The US Opposes UN Breastfeeding Resolution!

Posted on 8 July 2018 by Carol

And now the US is officially opposed to breast feeding (at least for the rest of the world)!  We have already given up on addressing climate change, environmental protection, regulation of financial institutions, women’s reproductive rights, the rights of young children to remain with their parents, our commitment to gender, racial and other kinds of equity, public safety, world peace, and more.  But now the fact—and it is a fact—that breast feeding is totally demonstrably better for babies than bottle feeding does not come into play in the US decision to actively oppose a World Health Organization resolution in support of breast feeding.  The New York Times reported that

American officials sought to water down the resolution by removing language that called on governments to “protect, promote and support breast-feeding” and another passage that called on policymakers to restrict the promotion of food products that many experts say can have deleterious effects on young children.”

Breastfeeding is better for all babies, but it’s even more important in developing countries, where clean water (and thus a clean baby bottle) is hard to obtain.  We’ve had decades of evidence about the dangers of bottle feeding in the villages of the developing world.  Babies die being fed from bottles and nipples that have not been adequately cleaned.  Others, particularly in Asia, have genetic predispositions incompatible with cow’s milk.  Still others bottle feed without the knowledge to prepare formula correctly, and underfeed or over-feed their babies.  Support for breastfeeding is quite simply a no-brainer!  No one in his (and it’s mainly men making these decisions) right mind would oppose such an initiative.  Our leaders are clearly not in their right minds.

Not only is the Trump Administration opposing the initiative, they are threatening countries like Ecuador, if they support it, with drastic trade sanctions and withdrawal of military aid considered crucial.  Ecuador buckled—as did a host of other African and Latin American countries who feared US retaliation.  US behaviour was described as simple blackmail.  Although ultimately Russia introduced this resolution, the US tellingly did not threaten that country.

Although I have been horrified by many of the Trump Administration’s policies and goals, this one really takes the cake:  a direct attack on the babies of the world to support American baby formula businesses.  Just how low can one possibly go!?

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“It Takes a Village”

Posted on 8 July 2018 by Carol

That phrase, “It takes a village” usually refers to the value of having a cohesive and extended group to raise children in a benign fashion.  However, of late, I have been realizing that this is equally true of the task of taking care of the elderly.  My own 94 year old mother lives in a city thousands of miles away from me.  Yet I feel strongly my responsibility to care for her.   I am fortunate in that I am healthy enough and can afford to travel several times a year and spend up to a month with her at a time, helping her deal with the trivial and not-so-trivial needs of life.  Additionally, my brother, who lives somewhat closer, though still a plane ride away, can also come for shorter periods several times a year.  And there are my cousins who live in cities closer still and occasionally stop by to visit or take her somewhere.

But even with these advantages, as time goes by, and her memory becomes less and less reliable, we find challenges that only someone on-the-spot can deal with.  Today, I got a text from one of the many people contributing to her well-being.  Tara, a woman in her 50s, had come by to visit.  My mother was struggling with her fear that she would run out of one of her medications before the end of her upcoming visit to see me; Tara became involved in trying to solve this problem, texting me with questions about pharmacies in my area.  In fact, I had taken the extra medication with me (at my mother’s request) to increase the space in her luggage.  But Mother had forgotten; and I had not thought to write it down for her on the packing list I’d prepared for her.  Last week Fritz, whom we refer to as ‘the man in the basement’ because of Mother’s growing inability to remember people’s names, called me with the same concern about a different medication that was likewise safely already here.  She’d also forgotten that one.

Fritz initially rented an already over-stuffed basement apartment at my mother’s house, with the loose understanding that he would visit with her from time to time—to alleviate her loneliness and respond to her very outgoing personality, which craves companionship.  Last spring, we had found a student, Zizi, to live in one of the bedrooms upstairs, with a similar, more explicit idea of providing Mom with some companionship.  But that had not turned out entirely satisfactorily.  Zizi was very busy with her schoolwork; and had a very introverted personality.  Although as a nutrition student, she was able and willing to stock the fridge with nutritious foods ready to eat—another rather vital service—she was not able to address Mom’s need for interaction. 

So when Fritz came searching for housing a few months back (via a neighbourhood internet group), Mom decided—with agreement from my brother and me—to try having a second co-resident.  Fritz is quite outgoing and personable; and so far, they are getting along famously.  Recently Fritz had some unexpected financial obligations, and Mom offered to give him free rent in exchange for more active involvement in her care.  As a novelist, he is interested in experiencing strange new relationships, and has expressed his willingness and interest in performing this part time caretaking role.  We are realizing that ensuring that she remember her medications (many pills, some heart-related, as well as three kinds of breathing aids) must be part of this role.  We will see in time how it evolves.   A former Japanese exchange student who has been part of our lives for decades has resurfaced, and is also providing some help.

Meanwhile another recurrent need that my mother has and that I cannot fulfill from afar is for transportation.  She had for years been able independently and spontaneously to go wherever she wanted in her own car—an ability she used daily.  Three years ago, her deteriorating eyesight (she sees double) required her to quit driving—a decision thankfully she made for herself.  The adjustment was terribly difficult as the alternatives to independent driving all require considerable advance planning (not her forte).  Over these three years, she has found three sources of free or very inexpensive transport:  the metropolitan area’s public van for the handicapped; a volunteer group called ‘RideConnect’; and participation in River West, a volunteer group connected to the national Village to Village movement (which tries to help the elderly stay in their own homes).  She has also become much better at planning ahead.  But remembering what she has already arranged is not easy for her.  Indeed, given her memory troubles, she has done remarkably well, with the aid of a calendar she consults regularly.  How long she will be able to manage this complex task remains in doubt.

Fran, a neighbour and friend, usually takes her to church, and she has two other people she can call on, when Fran is out of town.   Fritz has been free every Monday,  and has been able regularly to take her to one of her three arthritis swim classes; the other two, she has to arrange every week.  Physician visits are frequent, as are monthly or biweekly social gatherings. There are a number of women she knows who can occasionally be counted on for a ride or a visit. Her congeniality and good humour make this option more available than it would be for many elderly folks.  She has had to learn to be more explicit about her needs than she ever was before she began to lose these various abilities (remembering, driving, walking without help).  And the rest of us have had to learn to ‘go with the flow’.  The aging process is not a straight, linear process; it’s one of fits and starts, forward motion and backtracking, so that one never really knows what one will confront.

A few years back, I was sure that her mind was completely going.  She would repeat herself routinely, forget everything, and get terribly confused.  Her whole personality seemed to be changing to one that was quite self-centered (very unlike her usual self).  At the time, I felt a sense of real grief, of loss; I felt that my mother was no longer with us.  In August 2016 though, she was in a terrible automobile crash, breaking 8 ribs, and covered with bruises and abrasions.  Although this experience was painful, it seemed to jar her brain back into better functionality; and she has been much more alert and active in her own care ever since; her social skills have returned, by and large.  On a day to day basis, also, there is variability.  One never knows just what sort of competence one can expect from her.

These emotional and cognitive changes are exacerbated by the physical changes that beset her.  Her vision can be partially corrected with glasses, one for distance, one for reading.  Her hearing can also be enhanced, but not truly corrected, by hearing aids.  Glasses and hearing aids disappear regularly, a problem exacerbated by her memory loss.  Her ability to walk is severely constrained, as she has drop foot (meaning that one foot is rather uncontrollable).  She resists the repeated urgings by professionals to use a walker all the time.  Her house is crowded with things and furniture, so there is only a limited space she can maneuver with a bulky walker.  Such physical ailments (and more) mean regular visits to medical professionals of various sorts, all of which require further transport.

The Village to Village movement, mentioned above, is an encouraging development.  In Portland, Oregon, where she lives, there are several, related, geographically focused organizations.  Hers, River West, is new, a little over a year old; and requires a membership fee of around $400/year (something she can afford, but many could not).  We have a similar organization, Love Living at Home, here in Ithaca, New York, which I joined as well (similarly fee-based and new).  These are networks of elderly individuals willing to help each other and draw on the skills of the group as needed.  Each organization has a part time coordinator, who works with the help of the members, to link those in need with those who can fulfill the need.  They offer transport, help with simple household tasks, small repairs, comfort and companionship, all subject to volunteer availability; and they organize some social, educational, and entertainment events.  These organizations represent an encouraging trend, though the cost ensures that they are primarily a middle class solution—largely unavailable to the many elderly in financial need.

More and more of us will find ourselves  unable to do the normal tasks of daily life, as our bodies and minds betray us.  And similarly, we are likely to find  ourselves living at some distance from those we love, whether potential caretaker or recipient of such care.  Moving the elderly from their homes is traumatic and often resisted; and research shows that many die quickly after such moves.  I took my mother to some adult daycare facilities, as one option we considered.  She was not impressed.  Assisted living is expensive, as is hiring caretakers. As an aging and mobile society, we will have to develop ever-more creative solutions to the problems exemplified here.  My mother’s situation, difficult as it is, is infinitely easier than is life for those with worse health problems, less money, fewer social resources, and/or a less appealing and resilient personality.  Those of us taking care now must think seriously about solutions, as we too shall soon need such care ourselves.

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‘These Doors Stay Open!’

Posted on 3 June 2018 by Carol

My experience of the Trump administration has been one of constant attack on progressive movements I hold dear.  Each day, there are new laws, regulations, broadsides, tweets, aimed at reducing diversity, de-regulating financial institutions, alienating international partners, spreading hate and violence.  But yesterday I saw a small indication that all is not really lost.

I’d signed up a few weeks back to join another ‘Women’s March’ in Ithaca, this one in support of Planned Parenthood.  The 2017 Women’s March, the day after Trump’s Inauguration in January, had been my first participation in such a public demonstration of solidarity; and it had been revitalizing, renewing my hopes for humanity and my own country.  It followed an autumn of political despair.  And the year and a half since has been marked by discouragement over the directions the political world (globally) has been taking.

Just before heading off to join the march last night, all dressed in pink as requested by the organizers, I learned that in fact this march was to be part of the Ithaca Festival parade!  I’d never been in a parade before and wasn’t entirely sure it sounded like such a great idea.  But…I decided I’d signed up and I’d go.  On a whim, I called my cousin Nancy, ever politically active, to see if she wanted to come too.  She did, and we headed off downtown to the appointed meeting place, getting there some 15 minutes early. 

Then we waited…and waited….and waited.  Standing around on Jay Street in the rain (me, with my pink umbrella decorated with a giant dahlia motif), we noted the variety of ages of would-be participants.  There were women like us, in their 70s, middle aged women, and the young, many with crazily painted faces.  Two young girls were dressed in the crinolines that Nancy and I remembered wearing as teenagers (in our cases, under our skirts rather than as skirts).  Some had capes, others had hair of pink and blue.  Children joined us; and men—sporting pink sashes, hats, or buttons.  Groups were assembling in the streets (blocked off from cars), bands were practicing, a capoeira group was playing music with tall, stick-string-and-gourd instruments behind us, YMCA marchers, dressed in yellow, were cavorting in the street. Planned Parenthood volunteers passed out signs to supplement those brought by participants and sign-up sheets for future information campaigns and funding drives.

Eventually the groups on the cross street Cayuga, began slowly to move—At last!  We made the turn onto the parade path, with four young girls leading the way, holding the giant banner proclaiming Planned Parenthood, which stretched across the street before us.  Nancy and I held up our signs for all to see. Thankfully the rain had subsided to a mere trickle, so we didn’t need to juggle the umbrellas and the signs.  As we moved along the road, two young women began circulating among us leading us in slogans.  We shouted in unison, “No Gag Rule”—referring to Trump’s current attempt to prevent medical doctors from advising American women about abortion options.  This gag rule was in effect internationally under President Bush, was set aside under Obama, and returned under Trump.  Now Trump wants to apply it within the US.  We sang out “Hey hey, ho ho, the gag rule’s gotta go!” in rhythms reminiscent of cheers at high school football games.  Halfway along the parade route, Nancy’s daughter joined, with her two daughters (one asleep on her shoulder, the other in hand)—three generations of women walking together in support of this cause.

We also shouted “These doors stay open.”  This simple, direct chant brought tears to my eyes, symbolizing as it did the conviction and strength we all felt.  The sustained Trump and Tea Party attacks on Planned Parenthood were not going to succeed.  There were women (and men) who knew how vital Planned Parenthood services were—cancer screening, well baby clinics, pregnancy checkups, as well as birth control and, yes, abortion—for those who couldn’t afford to pay (an ever-growing proportion of the population).  We would keep the doors open no matter what the administration threw at the organization.  Planned Parenthood served too many women with services that were too central to their wellbeing for these women (and their mothers and grandmothers) to give up this fight.  The grandmothers among us still remember a time when abortion was illegal in the US.  Women, desperate to avoid having a child (for a variety of reasons), resorted to back alley abortions performed with coat hangers and knitting needles by untrained practitioners in unhygienic settings.  Many died.  We weren’t going back.

As we walked along chanting these slogans at the top of our lungs, we were greeted by the people lining the streets.  Some clapped, some yelled support, some pumped their fist in the air, some waved.  The outpouring of approval, agreement, support, conviction was overwhelming.  I did not see a single negative response from the crowds—composed of old and young, men and women, Americans and foreigners, students and shop attendants.  Ithaca’s population was represented there.  I had known that many supported Planned Parenthood, but the unanimity of approval that greeted us was a lovely surprise.  The reminder that my own antagonism to the Trump Administration’s attacks on this organization was shared so widely gave me hope—something a little hard to come by under this Administration.  It gave us all hope and renewed conviction to persevere.

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A walk in the Woods

Posted on 31 May 2018 by Carol

At first, I was just responding to my ‘duty’.  I’d been told to take a walk every day to reduce the likelihood of more trouble with my right hip; it had been paining me at night.  So, I’d put on my walking shoes.  Having seen some nice flowers in the woods near my house on previous walks, I decided to bring my camera, but….what to put it in?  I had no pockets; an American backpack seemed like overkill.  I was cogitating about this when I chanced by a door on which were festooned a variety of Kenyah Dayak artefacts, including some small basket backpacks (banyat) made of hand woven rattan strips.  Ah-hah!  Exactly the thing.  The first one, covered in beadwork, had shoulder straps too short and was a bit heavy anyway.  So I retrieved a more normal, everyday one—black and tan in color with geometric designs.  The Kenyah use these little banyats to carry their betelnut paraphernalia, among other things.

I strapped it on, and as I made my way along the road toward the protected woods where I intended to walk, my mind and being turned to an earlier time.  The light weight of the nearly empty banyat turned back the clock.  The closer I got to the woods, the more I felt as though I headed toward a Kalimantan forest.  I passed over a wooden walkway onto a simple forest path, full of mud and somewhat overgrown with plants bending in from each side.  Despite the temperate flora, as I walked along the muddy path, I was transported back to Borneo, to the many times I had walked single file with people who would eventually become my relatives, on our way to the family’s rice field.  As before, I danced around the edges of the path to avoid puddles and mud.

Eventually I came out of the flat land, and reached a cool, clear stream. A very nice bridge, a meter wide and flat, crossed the stream.  In Kalimantan, the ‘bridge’ would have been a log, perhaps 30 cm in diameter.  As I made my way up the steep opposite bank of the stream, I again remembered the need for good balance.  Steps had not been built, but there were boards placed vertically a reasonable pace apart to simulate steps; In Kalimantan, small logs would have performed the same function.  As I neared the top of the bank, I looked down on a slender tree that had fallen across the river—it would have made a perfect Kenyah ‘bridge’! 

At the top of the bank, the main path through the woods began.  I remembered the cool beneath the trees, and experienced that here as well.  Each time I’ve taken this walk in Etna, New York, the plants have changed.  Last time, there were many small yellow flowers along the path; this time, there were taller pink and purple ones.  There were pine cones in various shapes littering the forest floor, and needles that snapped under my feet.  The forest floor was cleaner than in Kalimantan.  But in both places, I looked with suspicion at the plants brushing my legs:  here I worried about ticks; there, leaches.  I heard an animal crashing through the brush, and wondered if it might be a black bear, though a deer was more likely.  There, I would have wondered about a Malaysian sun bear or a wild pig—but there, I would not have been alone.  Others would have been with me, wielding bush knives to clear the path.  Forays into the woods alone were severely frowned on by the Kenyah.  I was chastised whenever I attempted it.  Too many things could go wrong.

Carrying on through the woods, I circled round to another part of the bank I’d climbed.  A swamp full of wild yellow irises greeted my eyes.  I tried to remember what flowers I’d seen in Borneo’s forests.  Surely there were flowers, but I only remember them around houses in the village, not in the forest.  When I lived there though, I was even more botanically ignorant than I am now.  One of my more experienced colleagues was appalled in 1979, that I couldn’t tell cassava from papaya, banana from pineapple.  Now, after years in the tropics, I know more tropical plants than temperate ones (though I remain botanically challenged).

As I came full circle and descended the sloping pseudo-steps, I remembered again the excellent balance needed for life in Borneo.  People my age were unlikely to venture out; balance deteriorates with age. I could imagine the change in the weight of my banyat, as it would now have been full of foods for supper or wood for the fire.  And again I could imagine us all moving along single file, tired, sweaty, hot, ready for our cool, early evening dip in the river.

But the trail ended and I came out onto the American highway I had to traverse to get back home.  Although cooler than Borneo, it was still a hot day.  As I maneuvered along the street, trying to stay in the shade, I remembered the words of the above-mentioned colleague quoting a song:  ‘only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun’.  Home again, my walk dutifully performed, I felt blessed to have relived a fascinating part of my life.

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The Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) and Feminism

Posted on 8 August 2017 by Carol

I was just visiting friends in Syracuse, New York, not anticipating any mind-blowing new understandings, just expecting to enjoy friends I’d not seen for a long time.  My host, William, had arranged a visit to the Skanonh Great Law of Peace Center, situated on Onondaga Lake.  Onondaga Lake had at one time been the most polluted lake in the US; but efforts have been underway to clean it up, and it looks lovely from its shoreline.  The Center is tucked away behind a parking lot and some trees, a bit difficult to find.

We were met by a man who’d spent decades working with the Haudenosaunee (the Iroquois) to strengthen their voice, protect their treaty rights, and inform the public about them:  Jack Manno.  He took us through the Center, adding to the information available on well done videos of Native Americans from the region explaining philosophical, religious, and day-to-day features of their lives.  The five groups that made up what was then called ‘the Iroquois Nation’ included the Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, and Seneca—all names very familiar in this part of the US.  The Center also displayed the usual material artefacts.

I had learned small tidbits of information about these groups in school:  The Mohawk are famous for their lack of fear of heights, having been instrumental in the building of skyscrapers in New York City.  Iroquois women were reputed to be vicious in warfare, delighting in torturing their victims. The Iroquois lived in longhouses and wigwams, made and used canoes, hunted and grew corn, beans, and squash.  But that’s about all I knew—-despite the fact that I now live a stone’s throw from Cayuga Lake and easy driving distance from Onondaga and Oneida Lakes.

The Center showed me many facts about the Haudenosaunee way of life.  But the most important thing I learned that day was about the interactions between the Haudenosaunee and the early Euro-American feminists.  The early Euro-American feminists, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Lucretia Mott, Matilda Gage, were active in the struggle to grant American women the vote.  Their most famous action was the organizing of the Seneca Falls Women’s Convention in July 1848.  Seneca Falls is a short drive up Cayuga Lake from Ithaca, NY.  Stanton and Gage lived in what had been Haudenosaunee country (as do I); and Mott visited and was influenced by them.

Women’s Studies scholar Sally Roesch Wagner examined the relations between the Haudenosaunee and the early feminists in a book entitled Sisters in Spirit:  Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) Influence on Early American Feminists (2001, Native Voices, Summertown, Tennessee).  She was prompted to study this issue by this persistent question in her mind:  From their oppressed situation, totally under the thumbs of their husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, the church and the law, how did the early feminists come to imagine a world in which women were more equal?  Using historical and ethnographic sources, Wagner found her answer in the interactions between these early feminists and the Haudenosaunee.  Her book vividly contrasts the dismal world of Euro-American women of the time with that of Haudenosaunee women.

The Haudenosaunee were (and are) matrilineal, and women were active in governing.  One of their tasks was to select their chiefs, whom they were also entitled to remove from office.  Women had the right to keep and dispose of their own possessions, in sharp distinction from the Euro-American women.  Wagner writes that

Native women’s honored obligation, recognized by the men, was to direct the home and the community’s agriculture.  Satisfying and sacred, women’s work harmoniously complemented the hunting/diplomatic duties of men; both were equally valued.  Within this framework of community responsibility, individual liberty flourished.

Wagner complements these observations with telling quotations from men and women of the time, including descriptions from a Euro-American woman, Mary Jemison, who was captured as a child and opted to remain with the Seneca throughout her life.

I found this visit and this book to be satisfying confirmation of my own inclination to see certain elements of the lifeways of the Kenyah Dayaks (of Borneo) as a potential model for others to follow.  They, like the Haudenosaunee, grant women equal respect; Kenyah women are likewise responsible for the home and gain much satisfaction and pride from their involvement in agricultural production.  They have a strong voice in community decisions, though typically ‘behind the scenes’, and family life.  Perhaps the influence of the Haudenosaunee on early Euro-American feminists might be replicated in Indonesia, using the Kenyah as an example. Indonesian feminists so far, to the best of my knowledge, have ignored the wondrous variety of cultural groups, many with egalitarian gender norms, in their own country.

The Center has piqued my interest in this nearby group, and I will try to learn more.  It’s a bit galling that I find myself, as an anthropologist, so ignorant of a nearby indigenous group!

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Vaccinations prevent children’s deaths

Posted on 18 April 2017 by Carol

I am troubled by the growing sentiment in the US against having children vaccinated.  There are some who believe that vaccinations are linked with autism.  I don’t find the evidence of this convincing myself, but even if such a belief were true, several experiences lead me to conclude that a small number of autistic children is far preferable to a large number of dead children.

I was born in 1945.  From early childhood, the specter of polio hung over me and my friends.  We all knew someone who’d been paralyzed by the disease, someone who’d spent his or her childhood encased in the metal braces that allowed them some mobility.  We knew too that the disease could strike at any time—and we knew fear.  The creation of the polio vaccine was a life-saver, and we appreciated it wholeheartedly.

In 1979, I lived for a year in a village in Indonesia.  During the second month I was there, 9 children (in a population of 1000 people) died of measles.  I had been dangerously ill myself with measles, but had not encountered death from the disease until that time.  It was with shock and dismay that I realized that it could also be a killer.

After that, I went back to school to study public health.  I studied epidemiology and learned about the importance of reducing the number of people—by vaccination—who are subject to infection, and the role of such reduction in eliminating or controlling the disease.  The fewer people subject to infection (due to vaccination), the fewer sources of it circulating among the population and the fewer people who therefore get the disease.

I read today—in an article on the desperate situation in NE Nigeria—that measles is the most contagious disease on earth.  Efforts to vaccinate the population there have been seriously hindered by the war-like actions of Boko Haram.  Children in the Northeast are dying in great numbers from diseases for which vaccinations exist but against which they have not been vaccinated.

Why would we want to expose our own children to all the deadly diseases we know how to prevent through vaccination?  It simply makes no sense.  Perhaps people don’t realize that their children can die from such diseases.  If that is true, it is incumbent upon us to educate them!  If you love your own children, vaccinate them.  If you care about the well being (and lives) of other children in your community, encourage others to vaccinate their children.  Help keep down the number of potential carriers of these dread diseases.

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Protesting in Ithaca in our Pussy Hats

Posted on 17 March 2017 by Carol

We woke early on 10 March as we planned to attend a political meeting with one of our Congressional representatives, Tom Reed, at the Southside Community Center in Ithaca.  Knowing that he would be confronting a hostile audience, he had scheduled the meeting for 8 AM on Saturday morning—surely in hopes that most would not want to be up and about that early on a weekend.  Or perhaps it was intended to favor his supporters in other areas of the state, whose meetings were scheduled at more civilized hours.  We’d learned the night before that to get into the Community Center (which held over 500 people), we would have to get there at 6 AM to get tickets, and even then, only questions that had been submitted the night before would be addressed by Reed.

In any event, we decided to go to the meeting.  As we left the house, we noticed that the outside temperature was 8° F.  Donning our long johns, down coats, wool socks, boots, warm gloves, and in my case, one of my Pussy Hats, we headed downtown.  Parking was not easy, and, not for the first time, we were grateful that we had a handicapped placard and could thus park reasonably close to the venue.

The street had been closed off and police were guarding both ends.  There was a long line of people who had not yet been able to get into the building, and the street was filling up with warmly dressed folks.  A number of other women had on their Pussy Hats.  I’d brought an extra, one of the many I‘ve made, and gave it to a woman with a bare head. Many had signs similar to those at the Women’s March and the atmosphere was convivial among the would-be audience, which seemed almost unanimous in their concerns.  There were signs that said ‘Single Payer Health Care’, ‘Disagree’, ‘Get your hands off my ?$%?#’, ‘Support Planned Parenthood’, and more.  One said “You say you ‘love’ America, but you hate Americans.” People chanted “Love, Justice”, “Love, Justice”, “Love, Justice”.  Then “Single Payer Health Care”.   There were so many issues that the crowd agreed on—health care, Trump’s tax returns, his Russian connection, protecting the environment, education, women’s rights, reproductive rights, inclusion—-it was hard to believe that there were so many key issues that were endangered under this regime.  And Reed was an apologist for all the policies that endangered them!

Ithaca Bakery had donated sweets and hot drinks, and we were invited (but not required) to contribute to the Southside Community Center when we imbibed.  A cup of decaf and a brownie helped to ease the pain of the severe cold in my fingers.  The temperature had risen to 14° F by 8:30 or so, but it was still bitterly cold, and felt colder the longer we stood in the street.  A loudspeaker had been set up , so we could hear the meeting going on inside.  Reed began his talk by inviting us to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.  Many of us gladly chimed in (many leaving out “under God”).  We turned up the volume at the end, loudly chanting the final phrases “with liberty and justice for all”, “with liberty and justice for all”, “with liberty and justice for all”.  The crowd responded with boo’s and chants as Reed expressed his unpopular opinions and policies.   Assemblywoman Barbara Lifton gave an impassioned and well-reasoned response to his comments on health care, giving data and specifics about the projected adverse effects in New York of the Republican ‘reform’ being proposed.

After an hour within, he came out and addressed the 500 or so additional citizens who had not been able to get in.  Again, the crowd listened to what he had to say and we loudly expressed our opinions (almost all negative) about his positions.  One person held up a rectangular board with a pointer positioned center bottom.  She turned the dial from the left (‘fact’), through “irrelevant pivot”, to “distraction” and “misleading” to the far right (‘lie’) and beyond, as Reed spoke. 

Reed was confident in his own opinions, stating that he had been clear about his positions, that the voters knew them and that he would not have been elected had there not been a sizable, even majority of voters who preferred his views to ours.  There is no question that many in New York, particularly in rural areas, share his perspectives.  But that was certainly not the case among the group gathered today to listen to him. 

At 71 years old, this is the second time in my life that I have taken to the streets.  The vile policies that are being considered under the Trump regime have awakened a political consciousness among many of us that has not been necessary since the 1960s.  I will not quit; I will persevere; and I know many others will as well.  Standing together in the cold on the streets of Ithaca (and beyond) reinforces our convictions, heightens our motivation to resist, and stimulates us to further action to protect the America we have known and loved.  Our Pussy Hats add a lightness that helps to maintain the peace and the humour that will carry us through these dark times to brighter days ahead.  Wear your Pussy Hat with pride, march, assemble, write and call your Congress people, run for office, and contribute to the optimism, national cohesion, and persistence that will be needed to avert disaster.

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The Color Pink

Posted on 18 February 2017 by Carol

For most of my life, I’ve disdained the color pink.  It brought to mind the stereotypes of women, the arbitrary allocation of traits, desires and capabilities based solely on biological sex.  It reeked of superficiality and concerns with the froth and frilliness that I had rejected.  When I had children I refused to adhere to my culture’s dictate that I dress my daughter in pink and my son in blue.  In their babyhood, I chose yellows and greens—-colors that my eye also in fact preferred.  Pink seemed just a faded version of the more vibrant red.  I hoped thereby to grant my children the freedom to choose their own ways of being and doing, of loving and longing.

There was a time in late childhood, when I was 11 or 12, that I did embrace pink.  My parents were painting the rooms in our apartment in Turkey; and I was allowed to choose my own color.  I chose pink, and complemented it with black.  I remember the two black plastic silhouettes of ballet dancers with which I festooned one wall.  I suppose it was later that I found a more ideological view of pink.  Or, on second thought, perhaps I simply changed ideologies:  from one that pressured me to conform to the traditional ‘women’s role’ to one that longed to broaden our sphere.

My thoughts about pink took an unexpected turn when I lived among the Kenyah of East Kalimantan, in Indonesia in the late ‘70s.  After a month or two there, I noticed that many people, men and women alike, chose pink attire.  It was so common and unlike their general use of primary colors that I eventually asked about the practice.  I learned that for them, pink symbolizes mourning.  People don clothes of pink when a loved one dies—a common enough occurrence at that time.  But this experience was just a hiccup in my longstanding prejudice against the color.

A more substantial chink in this particular prejudice came a few years ago one October, soon after again taking up residence in the US.  I was startled, while watching a football game, to see the players’ uniforms—so strongly linked to each team’s identity and certainly never before in pink!—festooned with bits of this color.  Pink shoes here, pink socks there, pink gloves, any accoutrement seemed acceptable in pink. 

This was my first recognition that pink symbolism had changed.  It was of course in support of the fight against breast cancer.  But what a powerful statement of a change in gender ideology—-that powerful and admired football players, the epitome of masculinity in American culture (or many versions thereof, in any event), should take up a color so closely linked with women and femininity.  This suggested a different meaning for pink than the one that for so long had prompted my own disdain.

And then came the pink hats movement.  In December 2016, I met a woman who was knitting at a get-together.  She told me about an upcoming march to stand up for and promote women’s rights in the Trump administration; and explained that women were knitting pink hats, ‘pussy hats’ (in parody of Trump’s rude acceptance of grabbing women’s genitals), to keep the marchers warm, to express solidarity with the marchers, and to renew commitment to key American values. 

I loved knitting, and I loved this idea.  I went home, bought some pink yarn and began knitting.  I knitted 7 hats and sent them to the organizers of the march on Washington DC.  Then I knitted and distributed three more, and I decided to march myself in Ithaca’s march—something I’d never done before (despite being a ‘child of the 60’s’).  We all know what a spectacular success the march turned out to be, replicated all over the US and the world—my hats were among the sea of pink that characterized the crowd. 

And now I continue to knit.  Women  who don’t know how to knit want a pussy hat.  Three young women in a class I taught recently admired my pussy hat, expressing their wish that they could knit.  I gave them the three I had available.  I plan to keep on knitting (not like Madame Defarge in A Tale of Two Cities, with thoughts of retribution, but with strength of purpose to maintain what is good in this country).  It’s a small thing that I can do to continue to express my own commitment to these values that are under attack in my country.  We must all do whatever we can—signing petitions, writing letters, calling senators, marching, keeping the pressure on.  But in our leisure some of us can also knit and give pussy hats. 

There’s clearly been a sea change in my feelings about pink.  No one can consider the issues raised in these marches to be ‘froth and frilliness’; no one can discount the reality of unity among a population motivated by such disparate but related concerns:  Equity, justice, inclusiveness, concern for the environment and the future—these are the values that pink has come to symbolize for me.

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Something to Raise our Spirits

Posted on 22 January 2017 by Carol

The election of Donald John Trump was so demoralizing that I could not write.  But yesterday, the 22nd of January 2017, has so lifted my spirits that I am again moved to put fingers to keyboard.

In December, I was in Portland, Oregon, that bastion of liberal thought, celebrating Christmas and looking after my mother.  She had invited me to participate with a group of her church cronies in a special showing of Andy Warhol’s art at the Portland Art Museum.  There we saw as well the work of Corita Kent, a follower of Warhol and a nun, who focused on more spiritual and ethical topics than he.  Fascinating and inspiring!

Following this outing, we all shared a meal at a rather fancy downtown restaurant, where Nan, one of our group, was knitting.  As a knitter myself, I engaged her in discussion of her projects, and it emerged that she had just completed a ‘Pussy Hat’—a simple pink hat prepared in contribution to the then-upcoming Women’s March on Washington DC.  The idea included reclaiming and redefining ‘pussy’ as something positive and womanly, and providing physical warmth to the women who would brave the elements in DC in January.  I liked this idea, and I downloaded the pattern, assembled my pink yarn, and proceeded to knit 2 such hats in Portland and 4 more at my home in Ithaca, New York.  As I knitted, I felt more and more a sense of commonality with the future marchers, hoping that their actions could reflect some of our dissatisfaction with Trump, our conviction about the worth of our values, and our resolution to be vigilant in preventing as much of the harm he planned as we could.  I sent off my 6 hats for distribution in DC.

I then learned that not only were several busloads going from Ithaca to DC, but we were going to have our own march here in Ithaca.  Despite being a child of the sixties, I had never marched before in any demonstration.  But I realized with some surprise that I really wanted to march in this one; that this one was likely to reflect my deeply felt anxieties as well as my faith in the American people.  I began knitting my 7th hat, for myself this time.  And when I finished that one, I knitted an 8th, initially to give my mother, but later to reserve as a spare for any women who might need a pink pussy hat on the day of the march.

Being something of a wimp about the cold, I worried on the morning of the 21st that the weather would be freezing and miserable; I wondered what to wear that would preserve my body heat; I worried about my hips, which usually begin to hurt after short walks.  I did not imagine that I would enjoy this task that I’d taken on, but I maintained my conviction that it was important to stand up and be counted at this time in history.

What a difference the reality turned out to be!  The gods shone down upon us, and provided a beautiful sunny day in mid-January.  From our parking place in front of a friend’s house, I walked with six other women, all wearing pink pussy hats they’d produced themselves—another one had a spare hat, in case someone needed it.  Someone brought three large blue banners with the Earth printed on them; another brought her dog, two drums and knowledge of the words to We Shall Overcome; another, an artist, had made a poster of the Earth saying “Global Warming is Real …Uncool”. 

We began our march.  The closer we got to the intended meeting place (City Hall), the more people joined in.  We never made it to City Hall, because there were too many marchers.  But the friendly police directed us along the intended route around several blocks (a mile) to the Commons.  There were women and men and children and old people.  There were whites and blacks and browns and yellows, native citizens and immigrants, Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists and Hindus.  There were signs about global warming, about the Earth, about equity and justice, about feminism, and reproductive rights—all the values for which Trump represents danger.  And the people—some 8000 of us—marched with good spirits and friendly manners.  On the Commons, there was music along with speeches (the latter, we could not hear), but good fellowship among the marchers as we waited for those at the tail end of the march to catch up.  They just seemed to keep on coming!

There were so many different signs: “Love trumps hate,” “Women’s rights are human rights,” “Build bridges, not walls,” “Respect my existence, or expect resistance,” “Men of quality don’t fear equality,” and “My kids deserve better.”  One that spoke to me was “Trump has pissed off Grandma.” These days Grandma’s can be a powerful force.

When we finally wended our way back to the house from which we’d begun, there was waiting for us a lovely meal—One woman had made spicy potato quarters, a salad and cupcakes; another had contributed buttery squash; another had also made cupcakes; someone provided wine and cheese.  It was a mini-feast and shared repast that put a lovely cap on an invigorating day.

At home, my husband had the television on, showing images of the far larger Women’s March in Washington, DC.  There were inspiring speeches given to a sea of pink pussy hats—their wearers all cheerful, enthusiastic, and engaged.  Speakers included such luminaries as Gloria Steinem, Angela Davis, Madonna, Michael Moore; and others I’d never heard of but expect to hear from again, like Ashley Judd or the Indigenous groups who gave talks and performances. 

The estimates of the numbers are contested (by a childish Trump who cannot bear that ‘someone else’s is bigger than his’), but the media estimates over 500,000.  Photographic comparisons both with the Women’s March and with Obama’s Inauguration leave little doubt about the relative size of the crowds.   I looked to see if I might recognize my own hats among the marchers (impossible). 

But the good news goes on:  There were huge and similar and peaceful gatherings in Portland, in Seattle, in Boston, in Houston, in Chicago, and hundreds of other towns and cities across the nation.  In one small town in Idaho, literally half the town came out to march!  And there were marches in other countries.  Paris and London had huge marches.  In China, where marches were prohibited, women gathered together to knit pussy hats in solidarity.  In Antarctica, people on a ship marched around their deck in support.  One source said that all the seven continents were represented with supportive Women’s Marches.   It was an outpouring of both frustration with the current administration and a strong and vivid call to action for those of us who care about equity, justice, the Earth, and women’s (and all humans’) rights.

Donald Trump has the lowest approval rate of any president in US history.  He lost the popular vote.  And he has shown in so many ways his unsuitability to lead the country and to protect the rights that we now enjoy.   These marches give hope to those of us who were feeling despair.   They, like Obama’s undying optimism as he left office on Friday, the 20th of January, remind us of the indomitable human spirit and the American tradition of speaking out and standing up for what we believe.  It is definitely time to honor and strengthen that tradition.  What an inspiring way to begin!

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The Disaster that is Trump

Posted on 9 January 2017 by Carol

I, like so many others, have been rendered speechless (and unable to write) by the election of Donald Trump to the highest office in our land.  It is time for us to ‘wake up’ and speak out. 

I have watched in dismay as Trump has insulted first one group of Americans then another; and then, even more vituperatively, those who have come to America as immigrants. 

What of our historical recognition of the value of diversity?  What of our longstanding attempts to obliterate racism and other forms of prejudice and bias?  What about our concern for equity and equality among the populace?

I have seen him boast and brag and acclaim his own greatness with nauseating frequency.

What about our cultural value on modesty, our common distaste for bluster? What about the dignity of the office of the President? How can such boastfulness and self-importance mesh with our expectations of a President?

Now he assigns individuals to lead different parts of the government:  a person who wants to dismantle the Affordable Care Act to run the Department of Health and Human Services; a person who disapproves of the minimum wage to run the Department of Labour; a person who prefers private schools to public, in charge of the Department of Education; a person with little concern for the environment in charge of the Department of the Interior; a businessman with ties to Russia to lead the State Department; a CIA director who believes in torture; persons who do not believe in climate change for Energy and the Environmental Protection Agency; and so on.

What of our efforts to build policy on sound science?  What about the extensive evidence showing the value of health insurance to those now covered?  What about the role of public education in providing equal opportunity and educating the populace?  What about the role of conventional energy sources in exacerbating climate change? How can these choices of Secretaries contribute to our nation’s wellbeing?

Trump tweets his childlike responses to criticism (such as to Meryl Streep’s comments at the Golden Globes event yesterday), as well as policy statements with potentially world-shaking implications (such as his tweeted taunt regarding North Korea’s claimed ICBMs, “It won’t happen”).

What of our longstanding attempts to work cooperatively with other countries?  What of the norms of diplomacy that have helped to keep warfare at a scale that has not endangered the entire Earth? What of the world’s expectations that American leadership will function in a reasoned and adult manner?  How dangerous it will be to have a full grown and powerful child at the helm—one with no impulse control, yet access to the nuclear codes, ‘the red button’.

Trump has failed to share his tax returns; he continues to involve himself and his children in his business affairs; he has pending court cases against him; he is mixing his political powers with his economic affairs; and he has questionable links with Russia, as he continues to deny their role in influencing the US election.

What of our tradition of financial openness on the part of presidents?  What of our reluctance to condone nepotism? Where do ‘questionable links’ turn to treason?

There are only a few more days until he is sworn in as President of the United States.  Is there really no way to undo what has been done, even with all this evidence of his unsuitability for the office of President?  Surely some of these actions are illegal.

If not, if we are genuinely to endure four years of Donald Trump, we will have to be vigilant, outspoken, and firm in our convictions of what is right in this world.  I wish us strength.

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