The 2008 Election

It has been 10 days since Barack Obama was declared the 44th President of the United States and I am still processing it! It seems so BIG to me. So miraculous! But -- conditioned by the debacle of the 2000 election and the disappointment in 2004 and deliriously happy about the 2008 outcome -- I still can't find the words to write about it. So for now, I offer this cartoon from the November 17, 1008 New Yorker magazine as a placeholder.

My Dad

I was 4 years old when my Dad came into my life. My “real” father died when I was 2. But what could be more real than a man who embraces as his own a 4-year old who had been indulged for the past two years by two sets of grandparents. With only good intentions, my grandparents tried their best to shield me from the loss of my father and to keep life normal. After my father’s death, my mother went back to secretarial school in Beverly Hills. I lived with her parents on their avocado ranch in Southern California. She visited on weekends. She was 22 years old when my father died, and her life had turned on a dime.

Dad and Mom first met at Stanford. Both were undergraduates. She was a blonde, athletic sorority girl. He was a History major who brought with him to Stanford his love of the outdoors and his passion for horses. His father, Stanford Class of early 19-something, commuted to Stanford from Southern California on horseback during his undergraduate years.

Mom was a city girl. Dad is a country fella. Oil and water. Dad grew up in the old family home built by his grandfather in the late 1800s in a ranching community in Southern California. After Stanford, Dad returned home to ponder work possibilities. About that time, my widowed Mom, a newly minted secretary, was offered a job and a cottage by a prominent rancher who lived in the same small town where my Dad had returned after college. One thing led to another, Mom and Dad re-met, and began to see each other. They were married at The Last Frontier Hotel in Las Vegas in 1949. Somewhere in a box in the old family home is a photo of the two of them, Mom in a white linen jacket, navy blue linen skirt, and blue and white spectator pumps. Dad is wearing a dark suit. They are framed under an arch that notes “The Last Frontier.”

And so began our life in small town Southern California. We lived in another old family home in Santa Paula, affectionately known to my brothers and me as “805.” Within the walls of that old green house with a solarium and a three-car garage, our family played out the 1950s family life. Dad worked. Mom stayed home. First one brother was born and then a second brother. That day at The Last Frontier may have been the first and last real happiness between my parents as it quickly became apparent that City and Country had little in common other than their 3 children.

Dad began to travel for work. Out on Monday, home on Friday. Mom was not happy. But all problems were held close; they were “private family matters.” No one else need know. My response to friction at home was to close my bedroom door and open a book. I didn’t really know Dad well in those days. In fact, it has taken me a lot of time to know my Dad.

Next week, Dad celebrates his 87th birthday. He is as trim and handsome today as he was in his Stanford undergraduate years. Most days, he still drinks a glass of whiskey. He still rides his horse. He adores his grandchildren, my two and my brother’s two. And he has learned to convey his affection to his three children. There were years when I kept a distance. We have never agreed on politics and that for me was personal for a lot of years. With time and age – mine and his – the things that separate us have receded and the things that bind us have come into sharp focus. This is the man who took me on my first camping trip to Pine Flat. This is the man who taught me to ride a horse and let me ride his Arabian mare, Lady Grey. This is the man who taught me when we were hiking to chew the wild anise to refresh my breath and to rub the wild sage between my palms to generate an amazing scent. This is the man who took a bet on a 4-year old girl and has stuck with her all these years. Happy birthday, Dad. You are loved!

Yes, We Can!

Trouble the Water

If you see one film this month, I encourage you to see Trouble the Water. My son, Alex Footman, had the good fortune to work as a Production Intern for the gifted filmmakers who produced this film. But that is not the only reason I recommend it. It is simply remarkable for its dual story lines of hope in the face of adversity and Government neglect.

Winner of the Grand Jury Prize at the 2008 Sundance Film Festival, Trouble the Water is directed and produced by Fahrenheit 9/11 and Bowling for Columbine producers Tia Lessin and Carl Deal. The film tells the story of an aspiring rap artist and her streetwise husband, trapped in New Orleans by deadly floodwaters, who survive the storm and then seize a chance for a new beginning. It’s a redemptive tale of self-described street hustlers who become heroes that takes you inside Hurricane Katrina in a way never before seen on screen.

Trouble the Water opens the day before Katrina makes landfall, just blocks away from the French Quarter but far from the New Orleans that tourists know. Kimberly Rivers Roberts is turning her video camera on herself and her 9th Ward neighbors trapped in the city. “It’s going to be a day to remember,” Kim says excitedly into her new camera as the storm is brewing. It’s her first time shooting video and it’s rough, jumpy but dense with reality. Kim’s playful home-grown newscast tone grinds against the audience’s knowledge that hell is just hours away. There is no way for the audience to warn her. And for New Orleans’ poor, there is nowhere to run.

As the hurricane begins to rage and the floodwaters fill their world and the screen, Kim and her husband Scott continue to film, documenting their harrowing voyage to higher ground and dramatic rescues of friends and neighbors.

Intertwining Kim and Scott’s insider’s view of Katrina and powerful video with a mix of verite and in-your-face filmmaking, Deal and Lessin follow their story through the storm and its aftermath, and into a new life. Along the way, they discover Kim’s musical talent as rap artist Black Kold Madina when she finds the only existing copy of her recorded music survived the storm with a relative in Memphis. Kim’s performance in that moment reveals not only devastating skills as a musician, but compacts her life story into explosive poetry that paints a devastating picture of poverty.

Stumping for Barack Obama

The things we do for love! 1 road trip, 2 bus rides, 3 Obama House Parties; scores of phone calls, hundreds of doorbells rung, too many emails to count. Boots on the ground, finger on the dial. I have worked my heart out for Barack Obama.

Last Saturday, as I took my seat on a DC for Obama bus headed for Newport News, Virginia, I was overcome with pride. Every seat on the bus was occupied by someone whose passion for this candidate transcends the demands of every day life. There we were, lattés in hand, bundled up for stormy weather, headed to the battleground of battlegrounds – Southern Virginia – to knock on the doors of undecided voters. Ten days to go!

I recognized some of my seatmates from a February bus trip to Columbus, Ohio. That weekend, we left DC on an icy Friday afternoon and made our way up the Pennsylvania Turnpike through a snowstorm to the Columbus YMCA which hosted us for two nights. Driving through that snowstorm was like living in a snow globe for 8 hours. Most of us sat quietly, contemplating the work ahead. Occasionally, one young man flung himself out of his seat into the aisle to exhort us in a call and response: “Fired up….” “Ready to go!” “Fired up….” And so we made our way to the YMCA where we spread out our sleeping bags and slept on the gymnasium floor under overhead lights timed to stay on all night.

The next day we canvassed in neighborhoods slick with ice from a recent cold snap. Very few people were home, and most who answered their front doors declined to name their candidates. We knew we had an uphill battle in Columbus -- and not just because we were slipping on ice, but because polls favored Hillary Clinton -- but we labored on.

Last Saturday, riding the southbound bus through the early morning streets of Washington, DC, it struck me anew that I am part of something important. As our bus drove down Constitution Avenue, I was moved by the grandeur of my city. Past the OAS, the Mall, the Museum of Natural History, and then I caught a glimpse of the US Capitol. Is there any grander city in this country? Pulling out of DC on to the 14th Street Bridge, there on the hill to the right stood Mount Vernon, perched atop the Potomac River, framed in fall foliage. I am living my history.

Once on 95 South, my gaze turned inward. I heard a conversation behind me. Someone had been to Ohio. “You were in Ohio?” I asked the young man. Turns out he was but on a different weekend. This is why I am here. The shared experiences. The community. Faces of every color. People who look too young to vote, and people who are old enough to have had their hopes dashed and dashed again in past elections. We are united in purpose.

My canvassing partner and I knocked on more than 100 doors in Newport News. We spoke to 19 strong Obama supporters and a handful of McCain voters. I hope I changed the mind of one undecided which made up for the snarled, “We’re McCain people,” uttered as one front door slammed on us.

After a long and soggy day which had us out in Newport News neighborhoods from Noon to 6 PM, we boarded the bus home. If the ride down in the morning had been quiet, that was because no one was quite awake. Now, fatigue had settled in and we rode back in silence. My thoughts returned to two doors that opened to reveal first-time voters. One was Joseph who shyly told me he would probably vote for ‘the Democrat.’ I said, “You mean Barack Obama, right?” Yes, that is what he meant. I asked him if he knew his polling place. Yes, the school down the street. Did he know that the polls are open from 6 am to 7 pm? No, he did not, but he figured it didn’t matter, because he knew the polls were open for a week. When I explained that the polls are open only one day unless he voted absentee, he looked puzzled and said, “No lie?” I wrote down the date, time, and place for him on a piece of campaign literature and asked him to promise me that he would vote. “Yes, Miss,” he responded. And reached out his hand to shake mine and said, “If you didn’t tell me it was just that one day, I would never have known.” My heart leapt. That first vote is a precious birthright. Please don’t forget to vote, Joseph. It’s November 4.

Coming up on the 14th Street Bridge, homeward bound. Mount Vernon is a mere twinkle in the night sky, but the Washington Monument is lit up from below and radiating its two red eyes to keep wayward aircraft from straying into its path. Driving by the Tidal Basin, there is Thomas Jefferson, keeping watch on our liberties. He must have shed more than a few tears these past 8 years. On past the Kennedy Center and there is Abe Lincoln, maintaining his eternal vigil. What must old Abe think about the prospect of our first African-American President? Rest well, Abe. We will be in good hands.

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver is one of my favorite poets, and it is to this poem -- The Summer Day -- that I so often turn these days for the question it poses: Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

This is my challenge these days. I believe that the road ahead is filled with wild and precious encounters, and it is my task to recognize and live into those moments. Blessedly, I have many companions on this path, most of us with children grown and leaving the nest, some of us with careers winding down; others, like me, eager to embrace new work. My mother never spoke to even her closest friends about the matters that weighed heavily on her, and so empty nests, divorces, menopause, and illness were swept under the rug. She and her friends believed that personal issues were best held close in fear of losing face. I feel so lucky to have friends and family accompany me on this leg of the journey.

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?T
ell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Mary Oliver ~(New and Selected Poems, Volume I)

No Problem

My mother was a stickler for manners. When company was expected, she led with, “Shake her hand and look her in the eye.” I resisted mightily, and yet I continued the tradition with my own children. My brothers and I stood when adults entered a room .We helped our grandparents on and off with their coats and held doors open for them. We were not allowed to call our parents’ friends by their first names. We were taken to task if we dropped our g’s (“I’m goin’ across the street.”) or substituted “Uh huh” or “Unh uh” for “Yes” and “No.” It was disrespectful.

My father focused on telephone manners. For some reason, it distressed him when a caller asked, “Is Ann there?” That warranted a swift, “No,” the reason being that he was the person on the other end of the phone, so technically, Ann was not “there.” Callers had better ask, “May I please speak to Ann?” or expect the dial tone.

We could not say “darn” (companion to “damn”) or “egad” (cover for “My God!”), and if any of the 3 of us issued a strong “Shoot,” we had better be certain to enunciate.

“Shut up” was a Class 1 infraction. If we said “Shut up,” we could expect a quick swipe of Ivory Soap across our tongues.

This was in the Fifties. The 1950s. Life was carefully delineated. Over here stood the adults. Over there, the children. When our parents hosted their Bridge Club at our house, we remained out of sight upstairs, away from the clink of ice cubes in the highballs and Old Fashioneds, out of the thicket of cigarette smoke, at a remove from adult conversation.

The attention to manners in my childhood home seemed obsessive. But fast forward to modern day, and where have manners gone? Who ditched the old response to “Thank you” – “You’re welcome” – in favor of “No problem?” And whence “Whatever?” What has become of handwritten thank you letters? I miss the comfort of old-fashioned manners. In a world of uncivil discourse, starting with politics and trickling down into mainstream culture, a simple “Thank you” and “You’re welcome” always bring a smile to my face!