Played for Laughs

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After reading a positive review, I watched the first two episodes of Patriot, a new web series streaming on Amazon about a reluctant American spy. I was sort of enjoying it until I was struck by how many “humorous” references the program made to disability. Apparently Steve Conrad, who created and wrote Patriot, still thinks mental and physical disabilities are good for a couple of yuks.

In the first episode, John Tavner, the “hero” of the series, pushes a job rival in front of a bus in order to secure an engineering gig he needs for his cover. The result is that the rival (who also happens to be Asian—more laughs there) suffers brain damage. What a riot when, in episode two, he is asked back to the company because he can still do complex computations, but has lost his memory, speaks like a young child and is unable to perform simple tasks, such as opening his computer.

Then there is the hilarious scene in which John is ordered by the janitor at his workplace, who is blackmailing him, to steal some things from a group of Vietnam vets. Cut to the scene of the vets in a swimming pool during an exercise class. When they all duck under the water, John grabs their lower limb prostheses that are lined up against a wall and runs away down the street awkwardly clutching them. Artificial legs are just funny—don‘t you get it?

But there’s an even better payoff when our hero, again at the janitor’s command, sneaks into a police station. First, having been told that one of the cops on duty has PTSD, John startles him with a loud noise, causing him to collapse in tears in a corner. Before you can catch your breath from laughing at that bit, John then encounters a very short officer who tries to stop him—but John just picks him up because, hey, he’s so little. In the final shot, as John extracts something from an evidence box, another cop starts to chase him, but he can only hop because…wait for it…he has only one leg. He was one of the vets!!!! End scene.

So here is this admittedly rather clever program probing the conscience of a spy who, working for his country and directly reporting to his father, must murder in order to fulfill his mission. A program that raises questions about the usefulness and morality of espionage, that explores relationships between a father and his sons (John’s brother is also in the game) and between brothers. Maybe it does a lot more but I’ll never know. I stopped watching because it is also a program that blithely plays mental and physical disabilities for laughs, and no one involved, from the producers, directors, actors, folks at Amazon and the reviewer who recommended it, saw anything wrong with that.

This is a societal problem. When millions of people vote for Trump after he mocked a reporter with arthrogryposis, it’s clear we have not come very far in our acceptance or understanding of people in the disabled community. At times like these it’s more important than ever to point it out and call it out.

A Classmate’s Death

Forced into this life on February 13, 1949. Left on purpose on August 22, 2013.
–Obituary in the New York Timesclass-photo

Reading the New York Times this morning I came across a review of a documentary, Left on Purpose, about Mayer Vishner, a former Yippie who committed suicide in 2013. And the name leapt out at me because how many Mayer Vishners can there be? And when I read he grew up in New York City and then Googled him and saw his photo, it was clear this man had been my classmate at P.S. 94 in the Bronx. We were in elementary school together.

Had I heard of his death almost four years ago? I can’t even remember. And if I had, why did it strike me so much harder now?

I was not aware of how he had worked all his life for freedom—for all of us, for himself. I didn’t know about his illnesses, loneliness and addictions. But I do recall a thin, intense child with big, dark eyes and lank hair. I liked him. He was smart and different somehow. I was a kid, too, but I found him interesting.

I am making no claim to him. Of course I had thoughts of “if I only knew,” and “I should have kept up with him” and wished I could have told him I have experienced depression, too, and that I share his fear of becoming increasingly frail and dependent.

But, as sad as I am about the death of someone I think of as the little boy he once was, I am really writing about getting older and realizing how far away my childhood is. I guess I’ve aged a lot these last four years and that’s why Mayer’s death has a new resonance for me. It also has made me more convinced that we are who we are from the get go and there’s no changing it. That what made me remember Mayer from almost 60 years ago is what made him deeply unhappy despite all he accomplished as an activist and journalist, his creativity, his lifelong commitment to peace and equality, his humor—and is what led him ultimately to kill himself.

I am writing about wanting to go back, anyway, back to Miss Lucille’s and Mrs. Graux’s classrooms, and have a do-over. About missed opportunities, missed connections. About recognizing that sometimes we can’t save people. About the fact that, like Mayer, I often focus on the doors that are closing instead of the ones that are still open, and that I can understand why he felt he needed to plan an escape route. That his death reminds me of how quickly our lives go by, how little time is left.

Dom and Dumber

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We are back in Utrecht, a city my husband and I have grown to love after several visits. Our younger son now lives in a nearby town and we are visiting for his 30th birthday. Today we went on the Dom Under tour. The Dom is the 14th Century church tower, the tallest in the country, that is the symbol of Utrecht.  It survived the tornado of 1674 that destroyed the nave. Under the Dom is evidence of earlier churches and the Roman fortification that was built nearly 2,000 years ago. We knew this history (you can’t avoid being bombarded with Dom information in Utrecht), but after seeing the somewhat cheesy film reenactment of the storm, it struck me for the first time that the destruction of the church in a sudden, violent act was like the felling of the Twin Towers. Both traumatized their cities. Here in Utrecht, the rubble of the nave was not even cleared away for 150 years.

And, of course, it put me in mind of the second trauma we are now experiencing—the election of Trump. In fact, the young woman who sold us our tour tickets asked us about the mood in America. As if we needed proof, last Saturday’s marches around the globe made it clear this horrible event is affecting people worldwide. And, of course, the wonderful video from Dutch TV and the action taken by the government concerning accessibility to abortion demonstrate that The Netherlands, in particular, is very aware of the consequences of having someone with neo-Fascist, anti-scientific tendencies ascend to the presidency by questionable means. Let’s just say rising ocean levels are of concern to a nation that is one-third to-one half below sea level and whose name means the low countries.

We have been impressed over and over by the humane social policies of this nation. We would love our son and his wife to move back to the United States, but what kind of argument can we make for that now? The bad news for The Netherlands is that Geert Wilders’s rightist party is gaining in popularity.

A Dutch friend assures us Wilders won’t be able to form a majority government. Let’s hope so. We thought it couldn’t happen here –– didn’t we?

Giraffe Power

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Recently, people from my neighborhood organized a Kids March as part of a growing, if piecemeal, movement aimed at resisting the policies and prejudices of the T… (let’s just say “new”) administration. One of the children’s signs declared “Giraffe Power.” Despite recognizing that kid logic and adult logic are, shall we say, two different animals, I was puzzled by the choice. Until I read that giraffes are now considered an endangered species. Apparently some giraffe species have been on the endangered list for several years. (Another example of how the world is heading in the wrong direction.) So, I’m interpreting the sign to mean democracy is in trouble, but we can still protect it. We shall overcome. No tree too tall. Something like that.

Anyway, we all know the bad news. The good news is that folks are getting together to try to figure out how to survive the coming onslaught and, more importantly, how to protect the most vulnerable. Clearly immigrants, LGBTQ people, Muslims, people of color, people with disabilities, are, in the words of an organizer I heard, the “front-line” communities. But Jews are right up there, too. It always amazes me that one needs to barely scratch the surface to find the anti-Semitism roiling beneath.

The weirdest example in my own experience occurred on our family’s trip to China, of all places. At dinner one night in Beijing our guide, William, asked us about our plans for the rest of our time in the PRC. When we told him we were going to Shanghai he warned us to be careful: “The people there will cheat you just like the Jews.” What the? We sat in stunned silence until our oldest son said, “Uh, William. We’re Jewish.” He thought my son was joking, Clearly this man had some vision of what a Jew was, but it wasn’t us. Where had he gotten this idea about Jews? In the ether (or smog, this being Beijing). Anti-Semitism is entrenched globally. Considering how we’ve supposedly controlled the world forever you’d think we would have done something about it by now.

Anti-immigrant fervor is nothing new either, of course. Just take a look at the political cartoons of the Irish, Italians, Jews and Chinese from the turn of the 20th century. The Chinese Exclusion Act was in effect from 1882 to 1943. How many people who voted for what’s-his-name can trace their American roots further back than their grandparents? Great-grandparents, tops. And those ancestors left their home countries because..? Maybe the exact same reasons immigrants come to the U.S. today.

At the meetings in my neighborhood there has been a lot of talk about being upstanders, allies for people being harassed or otherwise needing protection or support. Last night we spoke about creating hate-free zones. So the silver (okay, silver-plated) lining is that we are thinking, and talking, and trying to figure out what to do, about social injustice in a deeper and more committed way than many of us have ever done before. I know people are organizing, donating, resisting all across the country. It will be exhausting. But we’re up for the challenge. We don’t want to live in a world without giraffes. What will we tell our children if we let that happen? So let’s get ready to stick our necks out.

The Yellow Brick Road to November

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Today in the New York Times, Charles Blow had this to say about people who support Trump: “They know he’s lying, but they so want to believe the lies that they have pushed themselves into a universe of irrationality that is devoid of logic.”

And that’s the real problem. No matter what Trump says or does, they are still behind him. He expresses something they’re feeling and that’s all they care about.

It’s great that several news sources have finally started to tell the truth about Trump, although I seriously doubt they’re ones his supporters read, listen to or watch. And even if they do, they don’t lend them credence. It’s possible they get all their news from Fox. And, as another op-ed in today’s paper, written by a Republican who worked for both Reagan and W, explained: “After the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, Fox began shifting to the right of center, creating, along with talk radio and conservative websites, an ideological cocoon for viewers. One result is that crazy ideas and conspiracy theories can circulate without any correction or resistance.”

So while some media outlets can now try to acquit themselves by revealing how Trump used government tax breaks to make millions while probably never paying taxes; or that he is no business genius but was born with a silver spoon in his mouth (on second thought, make that a gold spoon); or that, in fact, his businesses went into bankruptcy multiple times; or that he is being sued for fraud over Trump University (among other things); or that he hired undocumented construction workers and then didn’t pay them, and then sued them when they tried to collect; or that he literally incites violence against protesters and against Hillary by innuendo (while representing himself as a law and order candidate); or that he welcomes the support of white supremacists; or that he demonizes immigrants and Muslims; or that he doubles down on his lies about Obama—oh, it’s exhausting. The point is, the evidence is out there and it doesn’t matter. Trump himself famously said he could shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue and still not lose any votes. The example is telling. And, for once, he seemed to be saying something true.

I suppose people who plan to vote for him will say I get all my information from the so-called liberal media. They just plain hate Hillary. They exaggerate her missteps and believe all the lies they’ve heard about her and refuse to hear the ones Trump is telling. As my grandmother used to say—although in Yiddish—you can see an ant on others but you can’t see a bear on yourself.

I felt ill when Nixon was elected. I was appalled by Reagan and W. But, as deceitful and damaging and dangerous as some of their policies were, I never feared they would bring the country down in flames. And maybe bring the rest of the world down with it. I don’t think I’m being hyperbolic when I say this guy could.

Trump’s supporters seem to forget that, for many of them, their own parents or grandparents were despised immigrants. That fears similar to those today about Muslims were held about Catholics in the 19th and early 20th centuries: The Pope was going to destroy our American way of life. That, just as Mexicans are denigrated now, earlier political cartoons depicted Germans, the Irish, Jews, Italians and the Chinese as less than human.

So it doesn’t matter that facts about Trump that should have been published during the primaries are at long last being revealed. Some people don’t want to see them. They want Oz, the great and terrible. They are paying no attention to that man behind the curtain.

 

Helping “Hands”

 

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My husband and I, along with our daughter, began to visit The Netherlands about four years ago after our younger son married a Dutch woman and subsequently moved there. He now lives in a small town outside of Utrecht, and my daughter-in-law’s parents live quite near Utrecht, so we make the city our base of operations. Lucky us—it is a beautiful, charming, vibrant place. Maybe our favorite city in Holland. And because we’ve been there a few times, we can enjoy just strolling along the Oudegracht or relaxing at a café people watching (yes, and drinking beer—this is Holland) without feeling the need to schlep to the important “sites.”

One afternoon as we sat on a bench a block from the Dom Tower—the symbol of Utrecht—we noticed a police car pull up in front of a van that was parked partially on the sidewalk. Clearly, the van was not supposed to be there. Two officers got out of the car and went to look at and into the van. Then they walked over to the smoothie truck doing a brisk business across the street and asked the proprietor if she knew anything about the van. No luck. Then they stopped into a store nearby and made further inquires. Bingo. A woman came out of the shop carrying a carton and loaded it into the van as she chatted amicably with the officers, who then got into their car and left. The woman finished whatever it was she needed to do and, eventually, she, too, drove off.

We were amazed. That ain’t how it goes down back home. If a traffic cop in New York City had spotted a vehicle illegally parked by even an inch, he or she would have started writing the ticket instantaneously, and, if the poor schmuck who owned the car tried to talk to them, plead with them, well, you know how well that would go. I don’t think anyone’s ever had a pleasant exchange, to say the least, with a NYC traffic cop.

When I mentioned what I’d seen in Utrecht to my daughter-in-law, she explained that the Dutch officers were not police, but part of the Handhaving unit (translated as maintenance, upkeep; assertion, enforcement). In addition to parking issues (including bikes and scooters—again, this is Holland), they monitor illegal waste dumping, and “nuisance behavior.” They also can request identification or issue fines or warnings for petty offences, and, if they consider it necessary, they notify the correct authorities or the police. They are authorized to use force with or without the use of weapons (meaning batons, not guns). Most officers are equipped with handcuffs, and in Utrecht and Amsterdam they also carry pepper spray.

Handhavers are there to make sure civic life goes along smoothly. (Our daughter-in-law, a teacher, also told us that one of her students, a 14-year-old boy, wrote his English essay on wanting to be a Handhaver when he grew up so that he could help people.)

What a great idea—an official organization that supports the police and serves as eyes on the street—and is not antagonistic to the public it serves. Car parked illegally? There must be a reason. Oh, you’re running a business and need to load things into the van. You’re leaving in ten minutes? Okay. Alstublieft. Have a good day.

I recognize that the Netherlands is a much smaller country than the United States and more homogenous (although this is changing). But imagine employing people as Handhavers in our cities. In view of the horror of the recent shootings of both police and civilians in the U.S., wouldn’t it be wonderful if a little Handhaving could give us a hand in reducing the tension between the police and the public? Things are not ideal in Holland, but the Dutch seem to have a better idea of how to treat each other and how, in a sensible, humane way, to keep the peace.

 

The Deep Roots of Trauma

Prod_62_rootYesterday, 26 years after the fact, I had a flashback to the accident in which I lost my right leg. I thought I no longer had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Clearly, I had underestimated its persistence.

I have, more or less, done well since the accident—with psychological therapy, the support of friends and family—and excellent prosthetists. But it didn’t take much to bring me back to the day when an Olds 88 jumped the curb and barreled into me while I was holding my three-year-old son. Miraculously, my little boy was unharmed. If circumstances had varied by a few inches or moments we surely would have been killed.

About five years ago I had another PTSD experience. I had been asked to counsel a woman around my age who had recently lost her leg. I was happy to do so. We talked several times and I hoped to show her by the example of my own unspectacular, but mostly happy, life, that despite her loss and the very real discomforts and difficulties of disability, she, too, would eventually feel better and find purpose and even joy again. But I couldn’t get through to her. And her impenetrable despair summoned up the madness I experienced following my accident. I started down the rabbit hole again. I had to stop contacting her.

Yesterday’s flashback happened during a physical therapy session. Although needing PT  is a reminder of my disability, it had never before triggered PTSD. My therapist couldn’t be nicer or more capable. She has helped me immeasurably. All she did, for the purpose of learning more about how I use my body, was ask how I would move if something were about to fall on me. But at the time of the accident, when I saw the car coming at me, I had had to make a decision about what to do, which direction to go in, in a millisecond. I heard the question and was instantaneously back to that moment. It didn’t last long, but it was frightening and disorienting.

I have read a bit about trauma, most recently the excellent The Body Keeps the Score. I knew that trauma, like a virulent invasive species, takes root not only in our minds but in our bodies and is almost impossible to eradicate. I know my son has been dealing with what happened his whole life. Yet I was surprised at my reaction, my feelings of panic and sadness, so long after the event.

There is more awareness these days of PTSD and more treatments available—although, sadly, this has a lot to do with the number of traumatized veterans. An analysis done in 2014 found that the rate of PTSD in soldiers returning from Iran and Afghanistan as well as in veterans of Vietnam to be as high as 31%.

Overall, about 7-8% of people in the United States will have PTSD at some point in their lives. Knowing first-hand how intractable PTSD is, I can only hope that everyone who suffers from it gets the help and support they need.