Bowl o’ Cherriesbowl o’ cherries

I dropped Max at South Station about an hour ago. He left New York at 10 PM Friday night to hop a bus for Boston, hoping to escape what at the time seemed to be a cataclysmic hurricane. By this morning, we knew that Irene was an erratic mess-maker, causing wind and water damage in spots, leaving other places unscathed. Time for Max to get back to New York and his new life as a City Year corps member.

On our drive to South Station, Max and I saw Boston washed clean. The rising sun shone blindingly, brilliantly.  Cool crisp winds shooed away the blanket of heavy, wet air that’d been stalled over the Atlantic coast.  I watched as Max lugged to the terminal a backpack and bags filled with freshly laundered clothing and giant speakers.  Should he have made such a fuss to get back to Boston, after all?

A radio announcer voiced a piece in which New Yorkers posed similar questions. They criticized New York’s mayor Michael Bloomberg for what this morning seems like over-the-top evacuation plans. As I sped along the Mass Pike, the city before me, I wished we could all be a bit more grateful. Thank goodness it wasn’t worse. Halleluyah that an ordinarily pro-business public figure was willing to take an “anti-business” stance in favor of keeping people safe. How lucky we are that the worst most of us can complain of is a wet basement or a loss of power. I’ll bet the folks down in New Orleans, where today they’re marking the sixth anniversary of that storm’s landfall, would love to have so little to report.

A light’n'lively story in today’s New York Times describes the impact of Verizon Wireless’s installation of temporary “cell on wheels” towers on Martha’s Vineyard’s vacationers and locals. Wireless users’ cell phones start ringing when President Obama arrives on the island, known for its remoteness and beauty. These folks ordinarily forego cell coverage on The Vineyard. Most vacationers prefer life without cell interruptions but, as Times reporter Abby Goodnough notes, understand the administration’s need to link to the wider world.

Reading the story stirred up two sets of memories for me, one relatively recent, the other less so. Here forthwith:

MEMORY THE FIRST

I spent an exasperating week in July battling Verizon’s land line service to have DSL and telephone restored here in Brookline. In normal times, our internet service is painfully slow. To give you an idea, imagine having your bandwidth eaten for six to eight hours to upload a seven-minute radio piece.  (For reasons too complicated for even a modestly intelligent person to understand, we aren’t able to get cable.) In addition, the quality of our everyday telephone land line is compromised by a persistent, staticky crackle.  This is on a good day, mind you. In July, the crackle got so bad that conversations were almost impossible, plus the line would frequently go dead, dropping calls mid-conversation.  I put in a request to Verizon for repair.

A week and four separate visits from Verizon land line workers later, I was at my wits’ end. Repairmen would show up, check the antediluvian pole and line behind our garage on our neighbor’s property, tell me they had tapped us into a new “pair” of lines coming and going from the central switching station, and then leave. And still we’d have no phone service.

By the time the last worker arrived, I had lost faith and patience.  I was supposed to have had phone service, and he was supposed to be visiting to improve the DSL coverage. Given that the phone still wasn’t working, I’d called Verizon in advance of his visit to make sure the work order reflected the need to restore the line — not just to install a digital splitter for the DSL.  It took me over an hour to convince several different Verizon reps in call centers around the world to change the work order. Despite my attempts to give a heads up, this fourth worker arrived without a clue that he’d need to fix the actual phone line.  As I’d suspected, he balked at my request to bring back phone service, because his work order only told him to install the DSL splitter.  When we were done “discussing” the options, he agreed to take care of both issues.  He diagnosed the same problem with the land line as previous repairmen and  generated the same solution. He explained that one of the emails alerting the switching station to activate the new pair had gotten dropped earlier in the week, hence the lack of phone. All would now be well, he assured me. Either you fix it this time, I told the guy, or I’m canceling my service plan with Verizon. He told me he needed to leave the house to find a new pair and hook us up.  We agreed he would leave his laptop in my house as surety until the service was completely restored. He came back a good while later to let me know that he’d finished his job and would be leaving.  Nope, said I, I’m not giving you back your laptop until the phone works.

This guy was as fed up with me as I was with him. He told me that by contract he had to leave my property as soon as he notified the central office to activate the new pair.  I told him that by contract his company owed me phone service and that once the phone and internet were running, he could have his laptop back.  (My kids found this hilarious. I’d “Mommed” the poor guy.)  ”I want to speak with your supervisor,” I told the repairman. Like those who’d come before, he told me this wasn’t possible. I told him I didn’t care. It was take no prisoners time.

When this able worker realized that I really wasn’t going to let him have his laptop back until the phone worked, he went into the basement to talk with his supervisor in private. He returned several minutes later and handed me his cell phone. The supervisor — a guy in charge of land line coverage for my town — explained company policy.  I asked him how the policy made any sense, given that Verizon was hemorrhaging cash by sending four separate workers to fix a straightforward problem. How could this be cost-efficient, I wondered? If the phone didn’t work after the fourth guy had left, Verizon would have to send a fifth worker to start all over again. The supervisor finally agreed to leave his worker in place until the job was done.  But the worker couldn’t raise anyone in the central office. So he took off for an hour of lunch. When he returned and restored my land line and internet service to its crackly, slow, pre-repair state, he was free to leave. With his laptop. And I was grateful.

Talking with these four separate workers, I learned that each was frustrated with management, with repair policies, with the company in general. Each spoke of the company’s lack of commitment to land line service. Each told me that the company didn’t care if it lost land line customers to other service providers, that the company wanted to be left to its cellular business. Wireless workers aren’t unionized, they told me. Land line workers are. They complained about gigantic corporate earnings, insistence that there be employee give backs in upcoming contract negotiations (including health care coverage), and predicted they’d be out on strike come the first week of August.

The strike came to pass, with lowly workers attempting to bring Verizon management to its knees. You can read/watch a relatively pro-management piece as well as a relatively pro-labor piece explaining some of the bigger issues.  Where do I fall on this strike? I believe the workers when they say that the company is trying to grind them out of unionized existence. I also think they do a terrible , inefficient job installing and maintaining land lines.

What recourse did I have to register my dissatisfaction?  I could have cancelled our service, but all of my business cards and stationery list my email @verizon.net.  I know there are ways out of this, but they are complicated and even expensive for me.  Since I’d given the worker back his laptop I only had one other option. I am, in my way, part of “management.” I sold my stock in Verizon. I had quite a bit. Even if in the end I lose money because of my trade, I can fan the flames of my righteous indignation by refusing to profit from management’s awful motives and even awfuller policies. And I remove my capital from a pot that could potentially fund workers’ pensions and health insurance coverage. I don’t wanna profit from having a dog in this particular fight.

Did I bring them to their knees, or what?

MEMORY THE SECOND 

A few summers ago, I worked as a reporter for National Public Radio’s Cape and Island’s affiliate. One of the stories I was researching but didn’t get to produce featured the critical role internet connections play in year-round sustainability of families and businesses on Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard, and Nantucket. I interviewed impassioned residents on the Outer Cape who were frustrated by their inability to get their businesses running because of lack of internet. Also spoke with young people who’d grown up on Cape but were moving away because they couldn’t support themselves. At present, families and young people are leaving the Cape in droves. Housing costs, lack of year-round employment, and iffy public transport make Cape Cod an undesirable place to put down permanent roots for all save the independently wealthy.

Last year, a hard-working non-profit organization, Open Cape, managed to midwife a deal harnessing federal money, local grants, and up-front investment from service provider RCN to provide increased internet coverage throughout Cape Cod.  You can read about the partnership, which is mandated to have finished its work by 2013, here.  The hope is that entrepreneurs and small business people who could live and work anywhere will choose to settle on Cape Cod for its spectacular beauty and quality of life IF they can get the first-rate internet access they’d expect on the mainland. [N.B.: See above for a sense of what that might actually look like.] With this class of people will come jobs, cash flow, and opportunity, enabling a wider spectrum of people to live year-round on the Cape. The best of capitalism and government intervention in tandem. At least in theory.

CONCLUSIONS

When I think about Verizon’s ability to throw up a coupla portable cell towers to provide coverage for President Obama — just like that! — I am struck by the power of independent corporations in this country. Their ability to choose “can do” is often inspirationally breath-taking (and phone-ringing). And their decisions to operate in “can’t do” mode is proportionately nauseating. Who benefits when the terms of engagement insist on bringing at least one party (repair guys? workers? corporations? customers?)  to its knees?

Rebecca from the visa service called with an update. She wanted to let me know that by listing myself as a “writer” on my application form, I was putting myself in a category that would require five to seven weeks of scrutiny. “The consulate will read everything you’ve ever published. They’ll want to know what you might be writing about the country.” I protested that I also put down that I’m unemployed. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “They’ll consider you part of the news media.”

I let out a deep sigh. I’d need the visa in five — not seven — weeks to make the flight. I didn’t want to risk a delay. I didn’t want to lie, either. But the truth of my professional identity is layered and multiple. Any number of labels fit. The squirrels in my brain did a few backflips.

“What if I were to put down ‘housewife?’” I asked.

“Perrrfect,” Rebecca purred.

I filled out the forms again, FedExing them to New York. Five days later, my passport returned to me in the mail, visa affixed.

“Housewife.” The term traditionally refers to a woman whose sole role it is to tend a home while her husband earns a living in public. Feminists have objected to “housewife,” preferring, instead, the term “home maker,” because the latter doesn’t presuppose dependence on a man. Either way, the assumption — as the consulate concluded — is that housewives and homemakers are harmless. Whom would you rather let into your country: a writer or a housewife? A writer might be dangerous, cause public trouble. But a housewife? Can she bake a cherry pie?

An obscure British definition of “housewife” refers to a sewing kit, complete with needles. I like this one. A lot. Self-contained. Portable. Able to provide valuable assistance with the most ordinary of objects. Handled unwisely, capable of wreaking havoc and causing pain.

Friends called yesterday morning to ask if Mark and I would like to go to the movies early afternoon.  My knee-jerk reaction? I internally looked over my shoulder, thinking, “Who me?” Aren’t we supposed to be ferrying children around and fanning the fires at home? I just as quickly said, “Sure!” once I realized that we could actually meet up without a wrinkle.

We saw Fair Game, a film featuring Naomi Watts and Sean Penn, which tells the story of outed CIA spy Valerie Plame and her ex-ambassador husband Joe Wilson.  The show manages to sustain a high level of drama, even when viewers are all-too familiar with the story.  Actors playing Scooter Libby, Karl Rove, and Dick Cheney deliver intense performances as extra-creepy Bush Administration manipulators hell-bent on falsifying evidence to justify America’s invasion of Iraq.  And Sam Shepherd has a sweet cameo as Plame’s retired-military-man dad, a guy who urges his daughter to fight for what’s right.  Is it a great film? No, but worth seeing. Troubling, though, to imagine that anyone would be learning of this story for the first time via Hollywood rather than the news.

After the film, the four of us chatted about the take-home message.  We all expressed dismay that anyone could still harbor affection for the eight years that mired us in debt and dismantled civil rights. We two women — both of us moms coming to the brink of empty nesting — focused on Plame’s decision to have children — twins, even.  Plame’s domestic arrangements are as much a part of the story as her public battle to restore her reputation as a secret agent.  We suspected that her real-life decision to play out the fantasy of “wife, mother, spy” sold filmmakers on the tale as much as the political intrigue. Neither of us could imagine being CIA operatives with children, disappearing for stretches in dangerous places where pretty much no one drives carpool.

Later, I mentally smacked myself.  Has Plame allowed herself to be exploited yet again with this film? Would anyone have thought to read or watch her story if she hadn’t been a mother?  Would anyone have made the film if the outed spy had been…a father?  I wind up with the same old worn-out question: does anyone spend more than a split second asking whether male CIA operatives should have their careers and families, too?

My favorite part of the film, I decided, is the last bit, the one where editors cut from Naomi Watts to archival footage of the real Valerie Plame testifying before Congress.  Plame isn’t as pretty or thin as Watts.  But she speaks with power, conviction, and poise.  She doesn’t look like a mother or a spy.  She looks like a hero.

Lily came out of her interview at a small, elite New England liberal arts college sure that she’d had a good conversation but frustrated by the content. She knew she was supposed to “take charge” of the interview, so she asked a question about how well the college accommodated students with learning differences. She wanted to know, specifically, how she would go about fulfilling a language requirement given she’s dyslexic. The interviewer reassured her that the academic dean was always willing to go to bat for students with documented disabilities. Some professors wouldn’t “get it,” the interviewer said, but college policy would always back up LD students. With accommodations, Lily would be able to fulfill her requirements, just like everyone else. “Besides,” the interviewer told Lily, “it’s no one’s business.”

I shook my head as Lily gave me the report. The phrase “no one’s business” evoked the kinds of things people who considered themselves enlightened would say about “different lifestyles” when I was growing up. Upon learning that so-and-so was lesbian or gay, a free-thinker in the ’70s might say, “I don’t have a problem with that. It’s no one’s business, whatever two people choose to do behind closed doors.”

How far we’ve come as a country in terms of sexuality. Our goal isn’t to tolerate but to embrace. Full equality means that workers put same-sex partners on health insurance policies, high school students take whomever they wish to the prom, and little kids grow up celebrating family as two moms, two dads, one mom, one dad, a mom and a dad, or any combination thereof. Ads, TV shows, films, music — all forms of popular culture normalize the range of sexuality at long last.

In the best of all possible worlds, every college admissions interviewer would openly ask students about their learning styles. Kids wouldn’t just submit standardized tests. They’d submit learning profiles. The goal wouldn’t be to see if institutions of higher learning adhered to the law.  It would be to make sure that every professor, lecturer, and teaching assistant had undergone rigorous training in multi-modal learning.  Every syllabus would offer a variety of assessment techniques.  All students would be choosing courses based on what would maximize their chances to master material and produce good work.

Hip schools have come to promote LGBTQ safe spaces, pasting rainbow-colored stickers on classrooms, offices, and meeting areas, making it everybody’s business to protect against discrimination and danger. I’d like to see LD communities developing a similar icon, something that would immediately signify that kids with learning differences are welcome and safe.  The ADA may have reached its 20th anniversary, but we still have a long way to go when college admissions officers think they’re being sensitive when they tell students “it’s no one’s business” if they’re LD.

I felt terrible telling Lily to steer future interview conversations away from dyslexia and accommodations.  What did she want the admissions folks to know about her?  That she is a tremendous student? That she is a budding documentary filmmaker?  That she has tons of experience working with young children and is interested in human development?  That she loves to spend time outdoors?  Only after an institution has admitted her should she bring up dyslexia, because, as the admissions officer explained all too clearly, we’re living in an academic world of “don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Martha Coakley lost the Democratic Senate seat to Republican Scott Brown last week. The vote was close: 52 to 47 percent. The stunner was that a Republican could win, even with a four-point margin, in a supposed blue-state stronghold. This is not news.  What national leaders have made of this victory in the ensuing week, meanwhile, deserves scrutiny.

GOP Conference Chair Mike Pence concluded after the election that the American people had spoken through the people of Massachusetts, telling Washington that “enough is enough.”   Just to be perfectly clear, that’s not the message I sent. I’m American. And I voted, too.

I thought, a year ago, when I trained down to Washington to hear Barack Obama take his oath of office, that at last I could lift my voice, and the sound of my voice would be recognizably American for the first time in a long time. Today, reading the front page of The New York Times a week after the election, I realized that was a brief, dreamy moment. The people I voted for, the people I sent to Washington, the people who are supposed to be my voice in government, have abandoned the message I sent them to deliver and the work I wanted them to get done.

Look at what Senate majority leader Harry Reid, D-Nev., had to say about the Democratic Party’s brand new take on health care reform. “We’re not on health care now. We’ve talked a lot about it in the past.  There is no rush.”  No rush?  Hey, Harry! I voted to rush!

I kept reading, only to receive the second in a one-two punch.  Senator Lindsay Graham, R-S.C., sounded a death knell for effective government regulation of carbon emissions.  ”Realistically, the cap-and-trade bills in the House and the Senate are going nowhere.  They’re not business-friendly enough, and they don’t lead to meaningful energy independence.”  And why does Sen. Graham get to thumb his nose now? “Reality is hitting, and the reality is the American people are interested in jobs, not extreme legislation.”  That answer from Larry Nichols, CEO of Devon Energy and chair of the American Petroleum Institute. Nichols may head an organization with the word “American” in it, but I can assure you, he doesn’t speak for me.

Barry, Harry, Larry? Listen up. I am American. I voted for you.  And this is the message I’m sending to Washington today, hours before the president is set to deliver the State of the Union:

Leaving health care unreformed, allowing the insurance industry to continue flushing a chunk of the GDP down the toilet every year, that’s not business friendly.  And kissing cap-and-trade goodbye? You will be rich and powerful enough for the rest of your lives to afford the platinum version of health insurance. When you’ve had your third bypass surgeries and all your joints replaced, and you are sitting in rockers on the front porches of your vacation homes, I’d like you to explain to my great-grandchildren why there aren’t any more polar bears.  Please remember to tell them that back in 2010 you were too chicken to listen to the American people who voted you into office and told you they were ready for change.

There hasn’t been much in the news of late to inspire hope, despite Barack Obama’s assumption of office.  He warned us in his inauguration speech.  He was right.  Unemployment continues to rise, there is still war in the Middle East, people in positions of power — no matter their political affiliation — still don’t seem to understand that, as the newly minted senator for Illinois warned us, “one day a peacock, the next a feather duster.”

And yet.  Three times this week men publicly did the unthinkable.  They apologized.  This gives me great hope.

Barack Obama led the way.  ”I screwed up,” he said over and over again.  He took full responsibility for having pushed nominees toward confirmation even after it was clear they had broken the president’s declaration that there would be no tolerance for even the appearance of impropriety in his administration.  Next thing I knew, Jehuda Reinharz, president of Brandeis University, was apologizing for deciding to sell off artworks in the campus’s Rose Art Museum.  ”I take full responsibility for causing pain and embarrassment in both of these matters.  To quote President Obama, ‘I screwed up.’”  Most astonishing of all, Elwin Wilson, a white man who reveled in his own supposed white supremacy, apologized to African American Congressman and civil rights leader John Lewis for having beaten him to a bloody pulp 48 years ago.  ”I just told him I was sorry,” Wilson told reporters this week

Just.

As if this were some small thing.

Any one of you lucky enough to parent knows how big a thing apology is.  ”Hard” doesn’t begin to describe the task of teaching children to “say sorry.”  They certainly do not emerge from the womb equipped to take responsibility for their actions and repair the emotional damage they leave in their wake.  Who hasn’t heard a small child mutter, “sorry,” chin tucked to chest, eyes darting side to side, torn between furious self-pity and a desire to please authority?  Who hasn’t watched teenagers threatened with the revocation of privileges shuffle from foot to foot as they coughed out the most insincere of “sorries?”  

Getting these wily ones to stand firm, meet a gaze, confess, and apologize is one of the hardest things I have labored to achieve in my life.  Maybe that’s because I came from a family that settled disputes by fist and fiat.  Since I didn’t know how to set things right when I married (and neither did Mark), we’ve both had to work on cultivating civility and extending apologies.  A good read: Douglas Stone, et. al., Difficult Conversations: How to Discuss What Matters Most (NY; Penguin Books, c1999).  Also helpful: the Buddhist concept of “right speech.”  Is it true?  Is it helpful?  If not, don’t say it.  I’m guessing that Barack Obama’s mother and grandmother didn’t need books.  They knew most of the stuff already – and it helped them do an exceptionally good job raising him.  Ditto Michelle Obama’s mom.  

The single most effective way to teach children to apologize is to do it ourselves.  When we say we goofed, when we deploy those powerful words of apology, when we move beyond facts into the realm of emotion and connect our actions to others’ feelings, we show our kids how to heal wounds we have inflicted.  We demonstrate that it’s possible to make really big mistakes and still love and be loved, introducing into children’s black and white certainty a mysterious shade of grey.  For Barack Obama, Yehuda Reinharz, and Elwin Wilson all to name their failures in public and “say sorry” shows a strength that fills me with hope. It is behavior that, as Dr. Aaron Lazare has written in On Apology (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2004), requires “attitudes of honesty, generosity, humility, commitment, and courage” (263).  

Now to get Hillary Clinton, who surely has heard her share of apologies, to start practicing at the State Department.  I invoke John Lennon: Imagine!

There are so many reasons to celebrate President-Elect Barack Obama’s victory last night: what it means for upcoming appointments to the Supreme Court, the significance to our ability to interact with the rest of the world in positive ways, exiting gracefully from Iraq and bringing home our troops, the implication that the best (not just any) person can win regardless of race or gender, the warm fuzzy feeling of the country coming together in a lovely shade of blue. Yes, all of it.  All of it.  It’s so exciting.

And then there’s my knee.

My right knee, specifically.  

When I saw the knee specialist last spring, he reconfirmed that I have a growing hole about the size of a quarter in the cartilage underneath my right kneecap.  When I put pressure on the knee, bone rubs on bone.  It hurts.  At the ripe old age of 46, I don’t hike or backpack, play tennis, run, or do anything that causes impact to my right knee.  Instead, I get in the pool for my own water aerobics routine, ride a recumbent bike at the gym, and do lots of stretching.  More than you wanted to know, but there you have it.

I asked the knee guy if I’m a good candidate for knee replacement surgery.  Or maybe a partial replacement.  Not really, he told me.  For this particular problem, doing nothing is about as effective as undergoing invasive surgery.  I told him I felt a little helpless, given the lack of options.  

The knee guy leaned in.  ”Your best bet?  A new administration.”

Hunh?

Research scientists have successfully manipulated stem cells in non-human animal models to re-grow cartilage after trauma.  Whether the process will work in degenerative disease is still an open question.  And whether it works in humans is a matter of electing a presidential administration open to regulated stem cell research.  Might take three or four years of trial and error, but, he said, there’s an excellent chance that an injection of engineered stem cells would patch the cartilage hole.     

Along with all those other people out there hoping to get fixed — those harboring identifiable genetic mutations predisposing them to disease, those hobbled or stilled from injury or deterioration — I’m nursing a bad case of hope today.  Maybe the knee guy is right.  Maybe with a new administration, there’s a chance for a fix.

My right knee offers thanks all who voted Democratic yesterday.  It would bend deeply in gratitude if it could.  But it can’t.  And that’s the point.