Friday, May 1, 2020

Memorable Meme that Sparked a Story



This screenshot of a text message, showing a hilarious miscommunication between strangers, circulated the internet, and I couldn’t resist turning it into a story. I even assigned it to my teenage writing students as a prompt (and I will probably post their resulting collaborative tales on my other blog, at www.susanllipsonwritingteacher.blogspot.com). If you already follow me on Instagram (@susanllipson), you know that I often see writing prompts in unexpected places because I continually turn Nature images into metaphorical poems. Social media posts sometimes inspire my creativity, too--as you can see in this fictional response to the "text fail" image, above: 


Here for You
by Susan L. Lipson

Stan held his breath as he opened the door of the Uber car. After his embarrassing reply to her text that said  I am here for you, he wished he could have canceled the ride.  This driver probably thought he was a pathetic basket case, unloading on her as if she were a friend offering support. Standing stiffly outside the Honda Civic, he called, “Um, hi. Are you Tammy?” Peering into the car, he gulped as a smirking, but pretty woman, turned toward him and nodded. Her shiny black bangs skimmed long eyelashes, framing dark, black-outlined eyes. Stan hesitated to get in. He looked down at the phone in his hand.

            “Stan? Don’t be embarrassed, it’s okay. Just get in,” Tammy urged, soothingly. “Text fails happen.”

            Stan slid onto the fabric seat of her Honda Civic and shut the door as softly as he could. “Sorry about that.” He cleared his throat. “I thought you were someone else.”

            “Obviously,” she quipped, her eyes smiling at him from the rearview mirror. “You okay?”

            Struggling to muster a smile, Stan saw his own reflection in her mirror. He looked as awkward as he felt. He smoothed down his ginger, frizzy hair against his temples. “Can we, um, listen to some music, maybe?”

            She turned on the radio. Demi Lovato cried-sang, “Like a skyscraper…” And Stan burst into tears. Tammy changed the channel and turned up the volume. This time it was a sad song by Post Malone. Stan recognized the voice but couldn’t hear the words over his own sobbing. He hunkered down in the back seat so she couldn’t see him in the mirror.

            “Stan? Stan, get a hold of yourself, would you?” Tammy called out over the music. Her GPS rerouted her, due to excessive traffic, and she snapped at the mechanical voice, “No!” 

            Wiping his tears on his tie-dyed t-shirt, Stan blubbered, “I’m sorry, but can you just turn off the music? Please?”

            She turned off the radio, sighing deeply. Stan could see her frown in the mirror. Her thick eyebrows nearly met in the middle. “Look, just calm down, dude! We’ll be there in ten minutes. Unless you need me to pull over now. You’re not , like, going to be sick or anything now, are you? I just had my seats cleaned.”

            Her “compassion” stunned Stan and stopped the flow of tears. He sniffed loudly. “Well, aren’t you just the kindest human being?! I THINK NOT!”

            SCREECH! The car jolted toward the curb and slammed to a stop. “Get out, Stan. I don’t need to have compassion! I’m not your freakin’ therapist! I’m not a bartender! I’m not your friend!”

            Stan’s eyes bulged, and his puffy lips parted as his jaw dropped. “Wait, what? You’re serious? No, just drive. I’ll shut up. I need to get there on time!” 

            “Tough, Stan. And speaking of tough, you have no idea what a tough life is like.” Suddenly, Tammy was crying. Shaking, sobbing, sticking her head out of her open window and gulping air...

            Stan gasped. “Tammy? Are you okay?”

            She didn’t answer, only cried harder. Stan reached across the seat to pat her shoulder and she crumpled over the steering wheel. “I...I need...a hug, Stan. You’re not the only one with problems.”

            Stan got out of the back seat, opened the passenger-side door, and jumped into the front seat. He and Tammy hugged, sniffling over each other’s shoulders. 

Strangers acting strangely, thought Stan, feeling her hand against his lower back, enjoying her surprisingly kind massage.

Just two more gentle tugs and I’ll have his wallet, thought Tammy. But then she stopped herself from giving in to her compulsion. She needed more money, yes, but her driving job was too important to risk getting fired. And Stan seemed like a decent guy who didn’t deserve to be an unwitting donor to her medical fund. Even if he is kind of an emo freak, she thought. She sniffed loudly, patting his shoulder blades, and pulled herself out of his embrace, noticing the mascara streaks she had left on his shirt.

He remained in the front seat, and they resumed driving, in total silence, to his destination. “Should I pull into the driveway?” she asked softly.

“Sure, that works,” mumbled Stan. “Um, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Tammy shifted the car into Park. “Well, that depends… About what?” She stared at the windshield, avoiding his gaze.

“Uh, about why you were crying and, um, why we...why we hugged like that?" Stan raised his eyebrows hopefully as she looked at him. 

Tammy emitted a bitter sniff. “Because life sucks, that's why. How about you?”

“Same.” He forced a grimace-like smile.

“You gonna be okay, Stan?”

“I think so. The hug helped.”

Tammy sighed, mentally patting herself on the back for resisting the urge to rob him. “I’m glad. Take care of yourself, dude.” She watched his stained shoulder as he opened the car door and stepped out.

“Yeah, you, too. Thanks for the ride.”

After he left the car, Stan concluded the ride on his Uber app, but not before giving her a five-star rating and impulsively adding a hundred-dollar tip. Acts of random kindness deserve rewards, he thought. He felt better already.

Monday, February 3, 2020

Poem Born of Empathy for the Bryant Family's Tragedy

I've been meaning to post this poem, which I wrote on the tragic day that Kobe Bryant and his daughter Gianna left Earth together, along with their friends. As a parent, not even a basketball fan, this tragic news evoked my tears of empathy and words of compassion for the grieving families. Here are those words, as usual, in a poem:


Arrivals and Departures
(On the passing of Kobe And Gianna Bryant) 
By Susan L. Lipson

They arrived separately, 
almost three decades apart,
to begin their intersecting journeys,
to celebrate living. 

They became celebrated themselves,
as they toured their destinations,
separately and together,
making memories and sharing dreams.

They departed together, 
when Life rerouted them
into a detour to the Divine,
disrupting flight patterns,
cancelling plans,
and leaving their loved ones waiting at the gates,

forlorn and incredulous.

Tuesday, January 14, 2020

A New Poem that Clarifies Why I Had Bladder Problems During First Grade



     I know that the title of this blog post sounds strange, but you'll understand it once you've read my newest poem about one of my oldest memories:


The Star’s Shadow
by Susan L. Lipson


I stared upward at the gold, foil star
stuck proudly below my bitten fingernails,
to the right of my one wrinkled thumb,
and now held aloft in my first-grade teacher’s    
tight grip.

“Look at this! This is yesterday’s star for spelling!” she announced.
Everyone looked at my treasured sign of specialness.
Except me.
I looked at the teacher’s downturned lips and her wrinkled nose. 
My skinny arm trembled in her grasp.


She clucked her tongue and asked, for everyone to hear:
“Why did you leave it on your hand? Don’t you wash every day?”
Everyone looked at our teacher’s grimace.
Except me.
I looked down at my desk, where a big teardrop had just plopped
onto the math quiz she had just delivered,
marked with a few red x’s, and no smiley face.

had washed my hand.
But I had washed around the star.

“Children,” she asked with scary sweetness, still gripping my wrist,
“remember our lesson on the importance of cleanliness?”
Everyone nodded.
Except me.
I was clenching my teeth, trying not to blink,
so that tears wouldn’t spill.

My teacher clucked her tongue again,
dropped my hand, and strutted off to the next desk,
to deliver the next graded math paper.

Hiding my right hand under my desk,
I pinched off the star,
folded it into itself,
hid it in my pocket,
and then tried to rub off
its grayish, adhesive outline.
I wanted to go wash off the star’s shadow in the girls’ bathroom.
But I was too afraid to raise my hand to ask permission.



Have you ever dug into your past as I have in this poem, to examine the profundity of relatively mundane moments that influenced your evolution? Try walking in your smallest shoes again so you can see your little child self with new empathy.

Friday, December 13, 2019

New Poem Birthed at Breakfast

       
          At breakfast with two artistic friends this morning, we discussed the importance of encounters, either unplanned or planned (like ours), in nurturing creativity. Artists create works for the purpose of catharsis or connection, and too much alone time can lead to blocked artistic flow. Our meandering discussion touched the topic of worrying, and the notion stayed with me for the next few hours, finally crystallizing into the new poem below. I don't usually post a first draft, but I am doing so today to convey how connections can catalyze creativity and compel communication (not to mention excessive use of alliteration). So, here's the poem that enables me to justify a fun morning off with extraordinary friends. I hope you'll let me know if it moves you. And if you do connect with my words and wish to read some more polished poems, check out my newest published book, Disillusions of Grandeur--and Other Eye-Openers (click title for more info).


Worry Walls
by Susan L. Lipson

                       

Worrying is a symptom 
of our sick need for control—
control over all that occurs outside of our own actions.

Worrying has no power to change circumstances, events, or others’ decisions; 
no power to heal, show support, or remove pain; 
no power to maintain a dependence upon our input. 

Worrying disempowers us,
erecting walls around our crumbling castles of control,
blocking our view of the reality beyond our courtyards. 

If we summon the strength 
to climb over those Worry Walls, 
pausing on top to regain balance, 
we can see what IS,
not what “should” or “could” be,
and if we the summon the faith
to take a leap into the reality,
causing the walls to collapse behind us,
we can leave our castles to erode into dust,
and land on our feet--
shaking, perhaps--
but ready to walk forward.




Thursday, October 17, 2019

Have You Seen My New Book Yet? Poetry for Adults and Young Adults!


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So excited to share my news:

New poetry collection about sometimes ironic, and always eye-opening realizations...
[Please click on the words above to shop for this book online! It costs only 9.99 and is guaranteed to compel you to either read one aloud, or smile or chuckle, or raise your eyebrows at least three times!]

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Tuesday, March 26, 2019

WANTING (a new poem to be read aloud after a deep inhalation)


                        
Wanting 
                                            by S. L. Lipson                                



     I am sick of mediocrity
     and superficiality 
     and damn conditionality 
        rewarded by society,
        more so than humble piety
        or dignified sobriety,
     or earnest dedication,
     while valuable education
     is devalued in this nation,
        and money is equated
        with all that’s highly rated 
        by teachers who have stated
     that they define what’s best
     with mere numbers on a test,
     scores higher than the rest,
        as if that is a measure 
        of what we all should treasure
        over intangible pleasure—
     like laughter shared with friends,
     warm hugs that make amends, 
     mere awareness that transcends
        the tangible into gratitude,
        becoming a blessed attitude;
        and this is no mere platitude!
            It’s a call to all to reassess
            the key to peace and happiness:
            to value more while wanting less.

Monday, March 4, 2019

How Novels, Like News Stories, Grab Readers with the 5 W’s



            In revising the opening pages of my current YA manuscript, I reminded myself that the strongest first pages of novels should provide the same information found in a compelling TV or movie preview: a glimpse of an intriguing character (or two) with an implied back story, an interesting setting, and a vividly engaging point-of-view. Similarly, the first page of a novel, like the lead of a news story, should give the reader a sense of the Who, What, When, Where, and Why, with the promise that the story will unfold the How. But the “lead” of a novel should never turn into an information dump. The W’s should reveal themselves through implication. When authors resort to info-dump openings, they probably believe that readers require copious details for a clear understanding of the world they are entering, even though, ironically, the superfluous details actually muddy the readers’ perceptions. Authors who want to establish strong relationships with new readers should expect those readers to have the intelligence to discern the W’s within subtly and concisely crafted openings. Info dumps are, in a sense, condescending to readers.

            The following story openings, from some novels I’ve recently enjoyed, clarify the way carefully chosen details can reveal—or artfully conceal—enough W’s to keep us reading:  
                  
(Links to buy each book listed below are available by clicking on the highlighted titles.)


        Dear Martin, by Nic Stone, begins: 
            “From where he’s standing across the street, Justyce can see her: Melo Taylor, ex-girlfriend, slumped over beside her Benz on the damp concrete of the FarmFresh parking lot. She’s missing a shoe, and the contents of her purse are scattered around her like the guts of a pulled party popper. He knows she’s drunk, but this is too much, even for her.
            “Just shakes his head, remembering the judgment all over his best friend Manny’s face as he left Manny’s house not fifteen minutes ago.”

WHO: Justyce, a young man (“he” indicates his gender, and the fact that he has an ex-girlfriend who can drive and has been drinking, suggests that he is not a kid). Melo, a possibly rich young woman (“Benz” suggests an expensive Mercedes Benz car) who is a reckless partier (given her drunken state) and still matters in some way to her ex, Justyce (“…this is too much, even for her. Just shakes his head…”).

WHAT:  Justyce seems to be contemplating a rescue of his ex-girlfriend, risking the disapproval of his best friend, Manny, whom we readers will surely meet since he’s important enough to mention in the opening.

WHEN: Contemporary time, due to modern diction, and references to a current car and store name. We can also guess that this scene takes place just after a rain (“damp concrete”).

WHERE: Urban or suburban neighborhood, suggested by a parking lot and a grocery store, and a neighborhood (where Manny lives) within a 15-minute drive.

WHY: Justyce is witnessing a dangerous situation—his ex-girlfriend might drive drunk—and that seems to compel him to play hero now.



            The Love & Lies of Rukhsana Ali, by Sabina Khan, opens:
            “No parties, no shorts, no boys. These were my parents’ three cardinal rules. But what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, right? I quickly changed out of my NASA pajamas and into my favorite black crop top and dark blue vintage jeans, liking the way they accentuated my curves. According to my Mom no one needed to know that I had boobs, much less a belly button, except for me, Allah, and my future husband. Of course, the whole “no boys” rule was a moot point in my case, but fortunately my parents didn’t know about Ariana.”

WHO: A teenage girl named Rukhsana Ali (the title reveals her name, and her gender is revealed by the fact that she has “curves” and “boobs.” She is either into space exploration or astronomy or physics, or she is close to someone who has such interests, since she wears NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration) pajamas. She likes to show off her body—more than her strict, conservative parents do! She is likely Muslim, given the reference to “Allah.” And she is possibly a lesbian, unbeknownst to her parents, given her line: “the whole ‘no boys’ rule was a moot point in my case, but fortunately my parents didn’t know about Ariana.” We can infer from the word “fortunately” that the narrator believes that her parents would disapprove of her being gay.

WHAT: Rukhsana is a rule-breaker, about to sneak out of her house, possibly to a party where she will meet up with Ariana. This seems to be a story about a girl trying to be herself within the confines of a rigid home, where she is expected to marry a man and dress modestly.

WHEN: Modern times, given the narrator’s diction, her unflinching candor about being into girls, and the clothing style references. 

WHERE: A family home, with enough luxury that she can have a “favorite” top (so, in other words, not poor), and in a neighborhood (because parties are an option).

WHY: Rukhsana resorts to rule-breaking out of fear or respect for her parents and her Muslim background, and she rationalizes that she is deceiving them to keep from hurting them (“But what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, right?”). She mentions “my future husband” because she knows her Mom’s expectation, and Rukhsana is acknowledging that she will have to break that rule along with the three much simpler ones that she lists in the first line. 


            Leah on the Offbeat, by Becky Albertalli, starts:
            “I don’t mean to be dramatic, but God save me from Morgan picking our set list. That girl is a suburban dad’s midlife crisis in a high school senior’s body.
            Case in point: she’s kneeling on the floor, using the keyboard stool as a desk, and every title on her list is a mediocre classic rock song. I’m a very tolerant person, but as an American, a musician, and a self-respecting human being, it is both my duty and my privilege to blanket veto that shit.”

WHO:A teenage musician, probably Leah, of the title, who ironically calls attention to her tendency to be dramatic by saying “I don’t mean to be dramatic….” She does not refer to herself as a “girl,” only as a “self-respecting human being,” but she does identify Morgan as “that girl…a suburban dad’s midlife crisis,” thereby acknowledging that Morgan is a “hot girl,” while revealing herself to be amusingly sarcastic and judgmental (even though she calls herself, ironically again, “tolerant”). She is not a “girly girl,” so to speak, and she uses coarse language, letting the reader know that she is not someone who censors herself. She also has very strong musical preferences and disdain for her band mate Morgan’s taste (we can infer that Morgan is a band mate because the narrator mentions “our set list”).

WHAT: The narrator is asserting her control over the musical choices and possibly starting a power struggle with Morgan, for whom she expresses disdain, but the reader may read between the lines to guess that Leah is jealous of her band mate.

WHEN: Today’s American suburban world, given the casual diction and the coarse language (“blanket veto that shit”).

 WHERE:The setting seems to be an American suburb, due to the reference to students as “seniors” (an American term for the final year of high school), and the word “suburban.” We can also surmise that the band mates are in some form of music practice room, because of the presence of a “keyboard stool.”

WHY: The conflict between the musicians is based not only on differences in musical taste, but possibly on an unstated jealousy between them.


            On the Come Up, by Angie Thomas, begins:
            “I might have to kill somebody tonight. 
            It could be somebody I know. It could be a stranger. It could be somebody who’s never battled before. It could be somebody who’s a pro at it. It doesn’t matter how many punch lines they spit or how nice their flow is. I’ll have to kill them….”
            
WHO: A narrator of any possible age or gender, who at first seems to suggest the possibility of homicide, but then reveals that the narrator is about to engage in a battle of words, possibly a rap battle (“how many punch lines they spit or how nice their flow is”). The narrator, we can assume, is not a “pro” because the narrator implies feeling intimidated by “somebody who’s a pro at it.” The narrator is someone very determined to win (“I’ll have to kill them”). 

WHAT: A verbal war is about to ensue, “tonight,” with unknown competitors.

WHEN: Contemporary time period, based on language (the casual use of “kill” to mean “defeat”). 

WHERE: No setting established yet, only a future setting is implied: possibly a club where a rap battle will take place.

WHY: The reader doesn’t know why the narrator is so determined to win, but the reiteration of the desire to “kill” compels us with the passion behind that repeated hyperbole.


has two openings, in essence, because the story has two narrators. So I will look at both Chapter One and Chapter Two as individual openings within the same novel.

            Chapter One: Adina
            “I used to think his touches meant nothing. We brushed arms in the hallway of his apartment, and I let myself believe the space was simply too narrow. Our hands tangled and I figured it was because we reached to turn the sheet music at the same time.”

WHO: Adina (probably female, given her name) is a musician (because she refers to turning “sheet music”), age unclear. She seems to suspect that the male musician, with whom she plays music, is intentionally touching her. We can’t be sure from this first paragraph whether she likes or dislikes the idea of physical contact with this man or boy. 

WHAT: Adina has been playing music with this male musician for a while (“I used to think…”), and she plays with him at his apartment.

WHEN: Not clear, could be almost any time period.

WHERE: Probably the USA or Canada, because of the reference to an “apartment,” rather than a “flat,” as such a home would be called in other English-speaking countries.

WHY: Adina is concerned because her relationship to the other musician seems about to change dramatically.

            Chapter Two: Tovah
            “I used to think being a twin meant I’d never be the center of attention. That I’d always share the spotlight with my sister or fight for control of it. For a long time, I didn’t mind sharing. I hid behind Adina while others praised her for her music, her poise, her looks.” 

WHO: Tovah, a twin who feels less important or worthy than her sister (“I hid behind Adina”), and is tired of that feeling (“For a long time, I didn’t mind sharing” implies that NOW she does mind). Tovah immediately mentions Adina in her introductory words to the reader, whereas Adina only mentions herself in the previous chapter’s opening. That says a lot about their respective feelings about each other. The fact that her tone sounds bitter in her reference to Adina’s “poise” and “looks,” suggests that they either are not identical twins and look different, or they are identical but insecure Tovah doesn’t see herself in Adina. 

WHAT:  Tovah expresses her jealousy (“others praised her for…”) and implies that she is about to step out of Adina’s shadow and assert herself. 

WHEN: Unclear time period.

WHERE: No setting, only a voice so far.

WHY: Tovah is fed up and feels the injustice of being ignored.


            The Power, by Naomi Alderman, opens with a literary conceit, a device that purposely plays with the reader. 
Alderman writes her book as if she is its editor, not its author--as a novel being presented to her for editorial feedback by a fictional person, “Neil Adam Armon,” which is an anagram of the real author’s name. The opening features a letter that accompanies the fictional manuscript.



                                                                        The Men Writers Association
                                                                        New Bevand Square
                                                                        27thOctober
            
            Dear Naomi,

                        I’ve finished the bloody book. I’m sending it to you, with all its fragments and drawings, in the hope that you’ll give me some guidance or at least that I’ll finally hear the echo of it as I drop the pebble of this book down the well.
                        You’ll ask me first of all what it is. “Not another dry volume of history” was what I promised. Four books in I realize that no general reader can be bothered to wade through endless mounds of evidence, no one cares about the technicalities of dating finds and strata comparison. I’ve seen audiences’ eyes go blank as I try to explain my research. So what I’ve done here is a sort of hybrid piece, something that I hope will appeal more to ordinary people. Not quite history, not quite a novel….

WHO: A possibly British author-historian, suggested by the use of the word “bloody” and the style in which the date is written (we don’t learn his name until the end of the verbose letter). The writer is a man, clearly, representing “The Men Writers Association,” something that suggests a world outside of the USA, because writers are not separated by gender here, only by genre. His writing style is wordy and he even uses a run-on sentence in the letter, which suggests that he does indeed need the editorial assistance that he asks Naomi for in the opening line. Readers can also see that he is self-aware about how esoteric his research is because he acknowledges his awareness that “audiences’ eyes go blank as I try to explain my research.” 

WHAT: The researcher-historian is submitting his book to Naomi for guidance, after four revisions, with the hope of finally educating “ordinary people.” This isn’t the most compelling plot hook, but the hook lies more in the literary device that portrays Naomi Alderman as an editorial consultant for a fictional author’s nonfiction work, which she will share with us readers. The purposeful confusion of the reader keeps us reading to find out why the author chose this stylistic path.

WHEN: No time period is defined, and the diction only indicates a British style. Also, the fictional author-character seems to be sending with his letter to Naomi a hard copy of his manuscript (“with all its fragments and drawings”), rather than an electronic copy with scanned images, so these details do not define a particular time period. 

WHERE: He appears to be writing from an office.

WHY: The fictional author aims to educate as many people as possible with his research findings. 

             (The Power gets much more interesting--becoming a dystopian world masquerading as a factual account of a world overtaken by female power--as we start reading what the fictional Neil has deemed “not quite history, not quite a novel.” )

            
                        Deconstructing the opening lines of those five novels in terms of the typical journalistic “lead” illustrates that compelling fiction, like nonfiction, requires informing the readers, early on, of certain basic story elements. Rather than clearly “telling” these elements to readers, as journalists must do, fiction authors subtly SHOW the Who, What, When, Where, Why as a kind of preview of the story to come. Thus, novelists lure readers to travel along on the story arc and find out How the story will unfold. Now I challenge you to take a closer look at a novel that you have recently read or are currently reading—even one that you may be writing!


###

Monday, October 29, 2018

"To be is to stand for."

            "To be is to stand for." --Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel

          Too many people have allowed themselves to be brainwashed by the misguided, clearly unsuccessful strategy for safe coexistence with “others:” the purely reactive approach of standing up to haters, standing with victims, and standing against injustice. We see protesters reacting to acts of hatred with defiant superiority (“standing up to haters”), and neighbors reacting with “misery-loves-company” sympathy (“standing with victims”) or self-righteous outrage after someone’s persecution (“standing against injustice”). But this reactive approach is like fire-fighting with individual fire extinguishers in the wake of troops of flying arsonists, while complaining about the reckless abandonment of so much combustible material along the arsonists’ paths. Perhaps it is high time we that implement a proactive approach to preventing conflagrations, to replace the reactive approach to hatred, by focusing on what we stand forour ideals, our morals—and modeling those ideals. 

          I read this morning that a long-time Republican party official publicly stood for his own beliefs by renouncing his membership in the Republican Party and joining the Democrats. Here is the first of a long tweet  thread from Steve Schmidt, the former campaign manager for John McCain:

29 years and nine months ago I registered to vote and became a member of The Republican Party which was founded in 1854 to oppose slavery and stand for the dignity of human life. Today I renounce my membership in the Republican Party. It is fully the party of Trump.


Notice he used the phrase "stand FOR"? This is what we need, more of this. We must all decided who we are, what we stand for. We must raise kids who know what they stand for. We must never forget what we stand for just to stand with others who misrepresent our values and use their power to control us, or just to stand against those who have opposed us in petty politics. Politics are not life. Life is bigger than petty power struggles. Leadership means standing FOR principles. I admire Steve Schmidt. 

Thursday, October 18, 2018

#WhyDoYouVote?



And I vote because of young people like these activists, who deserve a world that is safe, accepting of all people, and peaceful. My generation owes them passionate activism, not complacency in the face of the destruction of democratic ideals, of peaceful coexistence, and of our beautiful planet.

Please join me and vote for our future, and the future of their grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and so on.


Thursday, October 4, 2018

Sparked by Injustice, I Wrote This Poem...


Questions Raised by Belittled Testimony

By Susan L. Lipson


Why is it that men who’ve cried out
years after their abuse by priests
are considered brave heroes,
with suppressed memories—
PTSD, in fact—
when they step forward publicly,
painfully recounting memories to the best of their abilities;
supported by the outraged community
who condemns the defiling of innocence;
not interrogated by critics determined to cast doubts
on their very characters,
to victimize them again,
to mentally rape them
with slander;
while women who dare to cry out
about having been molested, harassed, abused, raped, 
and violated in their past youth
by power-seeking men who once were
boys, just being boys
(not “assailants” or “abusers” or “rapists”—just randy boys),
are not considered heroes, but rather:
“politically motivated pawns,” 
“confused and misguided neurotics,”
“vengeful liars or self-righteous exaggerators,” 
or even “attention-whores”?

Why is double jeopardy illegal,
But not double victimization?

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Ego and Entitlement: The Source of Social Ills


Do you ever stop to think about how EGO is the force behind all social dysfunction, aggression, and injustice? The attitude of entitlement--stemming from ego--leads to all forms of "supremacy" that make one person feel justified in dominating another. I saw evidence of egotistical entitlement in action today....
I was driving through a grocery store parking lot, and stopped to let a woman cross in front of me to get to her car. I waved her onward, and she smiled appreciatively and waved back--and our shared moment of respect between stranger-neighbors made me smile. Then another woman marched in front of my car, imperiously raising her hand at me with an expression that said, "You wait for ME now!" She flashed no smile, and gave me no nod or wave; she didn't even make eye contact with me. That display of entitlement sickened me. I shook my head and drove onward, passing by a shopping cart left in the middle of a space, just a few feet away from the cart corral. More entitlement...



Now that I'm sitting at my computer, I'm wondering whether I should have called out, "You're welcome!" But that would have been egotistical on my part, and passive-aggressive. Or, should I have called out, "Ma'am, no one owes you anything. You could at least smile at me for stopping"? Or, should I have simply come home and written about the experience here, hoping that someone reads these words and offers a smile of appreciation today for a stranger's simple act of kindness, to mitigate the ripple effects of entitled attitudes on society?