have to take the word of Trump’s new domestic policy advisor Ken Blackwell who declared, “…And I think you make good choices and bad choices in terms of lifestyle. Our expectation is that one’s genetic makeup might make one more inclined to be an arsonist or might make one more inclined to be a kleptomaniac. Do I think that they can be changed? Yes.” 

Huh, forgive me but I find this all a bit confusing. Do I need to start lighting fires and stealing stuff immediately, taking a lesson from those Black Lives Matter people in Oakland (the nerve of those people holding hands around some lake), or should I just hold off a few months until Steve Bannon, the Goebbels to Trumph’s Hitler, fully implements his prime choice white meat nationalist agenda?  


But I digress. Back to this plan for my conversion therapy.  What’s that going to look like? 

Do I pick an ice-pick lobotomy, or aversive treatment like a good shocker-roo to my lady parts as I look at a photo of Cate Blanchett or Serena Williams (those nasty nasty women)? I could take nausea-inducing drugs, though I have been nauseous since 11/9, and that hasn’t seemed to do much to deter me. 

And how very important all this is in light of such trivial issues as restoring those non-existent manufacturing jobs to the heartless heartland, or stopping the well meaning insurance monopolies from raising rates to cover those pesky out of control healthcare costs.  And let’s not worry our pretty little heads about that dashing Vladimir Putin since he’s such a good buddy of the Fuhrer elect. 

I mean I am such a persistent threat, a soon to be social-security risk, all 5’2” inches of my 61 year old being, living with my lesbian wife of 32 years in our Marin County home, raising a Bernie supporter, who can sing the entire score of Hamilton by heart.  I must be stopped before I harbor 3 million illegal criminals and bad Dreamers in our downstairs apartment. Scary scary scary. 

I am working frantically on how to utter my own brand of unintelligent sentences, speaking directly into the camera sporting an orange patina, and then adding assurances like, “I’m really good at construction,” “It’s it’s where it’s at,” and “really great,” everythings.  Maybe that will save my unchristian perverted soul, or at least distract a few people while I pack my bags and flee to, hum, to and where would that be? I know, Candyland.  Your turn.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

The Transition Dream Team

Today, as I busily diverted all traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge to punish liberal San Francisco, I had Chris Anti-Christie fantasies of leading the Transition team, and this REALLY BIG idea occurred to me: let's make all appointees in the new regime Reality TV stars.

First up, the Supreme Court Justice --  Judge Judy.



Next, a team to head the Environment Protection Agency, that will soon after be cancelled.



Secretary of State; David Hasselbeck



Head of Homeland Security: Psy (my friend Maud observed that "he's wearing his RayBans so we can't see which way he's looking -- this keeps the enemy on edge".) Note to self: It's important to dance as the nuclear bombs drop.




Secretary of the Treasury: Honey Boo Boo, because someday she'll grow up to be a white woman...



Secretary of Health and Human Services:  Paula Deen. A fried stick of butter for every pot!




The Rest of the Cabinet: Why not.  Let's be done with it and get on to more important tasks like relocating the White House to a new luxury hotel in Washington D.C.!



Head of the Federal Reserve:  Mark Burnett, the guy who made all this possible and who is richer than God.



Heads of all Military Branches and Our New Police State: The Village People



Attorney General: Bristol Palin.  See, he's not a misogynist, after all, and we can even get a bonus astute mom advisor in the deal.



The Transition Dream Team

Today, as I busily diverted all traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge to punish liberal San Francisco,  I had Chris Anti-Christie fantasies of leading the Transition team, and this VERY BIG idea occurred to me: let's make all appointees in the new regime Reality TV stars.

First up, the Supreme Court Justice --  Judge Judy.



Next, a team to head the Environment Protection Agency, that will soon after be cancelled.



Secretary of State; David Hasselbeck



Head of Homeland Security: Psy (my friend Maud observed that "he's wearing his RayBans so we can't see which way he's looking -- this keeps the enemy on edge".) Note to self: It's important to dance as the nuclear bombs drop.




Secretary of the Treasury: Honey Boo Boo, because someday she'll grow up to be a white woman...



Secretary of Health and Human Services:  Paula Deen. A fried stick of butter for every pot!




The Rest of the Cabinet: Why not.  Let's be done with it and get on to more important tasks like relocating the White House to a new luxury hotel in Washington D.C.!



Head of the Federal Reserve:  Mark Burnett, the guy who made all this possible and who is richer than God.



Heads of all Military Branches and Our New Police State: The Village People



Attorney General: Bristol Palin.  See, he's not a misogynist, after all, and we can get a bonus mom advisor in the deal.



Monday, October 31, 2016

Standing for Standing Rock


At Standing Rock, North Dakota, a stampede of a thousand bison appear magically on the rocky horizon, then thunder across the open plains. These majestic six feet tall creatures with shaggy brown coats, curved horns, wispy beards, and tufted tails have arrived to aid the praying protestors, who dance and chant for peace as White men assault them.

This is America in 2016, not a Kevin Costner movie.

Unleashed against the backdrop of the wide blue sky filled with white billowing clouds, modern weapons of our militarized state -- rubber bullets, pepper spray, tasers, and earsplitting concussion canons -- harm people who fight for their land and natural resources.


The American Bison is a legendary symbol of sacred life and abundance. Nearly hunted to extinction by usurpers of Native American land and culture, the epic herbivore holds the power to overcome adversity and atrocity.  The bison’s eyes shine with the will to face any challenge and the fortitude to overcome.  The Bison aligns to the spirit of sacrifice and inner strength, the place that connects us with the Great Mother, giving of herself so that others may live.

Local law enforcement decked out in riot gear, the North Dakota National guard, and sheriffs sent in from around the country, have been arresting the non-violent Sioux warriors and their allies. “The only weapon I saw among the protestors,” one Lakota woman witnessed, “was a drum stick.”

The protestors face felony charges for their efforts to halt this ill-conceived pipeline designed to carry fracked crude oil 1,200 miles from the Bakken oil fields to a distribution center in Patoka, Illinois, a project that will displace local people, poison the water of the Missouri River, and destroy the sacred sites. 

So the Tatanke Oyate, the Bison, came to Standing Rock.

The reporters say that someone freed a fenced in herd, and directed them to the site.  So be it.  They needed to be present.  Tribes and first nations from all over the world have expressed solidarity.  The UN and Amnesty International have sent human rights observers to Standing Rock.

This is America in 2016.   But this story has precedent. In 1868, the land beneath the pipeline was accorded to the Sioux people by the Treaty of Fort Laramie.  Eleven years later, the US government waged war on them, forcing them to cede most of the Laramie land.   

This is America in 2016 and war is being waged against the Sioux nation.

The federal government continues to disregard legal agreements by failing to engage the Standing Rock Sioux tribe in the permitting process.  The tribe is suing the Army Corps of Engineers (the same folks who brought us the faulty New Orleans levees), alleging that the permitting agency violated the National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA) and the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA). 

The Obama administration temporarily blocked construction. but a federal court intervened to allow the project to proceed.  Because the federal government has authority over the project’s permits, Obama, or the next Administration has the power to cancel the project—or at least revoke its permits after further assessment.   But Obama has not done this!
Hillary Clinton has equivocated on the issue saying “the path forward must serve the broadest public interest,” read, “DO NOTHING.”   Donald Trump owns stock in the pipeline construction company, Energy Transfer Partners, and advocates deregulation of the oil industry.
The struggle continues.  I encourage all of us to join Buffalo Nation!  Here’s a list of things you can do to fight back:

Thursday, September 29, 2016

The Help

“Did you read The Help?  Yes? Well, I have stories for you from Ugandan caregivers, you wouldn’t believe your ears,” laughs Julia Musisi, whose open round face and wide eyes radiate warmth. It’s an Indian summer day and it’s hot in my Marin living room.  Julia’s brown skin glistens with a light layer of sweat. 

We’ve just met but she feels so familiar.  “When I was 25, I came to Los Angeles from Kampala in 1995 and got a job working for an elderly woman who designed the NBC peacock.  You know that graphic?”  I nod.

“This woman, she had all of these pink chairs in her house.  She told her daughter, ‘I don’t know where Julia is going to sit. ‘ You see, she thought that the black of me would rub off on the pink chairs.”   

I laugh and say, “oh no.”  Julia says, “We got to be good friends.  I became family to her, but I had no idea what America was like.”  

“ Very racist, then and now,” I apologize. “White people suck”

“ Yes, and that Donald Trump,” Julia responds.  “What do you think of Hilary?  You know the Clinton Foundation has done so much good in my country around AIDS.”

And we’re off, talking for another 3 hours. 

Julia came over to interview for a job as a companion for my 87-year old mother. I got her name from a recommendation on Nextdoor, our neighborhood social media site.  

I describe my mom to Julia, explaining in detail who she was and who she is today, as she suffers from dementia.  Julia leans forward on the edge of the orange sofa, listening carefully with kindness. 

“She used to read all the time, play bridge, enjoy going to the theater.  She had her own business, a pharmacy.  She was smart, capable, in charge.  Extremely put together. Now it’s hard to engage her.  She doesn’t have friends. She never was very social.  My dad was the people person. She has difficulty reading now and she resists doing lots of things because she knows she can’t do them as well as she used to, if at all. She’s lonely.”

“We will find things to do together, “ Julia says.  “ I will take her out for walks, for coffee or tea, shopping, to the movies.”

“She loves watching movies, still,” I say.  “Doesn’t remember much when she leaves the movie theater, but that’s ok.”

“It will be good for her to have me with her,” Julia declares.

I agree. Julia got the job and we worked through the specifics, but that’s not where our conversation ended.  I asked Julia to tell me more about Uganda. 

“ I have an orphanage there, for 17 girls.  They live in a home I own on five acres of land.  I couldn’t have children, so I do this.”

Julia shares her success stories – two of her girls came to California to attend college. “One is becoming an RN, so she can return to Uganda and educate women to stop having so many children.  Most have seven, eight, nine, or ten, like it’s nothing.  Nothing. That’s what happens to young women.  They keep having the babies; they have no jobs and the poverty is so bad. Did you know that Cervical cancer is the number one cause of death for women in Africa?“

Julia, whose parents could not afford to buy shoes and clothes for their ten children, looks out our windows at Mount Tam and the Bay, delighted with the view.  “It is so lovely,” she says. 

Here we sit, in spectacular Southern Marin County, where the population is stricken with affluenza, and we raise entitled children who as Julia observed, “don’t even talk to their parents, and don’t know even how to cook a meal.  They can’t do anything for themselves. Really!”  

Here we sit, and this strong, smart, and big-hearted woman tells me what she does with her $25 an hour wage –how her mission is to empower girls to make better lives for themselves in her country.  “I want to build a school on my land and offer vocational training.  I got 20 sewing machines donated, and the local women, they come to my house to learn to sew. They can earn a wage, now.” 

When Julia speaks of her work and of Uganda, she is luminous and as bright as the afternoon sunlight  that won’t quit streaming into the room.  “You must come with me to Uganda and see,” she says.  She travels to Uganda several times a year, and has worked with other NGOs and Doctors Without Borders to provide trainings on how to screen for cervical cancer.

I ask her how she raises money for her projects. She joins me on my sofa side, as I get my computer to have a look at her web site.  She has founded an NGO called Voluntary Hearts Community for Girl-child Concern.  This reminds me of author Alexander McCall Smith’s name for his Botswanan character, Precious Ramotswe’s business -- the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency.  Only a lot more is at stake here.

Julie has thought about doing a crowd funding campaign, but she doesn’t quite know how to do this. 

“I can help you,” I volunteer, with an open heart.  See the name works! 

“I am a writer and a good marketer, and I understand how to use words on the Internet. I’ve been doing this kind of thing for many years.  And Julia, I, too, want to empower girls in the world.”

“Women and girls in Africa, in Uganda have so much difficulty. The poverty, oh people do not understand how poor people live in third world countries,” Julia says. “If you do not want to see poverty, you cannot come to my country.”  And in the next breath, she again, invites me to come to Uganda, “and see for yourself.”

Her organization is dedicated to “sowing the seeds of love and care to the vulnerable young girls by improving their livelihood. “   The Voluntary Hearts Community targets girls who are orphaned, abandoned, exploited, and living with single or handicapped parents, or elderly caregivers.  They have helped 280 girls and young women so far.

She smiles, puts down her glass of water, then turns towards me, arms extended, and gives me a big hug.  

“This is the way we make change, by changing lives one at a time.  That is what you do, Julia. This is how it happens. I am so happy that you walked through my door today. I can help.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I will help mother, and you will help the girls.”

“Yes.  This is good, we will help each other” I affirm.  “This is very good.”

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Sadie, Sadie

Worried that we were in over our heads, we called in Marin’s dog whisperer, Trish King, for a consultation about Sadie, our new beautiful American Eskimo/Pomeranian/Poodle/Corgi /Chihuahua rescue.  After 11 years of “parenting” as Trish said, “…not a real dog,” – our beloved King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, Picasso – we needed help to better handle the new member of our family. 

Under a year old, she came from the streets of Oakland with the name, Sandy, but after the first day, our daughter modified her name, since, as she explained, “Everyone needs to have a dog at some point named Sadie.” 


Sadie, during Sophie’s gap year, will be Sophie’s primary responsibility and companion.  When Sophie heads off to college, we’ll be the foster parents.

We had several concerns, all of which, Trish, a soft and clear spoken woman who looks like she just stepped off a Marin hiking trail with a dozen docile perfectly behaved pit bulls in tow, expertly advised us about at a 90-minute meeting, or let’s call it a canine therapy session. 

When she was done, she enthusiastically reassured us that we had a fabulous, very smart and sweet dog, one that she wouldn’t mind adopting herself. She proceeded to demonstrate techniques and generously share her training secrets. 

We immediately started using them, and lo and behold, in the first week, they seemed to work, or worked about 75% of the time, which is a pretty damn quick fix (unlike my own “human” therapy). I am bullish (or doggish) on a behaviorist theory of change.  What a little chicken/liver treat, a turn of the body, or tone of voice can achieve.  I am bringing a little baggie of bite size morsels to my next session and our therapist can use them with me!

Sadie has a lot of energy and when she plays and greets you, she nips and jumps. She got even more aggressive when we told her “No,” or “Stop it,” and pushed her away.  It scared us. She has sharp pointy teeth and they can hurt.

Our response actually egged her on, and increased her intensity.  Turns out that we needed to “shun” her – this involves silently turning away, picking up your cell phone, looking out the window, or walking away.   When her energy is not being matched, and she no longer has your attention and she stops the behavior. “Dogs want an audience,” Trish explained.

“The important thing here is not to get angry, as it will just kick her into high gear.  Instead, be quietly powerful, and make your boundaries very clear,” Trish instructed.  We should calmly, softly, say the word “Enough.”

Be “quietly powerful.”  This is a radical concept for me to chew on.  I am a big talker, and when I’m angry, let’s face it, I have a persistent bark. I get loud and raise my voice.  Boundaries for me are also not so clear. I am guilty of co-dependent behavior, and often extend myself beyond what is good for me and for others in the service of “fixing” things. Suddenly, Trish’s lesson seems applicable to me as well as to Sadie. “Enough.”

The walking path, the place where I go for 5 to 6 miles each morning, meditating and peacefully musing about the world, had suddenly turned into a minefield.  Around each bend, Sadie exploded with what we thought was aggression towards many dogs (all sizes and colors), barking, growling, baring her teeth, and lunging at them.   People who knew me and the zen Picasso, cast concerned looks and stopped saying “Good morning.”

Trish got a big stuffed dog manikin out of her car trunk and had us walk Sadie up the street towards it, in order to evaluate her behavior.  Sadie did the rude barking, growling, pulling thing, and Trish determined that it was “dog reactivity” or “frustrated greeting.”

Sadie is not afraid of other dogs, she’s actually very friendly and she can’t wait to meet them. 

Trish prescribed the “Find it,” game as a way to manage Sadie in the face of oncoming canines.  You throw a treat on the ground, and instruct the dog to “find it.”  This distracts her, and also engages her. 

“Whenever possible, the dog should ‘find’ the treat, then look up to you….so that she is always searching for something,” Trish said.  

After a week of practice, Sadie mastered “Find it.” She was sufficiently distracted and shifted her attention to running down the treat, ignoring the oncoming dogs. Once the dogs got up close, Sadie just said “hello” like a normal person….I mean dog.

Trish also suggested teaching Sadie to catch the treats in her mouth, as this places her full attention on you, and makes her focus.  Sophie has already successfully taught Sadie to sit, lie down, crawl, stand up on her hind legs, dance, and shake paws.  She’s not at the treat catching stage yet, but she is one smart cookie.

Despite all the good progress, a week after our initial Trish consultation, Sadie started up with a new set of difficult behaviors. On the walking path she constantly bit at her leash and at my legs and hands, and I could not get her to stop. 

At home, Sadie would get in a frenzy and she‘d jump on Picasso, unfazed by his growling. Picasso, instead of backing away, escalates the growling and walks right into Sadie, holding his ground.  It gets ugly and we worried that someone would get hurt.

After resting throughout the day, Sadie becomes possessed with energy.  We call it the “witching hour,” when she will not listen or settle down. Shunning does not always work.  We put her outside, but when she comes back in, she resumes the bad behavior. 

We called Trish back for a second session and we sat together with the two dogs sleeping peacefully at her feet, the ENTIRE time, and discussed these new Sadie issues for an hour.

For the leash biting, Trish suggested stepping on the leash, and then showed us a move where you insert your fingers underneath Sadie’s collar and pull up at a 45-degree angle.  You don’t let up until she does.  You tell her “enough.”

Sadie clearly doesn’t like this.  It establishes you as the alpha, the boss. It also works when she does the “playful” nipping and biting. It even works with Picasso to get him to stop his attention seeking barking. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

The next morning on the walking path I did what Trish suggested.  I stepped on the leash and inserted my fingers underneath her collar.  I repeated this about 3 times in a row, and she stopped.  For the rest of the walk she was fine, no leash biting.  Each day if she tried to bite her leash I did the collar manipulation and calmly said, “Enough.”

The leash biting stopped (though occasionally she puts Picasso’s leash in her mouth – I’m not sure if she’s just trying to walk him…) and we’re having a great time on the path.  People now ask me about Sadie, and remark how friendly and pretty she is.  I tell them that she is a rescue, doing my little part to evangelize the need for people to take in animals.

An estimated 70 million animals live as strays in the United States. According to the Humane society, only about 6 to 8 million cats and dogs wind up in shelters.  Owners reclaim less than 30% shelter dogs  and 4% of cats, and only about 3 to 4 million cats and dogs are adopted from shelters each year. 

So, that’s a whole hell of a lot of dead animals we’re talking about.  I think about this when I look at sweet Sadie from Oakland.  I am so happy she didn’t become one of the bad statistics.

When we discussed Sadie’s harassment of Picasso, Trish suggested we put something between them (a blanket or piece of cardboard).  Also we can put her on her leash and do the step on it technique to get her to take Picasso’s not so subtle hint to be left alone. 

Trish thinks we can leave the dogs together in the house when we go out and that they will be fine together. Sadie likes to get into Picasso’s bed with him. He is warming up to her. He’s still jealous, and will growl if she is getting attention when he is not, or if she appropriates one of his toys.  But it’s improving.


                                                                       

Sadie is a spirited puppy who loves to play. Picasso never did much playing with his own species; he is very tranquil, and a great walker and fetcher, but not the rough housing type.  Sadie on the other hand, moves super fast, darts in and out, and runs circles around dogs of all sizes.

I’ve found a dog park to take her to across from the Larkspur Ferry and she’s made a bunch of new frolicking four legged friends.  Lucia, Lucifer, Russia, Todd, Diego, and Frieda just to name a few. Diego and Frieda slay me. Diego is a tannish brown bulldog who looks just like his namesake; Frieda is a dark feisty shih tzu with an artist's temperament, who for no apparent reason, goes off in fits of yapping.

I am getting a kick out of meeting new dogs and watching their interactions. I completely get why people write novels, memoirs, and books of poetry about their dogs. I have been in love with Picasso for 11 years; and now there’s Sadie, who’s winning over my heart. 

Two is a handful, literally.  My hands full of dogs, I start each day with a jaunt to my step, as we head out for our walk.