Category: Latest Thoughts

Some Thoughts About How We Use Facebook

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts7 Comments

Over the last few days I’ve come upon posts on my Facebook Home page written by people who think Facebook has an obligation in terms of what’s expected, what should be posted there, presented along the lines of “I thought Facebook was supposed to be a place to _______!”

At least two commenters complained about political comments, links to related issues; the starting and maintaining of political threads. Someone said said she wanted everyone to shut up about politics and just post “nice stuff,” family pictures, etc. Another even went so far as to denigrate those who discuss and debate cultural issues (referring to the mention of defriending due to racist comments), claiming that Facebook should only be a place for empowering missives, uplifting text, good thoughts, happy, life-affirming links and pictures, etc.

Hmmmmm.

Listen, like anyone else I sometimes get weary of the repetitive political rhetoric, the posting of what feels to be redundant material, screeds that scream across the aisle at each other. (I think I even mentioned stepping out of the arena in terms of this interminable Presidential campaign!) I don’t support calling each other names or baiting, shoving, pushing in that bullyish way that incites rather than inspires (in-your-face anti-Republican, anti-Liberal, anti-fill-in-the-blank sort of stuff fits the category!). There are a few of my friends who could stand to “mix it up” in terms of the tone and subject matter of what they post, certainly, but….

One of the things I LOVE about Facebook – beyond anything Twitter, Pinterest or any other social media has to offer – is the sense of community; the coffee house, the salon, the gathering place for people to get together, share ideas, debate issues; show each other pictures of kids and vacations; spread the word about great shows and art exhibits; argue about politics and culture; encourage each other during illness and sit shiva together; just generally share conversation (longer than 140 characters!), SHARE LIFE. Yes, even sometimes rant about politics! In small towns and neighborhoods this is actually done in person, but in the big, huge neighborhood of the World In Which We Live, Facebook has become that gathering place.

Given that, I, personally, would hate a Facebook filled only with fluff and flowers, just as I would a Facebook co-opted entirely by spouting radicals. I WANT the mix. I want a “coffee house” where I can CHOOSE whether to sit at the table where they’re talking about fabric for quilts, catching us up on the kids, or getting into it over cultural and political issues.

And as it is, Facebook gives us that choice, all of us. We can hides stories we don’t want to read, unsubscribe from posters we don’t appreciate, or – God forbid – defriend those who cross far too many lines to stay. We can write about empowerment or politics and find the crowd that responds to such things. NO ONE is obligated to join – even read – a thread that doesn’t appeal to them, and that’s the beauty of it. We each get to come to this coffee house and experience it as we choose.

I, personally, wouldn’t want it any other way.

LDW w glasses

Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.

I’m Not Hip Enough

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts20 Comments

ldw-pondersI finally figured it out.

I’m not hip enough.

Oh, I’m good enough – and I say that with complete humility because “good enough” by today’s standards is completely relative. And by that I do not mean your relatives think you’re good enough – that’s a given – I mean that in the world of instant reality show stardom, digitally perfected perfection, inexplicable and arbitrary fame, self published/self promoted… well… everything, what, really, is good enough? I have no idea. But I’m pretty sure I’m at least it.

I’m just not hip enough.

I was thinking about Rock+Paper+Music. Ever since I started writing for Huff Po, this blog here, my very own lovingly created, carefully managed and artistically designed forum for “sass and sensibility,” has become the slightly ugly stepsister overshadowed by the behemoth that is Huff Po. I try to find the balance: I keep my Huff Po stuff what is is – analysis and commentary on political, cultural, religious, and artistic issues –  sometimes articles overlap, but this blog is more personal, with more pictures, a warmer tone at times, often about non-famous people I know who should be famous, what my latest familial challenge is, that sorta thing. And despite the fact that I don’t obligate myself to write in just one genre (parenting, writing, photography, etc.), I do create a through-line with my brand of commentary, my voice, so to speak, so it is thematic enough…right?

Oh, hell, it probably isn’t buttonholed enough and that’s probably as unhip as all get-out and the very reason why Rock+Paper+Music remains a smart, thoughtful, but unviraled and slightly flatlined creative endeavor. I want it to be bigger, better, more OUT THERE, but either I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing in terms of proper 2.0 Internet promotion (likely), the title is too benign (I thought it was clever…what do I know?), or it’s too hard to…well…buttonhole. I insisted on taking liberties with the “blogging mandate of buttonholing” and look where it got me: writing about how I’m not hip enough. And saying buttonhole a lot.

This whole stew session was set off by a blog I was made aware of today. People I Want to Punch In the Throat. It was implied by the poster of this blog link that it’s really funny. Or at least the posted article was. I immediately swallowed (with some difficulty) and clicked the link. I will refrain from commenting on the visual (there is none) and only read a bit, trying mostly to find out who “Jen” is (suggested by her bio, which is aptly named “Who is Jen?”), and it turns out the person who came up with this rather aggressive title, Jen, also writes for Huff Po (but, really, there are thousands of us, how hip can that be??), has been interviewed by NPR (shoot…I hardly even listen!), she’s witty, snarky, funny, and says things like, “All of a sudden I’ve got lots of people who want to know who I am.” and “I think the title sums it up. If you can’t figure it out, then go away before I punch you in the throat.” Sheesh. So I did go away…but not because I couldn’t figure it out, more because my visceral reaction to the literary violence of her title made me dizzy with hip-envy, which is really the downfall of a person like me. Because even after exhaustively social-media’ing, cyber bush-beating, virtual stone-unturning, and all my other various marketing ministrations, I lack Jen-like “virality” (I made that up…a play on virility and viral…come ON, that’s kind of hip!!).

Nah. Not really.

I’m so unhip, in fact, that I had an old friend – one I hadn’t spoken to in years but who’s on my mailing list – send me an email in response to a new blog notice with one line: “Please remove me from your mailing list.” No signature; no, “hey, how you doing?” Just that one line. Stunned, I wrote back, “We haven’t spoken in years, odd that your one communication in all that time would be this request.” He wrote back chiding me for “taking it personally,” adding the supposedly assuaging explanation that he “just doesn’t like blogs.” I took him off the list. He’s a pretty hip guy. You do the math.

But let me make this clear right now: I’m not a slacker. I know what’s what and I’ve got myself social media’d all over the place (personal page, Pinterest, LinkedIn, and Twitter) and I work those puppies like nobody’s business (just look at how I active-linked them all!). Maybe that’s the problem…nobody’s making it their business. Well, not nobody, but it can get bleak out there. Let’s take Twitter, for example. Despite my rather articulate, occasionally thought-provoking, sometimes self-promoting, but always 140-character Tweets of substantial pith, I’m pretty much ignored. While everyone’s tripping all over themselves to get “followed” by Benicio del Toro (who was officially on Twitter for all of two or three days) or retweeting some disgusting genital/masturbation reference by one famous actor or another, I’m clearly not high-profile enough for consideration by the Twit-verse. Frankly, they’re a hardy bunch and it’s likely I just can’t keep up. That feed scrolls off the page so fast that I can only presume the people who are constantly present, wit and parrying away, are sitting at a computer 24/7 with nothing better to do than desperately attempt to one-up each other or incite conversation with a Tweeting celebrity. Though Roseanne Barr did retweet one of my tweets once, I can only ride that train for so long. And I’ve now just said “tweet” or “Twitter” more in one paragraph than anyone should.

It could be my age. I don’t make a point of throwing actual numbers around but it’s not hard to extrapolate. In any circle of contemporary hipsters I’d be considered seriously OLD and being considered OLD in the world of the considerably YOUNG is about as effing unhip as you can get. You don’t even have to do stupid shit like wear white stretch pants, say “anywho,” or keep complaining about Facebook Timeline. Despite the inroads made by Betty White and Cher, and despite the fact that we’re all sort of grossed out by the epic damage being wrought on older faces by cosmetic surgery, the fact is, if you don’t know why Kelly Osbourne is feuding with Xtina (or even who Xtina is), who/what is trending on Twitter, or how Vodka and feminine products have become linked (sorry…it is viral), you’re not only OLD, you’re terminally unhip. Which might mean I’m slightly hip for being able to reference any of those things. Probably not.

Basically you’re unhip just by virtue of having lived longer than the much hipper younger people who are now running the world on the sheer heft of their buying, downloading, clicking, viewing, sharing, texting, tweeting, stumbling, or YouTubing. Any hip quotient I could ever possibly muster pales in comparison. Though I have a smart phone and still wear black jeans. Not enough. Not near.

But I get the young thing. I do. It’s a great time of life. I had an amazing experience as a young artist. I did have all that stuff – the slavishly devoted managers and producers, the band members who happily hitched on my ride; good Variety reviews, people who said they’d make me a star, backers and financiers and agents and publicists and fans and all that head-swirling stuff, some version of which our girl Jen is probably reveling in when she isn’t punching someone in the throat. But, truth be told, even when I was young I wasn’t so hip. When an unknown Madonna and I met with the same manager at the same time (she and I didn’t meet at the same time, he was considering us both at the same time…and I was the one there on a recommendation from the legendary Kim Fowley of Runaways fame…how hip was that?!), that manager passed on me, took Madonna, and while I kept singing and writing songs about interracial relationships and the meaning of life, she was dry humping gay dancers and making millions (and, yes, admittedly, recording some great pop songs I dance to even to this day!). She was hip. I was not. Dammit all to hell.

Here’s the thing: when you do what I do – freelance writing, photography, music – and you’re not hip enough – as we’ve established I’m not –  the burden of wrangling all that creative output falls squarely on YOU. You don’t get a manager drooling over your “potential.” People don’t rush the door to get you viral and trending. No one’s setting up conference calls to “discuss the trajectory of your articles.” NPR ignores you. We’ve discussed the Tweeting. Basically you’re on your own. You market and media and bush beat and try not to annoy the shit out of the few people who actually respond to those mass mailings or Facebook links, and hold tight to the notion that you remain worthy despite it all. You write a few articles that do go (sorta) viral and that ticks up your hip quotient for a second, but it’s a “what have you done for me lately?” world out there and you’re Sisyphus; every single article, query letter, photography posting, and attempt to put a band together is a new effort that requires rolling that rock up the hill each and every day.

Rocking and frikkin’ rolling.

Did you ever see The Flight of the Conchords, that hilarious 2007 HBO show with the New Zealand music/comedy duo, Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie? One of the funniest bits on the show was the ubiquitous appearances of their “one fan” (played by the very funny Kristen Schaal), who made it her business to be the very best fan she could be and, since she was their only one, they were grateful for her (most of the time!). Sometimes I feel that way about my small but very loyal group of friends and fans who always take the time to click, leave comments, re-post, pass on, and generally show a little love on a regular basis. Hipness notwithstanding, they are there, a small but mighty group, and what I lack in “virality,” I have – in spades – in some very appreciated loyalty from them. They’re like my “one fan,” though happily more than one. But just a little more! I’m grateful for them.

The truth is, I love what I do…my creativity lends tremendous purpose to my life. It always has, even when I was younger and hipper and not writing about either. But if it appears I’m now too sincere, too earnest; if I’m not snarky enough or funny enough for the times; if I lack cutting enough edge or just the right touch of verbal violence, so be it. I discovered long ago that you not-hip-enoughhave to be who you are, who you truly are, and if that doesn’t bring them to their feet, again, so be it. To feign something or attempt to be someone else just to match the zeitgeist in hopes of greater acceptance or more success is pure folly. It never works. You always get found out. Look at Milli Vanilli.

So as Popeye would say, I am what I am. Thank you to those who get me. I love you guys, I really do. Which is a long way from wanting to punch someone in the throat.

Yep…definitely not hip enough.

LDW w glasses

Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.

Rape Jokes. Yeah…Hilarious.

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts10 Comments

I didn’t see or hear about it until Martha Plimpton’s Tweets in response to the story made news. Apparently shock comedian and Comedy Central golden boy, Daniel Tosh, went on a tear about rape at a live show and a woman in the audience took offense. After she made comment from the audience, Tosh went on, no doubt with his ever-present smug grin, to respond: “Wouldn’t it be funny if that girl got raped by, like, 5 guys right now? Like right now? What if a bunch of guys just raped her?”

Hilarious, right?

As you can imagine, a few took offense.

But as culture is wont to do, righteous offense is followed by justifications and pontifications and a follow-up opinion piece in the Huffington Post by blogger and media mogul, Chez Pazienza, Daniel Tosh vs. The Age of Outrage, took up Tosh’s cause, shaking a finger not only at the offended woman (who had a writer compadre take to the Net to express her outrage), but at the panty-waisted Culture At Large which is clearly too thin-skinned and pussified to get the importance and hilarity of this cutting edge humor:

“Comics stand as the vanguard of our right to free speech — the canary in the coal mine, so to speak. They’re the ones we count on to be able to push the envelope, challenge our sensibilities, even offend us occasionally because it’s necessary for us as a culture.”

Right.

Chez, this may have been true in the days of Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, and Sinbad, to name just a few of our best comedic canaries, but in 2012, when anyone with a mouth, a keyboard, and a video camera can blather any sort of “humor” online or cable, the noble duty of which you speak has long since been washed away in the tsunami of cultural evolution (devolution?).

Comedians are not only NOT necessary to “challenge our sensibilities,” they, in fact, rarely do these days. Anyone who’s been around smart-ass teenage boys has heard it all already. Instead of cutting satire and true wit, now we get Jackass movies, endless vagina and/or penis chatter, lots of trash talk about smacking bitches, and, of course, the always “sensibility-challenging” rape jokes.

Too many comedians, male and a few females, are caught in the over-saturation found in every form of art these days and, as a result, are frantically treading water to stay anywhere near the top. With the interminable competition of Twitter, YouTube, Facebook, StumbleUpon, etc., they appear desperate to one-up themselves, other comedians, and anyone else in view, by raising (lowering?) the bar on sophomoric potty-mouthing and “look at me I’m being offensive” kind of humor. Just check out any number of well-known comics on Twitter who can’t wait to regale us with discussions of bodily fluids, masturbation techniques, and perceptions of known or unknown genitals…always hilarious. The overreaching has become banal and predictable; the transparency in their effort to be the grossest, most scatological, most disgusting and, certainly, most offensive, has set up a race to…what? What finish line are we going for these days? What will be outrageous enough? Comedy porn? Hilarious snuff films? Reenactments of actual rapes?

Daniel Tosh, like many other contemporary comedians, has built his style to appeal to sniggering teenage boys and men young enough to have missed the heyday of Howard Stern. His humor is goofy, in-your-face, and over-the-top, delivered with an imperturbable smirk and knowing wink. Sometimes he’s truly funny, sometimes he’s not; often he’s intentionally offensive and the boys and their preening girlfriends guffaw and giggle regardless. It’s the mode of the day. We’re in the Age of Shock and Snark.

But despite Mr. Pazienza’s delusional assertion that all this offensiveness is good for the cultural soul, it’s more likely contributing to its coarsening; scraping off layers of social decorum, societal empathy, and even a higher standard of humor and intellect, leaving raw the rankest, most loathsome elements of humanity easily found in the humor-couched hate-speak and verbal violence spewed by commenters everywhere.

Good humor does and always has played a vital role in pricking consciousness, picking scabs, and shining light in darker corners of humanity, but gleefully poking sticks at the snakes of offense for no reason other than the satisfaction of a bite back takes no great wit or wisdom. Hollering from the stage about how funny it would be for an offended audience member to get raped by five guys may be a knee-jerk reaction to heckling or a calculated move to get lots of buzzy attention but, either way, it’s unimpressive humor. You can get anyone’s attention by smacking them across the face; that doesn’t mean you’re clever, cutting edge or, God forbid, funny. It means you’re a lazy comedian.

Rape. Yeah. Hilarious.

LDW w glasses

Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.

The Art of Art Discussion: Just Quiet Down and Go Create

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts24 Comments

We all need a break now and again from the day-to-day work that holds our focus. Like the vaunted “15-minutes” regular office workers get to stroll into the cafeteria for java and a Danish, we freelancers take our moments, too; often to hop online for a little social media refreshment. I’m as guilty as anyone; there are days when serious-conversation_smmeeting a deadline, finishing a project, getting errands done, or managing my ever-growing list of marketing tasks all require the interruption of some light trolling on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Huff Po, Fine Art America or any of the groups and discussions one might find here or there. And when I do, I’m typically compelled, by virtue of senses stirred, to jump in. Sometimes it’s just clicks on photos and links I enjoy but, equally as often, the urge for rejoinder is strong. It’s hard for me to read inane chatter, mean-spirited comments, or truly debatable topics without wanting to throw in my two cents!

Certainly political postings corral the lion’s share of this type of response, but more recently I’ve read or partaken in “art discussions” — analysis and deconstruction of style and technique, contest decorum, commerce demands, etc. —  and, much like politics, the tendency for some to veer into cynicism, negativity, and arrogance is apparent. And disappointing.

Like anything else on the Internet, Art is a big topic. Go to any art-oriented site – photography, painting, jewelry design, graphic art, whatever –  and you’ll find opinions on every aspect and angle. And in those discussions, you’ll meet as many wonderful artists as you will curmudgeons, which, frankly, I find surprising. I don’t know why, but I always expect artists to be more uplifting and good-spirited than they often are.

See, I was lucky to have been given a constructive and very positive foundation in my training. My experiences in a wide variety of “the arts” included an overriding message of support, assistance, camaraderie, and the sheer joy of the craft. Certainly there were those who took opportunity for snarky critique, behind-the-back denigrations, sniffing arrogance, or bashing disguised as instruction, but I was fortunate that most of the teachers, professors, mentors, and fellow artists involved in my impressionable youth exuded their own joy in the craft and that imprinted upon me a higher-toned mission statement; one of constructive input, positive output, and personal and communal artistic integrity. Or, as is suggested in this age of The Secret and The Power of Positive Thinking, a “half-full perspective bereft of the toxic effect of negativity.”

talking

“Either love it or do something else,” I was advised. I was also reminded of the old adage, “If you haven’t got something nice to say, don’t say anything.” Which, unless you’re a bona fide reviewer, opinion writer, or comedian, applies to pretty much everyone else.

So it’s jarring for me to read threads in which artists snipe at each other, knock down the work of others; become “authorities” about what is or isn’t Art (as if they, in particular, know!), criticize and demean the marketing choices of fellow artists, or denigrate any aspect of the industry – art or commerce –  that they, personally, don’t appreciate or wish to partake of. These are the kind of people who find fault and spew criticism, whose toxic brew of negativity was what a mentor of mine used to call “sour-pussing.” Glass half-empty. Discordant. Contrary.

For example; at Fine Art America, the very well managed site that provides hosting, printing and delivery of fine art photography and paintings – and a place where I’ve met a slew of very talented, supportive artists who are smart, enjoyable people – there is a contingent (likely too large a one) that “sour-pusses” on a regular basis. A discussion thread commenced recently regarding the winner of a now-concluded “Times Square Art Contest.” The woman who started the thread posited her prompt with a tsunami of criticism; of the winning piece, the artist, the contest, the overall marketing demands of the art world, concluding with a cranky assessment of “the whole thing.” (Frankly, I wanted to get her a juice box and tell her to take a nap!) But, more disappointingly, what followed this diatribe was a slew of commiserating comments, supporting her thesis to some degree or another. Lots of judgment of other artists’ work, denunciations of the overall state of the industry, snarky rejoinders about contests that “demean” artists into “begging” for votes, right down to a nihilistic grump-fest that included the statements, “There will be artists as long as there is society, but that too is coming to an abrupt halt. America is going under as we speak, and the rest will follow in quick order,” and the exceedingly grim “THERE IS NO FUTURE to ART. Humanity is much more interested in Ipods and marching blindfolded into the future. We are the last artists on this planet.”

All I could think was…WTF?!?

I shook my head as I read this manifesto of negativity, wondering how these people got out of bed, much less found the energy and inspiration necessary to create art. Luckily there were a few bright individuals who spoke up to shoot down the negative trend and did so with enough intelligence, optimism, and artistic good-will to offset, to the degree they could, the snarling hordes but, I have to say, I was disappointed that so many seemed hell-bent on ripping Art, and its artists, a new one! I was tempted to leap in and make my points, but realized, with some weariness, that the thread leader was jumping on every response with her continuing brand of snark and snarl and it was just too nice a day to get involved in that level of crankiness…though I did send an email to the most cogent and wise of her debaters, thanking him for his insight!

While I agree that we all have “the right to our opinions,” as Debbie Downer repeatedly pointed out, too many seem to have missed the lessons of integrity, constructive thinking, artistic magnanimity, and a positive, supportive outlook. Clearly Art has long had a history of creative personalities who were churlish and mean-spirited; many who were (are?) burdened with insecurities, jealousies, schadenfreude, and plain old nastiness, but in the communal world of online art exchange and discussion, there really is no room or reason for all that.

But people are who they are; I can’t change them. The woman running that thread is clearly a person with many other issues in her life that contribute to the attitudes she exudes online. But while I feel sorry for her (and certainly anyone in her near circle!), I ain’t gonna debate her. Because I reserve my perspective, my thoughtfulness; my contribution, for conversations that are constructive and focused on offering views and opinions that transmit something positive and helpful, rather than the banal, deflating, blather-fest of negativity I found on that thread.

stepping-into-the-plaza

My suggestion to that crowd? Stop talking and go create. If you have that much time to spend tearing down others in a community setting, go make another piece of art instead. Rather than getting some kind of buzz out of stirring up mutual frustration to feed your own, shut off your computer and pick up a brush or a camera. Don’t worry about what others are creating, just create. Quit expounding on what you think is stupid and create. Don’t announce what you won’t do, just do what you will do. If you don’t have the desire to be in a contest, don’t; but don’t cut down others who do. Don’t want to ask people to vote for your work? Again, don’t. But quit yacking about others who have no problem garnering support for theirs. And if someone wins a damn prize, offer congratulations and accept that even if “it’s not really creative” to you, it clearly is to someone else…enough that they won! And if you don’t have it in you to congratulate them…

Just quiet down.

Stop talking.

And go create.

All photographs by Lorraine Devon Wilke

LDW w glasses

Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.

In the Image of a Father

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts6 Comments

  Noble fathers have noble children. ~ Euripides

I was not initially hitched to the Mad Men bandwagon as it hurled its way to phenomenon status; I missed the kick-off and never jumped on. But once the media analyses and water-cooler accolades became so hyperbolic as to raise the show to “Breathlessly Zeitgeisty Must-See TV,” I knew I had to get with the program; it’s bad enough I never watched an episode of Survivor!

So I’ve been Netflixing the series and, I have to say, it is a fascinating snapshot of a historical time teetering on the brink of explosion. It well depicts the era’s style and panache (now called “mid century”), and paints a clever and sometimes unsettling anthropological thumbnail of human nature at a point when society was remarkably different. While it focuses mainly on only one or two class sub-sets, it does a good job of breathing life into the anachronistic “swells” and “dolls” of the jargon, the girdles and slicked back hair, and the propensity for unrestrained smoking and drinking (after watching several episodes I felt both asthmatic and buzzed!). But what it illustrates most pointedly is the distance we’ve come in our gender politics.

my-boys

I was a child during those years and though aware of the more superficial elements, was clueless to the nuances and expectations in the roles of men and women in how they related to each other and certainly as parents. It’s one of the truer clichés of the time that “women’s work” was mostly defined as homemaker, house cleaner (unless affluent enough to afford “help”), and primary parent. Despite the Madison Avenue secretaries and the exceptional women who worked their way up toward the glass ceiling (ala Mad Men’s Peggy Olson), most women carried the weight of child raising and Dads would show up after cocktails to give big hugs, have dinner, then go off to do “man” things while Mom put the kids to bed. Fathers were loving and involved in their way, but the extent to which they were hands-on was minimal. And while certainly there are still fathers operating from the antiquated paradigm of Don Draper, they’re a different breed these days, the product of an evolving and equalizing culture.

Our views of motherhood have remained fairly constant; it’s the role of “father” that has fluctuated and changed with the times. Men’s life expectancy is still up to six years shorter than women’s so, to put it bluntly, Daddies die sooner. While more women work outside the home than ever before, men still rely on them to take the larger role in parenting, meaning Dad’s intimacy and influence with his children is commensurately less. Some family compositions simply transcend without a traditional father: post-divorce custodial mothers, families with deceased fathers, single mothers who never married, same sex mothers, etc. Statistics show that these families can thrive and be remarkably “whole” and functioning without a male figure, so the question remains: How essential is a father these days?

tom-benIn families that have them? Very essential. It’s not whether a family can survive without a father – it can, that is well documented. It’s whether a family that has a father has one that is fully present, involved, and contributing in the most effective ways possible for a child’s best shot at success.

Scores of books and studies have dissected, analyzed and deconstructed the role and there is likely not one man on this earth who doesn’t have at least some notion of the task based on his own experience as a child. Typically a man either admires the parenting he received and mimics it, or abhors his father’s choices and becomes determined to make better ones. Which gets right to the point.

Modeling. A father is the first male role model a child has. In most families the father is the BIGGEST, most influential authority figure to first set boundaries, examples, and expectations. Through him a boy conjures his first idea of a man, picking up the nuances, proclivities and emotional expressions he will emulate in his own version of the role. In a father, a girl sees All Men – at least in the early years. She learns what to expect from other men by virtue of how her father treats her (and her mother). Through him, she sets her bar for the level of respect she’ll require, the honor she’ll demand, the self-confidence she’ll exude, and the aspirations she’ll pursue.

It’s a big responsibility, no doubt about it. We have come a long way from the Mad Men who saw their children as so many props, but new eras bring new problems and in a world where too many young men advance into adulthood needing anger management skills, a better understanding of how to be strong without being a bully, and a clearer sense of the purpose of honor and integrity, a father’s work is cut out for him. When a daughter sublimates herself in her relationships with men, loses her sense of confidence in the face of career adversity, or can’t determine how strong a woman to be without losing appeal, she clearly needs wise fathering to help reconstruct her perspective.

There are as many ways to be a good father as there are fathers and this is not to say a mother is any less important to the outcome of a child. I used to find it difficult to find father themed gift but thanks to the internet and sites like gearhungry.com, father’s day is no sweat! But a father’s role is unique, specific, and very powerful. As we celebrate Father’s Day, it merits mention, as Euripides stated, that “noble fathers have noble children.” So wear that well, Dad, celebrate your nobility. Embrace your role and never forget you hold center stage – and always will – in the eyes of the children celebrating this day with you.

A very Happy Father’s Day to all the “noble fathers” in my life.

fatherdaughter

LDW w glasses

Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.

The Real Healthcare Reform is YOU

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts14 Comments

I was happily ensconced at a local dog park, frolicking with my Golden while chatting with a fellow dog owner about the joys of off-leash play, when somehow the conversation veered perilously into politics (some linkage between off-leash and government intervention perhaps?), and before I could scream “Switzerland!” and run, I was regaled with the horrors of “socialistic” healthcare reforms and how truly heinous it was for the government “to demand we pay for freeloaders who won’t take responsibility for their damn selves!”

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Walking in the Wind…urban exercise.

Deep sigh.

I make it a policy to never ruin a perfectly good afternoon arguing very imperfect politics (I also avoid sex and religion…not the act – well, at least with sex – but the conversations…oh, you know what I mean!) so I made some benign comment about “yep, it’s a big topic” and hightailed it out of there, wondering why it’s not more obvious that we already are paying for the uninsured when they end up in county hospitals and ERs. And, frankly, I doubt if most uninsureds actually won’t take responsibility for themselves; likely it’s a matter of not being able to afford to. And while we’re at it, what’s with the “socialistic” slam? When Mutual Of Omaha Medicare, one of the biggest and most beloved government insurance programs, and Social Security – the other one – are entitlements as ingrained as life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, let’s not pretend this other form of government insurance deserves that incendiary and misguided label.

Well now, look at me; I’m arguing with the guy anyway!

But as the Supreme Court ponders, politicians debate, pundits scream and yell as they are wont to do, let’s us little folk do some thinking about Healthcare Reform ourselves (oh, calm down, this won’t hurt). And I don’t mean the pros and cons of what should be covered, who should provide coverage, and how much the government should be involved. That would take far longer than I’ve got here and it’s not my point anyway. What I want to talk about is healthcare reform as it relates to how we take care of our own health.

As I’ve gotten older and, like everyone else on this earth, have had to adjust to a changing body, new issues that come with new decades, and the general reinvention of how I continue to be me while making those adjustments, I’ve noticed many in my circle, male and female alike, dropping ever so slowly out of vibrant life. Many are overweight, quite a few are plagued with chronic pain issues (arthritis, old injuries, etc.), some have developed drinking and/or drug problems (typically more pharmaceutical, at this point, than recreational), and most defer to these physical limitations to avoid the gym, a good hike, or even a walk if it involves more than a few blocks. Bad eating habits are rampant (and suggestions for better ones ignored or dismissed), the smokers have all but abandoned the idea of quitting (“I’ve lived this long as a smoker, what’s the point now?”), and the acceptance of age-related meds (blood pressure, cholesterol, diabetes, etc.) is unquestioned. I actually had a friend explain to me his recipe for aging: “I just tell myself: I’m getting older, nothin’ I can do about it, I am going to get sick and fall apart, so I just expect it and then it doesn’t bother me when it happens.” Now there’s an interesting twist on “positive thinking.”

Don’t get me wrong; there’s no health smugness here. I understand that some issues are unavoidable by virtue of DNA, random illness, and immune system quirks. We are human, after all, and no matter how stoic or proactive, we’re going to sick from time to time, have accidents, get older (which usually does involve more option for infirmity), and, yes, dammit, even die some day (I know, good morning to you too!). But how about we do everything that is in our control to be as fit and healthy as possible until we get to that inevitable end?

There is so much information out there about how to hedge your health bets that no one can honestly cry ignorance. And let’s not forget the value of mindset; the way we frame our view of health, our own in particular. A suggestion? Don’t accept that by virtue of age you just have to be on every med known to man. Don’t accept that you will get what everyone else is getting when “something’s going around.” Don’t buy into the notion that you can’t improve habits, get fit, lower your blood pressure, or rebuild your stamina. Much of this is in your control. I’ve watched it happen, many times. Most recently a neighbor of mine (a man in his 60s) who was teetering towards diabetes, medicated for chronic high blood pressure, and significantly overweight, took his health into his own hands and lost the weight, upped his regular exercise, changed his eating habits, and succeeded in getting himself off all meds and the list of diabetes candidates.

That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is healthcare reform!

But back to medical insurance for a moment: When I turned 50 my One Sure Insurance premium skyrocketed beyond belief because, my insurance representative explained, most people in my decade begin tapping into the pool in greater and more expensive numbers for a variety of reasons. She mentioned obesity as a national epidemic, one that’s costing insurers even more than smoking related illnesses and, more ominously, in increasing numbers as smoking statistics decrease (Obese Workers vs Smokers – Who Costs Your Healthplan More?). And beyond the big ticket items of obesity and smoking, she listed significant increases in other “lifestyle” illnesses past 50; those brought on by “bad habits” such as lack of exercise, alcoholism, unhealthful eating, and general health apathy. I shook my head and thought, WTF, at 50??! We abdicate our involvement in our own good health that early in life? And to add insult to gloomy injury, it appears it doesn’t matter how proactive, preventive, or healthy I may be, I’m stuck paying more for my insurance and healthcare because others in my age bracket – insured others, mind you – DO NOT TAKE BETTER CARE OF THEMSELVES.

That’s enough to make a person sick…to their stomach.

So while all this yelping is going on about the “selfish folk who take no responsibility and expect government to pony up for their healthcare,” I’m a little peeved at those who actually have insurance but don’t take responsibility to do everything they can to stay as healthy as possible. The costs of their health issues brought on by those aforementioned “lifestyle choices” contributes more to rising insurance and medical costs than any current reforms on the table.

How about this: let’s put the government, partisanship, and frothing ignorance aside for a moment and put insurance in its rightful place: it’s important to have for preventive care, in case of emergencies, and certainly when we need treatment or medical intervention. But for most it’s the second line of defense. The first? A persistently healthful lifestyle on a day-to-day basis. It won’t solve or prevent every problem, and surely we can’t minimize or ignore the impact of major diseases that can afflict even the most healthy, but beyond fate and DNA…just try it. A persistently healthful lifestyle on a day-to-day basis. You will see your doctor less, I guarantee, and, as a bonus, with growing numbers of the “healthier aging,” both medical and insurance costs, your and mine, will decrease, no matter what decade we’re in.

“Healthcare reform,” in our own hands and available to EVERYONE. I, for one, would be most grateful if you’d give it a try.

Photograph by Lorraine Devon Wilke 

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Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.

Is There a War on Mother’s Day?

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts4 Comments

Mother’s Day has long been a holiday that required no PC posturing, no concerns about what to call it, how to celebrate it, or who might get hurt or offended by it. Up till now there’s been no “war” declared, no confusion about who gets to partake; even the food shared on this day has no particular tradition or agenda. As it should be. It’s an inclusive holiday; we all have mothers, most of us hold them dear, and the notion of honoring the “one who brought us life” typically engenders some measure of warmth from everyone. Bring on the brunches! 

But as I’ve gotten older I’ve noticed a growing sensitivity toward all the unabashed “mother” hoopla. In this life and time of choice — of women putting off families while careers gestate, of couples making decisions not to procreate at all, of older women finding pregnancy more elusive or fruition sometimes impossible — the matter of celebrating motherhood necessitates some nuance. While, certainly, most of us can gather to celebrate our own mothers without concern, what about those whose perspective on being a parent is either bereft of experience or desire? Is greater sensitivity needed in those circumstances?

Let’s start with those who wanted children but couldn’t have them for one reason or another. CBCs, childless by circumstance. I have several people in my life who fall into this category and it’s a tender and sometimes sensitive one. The CBC will cheer, bring muffins to brunch, and spend oodles of time with the kids with nary a complaint, but when mimosas are mixed and glasses are raised “to motherhood,” a shadow of pain crosses those eyes and you can’t help but realize Mother’s Day has a bittersweet and confusing edge for some.

I have a friend who married in her early-thirties while building a successful career and when she crossed the mid-decade mark, decided it was time to start a family. What was expected to be a simple matter of “getting pregnant and having a baby” turned into a several year, very expensive, and emotionally draining project with fertility specialists, repeated inseminations, two miscarriages and even the temporary separation from her husband when the stress caused a wedge they couldn’t overcome. They ultimately got back together and are in the early stages of exploration with adoption but, as she wistfully stated, “We really wanted one of our own.” When Mother’s Day rolls around each year, she sends flowers to her out-of-state mom, avoids all brunch-centric restaurants, and hunkers down in a Cineplex to watch enough action-adventure movies to get through the day without bursting into tears.

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Then there’s the childless-by-choice people (CBCP), a hearty bunch with clear minds and no regrets about eschewing the parent track. They love kids, enjoy being around them; are close with nieces, nephews, Godchildren and mentored youngsters, but they had/have no desire to make any themselves. Being social people, however, they willingly spend time with family and friends who do have children and this is where things can get sticky…hands and otherwise. They’re typically outnumbered by PWK (People With Kids) and because the majority steers the theme, the theme usually comes with all manner of happy, messy, usually very loud kids, moms chirping about schools, playgrounds and the most gifted pre-schooler, and distracted parents of either gender who can’t finish a sentence for the flickering of eyes as they follow their little rambunctians (yes, I made that up) around the yard. For even the most patient, most interested CBCP, this frivolity has its limits. They’re supportive, loving, and tolerant but, frankly, they’re not in the club and the jargon and kid-centric focus can hold interest for only so long, like listening to computer geeks discuss HTML.

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But MOTHERHOOD (there’s nothing lower case about it) is all encompassing. I know. I’ve been there. And when you’re there, there’s nothing more interesting, more engaging, more emotionally fascinating than not only being a mother, but talking about it. Except to CBCPs, who can find their good sportsmanship wearing thin after the second hour of sand play and string cheese. We’ve seen the glazed eyes and restless leg tapping as childless friends edge toward the door with excuses of meeting “colleagues” at the Formosa for drinks and adult chatter. We know because we used to be them. We sometimes wish we still were. But now we’re wiping snot off the noses of children we don’t even know and, oddly, we’re always the ones with the Kleenex.

Mother’s Day was easier when we were younger; at that point our own parenthood was far enough ahead that categories weren’t yet clear. We could happily make calls and send cards to our own Moms, toast till we were tipsy, and no one had to dab eyes or prevent rolling them. We didn’t have a parental status to talk about so we didn’t have to avoid it. Mother’s Day was simply a day to celebrate our moms. As it still is, with just a little more complication.

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According to one friend and hostess, Mother’s Day has become, like so many other holidays, a confused, PC sensitive event rife with wrong turns. “There is a War on Mothers’ Day!!” she declared. “It’s gotten to the point where I want to send out surveys before I invite anyone to brunch! I mean, come on! Let’s either celebrate it or not but we can’t be held responsible for triggering CBCs (she liked my acronyms) or annoying the crap out of CBCPs. I feel for them but whatever they’re going through is their issue. Everybody had a damn mother, how about we just celebrate that?” She’s an excitable sort.

And while I reject the overused war vernacular, I agree with the notion of not losing the holiday to hyper-concern. Sensitivity, certainly, but not war. Making a Mothers’ Day toast in mixed company does require a little forethought and it can’t hurt to limit the poetry to: “Here’s to you, Mom; you’re the best!” or “To all the mothers in the room, cheers!” Probably wise, however, to avoid, “And to motherhood, which is a woman’s greatest gift and most satisfying role!” For your cousin still mourning her second miscarriage, it’s likely cutting; for your friend who decided not to have children, condescending.

So let’s make this clear: there is no war, just consideration. Celebrate the matriarchs in your circle with every bell and whistle at hand, but keep the rhetoric sensitive. We can all find reason to celebrate LIFE…and that, after all, is what motherhood is all about.

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Happy Mother’s Day!

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Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.

The Night They Burned My City Down: Remembering the LA Riots

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts8 Comments

It started 20 years ago today. The first time in my life I’d experienced a sense of true anarchy and danger, the safety of our families and homes left completely in our own hands as the police seemed to evaporate into the shadows. It was just days away from the birth of my son and to feel such vulnerability at that very vulnerable time was profoundly unsettling. For a girl from a Midwest farm town who had, heretofore, lived a protected existence even in the feistier environs of Los Angeles (my 80’s era gang-infested Argyle Avenue neighborhood notwithstanding!), this was a stunning turn of events. As my husband and I watched the advancing columns of smoke, the marauders making their way from points south toward Hollywood and beyond — burning, looting and killing along the way — it became cold-water clear that we were in the crosshairs and there was no one to call.

I looked at my husband with trepidation and said, “We live in a Hollywood Hills Tudor — albeit a shabby one — and they won’t know we’re renters!” See, word had spread that the pack was headed north with intentions to “Molotov” the homes of “rich white people,” and while we qualified for two out of those three defining features, it was unlikely any distinction would be made for our modest bank balance. My husband pulled his old hunting rifle down from the garage shelf, the only gun in our possession, and we kept vigil at the windows while neighbors gathered to stand watch over the only way in to our little cul-de-sac. We survived that night and it was in the days to come that we discovered they’d burned within just blocks of our neighborhood.

As someone with my own tale of police brutality (Loudly Against the Language of Racism), I’d felt particular pangs while watching the infamous George Holliday video of Rodney King’s beating and, subsequently, paid close attention to the trial, emotionally invested in its outcome. It was impossible to believe the four accused cops would not be convicted of at least some charge of brutality, and the justice being called for felt valid and assured. The date was April 29, 1992, it was a beautiful spring day and from the top of our neighborhood we could see the trees blooming throughout the hills all the way to downtown LA. I felt such a rush of affection for my beautiful city, a sense of community and goodwill. Maybe it was just hopeful hormones, but I wanted to believe the place of my son’s birth could fulfill the sense of the peace and beauty it exhibited that day. I don’t remember having the TV on at the time but somehow I became aware that the King verdict was in and called my husband to join me to watch the news report. We sat on the couch waiting for what we felt would be an inevitable conviction and when it was announced that all four defendants had been exonerated without charge, we looked at each other, stunned, and both of us acknowledged: “This is not going to be good.” And it wasn’t.

The tipping point was palpable, no doubt similar to the one felt prior to the Watts Riots of 1965, and the ramp-up was one of many rough years. Los Angeles had endured a particularly corrupt era of policing during the 80’s (when my particular story happened), one that would metastasize over two decades until it finally exploded into The Rampart Scandal in 1997. But until they named it, until it was on the radar, it was all Police Gone Wild on a daily basis: racial harassment, illegal arrests, false accusations, trumped up evidence, and vicious beatings that were not caught by any camera. The subsequent rage was deep and real but it was tamped down by the fear of crushing consequences, the fear that regardless of truth, these rogue cops, powerful and so entrenched in the systemic corruption of the department at the time, would have no compunction about destroying lives to get a collar. While surely there were good, honest cops somewhere in that mix, they, apparently, weren’t the ones patrolling the mean streets…that nefarious group ran things like it was the Dark Ages, clearly with the alliance of the controversial and inflammatory Police Chief at that time, Daryl Gates.

Given that prelude, imagine the sense of vindication when some hapless videographer actually caught an incident that mirrored what so many others had experienced with no one watching! It ripped both the lid and the scab off and response from the beleaguered inner city communities most impacted was loud, as was the outrage from those who were horrified by this exposé of blatant corruption and violence. As shocking as that video was, it paradoxically incited some hope, hope that for once the justice system would look beyond race and rap sheets to see the immorality of the act and judge accordingly. But that didn’t happen…and all hell broke lose.

On that seminal day after the verdict, we watched, in unedited real time, as white trucker Reginald Denny was pulled from his truck and beaten mercilessly. I screamed at the TV, “Where the _____ are the cops??!” while unfettered thugs circled and almost killed a man on live TV. Good Samaritans saved Denny’s life, as well as those of several others caught in the melee, but the cops seemed to have disappeared in those first incendiary hours. It was mayhem in its purest form and it spread like wildfire.

We were lucky to get through that night unscathed, unlike countless others, and while the worst of it was over the first three days, the official “riot schedule” ran for six. Six days of madness. Once the authorities found their footing (balls?) and the police were back in control, curfews were set and fiercely enforced. I remember being terrified that I would go into labor at an unwieldy hour and find myself handcuffed along the freeway while hightailing it to the hospital in Santa Monica! As it was, my son was born May 9th, five days after it was over, and even then we discovered completely empty streets as we drove from Hollywood westward, eerie and post-apocalyptic, particularly as you traversed smoking neighborhoods that looked as though War had paid a visit. It had.

Much debate followed, most of it deeply heated, about why, how and what to call it. Some stuck with “riots,” others demanded the more redemptive “civil unrest”; I waffled between the two. There was no denying the racial component of what had happened, the civil rights trigger to the event, but the riots were hardly reserved for righteous anger. There was far too much footage of people of every race and color grinning at the cameras as they looted stores with bold-faced impunity, shopping carts en tow to transport loads of ill-gotten goods. The larger message of necessary reform and the rejection of racism was abundantly pertinent, but so was the horror and rage felt at the, mostly, young men in wolf-packs responsible for the deaths of 52 people and massive damage to innocent shopkeepers, home owners and commercial districts. It was excused by many as an unavoidable response to bottled-up rage, an inevitable reaction to long-running social ills, but while this was true for some, and certainly a major component at the inciting moment of the verdict, the ensuing days of death, injury, looting and continued destruction stepped way beyond the bounds and muddied the message. The incessant media coverage, in fact, allowed us to witness both the best and worst of those involved, the most compelling contrast found between Damian “Football” Williams and his soulless and sociopathic beating of Reginald Denny, juxtaposed against Denny’s noble rescuer, Bobby Green, Jr., who hoisted the critically wounded man into his truck and rushed him to the hospital through burning streets and danger to himself. Both men of color, Williams and Green, they embodied the deeply conflicted feelings that permeated the event.

I woke up the morning it was all over and looked down at my smoking city feeling such loss; loss of community, loss of common purpose and any measure of acceptance and coexistence amongst our diverse population. The city awoke, too, relieved to be alive but every bone battered and broken. And the wounds were deep. The animosity between Blacks and Koreans, in particular, was brought into full relief, uncovering a deep chasm of distrust and hate that continues today in many communities. Beautiful neighborhoods were destroyed, blighted ones as well. Countless restaurants and retail stores, including the venerable Samy’s Camera, went up in smoke. Street after street of both residential and commercial districts were so knocked down, some have not come up to this day. Many people lost their businesses, never to rebuild, while others faced crushing financial burdens to reemerge. In fact, over one billion dollars of property damage was assessed after all was said and one.

But the human toll was most egregious.  Over 2500 injuries, some severe, and, most horrifically, 53 people lost their lives.

The LA Weekly has a good piece out, Then & Now: Images from the Same Spot as the LA Riots, 20 Years Later, which offers details and compelling comparative photos of neighborhoods and places, then and now. It’s both education and hopeful.  Wikipedia’s 1992 Los Angeles Riots page does a good job of laying out the timeline and naming the players. There are countless other articles; it’s a big story that will be analyzed and dissected throughout history.

My personal view is through the prism of my son’s birth (always to be connected to the event), my husband’s protectiveness; the coming together of people and neighborhoods in solidarity and defense, and the sad dispelling of hope about racial harmony in our city, at least then; is it better now? Los Angeles is a complex and beautiful metropolis that encompasses a staggering diversity of people, places, and beliefs. Civil unrest seems never too far from the radar, as hate and bigotry continue to brew in certain lower contingents of mankind, here and everywhere, but hope recovers and remains. Hope that we have more compassion for each other, hope that our police department has excised its bad apples. We’ve found unexpected outlets for our anger (can you imagine Twitter and Facebook after the Rodney King tape was revealed?!), we have effective forums and legal recourse in which to properly expose corruption and discrimination, and hopefully we’ve recovered with a sharp, unvarnished awareness that turning a blind eye to any injustice will surely destroy our vision.

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Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.

There’s Cake In My Future & other Birthday Dreams

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts14 Comments

The buzz starts early, almost before you’re fully awake. That sense of excitement, anticipation; the knowledge that the day dawning is your day, yours alone, and it’s going to be grand.

Birthdays. The most wonderful day of the year for children, so excited to be that one year older. Proud of it, flashing the adjusted number of fingers, eager to announce to the world that, “I’m free!!” as if turning three on that particular day is the greatest feat to possibly be achieved.

Because it is. It means you’re closer to being BIG (remember when getting big was all the rage??). And it comes with all the hoopla of celebration: cake, candles, gifts, parties, everyone paying attention to you in a way they don’t on any other day of the year. You get to check out and look whats cool with all the new toys, with the small chance of getting something you like. We love our birthdays; they’re ours and ours alone and nothing can ever change that.

Except having LOTS of them. Yeah. Lotsa birthdays. Becomes a tad less “whoo hoo” after a while, this adjusted number thing, a little less exuberant. Oh sure, “better than the alternative” remains the go-to assuagement but, really, how joyful is that reminder? Face it, you’re getting older. You’re talking about gluten, befuddled by your phone, complaining every time Facebook changes its template. You’re….older.

And those decade-change birthdays, my God, let’s talk about those!! Those “big ones.” When you’re younger, those are joyfully plate-shifting birthdays. My son is turning 20 this next birthday (seriously??) and we all remember the stellar coolness of, finally, being out of our teens…very exciting. For me, turning 30 was still cool. It came with a sense that I was actually a grown-up. I took to blithely announcing it to everyone at the bar where I was working at the time, ready to wrap the mantle of adulthood firmly round my very padded shoulders. But in a surely-soon-to-be-famous band at the time, I was sternly admonished by my boyfriend/band leader to keep that damn number to myself; reminded that being 30 and still on the ramp-up to a record deal was not even remotely cool. I quieted down but remained secretly thrilled by the whole thing.

Until 40. Turning 40 was a turning point, literally. You know how you go in on those commercial auditions and you have to fill out that form? The one that – though by law can’t ask your age – does require that you put yourself in an age bracket:  -40 or +40. What could be more obvious? You had to “out” yourself, admit you were either worthy of consideration for the young mother hawking soap or age yourself out of the running altogether. I always marked -40 because I did, at the time, appear to be so, but that distinction made clear the Rubicon one was crossing at that particular decade in the acting world and, at the time, it made me shudder.

But what candle could that hold to the Bizarro World of the Fifth Decade. Now there’s a club I still, to this day, cannot fathom being a member of. Seriously, I mean it, how did that happen? Fifties is when you start wearing dance pants from Lane Bryant and those fun, flowery tops found in the Target “women’s” section (odd how larger women get the “women’s” label…what are the rest of the gender, “Lesser Women”??). You let your gray grow out and get that bubble cut favored by matrons the world over. You start saying “gal” and referring to people as “being a hoot.” You spend time discussing bowel movements and what meds you’re on, you stop going to rock clubs with the excuse that “we’re geezers, probably in bed watching Downton Abbey by the time you’re on stage” (this would be 9:00!), and you really do start yelling at kids to stay off your lawn. Nope, not me, nuh uh, ain’t gonna do it.

So I didn’t. I found my own way to be a member of the decade and it’s been good. My energy hasn’t flagged, I’m vigilant about staying healthy (remember those Funk Brothers-accompanied power walks?), I refuse to join AARP (at least until I actually retire from something), and rock & roll remains decidedly doable. Oh sure, those cute round cheeks seen in early childhood photos are making their inexorable slide toward gravity and one has to watch the snack foods more closely, but I’m still…me.

We’ll see how well I do at the next decade change. Let’s not rush it.

For now, I’m celebrating. Celebrating the acknowledgement of birth, life lived, the continuing quest to embrace change and remain fiercely dedicated to who I am and what gives my life purpose. I’m having lunch with the woman who brought me into this world, dinner with the man with whom I’m sharing the journey, sweet bookends that have particular meaning. That soon-to-be 20-year old boy (man?) called with warm words, cards have arrived, and the thoughtful wishes of Facebook friends who, for that moment in which they sent a birthday wish to my page, were thinking of me. That’s a lot of positive well-wishing coming my way and I’m grateful (never believe that Facebook is a waste of time).

What they don’t really tell you about getting older…at least for me? That there’s an ease to it, the clichéd but so truthful accrual of wisdom. A certain letting go of that youthful panic about where you’re going and the rush to get there so you can then BE that for the second you get before you have to move on even faster and higher and harder to get to the next level expected and then — phew…makes me tired just thinking about it! I’m grateful I’ve now gotten SO old, so far past those arbitrary age goals, that the inevitable surrender to what is rather than what was supposed to be gives me a tremendous sense of freedom. The knowledge that it isn’t all carved in stone and sometimes what you expected wasn’t necessarily the best choice anyway. Mostly you find that you still have choices. That’s the unexpected revelation…to know your life still has some sparkling, blank pages you get to fill in any way you choose. It’s different at this age, less attended to by the outside world, perhaps, but it’s still the adventure you imagined at 20 when your whole life was ahead.

Because your whole life still is ahead. It’s all yours and it still requires your hopes, dreams, optimism, confidence and commitment. And damn if I’m not going to keep at it with the same verve that’s accompanied me throughout this journey.

So don’t count on any floral muumuus. I ain’t gonna get a bubble cut, I’ll still wear black jeans even when I’m walking with my granddaughter, and regardless of where my cheeks ultimately land, know I’ll be smiling. Because I’m still kicking – still capable of kicking – and there’s cake in my future. What could be better than that?  It’s my day, mine alone, and it’s going to be grand!

Thank you all for the wonderful, continuing, and very appreciated birthday wishes!

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Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.

It’s Paddy’s Day…Let’s Party Like It’s 1903!

On By Lorraine Devon WilkeIn Latest Thoughts14 Comments

My mom’s a party girl. Still. Was in her 20s, still is at 82. If there’s a hoedown going down at the home where she’s a current resident, she’s got the paper hat on, the Kool-Aid in hand, chair-dancing like the jitter-bugger she is…was. It’s in her blood. Irish Catholic chick raised by an extended family of Shaughnessys on the north side of Chicago; a large rowdy brood with a bevy of red-faced uncles who supposedly kept a keg in the living room and never missed a chance to slug one back in honor of today’s saint or tomorrow’s holiday.

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With that legacy as background, my mother never failed to turn even the slightest of holidays into a mad-capped celebration complete with colored streamers, construction paper decorations, and party foods forbidden on most any other day. We even made note of Chisholm Trail Day on October 23rd and I doubt if there are many other families who took to partying quite that hearty!

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But given her Irish blood (which was, in fact, mixed with the German ancestry of her father, a widow who lost favor upon abandoning his children early on), you can only imagine the household hullabaloo surrounding St. Patrick’s Day. Wearing green wasn’t just suggested, it was mandatory. My mother took great offense, in fact, if you didn’t give this tradition your sartorial consideration…a point of great contention as we hit our teenage years and the requisite eye-rolling that followed such requirements!

But, certainly when we were young, the revelry of the day was met with great enthusiasm, both at our Catholic school with its many Irish nuns and deep devotion to a saint who actually managed to wrangle his own holiday, and later at home, where the party was on before school was even done. Much was made of both the secular and sacred aspects of the celebration, and even the dreaded evening dinner of corned beef and cabbage was endured in exchange for green sweets, green drinks, and a very jolly mother in green who set the tone and the party in motion. She was glorious at those times and those times are good and happy memories.

mollymaloneslaAs I got farther away from my Catholic roots and less concerned with what it is one celebrates on any given saint’s day much less St. Patrick’s, it was curious to me how attached to both the legend and the holiday most Americans are. Once it became less a delightful family event and more a co-opted excuse to party like it was 1903 (the year Saint Patrick’s Day became an official public holiday in Ireland), I found myself almost a contrarian. The “everybody’s Irish!” exaltation and the requisite pinching of those who dared eschew green became as eye-rolling to my young adult self as they’d been in high school. Imagine the irony, then, when I got a job in my late 20’s working at one of the premiere Irish pubs in Los Angeles, Molly Malone’s, where the celebration of St. Patrick’s Day was both long and legendary.

That one day of my work year was more exhausting than the rest combined and always much more fun for my customers than for me but, always, at some point in the day, the ringing of sweet childhood memories would kick in and I’d find a moment to revel – if from a healthy and unsoddened distance – in my participatory and bona fide Irishness. 

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When my own son began his yearly celebrations via the teachers at school who enjoyed any reason to step out of the ordinary day, I once again couldn’t help but be reminded of my mother, who always seemed most alive when she was transforming our house into party town, exuding the sparkling, cheerful woman we most adored. As I see her now in her silly green hat and watch her enjoy the decorations that are not much better than the ones we made all those many years ago, I’m delighted to knows she’s in a place that holds this Irish Catholic tradition dear…because she still is that Irish party girl!

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And I am still her child who is grateful she taught me how much fun it is to celebrate simply but with verve. I plan to do so today, with a quiet dinner and a satisfying few hours with a movie I’ve been wanting to see. She’ll likely be dancing in her chair to some frolicking Irish ditty. We’re both going to have a good time. Hope you do too.

 Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

All photographs courtesy of Lorraine Devon Wilke.

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Lorraine’s third novel, The Alchemy of Noise,  is currently available at Amazon and elsewhere.

Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.