Give peace a chance

Note (added later): I'm not happy with the sarcastic tone I seem to have taken while writing this post. On the whole, I was quite moved by the event, and impressed by those who made the effort not only to attend, but to organize and speak at it. (I am only ever, if anything, an attendee.)

I am short on time these days, but wanted to write something before memory fails me about the "peace march" I attended last weekend. This being a very. small. town. the march, from one end of downtown to the other, lasted all of about 5 minutes, so the real event was the open forum discussion that followed.

I was the youngest person there (I'm in my 40s); average age, I'd say, was around 65. Made me wonder, do all the left-leaning Gen-Xers end up living in cities, leaving small towns to the family values crowd and retirees? Then again, perhaps people my age and younger have their own events around here, or limit their activism to signing online petitions and making online donations. I know I, for one, am more comfortable in very large crowds than in crowds of 50 or so, where anonymity is nearly impossible. (Though large crowds freak me out for different reasons.)

At the risk of being age-ist, and of over-generalizing, I can report that the senior citizen peace activist community of my small town is split between wise, eloquent, Quaker-ish pacifists and very angry, conspiracy-theory-obsessed, "radicals" still hoping for the return of the 60s. The former hold regular peaceful vigils, organize letter-writing campaigns, and are phone-banking to get out the vote; the latter seem interested only in bashing Democrats along with Republicans for selling out entirely to "big money" and being therefore entirely corrupt. Their other defining issue, apparently, is the looming threat of electronic voting machines, which are obviously all about disenfranchising regular people. Their strategy: civil disobedience on election day. Refuse to vote, or to leave the premises, unless you are given a paper ballot. Hopefully, they said, you will be refused and eventually carted off to jail, thereby attracting media attention and headlines like: Little Old Lady Jailed for Trying to Vote! (Is it just me or is this strategy just a little bit self-defeating?)

While I too am concerned about the new voting machines, I am more upset by widespread, continuing efforts to disenfranchise low-income, immigrant, and disadvantaged voters which, as far I as understand, do not center around electronic voting. (Am I wrong?)

And I'm simply fed up with Democrat-bashing at this particular historical moment, when our only hope right now lies with Democrats, imperfect as they may be.

That said, I felt quite comforted and inspired by the pacifist contingent, even though I don't entirely identify as a pacifist. Of course, no solutions to world problems of the world were offered, except the very-compelling-when-you-think-about-it-though-rarely-taken-seriously notion that the massive defense budget could go a long way toward easing some the global economic problems that fuel violence.

I'm glad I went, not only for the event itself but for the very lovely coffee I had afterwards with an acquaintance I've always wanted to get to know better. We were on the same page about the event, as were probably many of those who didn't end up speaking but still felt compelled to show up.

Oops, that ended up being MUCH longer than I'd intended, so I'll stop there.

Village society

One of my few social contacts these days is with a book club I was invited to join last year. I have not exactly embraced this opportunity. As evening nears on the appointed day, I inevitably find myself looking for excuses, while at the same time scolding myself for being so transparently anti-social and self-defeating. Because, clearly, what I need right now is social contact. To spend my mornings alone writing, my afternoons alone with my daughter playing and doing housework, and my evenings putting my daughter to bed and crapping out with Netflix is not exactly a recipe for mental health.

So why am I so loathe to break the routine once a month and hang out with a group of women who are, as far as I can tell, intelligent, funny, and easy going? But you see, that's just it. Quite frankly, I don't think I've ever been associated with a group of people who seem so damn healthy, cheerful, and comfortable with themselves as these women. No surprise, I suppose, but I'm most comfortable with uncomfortable, unhappy people for whom the word "health" has little fixed meaning.

Also these women don't seem all that interested in actually reading books. So far, no more than half the group ever shows up having read the book, and the portion of the evening spent talking about the book is rather small. To some extent, I have found the non-book focus a relief. My academic credentials makes informal, nonacademic discussions about literature somewhat awkward, though less for me than for the others who keep feeling as if they need to defer to my presumed expertise (which I never feel I truly own). But without the focus on a book, I find I have very little to say to these women, and instead silently dwell on my inadequate social skills and relative lack of health, cheerfulness and comfort-with-self.

This weekend there will be a "peace march" on Main street here in this predominantly Republican village of 3,000. I don't think it will attract CNN or the NY Times, but I'm thinking I'll go. Maybe I can meet more of the village misfits.

Raising my hand

It seems that my "time out" from blogging has entailed a more general moratorium on writing in these parts. To be honest, my failure to write much since submitting my last article probably has as much to do with having no real deadline staring me in the face as it has to do with my not writing here. But writing here *did* prevent me from a kind of passivity that sets in when I start my day reading, rather than writing, blogs, a passivity that tends to seep into the rest of my day, I think.

I've always been more comfortable being passive than active, something I blame on both nature and nurture. I have several memories of feeling shy when I was quite young. (In general, I remember very, very little of my childhood.) I remember trying to get myself to raise my hand in elementary school when I knew the answer to a question, but then being paralyzed by the overwhelming sound of my heartbeat and the sudden inability to think clearly. My earliest such memory is from 2nd or 3rd grade, but I also have clear memories of feeling that way in high school, college and even grad school.

I also remember a moment when I was sitting in the back seat of our car with a couple other kids, being driven by my mother to a music class. We were, maybe, 10 years old. One of the kids was a very witty, smart guy who lived down the street, on whom I perhaps had a little crush, and whose wit indimidated the hell out of me but also inspired me to try to join in. (I've since learned he's gay--of course.) My mother also clearly found him witty and charming; I remember her laughing at his jokes. The painful part of the memory is this: I got up the nerve to try to participate in the witty banter, and clearly wasn't up to it. I don't remember what I said or why it so obviously failed. But I do remember my mother telling me later (had I said something to her first?) that sometimes it's better not to speak than to make a fool of yourself. OUCH. That really stuck with me, and pretty much defined my approach to socializing well into adulthood. I'm more confident now, but still hesitate to speak particularly around witty, articulate people. Writing this down (and I don't think I've ever uttered this story "aloud" before now) is making my fingers shake, so it must still resonate.

Hmmm. Still making myself uncomfortable here, but I think maybe that's what I need to be doing, or at least need not to be repressing.

Time out

I've come to the conclusion that this blog isn't working for me. I seem only able to to get myself to post when I'm feeling the impulse to reveal uncomfortable things about myself--and this is making me uncomfortable. If I figure out a different way to do this, or suddenly get comfortable, I'll be back, but probably with a different bloggy name. Thanks to the few of you who've kept reading--I have no plans to stop visiting your blogs, so I'll see you there. Ciao!

Wandering mind

Having finally submitted the article (whew!), I find myself luxuriating in the temporary freedom of being between writing projects. Of course, there's the book to return to, and I'm actually looking forward to that, but I'm giving myself the rest of this week to let my mind wander. And take my mother-in-law to a museum and maybe do some laundry.

So, one place to which my mind wants to wander is: what on earth was ˆtalking about a few posts back when I went on that long-winded rant about blogging, market forces, the history of my humanities education and political activism? I'm thinking I'll delete that post, which seems to be attracting (and surely disappointing) readers who are still doing "Linda Hirshman" searches on technocrati. But, for myself if for no one else, I think I will also try to clarify (at some unspecified future date) what I was trying to say. It seemed important at the time, though I was in that weird manic state I get in right before deadlines.

On a related note, I also find myself wanting to think seriously about my long history of feeling inarticulate, and what it says about me that I would pursue a career that requires continual demonstrations of articulateness given my utter conviction that I "not have way" with words. [ "Some people have a way with words; others, not have way." --Steve Martin]

It's occurred to me lately that both my urge to write and my dread of writing come from this profound sense of alienation from language; I desperately want to achieve clarity, and yet feel most of the time as if clarity is impossible for me to achieve. I'm equally convinced that I'm surrounded (in real life and in the blogosphere) by people who can and do regularly express themselves clearly, and do so with apparent ease. And for some reason (this is what I want to figure out) I feel intense shame about my relative inadequacy. Like it's a personal failing that I need constantly to keep hidden, because if people really knew how hard it is for me to read, write, talk they'd think I was a freak, not to mention fire me on the spot.

I know it might seem that I'm inviting y'all to assure me that I am in fact articulate, but you see, I've been told that all my life and it doesn't seem to change my conviction. I think the question for me is not whether or not I'm articulate, but how I can overcome my shame about my struggle with words. And, of course, how I can make peace with, or once and for all abandon, my hyper-verbal career.

Happy preschooler, happy mamma!

I'm taking a break from the regularly scheduled self-discipline/self-pity fest just to say, for the record, how happy I am with my daughter's new preschool class.

Whereas morning drop-offs used to require at least 20 minutes of clinging, whimpering, and multiple reassurances from mama that all would be OK (never entirely sure, myself, whether this was true), I am now lucky to get a hug goodbye in all the excitement of arriving at school. Is it that LL's growing more dependent as she approaches 3? Or is it that she prefers (like her mama) calm, focused teachers and a structured morning routine over the chaotic, fun-filled, free-play atmosphere of her toddler classroom?

Whatever it is, I'm just thrilled to see her so happy, and to start my own day without nagging doubts about my decision to put her in preschool. Let's hope I haven't just jinxed it!

Ah me.

For those of you holding your breath, no, I did not make my deadline. Yes, I'm still working on the friggin' article. Yes, I'm hating on myself. Did I mention that my mother-in-law (whom I love dearly) arrived on Saturday for a week's visit?