The Bad Old Days

Today I darned a sock. Well, not a sock exactly. A support stocking. (If I’ve already admitted to darning, I’ve already revealed my age).  I didn’t do the best job. Nowhere near the neat woven stitches my mother and grandmother were capable of producing. But I remembered the basic principle as I realized at the same time it is a fairly useless skill. Now we throw out socks with holes. We don’t fix them. But this is not a lament for the good old days.

While I was sewing I could almost feel, almost see, the black darning egg we had in my house growing up. It was wood, painted black, and looked, indeed, like an egg on a stick. Truth in advertising. There actually was a special thing you used for this task.

Then I began to think of other childhood experiences. Unsurprisingly, considering what is happening, I thought about getting the polio vaccine. I think I was in kindergarten and wearing my red plaid dress with gold buttons. All the children lined up in the school gym and were handed a sugar cube with a neon pink stain. And I thought about how worried our parents must have been and how grateful for the vaccine. And I realized that both my parents, as children, had lived through the 1918 epidemic, and imagined what my grandparents must have gone through.

I remembered having measles, and mumps and chicken pox and German measles. My sister had been very ill with measles. How frantic my parents were. And I recalled the nights when she suffered from whooping cough and they stood with her in the bathroom running the shower so the steam could help her breathe. And I was grateful that my children did not have to endure any of that.

What I remembered, too, were the metal dog tags issued to children in New York City in the 1950s. Souvenirs of the Cold War. They were embossed with our names and addresses. Maybe ages and gender as well. Their purpose was to identify our bodies in case of a nuclear holocaust. Of course, they would have melted. They would have been as useless as the “Duck and Cover” drills we practiced. Hiding under our desks would not have kept us alive. It might not even have protected us from the shattered glass of the tall public school windows.

Our present is horrible. Duck and Cover has been replaced by Active Shooter. We are reliving 1918. So many, many people have died, and we learn our leaders not only did not try to prevent but actually welcomed their deaths.  People have lost loved ones, jobs, homes, hope. And so many are still in denial, in defiance. I worry about getting ill and about how the experience of the pandemic might harm children. I feel cheated of time with my grandchildren and friends. But remembering what came before—no, this is no lament for the past.

Trouble in Bustletown

Looking for a book for my granddaughter, age four, I came across My Busy Day, part of the Wimmelbook series. It appeared very similar to the German books (which are large-format wimmelbuchs) called, in English, All Around Bustletown. I knew about those because my daughter-in-law in the Netherlands had bought my granddaughter a Dutch edition (De Vrolijke Vier Seizoenen—Happiness in Four Seasons) of one of the German books last year. No words, just pages and pages of intricate illustrated vignettes, pictures of people in a small town going about their (formerly normal) business: shopping, walking their dogs, going to the dentist and, depending on the time of year, sledding or picking apples or sunbathing or gardening. If you look closely, you realize the same people appear over and over in different settings, giving the sense of a connected community and evolving relationships. My granddaughter was mesmerized by it last Christmas—the last time (sigh) I was with her in person.

Here is where I have to confess to shopping on Amazon for this year’s Christmas gifts. (I could plead advancing years and retreating mobility, but accept the criticism.) Interested in what my fellow countrymen had to say about these books so like the Bustletown ones hugely popular in Europe, I scrolled down to read the reviews of My Busy Day. There was a mix of “toddler’s favorite,” “another great one” and “never gets old.”

But what I also encountered was controversy. Apparently a gay couple is among the neighbors living inside My Busy Day. One reviewer, quoted verbatim, was outraged. My son likes books with details, and when i saw propogation of the homosexuality in this books, i said no no. This book should be teaching healthy families. Hope people will read this, and think twice before buying. Included in the review was a photo taken from the book of what is clearly meant to be a framed wedding portrait of two men, in tuxes, holding hands, on the wall of a home.

There was another review titled “Beware!”:  I would caution anyone purchasing this book that it has a gay couple in it as one of the families to follow.

The next review begged to differ, noting the book has a very diverse and inclusive cast of characters depicting things families do every day. A negative review pointed out that there’s a family with two dads. Yup. There are also grandparents, people of color, people in wheelchairs.

Further complicating the matter, someone else posted another positive review with this exception, again with photographic proof:  I found one picture rather inappropriate for something published in 2020. In the park scene, there is a little boy wearing a feather and shooting a plastic arrow at an older woman for a point of humor. 

So here, it seemed to me, was America in 2020. One side was objecting to a depiction of homosexuality as promoting nontraditional values they find unacceptable and from which children should be protected. Another side was praising the vision of diversity and inclusion it presented to the young. And there was even someone who recognized the inappropriate act of the little boy (although the reviewer did not mention the feather wearing—missing the stereotypical reference to Native Americans and bows and arrows. I hope we’re well past the time kids play cowboys and Indians.) The shooting of a toy rubber-tipped arrow, something that even a few years ago many of us might have seen as playful, now appears aggressive, mean. One can, though, imagine an adult asking a child, why do you think he did that? What do you think about it? How do you think she feels? A teachable moment, as they say.

But what of the umbrage at the gay couple? No discussion, just negation. Children shouldn’t see such things. A warning to others to beware. The people in this camp will need to hide their children from the sight of Mayor Pete, especially if he becomes Secretary of Transportation. To close the book on their gay and lesbian family members and friends and neighbors and workmates.

I know such bigotry exists and is ubiquitous online, yet was still surprised to come across it in an Amazon review.  To know at least two people were so incensed that they needed to warn the world about it in this forum. To realize that they are raising their children that way. It was just a small reminder of the divide in our country that will take a long time to heal, as another generation grows up with their reading censored, educated in intolerance.

Mourning a Mother

I have no direct connection to Ruth Bader Ginsburg, but I read something today in a New York Times op-ed that made me feel I understood something about her. Both our mothers died when we were teenagers, and events connected to mourning them influenced our feelings about religion.

When she was 17, RBG lost her mother. And she, Jennifer Weiner wrote, began to separate herself from Judaism when she was denied a place in a minyan—a group of ten—that performed the ritual mourning prayers. A group of 10 men, that is. A daughter’s prayers were not as “kosher” as those of some random man.

Having attended an Orthodox synagogue and Sunday school when I was a girl, I was well aware that men and women were kept apart in shul. Once I hit puberty, I was no longer allowed to go to the front where the men sat to visit my father. In Rabbbi Twersky’s tiny shul, there was no women’s balcony. The women were relegated to the back, away from the bima and the Ark holding the Torah. The rebbetzin sat in the first row in the women’s section, and I would watch her as, several times during services, she would push aside the white curtain that delineated the division of the sexes to peek at what was going on up where the action was.

At some level I must have absorbed as a child the obvious evidence that women were considered less-than in my religion (and I know there’s a “separate but equal” argument regarding being a wife and mother). But I liked sitting with my mother and sister and the neighborhood girls and women, liked the many holidays that required us to gather together, even though I never got the prayers down pat.

I knew that in life outside the synagogue women were at least as valuable, as powerful, as men, and not just because they were balabustas expert at keeping house. My father was actually something of a neat freak and did a lot of the cleaning and other household chores, besides usually working two jobs. My mother, though, was clearly in charge of our lives. I went to school with girls and boys and saw girls were as smart as, or smarter than, many of the boys. The majority of my experience outweighed what went on at Rabbi Twersky’s.

In fact, the Rabbi himself once complimented my intelligence. One Sunday morning when I could not have been more than four (because my religious studies switched over to the ritzier Young Israel at five), I apparently asked if the Abraham he was talking about was the same one I knew of more formally as Abraham Lincoln. He was so impressed that I’d made the connection he told my parents, who, in turn, told me. As I am, now, telling you. (That Abraham mix-up actually came up again at my wedding 25 years later, a story for another time.)

Judaism, of course, is not the only religion with sexist foundations. But surely RBG was influenced by her early experience in synagogue. She built a career fighting gender inequality. But for her, if what I read is true, as for me, the real break with religion (though never with pride in being Jewish or trying to live by Jewish values) came at her mother’s death.

When I was 18 my mother died during Sukkot, the week-long holiday that starts this year on Oct. 2. Because of that, the Rabbi informed us, we—my father, sister and I—were not permitted to sit shiva. Really? A holiday celebrating the harvest was more important in 20th-century New York City than grieving a parent? My parent? Sukkot is designated as a time for rejoicing. We, our friends and our community, in which my mother had been so well liked, were not in the mood. The strictures of shiva—such as sitting on low wooden benches and not engaging in any pleasurable activities—allow us to enact some of the pain we are feeling. They are ways to show respect. And I, with all the indignation of a teenager, couldn’t accept a system that denied this to us in a way that was, to me, so unfeeling and unbalanced.

Learning about RBG’s sorrow hit me right in the heart, and I feel mine all over again, especially because this time of year is still difficult for me—half a century after my mother died. Maybe giving up the observances of Judaism was a lifelong act of mourning for the two of us. Or of anger at the unfairness of our mothers’ early deaths. Or both.

Now as I and so many millions of others mourn Justice Ginsburg, I have another cause for anger—the disrespect to her legacy shown by the rush to throw it away, before she was even in the grave. May her memory, and our mothers’ memories, be for a blessing.

A Stitch in Time

woman sewing

Yesterday I watched a couple of videos on how to make face masks and downloaded a pattern. I rummaged through my closet and found some unused material on the top shelf and pulled out a couple of new dish towels from the back of the pantry. Despite scolding from our daughter, my husband (wearing a bandana and gloves) went to the hardware store around the corner and bought some vacuum cleaner bags to cut into inserts as filters for the masks. The bags were not marked HEPA but promised to be 99% effective against something. I do not have a sewing machine, and I am now staring at the fabric and pattern and questioning my ability to actually create the masks by sewing them by hand.

The fact that I can hand sew at all (and do some embroidery and knit although not crochet—a surprising gap in my education) is thanks to my mother, grandmother and P.S. 94 and J.H.S. 80 in the Bronx. The child of people who had lived through the Depression, I was even taught how to darn socks, which we would smooth over the black darning egg and weave back into usefulness. In sixth grade the entire class (boys, too) sewed aprons. In junior high, I took Home Ec with Ms. Naomi Foxworth (I remember her name because we used to crack ourselves up by saying it over and over while mimicking her southern accent. Perhaps that was an indication of what we thought of Home Ec.) Even in high school at Bronx Science, we were required (at least the girls were) to embroider our names in yellow over the breast pocket of our green, bloomered, one-piece gym suits, yellow and green being the school colors. When I was at Science we fought the dress code that dictated girls were not allowed to wear pants and boys could not wear “dungaree-type trousers.”

This is all to say that I am old. I went to school at a time when kids in elementary school wore middy blouses on assembly days. When the first polio vaccine was a neon pink stain on sugar cubes we lined up for in the gym. When going to the “city” from the Bronx where I lived meant a trip to Manhattan wearing a dress and gloves. When the subway, and a slice of pizza each cost 15 cents.

I am also disabled, having lost a leg 30 years ago when a car jumped the curb. I have just had hip replacement surgery because of the arthritis on my “sound” side resulting from decades of overuse. (I am lucky my operation was scheduled just before the virus outbreak.)

Some right-wingers have called for the elderly to sacrifice themselves so their children and grandchildren can inherit a better economy. I can’t quite picture what they are imagining. Mass suicide by COVID-19? How would that work and how would that help? Although I’m happy to let them be the test cases if they’re so eager.

But their cruel rhetoric feeds into the meme that old people are simply drains on society. And at a time when hospitals are stressed beyond their limits, and medical professionals are actually having to ration equipment, I wonder how my life would be valued if I were in need of a respirator. It is a question that echoes back to the eugenics of the Nazis. I was born after World War II, but not enough after to escape its psychological shadow.

I do not contribute to my family’s income. I write poetry occasionally, and even more occasionally this blog. I have written a couple of novels. I do some volunteer work. I cook (or, rather, have started cooking again). And let’s not forget I have basic sewing skills. I’m sure (pretty sure) my husband and children and friends would miss me. But if a doctor were faced with a life-or-death choice between me and someone younger and able-bodied?

For now, I will try not to dwell on these thoughts. I will remember that one’s worth is not tied up in financial success or fame or physical abilities. I will plan what to make for dinner. I will call my sister, or a cousin or a friend. Take out my sewing kit and give those masks a try. They may make me, my husband and daughter a little bit safer. They may make anyone else we come into contact with a little bit safer. And that will be enough to accomplish for today.



Of Goddesses and Bathrooms

Disabled girl in wheelchair at the bottom of a staircase.This weekend I went to see a local production of The Tempest. It was far from the best Shakespeare I’d gone to, but also far from the worst (that would be, hands down, the Glenda Jackson King Lear, although Jackson does not deserve all the blame.) But one strikingly unique aspect of the production was that Miranda was played by a woman with a disability. So when Ferdinand calls her a “goddess,” a “wonder,” “precious creature,” “perfect and so peerless,” he is addressing a woman who is very pretty and has gorgeous red hair, but is also about three feet tall and used an electric scooter for much of the play. We, as an audience, had to immediately dispel our preconceptions about beauty, about what we thought a Miranda should look like, and see her through Ferdinand’s eyes. And we did.

(The director, unfortunately, undercut the effect of this by making Ferdinand a woman, so we had also to accept the idea of a same sex marriage being promoted and celebrated in the context of a play concerned with very traditional ideas of royal succession. I wished he had had the same actor play Ferdinand—but as a man. The gender fluidity would have been suggested and we would not have been distracted from the really radical accomplishment of the production. And, side note, Jackson’s being female-presenting was not the problem with the Lear, either.)

We have begun to see people with disabilities in advertisements, in movies, on TV, in the theater, but to cast someone differently abled as the embodiment of dazzling beauty, of perfection—and not imply any irony—was a step beyond.

The irony, however, was very apparent in the theater itself. It is housed in an old school building and is inaccessible to anyone in a wheelchair or who cannot climb stairs. I am sure this neighborhood company is lucky to have a home at all, but there are stairs leading up to the entrance, the theater is one flight down from that and the bathrooms one flight up. So while an actor with a disability was featured onstage, many people with impaired mobility will never be able to see the production.

And then there are Broadway theaters, which do not labor under the budget constraints of a Brooklyn neighborhood troupe. Recently I had the rare good fortune to attend several plays (two were gifts—Broadway is not cheap). At the unfortunate Lear at the Cort Theater, the “accessible” bathroom was, no kidding, outdoors in a shed. Okay, a heated shed (this was in January). But, really. And it gets worse. At the John Goldman where I saw the under-appreciated Hillary and Clinton, there was no accessible bathroom. However, if you asked, an usher would escort you to one—two theaters away. Only at the Walter Kerr, home of Hadestown (what a cast!), was there an actual indoor, in-the-same-theater accessible bathroom.

The problem of inaccessibility is not limited to theaters, of course. The Disability Pride march took place the same weekend I saw the play. But it’s hard to feel proud when there are too many places you either can’t get to at all, or that reflect the less than adequate, or respectful, planning that has gone into a half-hearted attempt to accommodate you. Things need to change. For all my quibbling, I am thrilled that the recent Tempest provides a vision of a brave new world.

What Does it Mean to “Move Well”?

disability dance 1 Yesterday I went to see the premiere of Twyla Tharp’s “Minimalism and Me” at the Joyce Theater in New York. The first part of the show was a retrospective, narrated by Ms. Tharp, that detailed the history of her first troupe and her (genius) method of choreography, which was influenced by the minimalist movement. It was fascinating to get a look inside her mind. Snippets of works from the 1960s were danced live as well, sometimes against the backdrop of film of the original performances.

One of these early dances had included a number of people, not professional dancers, whom Ms. Tharp amusingly labeled “the original flash mob.” Some of the film footage was of works that had been performed in museums and showed the onlookers observing the dancers. A group of nonprofessional dancers, diverse as to age and race, had been recruited to be in the live recreations of both the “flash mob” excerpt and museum performances,  As a frequent Joyce patron, I had, months ago, received the email calling for people to audition to be in the group.

The email read, in part, that Ms. Tharp was looking for people who could “move well. If you can hop, skip, jump, and carry a folding chair around a stage, you may be in luck!” As someone with a mobility disability, I found the language extremely ableist. I wrote back to the Joyce, saying that I assumed their definition of “move well” did not include the way someone with, for example, limb difference, or Multiple Sclerosis or Cerebral Palsy or Parkinson’s might move.  I received this reply from the program manager: “Those with mobility-related concerns are not excluded from participation specifically, but all who participate will obviously be requested to perform the tasks required by Ms. Tharp.” Despite this, I did not try out for the performance. Although I can carry a folding chair with the best of them, I cannot hop, skip or jump. I wondered if I would have been considered to “move well” even before my accident.

I also thought that Ms. Tharp might have modified those requirements in order to be inclusive. I do not mean she is obliged to incorporate people with disabilities into all her work or to celebrate their movement in dance as say, Heidi Latsky does. But this was a missed chance. Even though the original performances might not have included people with disabilities, there was an opening here to have them participate. And the fact that the group was also playing the part of museum goers presented an even more obvious opportunity for inclusion, for odds are good that at least a few of the people who watched those pieces had some mobility impairment.

At the end of the second part of yesterday’s program, a brilliantly performed, totally delightful “Eight Jelly Rolls,” Ms. Tharp joined the company on stage for a brief dance sequence. Although clearly still in great shape, Ms. Tharp is now 77. She had tailored her part to accommodate her limitations. As she ages, she, of all people, must be acutely aware of the changes in how she moves. I find it hard to believe in her lifetime of observing how people use their bodies she has never noted, along with the movements of “able-bodied” people, those of people with disabilities. She certainly has examined people in various other contexts. For example, “Jelly Rolls” includes a section in which one of the dancers does an exaggerated imitation of someone who is inebriated. It was funny, maybe even a bit cruel, but also exciting—the dancer seemed to teeter dangerously on the edge of losing control (and on the edge of the stage!), yet was always able to pull back and right herself. Sensitivity to movement, the ability to weave the natural ways human beings use their bodies and how they interact with each other into her choreography, are the hallmarks of Ms. Tharp’s work. As my husband described it, when you see people performing her work it is as if you are watching them discover dance.

In the program manager’s reply she also said that the Joyce has formed a task force to address accessibility awareness. She recognized that there was a need “for increased sensitivity around language and messaging.” But better messaging is not what is needed. What is needed is the continuing expansion of what dance is and who can be considered a dancer. Modifying language is a timid baby step, not the leap of imagination true inclusion would be.





What’s So Funny?


The other day I saw an unusual theater piece by Jos Houben, a Belgian performer and teacher, entitled “The Art of Laughter.” It was actually a kind of master class in slapstick during which Houben explained his theory of why we laugh at certain physical shtick. His main idea was that because we are, according to one of our collective labels, Homo Erectus—vertical beings—and being upright is essential to our sense of dignity. When we veer from the vertical—trip or fall for example—we momentarily lose our dignity. On stage, the exaggerated portrayal of that loss—and the awkward attempt to cover it up—is where the funny is. When the comedy act is a duo (Abbott and Costello come immediately to mind), one person is often the foil for the other’s antics. He or she, Houben noted, is known as the straight man.

I found Houben’s “class” delightful as he acted out, in addition to falls, the polar opposite body postures of Italians and the British when greeting a friend; a clumsy waiter; the crescendo of laughter from amused smile to rolling around on the floor in hysterics; and, then, somewhat incongruously, a fish, a cow, a chicken in an art gallery and an assortment of cheeses. But the entire time, even while I was enjoying his performance, I was waiting for him to talk about the non-vertical, or not-so-vertical body: the ill body, the disabled body, the aging body.

Of course I realize Houben was discussing the “norm,” the “in general,” the “most people.” And that it’s rather petty to call out a talented, well-meaning, thoughtful artist who works hard to entertain. But it struck me as a huge oversight that someone who obviously knows a lot about physicality and who is an extremely astute observer, should not even mention that, for many of us, standing tall is difficult or impossible. That our “lapses” in what he defines as dignity are sometimes daily occurrences. We may not be able to stand, or we do not stand straight, or we have trouble staying upright, or we are beginning to give in to gravity. But that does not mean we are undignified.

Houben has given his talk all over the world. I can’t imagine there have not been other people who wanted to interrupt him and ask, ”What would you say about humor in relation to those of us who do not quite live up to the Homo Erectus title? How would you define humor when verticality is not the standard? Why do filmmakers and comedians, among others, not think twice about playing disability for laughs? And why do audiences find it funny?

I think he is someone who would have interesting, useful, answers to these questions about comedy. I would love to know what he thinks. In all seriousness, I would.


Nisht Ahin, Nisht Aher: Thoughts on Racial Identity

weddingleaving1-2Last week I went with my daughter to a conference on Transracial Adoptee Identity. She is adopted from China and is planning to develop, for her college senior thesis next year, an identity model for transracial adoptees (TRAs). The two presenters at the conference, both transracially adopted themselves, have created their own models for TRA identity, on which my daughter will build.

Because of her life story and her research—in which she had been engaged since high school—we have talked a lot about the complexities of transracial adoption. They include the dilemma, common to many TRAs, of feeling one way about oneself but being perceived by others as being something else.

In my child’s case, this means identifying with white culture (at least, how it is represented in our household) but being expected to fulfill the stereotypes of Asians by those who don’t know her. Of being nisht ahin, nisht aher, as my grandmother would have put it—neither here nor there—racially, ethnically, culturally. Of enduring continual microaggressions: Being asked where she is from really, who her real parents are, being told she speaks English so well. Being told she is good at math because she’s Chinese. Being mistaken for the other Asian girl in her nursery school class or on her soccer team.

Those of us who, for example, are seen as, and identify as, black, Asian, Latinx or white (let’s not forget, by the way, that Jews, Italians and the Irish were not initially considered white by Americans) and were raised in same-race families, no matter what other issues we may have, don’t live with this dissonance. How exhausting it must be to always have to explain yourself. How invalidating and hurtful.

I can’t have direct experience of what my daughter goes through, but I believe I can, to some extent, not only understand it, but feel it. That is why, at the conference, I was particularly struck by something one of the presenters—black, Native American, Jewish, raised by a white Jewish family—described: a remark that had been made by one of her biologically white sisters: “I don’t feel white.” Growing up with a sister she loved who faced discrimination because she was seen as black, she had internalized some of that sister’s experiences.

It put me in mind of several things: James McBride’s white mother, whom he writes about in The Color of Water, who thoroughly embraced living in a black community; Rachel Dolezal, who, like McBride’s mother, says she feels more connected to black people than white, although Dolezal has been excoriated because she actually claimed to be black; and the recent controversial article by the philosopher Rachel Tuvel about transracialism, in which she refutes objections to the idea of people changing races and argues that people should be able to change their race just as people can change their gender.

The presenter’s white sister, who married a black man, was not claiming to be black, only that she didn’t feel as if she belonged to the race she was perceived to be. This is how the presenter, and many TRAs, feel, because they were not raised in the culture that traditionally coincides with their outward appearance. My daughter knows she is not white, but she feels more white than Chinese. I am not Chinese, but because of my relationship with my daughter I feel a little less white. My guess is that something similar to this occurs to many people in mixed race families.

There have been studies that show how contact between people of different races can reduce prejudice. But what I’m talking about goes deeper than that. It is not merely increased acceptance of others and heightened awareness of discrimination of any kind. It is about how one comes to understand oneself in the context of race. While it may be that people cannot change their race, (and what is the definition of race, anyway?) it is clear that the intimate experience of loving someone of another race can profoundly influence how one thinks about one’s own racial identity. I find that fascinating and extremely hopeful.

Played for Laughs


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.