Category Archives: Personal Experience

A Marriage Passed

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I never imagined writing this.  I thought Peggy, my ex-wife and mother to my older son Matt, had the Buckley gene.  I always believed she’d long outlast me since her mother lived to around 100.
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I was wrong.  Diagnosed right after this past Christmas with lung cancer that had metastasized to her bones, Peggy died hours after Easter.  During the intervening months she suffered a heart attack and strokes that partially paralyzed her and robbed her of speech.  But I was able to visit her in the hospital before all of these additional insults.  We had the opportunity to come to terms with the many experiences of our relationship, including a long, difficult divorce.  We both acknowledged that whatever had occurred between us, however mistaken we had been to get married, we, at the time, honestly loved each other.  And it was that love’s spirit tempered by mature understanding and affection that was the dominant emotion both of us felt during this final physical farewell.

We hadn’t been estranged over the past thirty-odd years, of course.  We both lived in the same Boston neighborhood and we actively raised our son together.  But we didn’t hang.  And after Sue and I set up housekeeping, it often felt easier for them to conduct business and compare parental notes–mom to step-mom.

But there was some tension.  Sometimes between Peg and me, sometimes between our tribes.  During Matt’s college graduation, Peggy, her sister, her mother, Sue, my father, his partner and I found ourselves cramped shoulder to shoulder in the hotel elevator.  What little conversation there was stopped immediately when the elevator doors opened on another floor.  In walked the great attorney William Kunstler, whose granddaughter was in Matt’s class.  He took one look around and said, “I’m available for mediation.”  Peggy and I both laughed out loud the rest of the way to the lobby.

But once Matt was launched and gone, we were only occasionally brought together by one of his events or when my younger son grew older and helped Peggy with computer issues.  To Jake, who had recently spent a weekend in New York with her to watch Matt run in the marathon, Peggy was just family-or his “reverse stepmom,” as he occasionally liked to say.

Despite our longtime separate lives, after she fell ill, I fell into a slump.  Much had to do with concern about Matthew and his partner Alyssa who bore the brunt of Peggy’s caretaking, Peggy’s imminent death, my mortality, and my own internal review of history in which I found much of my behavior wanting.  My weeks were filled with lethargy, sleep, and an often futile attempt to plug along with my day-to-day activities.

This past Thursday night at Peggy’s wake/shiva, an entirely new set of feelings began to emerge.  People from every aspect of Matthew’s life-Peggy’s, mine, his own-were gathered together and old feelings of friendship, past connections, new connections with people I had heard about from Matthew but never met, generated a joy of being together along with the hurt of loss.  I saw people I hadn’t seen in over thirty years and it was as if the affection we’d had back then had somehow remained unbroken.  I felt a deep appreciation for all those who, out of my line of sight, had contributed not only to Peggy’s life but to the life of my son.  I saw the outpouring of love toward Matt by his friends, some of whom came from out of town just for the night, some of whom left a trip in Hawaii, stopped off in the LA airport to hand off their kids to a grandparent, and just kept coming East to be with Matt. Some who had been Peg’s college roommates, some of whom were her everyday friends.   And many, like me, the other side of his family.

There were tears Thursday night, but they were outweighed by laughter.  We collectively rejoiced in the breadth of Peggy’s life as much as the pain and injustice of her untimely death.

This wake/shiva turned out to only be the appetizer, the next day’s service and reception was the main course.  What stays with me from the service was the eulogy given by Chris, one of Peggy’s best friends.  His talk about their travels together revived memories of our own vacations and his love for her was moving.

But the real kicker was Matthew’s talk.  Never one to be particularly comfortable sharing his emotional life, it was as if he opened his chest and exposed his heart for all to see.  The love he expressed to Alyssa, to all those who were there, but especially toward his mother brought tears.  His talk was the epitome of intimacy that I can only aspire to.  This was truly a case where the child had outgrown the parent and I could not have been more proud or felt more love.

The reception gave her friends, his friends, my friends, the opportunity to reminisce out loud about Peg’s life, hopes, dreams.  As I stood there listening I couldn’t help thinking that the greatness of humanity has to do with our ability to love, and the greatness of love is the ability to turn individuals into communities, and that it’s only through those loving communities that the earth continues to spin.

Thank you, Peg.  Thank you, Son.

Small acts, when multiplied by millions of people, can transform the world. ~Howard Zinn

Back In The Day

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 No, not back in the days when Ozzie and Harriet were huge or my cousin had his 1958 gold Chevy Impala with music notes dancing along its curved fins (he was a top shelf sax man).  I’m just going back as far as the 80s, but if you measure that in computer time, it was the Bronze Age.  It was also when Sue, my life-partner, and I bought our first computer-a KayPro lV

I remember it well.  We’d paid a fortune for it-over three grand in 2011 dollars.  And there it was, sitting on our old oak dining room table in all its then modern grey box glory.  We unclamped the keyboard, which served as the cover of this 26 pound metal suitcase, turned it on, and stared blankly as its 9-inch phosphor screen lit up with a flashing green C:> in the top left corner.

We were stumped, stupefied.  Didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as we wondered what we had gotten ourselves into.  Eventually we learned how to use the machine and Sue had an easier time writing her magazine articles (She’s now a prolific nonfiction children’s book author–www.susangoodmanbooks.com) while I churned out my first novel.

But the real hook for me was my eventual upgrade, the Kaypro 4 with a 300 baud modem.  These were pre-Internet days but folks had already figured out that computers would change communication.  People across the world had set up electronic “post offices” that relayed messages to and from each other and allowed those people who had free computer programs provided by the local “post office” to send and download their mail.

The Great Leap Forward, though, was the development of different interest groups that used this new form of pony express.  I jumped into a writers’ circle that eventually became Pen & Brush and away we went.  Although there were plenty of conversations about writing, the group became a home for open-ended discussions about all things political, religious, cultural, and of course the government.

For decades, it was the same group learning, chatting, arguing through evolving communication processes until the Internet hit and we landed on Yahoo Groups as Keyboard and Stylus.  And there a few of us still remain, more as alter kockers rocking on the porch than engaging in all out debates.

But, there’s life in me yet.  I’ve joined a new group that has fresh blood hungry to view the world through its many facets and a desire to express what they see.

Face (book) the Nation Open Group, housed on Facebook, was created by my college roommate Mark Kruger, now a professor of humanities in St. Louis, with the tireless help of Indira Freeman.  Let me quote her description:

“University of St Louis students and non-students from the entire nation are discussing and seeking to raise awareness about national issues. Topics have included global climate change, wars, homosexuality, education, interest groups, party systems, Wall Street, banks, government power, etc. Our goal is to create a healthy, open environment where everybody has a right to talk about various subjects.  We are group that wants to let every sluice of knowledge be open and set a-flowing. We respect all and believe in equality. Please become a part of this great environment.”

Since I began participating about a month ago, I’ve found the conversations thoughtful, stimulating, and very reminiscent of the old Pen & Brush.  Indira’s description is pretty right-on, though there are some wild and wooly moments. The group is incredibly diverse and the opinions expressed run the full spectrum on a whole host of subjects.  There are trolls, but few and far between.  All in all it’s an experience that engages and one that I fully enjoy.

I say “all in all” because this “alter cocker” finds navigating through all the various topics on the page petty damn difficult–though I have found a personal method to keep track of the various subjects.  But first let me explain how to participate if you’re interested:

1. You need a Facebook account.

2. Once you have a Facebook account (and I urge anyone who signs up for one to go over the privacy settings with a fine tooth comb), type “Face (book) the Nation OPEN GROUP” in the search box at the top of your page, and it will take you to where you can click on “JOIN.” (Given Facebook’s propensity to change how it does things about every twenty minutes, if you have any difficulty enrolling, just leave a note here and I’ll add you the group as my “friend.”)

That’s it.  But if you have trouble with the way Facebook organizes its pages here’s my system:

I created a dedicated email address for the page. In the “Edit Settings” box on the Face (book) the Nation Open Group I have set: NOTIFY ME WHEN A MEMBER POSTS OR COMMENTS, EMAIL NOTIFICATIONS TO the email address I set up,and finally I checked the box that says SEND ME GROUP CHAT MESSAGES.

This allows me to click on emails that take me directly to the specific conversations in which I have interest.

I understand this seems like a convoluted way to screen and follow discussions, and I’m also aware that many people are reluctant to join Facebook.  But if you aren’t uncomfortable with joining, or you already have a page, Face (book) the Nation Open Group is worth the price of admission.  Especially if you enjoy intelligent free-wheeling conversations about a variety of important topics.

Great spirits have always found violent opposition from 
mediocrities. The latter cannot understand it when a man does not 
thoughtlessly submit to hereditary prejudices but honestly and 
courageously uses his intelligence. Einstein

Why I Love Television, Part I

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Now that laws and attitudes are changing, it’s one of the last “don’t ask, don’t tell” situations.  In fact, in my circles, it’s the love that dare not speak its name.  But I’m here to say it—loudly, proudly, to the world—I LOVE TELEVISION.  And this has been true my entire life.

Why?  First and foremost it keeps me company.  Even when I’m not paying any attention to what’s on, the background murmur reassures me I’m not dead.  And when I’m not paying attention, the TV doesn’t even complain—it’s selfless that way.

Television was my first “virtual” friend and, despite all these years together, we’ve never had an argument.  Sure, I sometimes get pissed.  Why isn’t there anything good on?  Why isn’t anything bad that I like on?  But, TV, as I like to call it for short, has figured that out.  Now you can easily record shows or go On Demand for those barren hours.  Hell, if you’re desperate there’s always a Law and Order variation somewhere.

The notion that it dumbs down our society?  Please.  Can our society get any dumber when 60-some percent of our country doesn’t believe in evolution?

No one trots out that this is stupid, empty entertainment shit when they bow down  to TV’s “Golden Years.”  Do folks really believe that Red Skelton raised IQs?  Or Jackie Gleason with the June Taylor Dancers?  Milton Berle?   Ok, Ernie Kovacs appealed to hipsters and The Honeymooners helped salvage marriages.

If those years were “Golden,” then today’s are Platinum. (Though a warmth lingers still for spotlights and “Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.”)

But really:

Has there ever been better satire than The Daily Show?

Has there ever been better performance art than The Colbert Report?

Did Playhouse 90 present better dramas than The Sopranos or In Treatment?

Is there anyone better than Rachel Maddow to make progressives feel smug?

Or Papa Bear O’Reilly to make Tea-baggers salivate?

Sorry, if people want to talk about the dumb down, television isn’t the place to start.  Not when programs like The Wire are being written and shown on a regular basis.  And I can’t imagine any comparison between Gunsmoke and Deadwood, which might very well be the best western ever presented in any form.  (And yeah, I’ve seen Red River, and all the Spaghetti’s.)  Tell me, humanitarians and Quincy Jones fans, whether “We Are The World” brought smile and tear.  Damn, even ads have their moments.  “I’d Like To Buy The World A Coke,” and China’s Olympic Opening Ceremony (also a commercial—albeit an expensive one) kept people watching.

So why do I feel so protective about my best friend?  Primarily because of where it’s placed in the cultural pecking order—down in the dirt as chicken feed.  And many, probably most, of those who tout the “higher” pecks spend more time watching it than any other medium.

I like watching the best that television has to offer, and also the worst. (Come out of the closet, people.)  Sure I get kick out of the emasculation of Bruce Jenner on Keeping Up with the Kardashians, The Iron Chefs (though I haven’t cooked a meal in 25 years), the weirdos who make the cut on Project Runway, and even the Dog Whisperer , though his magic does nothing for our cats.

And, of course sports.  Perhaps the only thing left in our country where the outcome isn’t preordained.  (I’m not really talking about cage fighting though there was a time when wrestling with those buffed, sweaty bodies…uh, better leave it there.)

But ultimately I’m just glad television is here, 24/7, 52 weeks a year with no chance of dying before me.  How can you have a safer relationship?  Despite no sex, with serious exceptions, very little meaning.  Don’t need that cigarette after NCIS–either of ’em.

Now understand, I really wouldn’t trade Sue or my kids for a television.  Trudat.

But I’m lucky—I don’t have to.  I can have it all, TV never says a jealous word.

(Eventually there will be a PART, 2)

Virtue is insufficient temptation.
-George Bernard Shaw

LA RINGRAZIO PER UNA BELLA CENA (Thank you for a wonderful dinner.)

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It began as a dinner with new Italian friends and turned into a wormhole to my past coupled with a new way of saying hello to myself.

We had met only once before at a restaurant where a group had gathered to listen to a mutual friend’s band.  By chance, the four of us sat together and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.  We made noise about getting together in the future, but they were soon leaving for an extended trip to Sri Lanka and India so the future would be a long way off.

But they did call, invite, and we went.  The conversation over the delicious dinner was fast and furious.  At one point they lapsed into Italian–perhaps to make certain they both understood what was being said, or because they didn’t want us to understand.  Didn’t matter.  It was lovely to listen to the music of the language.

For some reason their lapse into lyrical Italian still danced in my head the next day.  The harder I tried to understand why, the fuzzier it became.  It was only that night, not really thinking about anything in particular, that a childhood memory flooded my mind.  Family scenes where parents or older relatives would, in a hairpin turn, speak Yiddish.  In those moments, there was no confusion.  They simply didn’t want me to know what they were saying.  But those hairpin turns, natural on their part, always drew a silent gut wrench without my ever knowing why.

I doubt I would have given those few short Italian sentences any thought at all without my hour a day, four days a week, eight year stint with Dr. J that began about twenty-five years ago.  A particular crisis drove me to the Boston Psychoanalytical Institute to become a test analysand, but the day to day work soon embraced multiple dimensions. Anyone who has done a psychoanalysis knows that once you jump down that rabbit hole….

Of course we spent a significant time on what had been an explosive childhood that had me living with other people.

Spent serious time on my first marriage, which had reduced itself to a protracted custody battle.

Spent time on being a single parent half the week for years.

Spent time working through issues that existed between me and my current domestic partner.

The list is legion.  I had more than enough issues, and that much time on your back makes it so.  But when the eight years were over, I had become significantly lighter emotionally through the discoveries gleaned by talking every day to someone who listened, supported, and was truly smart.

I also left believing the couch had cracked the door to my creative imagination.  Two fantasies I’d harbored since forever were writing and making music.  I walked out of Dr. J’s for the last time confident about constructing a brand new writing life.

Along with these accomplishments, I also left the couch hauling a suspicion that I’d never really learned an important lesson analysis was supposed to “teach.”  I simply hadn’t found a method of diving into my subconscious.  I did think about what I thought or felt, though it was through an active process, driven by overt consideration or focused reflection.  Similar to having someone confront or ask pointed questions.  However, this nag was left behind as I powered up my “creative imagination” to build my Matt Jacob writing career.  Still, I’ve always been jealous of people–Sasha Cohen, Jon Stewart and, of course, Robin Williams–who are seemingly able to dip into their down below at will.

But that night, lying in bed, relaxed and open to possibilities, age, experience, and a lack of defensiveness delivered the association between the Italian talk and Yiddish memories.  Long ago that gut wrench had been the only part of the iceberg that registered.  The difficulties of my childhood, the exclusion, the difference between myself and my family, the alienation within my own home, and the ugly bitter batterings finally rose from beneath the surface.  Half a century later I understand what that Yiddish represented.

Ahh, the subconscious.  I guess I get what it takes to let the game come to you.  Not active pursuit, but a headspace that’s vulnerable enough to let it happen.

So, thank you, Alesandro and Camilla, for a great dinner.  And a special thanks to Dr. J.  Sometimes it takes a really, really long time for understanding to sink into an old dog’s head.  Even when the information is already there.

Love Me, I’m A Liberal

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Maybe it began because I worked a telephone bank for Barack Obama. Or, perhaps it started when the ACLU emailed a request to join. They’re big on the First Amendment and so am I.  It seems to me the right of skin-headed Nazi’s to march is a fair trade for the right to present art that is frequently attacked and banned by the Neanderthals who pock-mark the country.

So I dues up, get my card, sign their petitions.

Then came the email from People For The American Way.  Hey, anyone who created Archie Bunker and Meathead and actually mobilizes against the Wing-nuts who want to hurtle the country back to the 18th century I gotta support.

So I join and sign their petitions.

What can you say about Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International other than they shine light upon some of the most horrific abuses throughout the world.

More dues, more petitions.

I figure I’m set–spent my charity budget and feel pretty righteous

But it ain’t over.  Slow and steady, email by email, link by link, the requests to sign this and that and the other pile heavy into my inbox.

How do I turn down requests by organizations who protect a woman’s right to choose?

I sign.

How do I turn down Mayors Against Guns when 34 people a day, every day, get shot?

I sign.

How do I turn down environmental groups when I believe in climate change and have worked closely with laborers who have died from the toxicity in their plants?

I sign.

Well, by this time, I’m not feeling all that righteous.  Hell, now when I click a link I don’t even have to fill in blank boxes.  They know me.

As a result, I get a stream of form letters from senators and congressmen thanking me for taking the time to express my views.  And a promise to keep my ideas in mind when relevant legislation lands on the floor.  To absolutely no avail.  Virtually every issue I’ve sign up for loses when it hits the House or Senate.  So much for their minds and my signatures.

But signing has become crack.  I can’t stop.  I’m fucking signing petitions to protect polar bears.  Why? The closest I’ll ever get to one will be on the NatGeo channel.  But I think it through.  Palin and her motley crew must be behind this bear slaughter.

I sign.

I’m signing petitions against virtual fences, for new filibuster rules, against budget cuts, for the recall of state politicians in states that aren’t mine.  I’m signing save  bowhead and beluga whales and walruses.  I wouldn’t know a beluga if one skateboarded down my block and chomped on my legs. (Isn’t it actually caviar?)

So, for sure, I sign.

I’m so devoted to petitions that more often than not I think I’m the president signing executive orders.  But then I look around and see that none of my orders command any respect.  Just the opposite.  The country is sliding back in time and all I see are wars, poverty, loss of rights, worse racial inequality, and right-wing Jihadists running the show.

Guess it’s time to admit the obvious.  If this is how high my “freak flag flies,” I owe an apology to David Crosby.  Somewhere along the line, I cut my hair.

From error to error, one discovers the entire truth.
-Sigmund Freud