Saturday, May 24, 2008

the unique status -- straight people are special

While on the Ellen DeGeneres Show, Senator McCain told Ellen that he believed in "the unique status of marriage between a man and a woman." Not earth shattering news. The "unique status" (or a variant thereof) catch-phrase is repeated time and time again by those opposing same-sex marriage -- including Senators Obama and Clinton. Watch them. I love how they say it. They rarely make eye-contact. Instead they look down (or up) and to the side, pause, get a concerned, reverential, and benevolent expression on their face, and whisper -- firmly but with conviction -- I believe in the blah blah blah. It's as if the Holy Spirit itself swooped down, engulfed them and made the point. My God, how is an interviewer supposed to argue with the Holy Spirit?

It looks like this year, at least on this issue, we're left with no options. Gay people do not have the right to get married, at least not according to those running for president. Although the position is clear enough, I have yet to hear a fully developed "why?" in defense that does not dissolve into a God-centered religious, baby-making, child raising, home creating, world-ending, discussion. Note, I am neither anti-God, nor anti-baby. Interviewers apparently do not want to press the candidates too hard on the "why" lest they should be seeing as dueling with the Holy Spirit. Once the candidate says something like "this is what I believe," the interviewer folds. God has been invoked. The interviewer can't go further. And, we're are forced to swallow whatever religious dogma the candidate is vomiting.

I know, it sounds like I'm anti-religious dogma. Maybe. I don't know. It's not religion however, it's how it's being played. It's politics. And, politicians. After much time spent in Washington, D.C., I am decidedly anti-Politics ("p" capitalized on purpose --the type of politics that panders, that specializes in which way the wind is blowing -- wait, we should always capitalize Politics). And, anti-Politician (capitalized for obvious reasons). These same individuals who claim Gays demand special rights because they want to be treated like everybody else argue that heterosexuals have the right to a unique status by virtue of some moral authority. Doesn't unique sound an awful lot like special? Not to a politician. Who else but a politician can make an argument like that -- and get away with it?

Call them on it. Make them answer the "why?" Don't let them obfuscate the issue. Let them know they are not special.



Saturday, May 10, 2008

the open house

After almost seven years in this place, strangers will be walking through it tomorrow, judging every aspect, assessing whether or not they will want to make it their home. I am a wreck. I look around the place and I see our lives reflected in every corner. We bought the house after we were together for 6 years. We were in our early 30s, deliriously in love and ready to start the nesting process. Shortly thereafter, we got two dogs -- los ñinos, as we call them. We thought we would never move. We told the agent,"we love the neighborhood, we love this house, we can't imagine we'll ever leave."A new job in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico took care of that notion. And, although we do love the house, things at work (and in Washington, D.C.) have gotten to the point that leaving, at least for now, is really for the best.

Partner and I will be away with the dogs, hiding, for a few hours, while the real estate agent towers over the spectacle, perky as ever. "Yes, they've taken very good care of 'the property.' They've done some amazing things with the yard. Have you seen the Plum and Nectarine trees? What about the figs?" I remember planting each of those trees. I remember planting each bush in the front yard, each shrub, the crape myrtle, the spruce, the leather leaf. I remember each time we opened the earth to welcome a new resident. I remember doing it exactly as my father taught me all those years ago. It doesn't matter that the dementia may have taken the memories away from him. I remember.

"Make the hole bigger than the root ball. Make sure you loosen the roots before you put the plant in the ground. Throw some softener into the ground. Make sure to break any large roots from other plants that may be in the hole. Loosen the fill dirt. Throw fertilizer at the bottom of the hole. Lower the plant gently."

It was a mantra. The same words were spoken over and over again. I thought he thought I was stupid. After years of listening to the dribble, I began resenting the words. I resented him. We owned a Tropical Fruit Tree Nursery. I had put in more than one tree in my life. And, yet, he repeated the same words each time. I tuned them out. I had heard them since I was 12.

Seven years ago, we landscaped every inch of this place. I remember telling Partner, this yard looks like crap, my Father "will not approve." The process began.
We made the hole bigger than the root ball. We loosened the roots before we put the plant in the ground. We threw some softener into the ground. We made sure we broke any large roots from other plants that were in the hole. We loosened the fill dirt. We threw fertilizer at the bottom of the hole. We lowered the plant gently.
I guess I didn't tune everything out.

By the way, if you buy the house, please take care of the garden. Copies of my father's memories live there.

Plum Tree
Mercutio ©2008

Sunday, May 4, 2008

for mother's day (5/11/08)

I remember entering through the loading dock. Immediately on the right, was the break room -- nothing special, just some cafeteria-style tables with folding chairs. The walls were institutional light blue. There was a huge picture window that allowed people to peak into the warehouse while on break.

Further up on the right was the time clock. The room was cavernous.

I could hear the clanking of dozens machines. A slow steady rhythm filled the air. An alternating 25 count. Overlapping. Overlapping. Over and Over. White noise everywhere. Black screeching every-now-and-then. Steam in the air. Or was it humidity? Whatever it was -- you could drink it. The smell of electricity and sweat. Dirt. Mechanical humming. And heat. Big windows near the ceiling at the back wall. The sun poured in.

Spread out to the left were work stations.

My mom worked at this factory. Every night from 11:30 p.m to 7:30 a.m. she would take her place at her designated work station. The huge plastic rolls would be processed through the assembler, cut into bags and thrown into the hopper. Mom would take the bags from the hopper, staple them together (using a cardboard holder), and throw them in a box until the box was full. She would then manually seal the box and throw it down a conveyor belt. She would average about 20 boxes an hour. On her feet. Average temperature, 85 degrees. She started doing this when she was approximately 45 years old. She did it for 12 years. Why? So she could send me to private Catholic school. After 12 years, they fired her because she couldn't keep up with the younger workers. No pension, no party, no nothing. She did leave with varicose veins, an enlarged heart, deformed-arthritic hands, and a full head of white hair.

One year during the holidays, Mom took a catalog of Christmas cards to work with her and sold them to her coworkers on my behalf. [Think of it as an an early precursor to Sally Foster.] She sold over 200 orders. "It's for my kid," she'd say. "He's going to be a lawyer one day," she'd smile. "That one is smart." The women would chime not knowing me from Adam. But, they knew what to do. They bought cards, they bought candles, they bought all sorts of shit from each other. Why? Because they knew that if they all pitched in, their kids would get prizes; prizes they would not otherwise get. Those women knew that in that factory they were all the same -- women from Cuba, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Mexico, and yes, even Florida, -- all mothers working feverishly to keep their families fed, clothed and above the water. They worked hard. These were not the ladies who lunched. These were the ladies of the lunch wagon.

I picked a primitive electronic keyboard as my gift from the cards my Mom sold. I learned very quickly that I could mimic a song I had heard simply by pressing the right sequence on the elongated keypad. Although I can't play the piano, I can plunk out almost anything. A gift I treasure to this day.

Thanks Mom. Catholic school was good. College was good. Law School was great. But, perhaps unknowingly, you also gave me the gift of music. Who would have thought that a plastic bag factory could have led to that?