The Power of Voice

Adversity, for me this year, is a winter that just won't let go. Last night's snow and slush were gone this morning, and the sun beckoned, but the chill remained and the new yellow flowers out front lay on their sides, resigned. 

Our waitress last night in the little bistro down the street was named Ursula. No older than any of my children, she vaguely remembered her namesake, the evil octopus, from The Little Mermaid. I always loved Ursula -- ambitious, vindictive, ironic (I'm wasting away!), convinced of her entitlement. A flamboyant plus-size beauty, wise enough to know that the best thing she could take from a woman was her voice. 

As any little girl would have been at the time, our waitress had been fascinated more by Ursula's shellfish lipstick than her villainous feminism, a belligerence that had long shrouded any hint of kindness or humanity. Adversity can do that do a person (or a sea creature), but we know, deep down, she wasn't always this way. Just ask Flotsam and Jetsam. 

Disney movies always fascinate me, with their multiple layers and their hidden and not so hidden messages, depending on who's watching. It's brilliant, what Disney does, providing as much entertainment for adults as it does for the children, in its parks and on the screen. I've always wondered, though, why the beautiful heroine's mother is, well, not there.

I feel fairly certain that Ursula would never have gotten her tentacles on Ariel's voice had Ariel not been motherless. I like to think that if I have given my daughters anything other than a random contribution of chromosomes beyond my control it is their voice. A voice that, to this day, I forget to use on my own behalf, but that I've never lost when I need to spur them on from the sidelines, remind them to be kind but to never relinquish what is rightfully theirs. Ursula understood this, the power of voice, although she learned a bit too late that you cannot borrow one, you have to find your own. 

When I came of age in the seventies, I thought it was a given that women could be loud and be heard, toss their bras, be in charge of their own bodies, do anything men could do. Back then, it often meant putting on a pin stripe suit with a skirt and heels and a floppy tie. Maybe that's why we're still confused -- we never figured out how to use our voices without losing ourselves in the process. 

And here we are. I still know people -- men, mostly -- who claim they couldn't even hold their noses tightly enough to vote for Hillary. They don't seem to find this troubling, even after two years of the worst stench our country has ever suffered. And then there's me. With countless women vying for the top spot, I'm drawn to the old white guy, because he's calming and he doesn't shriek, and he has the resume. I feel like a traitor to my gender; I feel less guilty about my affinity for Mayor Pete, for obvious reasons. 

I hope we get a woman in the White House one day, but I'm not sure this is the time.  We've been knocked around a little, by a dark winter that just won't seem to let go. "Me Too" and the rehashing of ancient indignities and, yes, unequal playing fields, may help us in the long run, but right now we're confused, and we need to find our voices again.

Fire and Fury

Just a few days ago, I heard that someones recent visit to Paris was not so good. "Yellow vest" protesters had overrun the city, bringing it to a virtual standstill. But still, I thought, it's Paris. It's tough to imagine the city of light losing its sparkle. 

I flipped on the television yesterday as I entered my apartment, and vaguely heard something about a fire at Notre Dame. I took note, but went about my business, assuming there was not much to see -- a small flare, maybe, and a handful of hunky French firemen. When I finally glanced over, I felt certain I was watching a movie. 

Having been to Europe more than a few times, I've become a bit blasé about cathedrals. Seen one, seen 'em all. I'm embarrassed to say I've uttered those words, or something similar. Churches, basilicas, chapels, cathedrals -- I admit I don't really know the difference. 

But there are certainly standouts, and many of them are in Paris. They are unforgettable, those marvels of the middle ages, no matter what they're called. The light sifting through the soaring stained glass windows of Sainte Chapelle; the long slow climb to the dome of Sacré Coeur, with its incomparable view; the sheer massiveness of Notre Dame, with its flying buttresses and its somewhat disarming gargoyles, seeming to mock the crowds below. 

I gasped, as did the world, at the inferno. It conjured up images of the blazing twin towers, of my double take as the first one suddenly disappeared, bright orange flames giving way to an avalanche of ash. I cringe at the comparison, knowing that those ashes, on 9/11, were a mix of concrete and wood and steel and the irreplaceable remains of thousands of humans. The only casualty yesterday, on Île de la Cité, was a thing, a thing that can be rebuilt. Sort of. 

But what of the thousands of humans, almost a millennium ago, who put this cathedral together. The sweat and toil and ingenuity without the benefit of modern science, the kind of handiwork that can never be replicated by 21st century engineering. 

I was last in Paris about two years ago, even more in awe of its beauty than I had been the time before that, or the time before that. I still gazed in awe at each monument, including Notre Dame, though I didn't bother to go in. In awe not only of its intricacies and its architectural perfection, but of the capacity of human beings to build such a thing, a larger than life tribute to their faith. As I watched the horrific dance of the bright orange flames, the plume of smoke spiraling toward the heavens, I thought there must be a lesson in all this, although I'm not sure what it is. 

Paris may have lost a bit of its sparkle yesterday, but still, the blazing cathedral leant an almost supernatural beauty to the night sky. It is heart-wrenching, the loss of such magnificence, but with a little faith, a dose of ingenuity, and, yes, a huge handful of euros, Notre Dame, and Paris, will survive.  

Sweet home (again), Chicago

It seems just a little bit arrogant to reclaim something that never belonged to you in the first place, but it's one of the perks of getting older, tweaking history a bit. When I moved to Chicago 34 years ago, I never thought of it as my city. My adopted city maybe, but not really mine. You can take the girl out of Brooklyn, but you can never take the Brooklyn out of the girl. 

I moved here for a whole host of questionable reasons, but the Chicago lakefront in the summer certainly helped tipped the scale. Though I grew up just a stone's thrown from the beach at Coney Island, I had never experienced the magic of sand abutting concrete thoroughfares, of venturing into a bustling urban landscape clad in flip flops and carrying a towel. Not north of the Mason-Dixon line, anyway. Summertime in Chicago -- that most odd sensation of being on vacation without going anywhere. 

Today was the day I had envisioned when I decided to move back to the city, a quarter century after fleeing to suburbia. Sunshine, blue sky, and a lake so crystalline you're almost tempted to dive in even though you know you'd freeze your toes off, for starters. It's taken my skittish boxer, Eli, a good ten days to be willing to venture more than a block or two from our new digs, but today he was up for a walk to Grant Park, and the lake. Sunshine after a long winter is infectious, and it had gotten to him, just as it had gotten to me. He marched on without complaint, nonchalant as he accepted the occasional compliment, sure he was headed somewhere good. 

I narrated the city I used to know as we walked. The grassy expanse over there -- where the guys used to play 16 inch softball. The ferris wheel at Navy Pier in the distance, a place that always looks so much better from afar. My favorite skyline view (it only just occurred to me we had settled on the wrong side of it); the stepladder of buildings south of the Loop, looking like a two-dimensional painting if you're lucky enough to gaze at it from a sailboat on the lake. It's taken on a few additions these days, modern glass towers in odd geometric shapes, but still, the steadfast rectangles take my breath away. 

I used to walk these same paths when I worked nearby, but somehow it feels different now. I'm not rushing to get back somewhere, and I can come back if I want, first thing in the morning. It feels, in some weird way, as if it belongs to me now, as if this piece of the city by the lake is finally mine. 

Sue is back. So announced the banner strung across the pillars of the venerable old Field Museum. Sue, the T-rex who has called Chicago home since the turn of the millennium, even though I'd venture to say she was not born here either. Sue has undergone a few nips and tucks, and is back, just better and in a new hall. 

I may be a little worse for the wear than Sue, but let's face it, she has a team and I don't. No matter though. It's good to see us both back home. 

Losing our Senses

Five senses. So primitive, so visceral, so informative, so comforting. We tend to take them for granted. They say when you lose one sense, the others take up the slack. But there's really no substitute for any of them. 

My dog's senses are on high alert as he explores our new neighborhood. The sounds -- the ding of the elevator, the rumble of the train, the footfalls in the hallway that are inaudible to me. The sights -- so many dogs, so many people. The tastes (I tremble to think about those), and the touch -- of friendly passersby, and the ever changing terrain of gravel and wood chips and concrete and the occasional surprising expanse of grass, still sparse and brown from winter. He is most informed by the smells; snout to the ground, he sniffs his way forward, committing all the newness to memory. 

Years ago, my then husband told me that the men in his family don't hug. The context: we had traveled to Michigan to say our final goodbyes to my dying father-in-law, and his son, my husband, had offered up a handshake. Our son, a teenager at the time, a "man" in that very same family, had taken a different approach, bending down to hug his grandfather. His sisters followed, as did I. In my world, we hug, gender notwithstanding.  

This story is not, by the way, a referendum on my marriage, certainly not an excuse to rehash my ex-husband's flaws. Or mine, for that matter. I was, after all, the shrew who berated him about the callousness of the handshake, when his father was dying. I like to think he has learned to hug since then, and I like to think I have learned when to just let it go. Getting older has its perks. 

I fear that we are teaching our children bad lessons these days. That touch is not just dispensable, but downright bad. That's not the worst of it though; we are teaching our daughters to be victims, and we are teaching our sons to be afraid. 

Bright lines are elusive, but we have surely stepped over some. Yes there are times when a handshake makes more sense than a hug or a kiss or a squeeze. Is it really okay, though, for a woman to wait years to announce she was uncomfortable? Does the level of discomfort suddenly become enhanced when the complaint can do some serious damage? Is a woman who is strong and accomplished enough to run for office really incapable of turning around, in the moment, and telling the guy that something is not okay? 

There are real issues out there -- with rape and sexual assault and abuse of power -- but they are being clouded and undermined. What we are teaching, it seems, is not only victimization and fear, but vindictiveness. That is not okay. 

Yesterday, a friend came to visit, and my dog -- all 65 pounds of him -- hopped onto her lap to deliver some unwanted licks. She told him no and gently pushed him away. Dogs, even old ones, are teachable.