Interdependence Day and Radical Hospitality

July 4, 2019 with our peonies and beloved people.

On July 4, whether you live on a small island off the coast of Maine/Wabanaki Territory as I do or not, wouldn't it be nice if we all were reflecting on and celebrating radical hospitality?!

The radical hospitality of kinship -- which by definition goes beyond blood, as I know well from my own experience as both a queer and an adopted person -- is core to the teachings of Jesus in my faith tradition. In both my tradition and experience, we are ALL adopted by god and, if we are lucky, by each other.

Whether or not we open our hearts to each other to live within this tradition is another story. It does too often seem as if there are a lot of Sunday church goers and Bible thumpers out there who extend hospitality only within their own four walls.

Why consider radical hospitality, and kinship that extends beyond blood, on the 4th of July?

We cannot celebrate independence without celebrating inter-dependence. Mutuality. We are all family.

Yes, love your family -- within the context we are ALL family (who dance together!).

We are raised in a culture of mistakes. Of celebrating independence, and our victories over stolen lands. This White colonialism we call "American" is seeped like blood into this stolen earth. Land that was once stewarded sustainably for thousands of years and has now been pillaged.

This same culture wants us to believe that "charity" is radical hospitality.

It is not.

Radical hospitality is not about any one of us making charitable donations to ease our guilt over harboring more than our share of the earth's resources. It is not about hosting dinner parties and galas. Most importantly, it is not about seeing others as in need of your largesse.

Radical hospitality is about mutuality. We all stand side by side on this earth together. Those who are without homes or family or food or services or health or mental health and those who have all of this and more -- so they can travel. Be tourists. Have second homes.

We are all family. Everyone must be welcomed, everyone cared for. Not just into our communities and homes. But into our hearts.

When we allow and welcome people and ideas who are strange and other and even scary to us into our hearts, we begin to transform ourselves and our own corner of the world. Could a "hospitality of the heart" -- one that moves beyond judgement, sarcasm, and meanness -- change our communities and our world? I believe so. It is why gathering together for a performance -- whether theater or church -- is so crucial to who we are as humans. In those spaces, together, we create the opportunities for these transformations of the heart. We prepare our hearts. We open them to lives and stories we might not otherwise encounter or welcome in our isolation.

2013: driving the theater float, with beloved
actors, in the local July 4 parade.

For those of us who do live in towns flooded by tourists and visitors at this time of year, radical hospitality can be particularly challenging right now! Some notes to our visitors, in addition to myself: remember you are privileged to be here, and find some humility in that privilege. For me, personally, the entitlement that often accompanies privilege can be the characteristic in strangers most difficult for me (or my community) to welcome. You are standing beside us, not above us. And none of us is entitled to more than any other.

Interdependence. Mutuality. Radical Hospitality. Wishing all a July 4th filled with these things.

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning is a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
[S]he may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-Rumi

Read more about radical hospitality through the lens of Black queer kinship and Marlon Riggs' 1989 film, Tongues Untied.

The Peculiar Power of Pride

I've really struggled with Pride in 2023. 

Our Pride flag this year...

June 23, when I drafted this post, was my parents' wedding anniversary.

My mother would have been 100 years old this year. Thirty-four years old at the time of their wedding, they were a later-in-life marriage for their generation. My mother's inability to bear children of her own was related to her "unmarriage-ability" in the 1950's. A different world, difficult to imagine today.

They were married for 46 years before my father died in 2003.

When I came out to myself at age 14 in 1975, I never thought I'd see gay marriage in my lifetime.

I was 38 when I married my partner in 1999.

Our wedding on Crockett Cove in Deer Isle, ME
1999

I've now been out as a lesbian for almost 50 years and married for 24 of those.

A queer woman: a woman who maintains her femaleness while claiming male power and privilege. Neither she nor he. Still too often, although not as often, the only woman in the room where it happens. A woman who might be mistaken for a man because she insists on retaining her female identity while ignoring the tropes of female beauty and femininity: tropes defined by and created in response to and to please men.

I feel so much pride in and amazement over the changes we've fought to achieve. PRIDE is now EVERYONE's celebration! for a whole month! A flag for every business! So many gay people with dollars to spend! We're here, we're queer, we're everywhere! Oh, and we celebrated. We danced. Did we ever dance. On every street on every pier in every bathroom. Carving out the spaces in which ALL sexuality is ok.

Note to straight women: you all owe that to queer people.

For me, however, PRIDE was always a riot and a march and a protest as well as a party.

We had discrimination and bias, hate and violence to protest then, and we have the same to protest now.

What I continue to be amazed at is how enduring anti-queer and anti-woman biases are, particularly in their more subtle and personally toxic forms. But this shouldn't really be shocking, given the persistence of racism/classism/sexism -- the underpinnings of our White male dominant culture -- in and across all our lives.

Just as we had Anita Bryant in the 1970's working to convince all orange juice drinkers that queer people are subversive to the traditional family and dominance of men (she was right!) today's radical right is trying to turn back the tide on our gender revolution. But today so many more of us are plural, it's easy, within some contexts, to laugh about: outlaw DRAG shows? Seriously.

But lord, it is tiresome. Our straight "allies" don't recognize how tiresome it is. And the danger of constantly dealing with the subtle and not-so-subtle forms of disrespect, toxicity, and assault -- the micro-aggressions -- by those privileged by the dominant culture is especially real for our queer youth, who continue to commit suicide at much higher levels than others in our culture.

I'm 62 and still feeling it.

And it's not just "out there." I experience all kinds of implicit bias and disrespect every day, including subtle but damning disrespect for my 26-year relationship.

You could say I have PTSD from coming of age during the AIDS years in NYC. And that's true: I do. 

Film still from United In Anger:
A History of ACT UP directed
by Jim Hubbard

Who wouldn't? We were living in a holocaust of friends, comrades, lovers dying every day -- and often we had no familial or legal rights to even visit them in the hospital.

We used that tragic holocaust to change many of those legal issues.

But 35 years later, we often find ourselves confronted by what Lakota playwright Larissa Fasthorse calls "performative wokeness:" "good" people who benefit in one way and / or others from the dominant culture -- white people, wealthy people, men, straight women -- and generally claim to be supportive of the rights of queer people -- until they have to ACT respectfully. Until they have to treat our relationships with the same degree of respect and privacy -- and tolerance for them being less-than-perfect -- as they treat heterosexual relationships.

While laws and procedures have changed, the implicit biases creeping about beneath that smooth surface feed the toxicity that has long been internalized in our queer selves: that there can be no "significant other" in a relationship between two women. Just as in the past, there are times when I am treated more as a roommate who must be tolerated than a primary partner. Or when I am merely invisible because I am not a man. Or when people talk about "anger" (read: justifiable fury at oppression) and "control" (read: a woman taking power over her own life) as if they are negative attributes only men are justified in displaying.

While I'm not surprised by these subtleties of disrespect, they still hurt -- and anger -- me.

I can feel how it would make things easier for me to participate in the boom of trans-men and claim male and heterosexual privileges. Give up on the in-between. The QUEER revolution for which we hope and work -- in which one can be both/and -- is still very much a work in progress. Especially for women.

There are always some who want to make this an issue of "mutual respect." But there can't be "mutuality" when power structures remain unbalanced. Equality can't exist before equity.

I don't need to and won't further entitle with my individual respect those who are already privileged. If they really are as "woke" as they claim to be, they need to go out of their way, do their work, examine their consciences, acknowledge societal structures of power, and privilege MY queer life and relationship. This is not a two-way street in which everyone starts from the same starting line. That's the ideal for which we are still fighting.

Words alone can be painfully empty. Friends, siblings, children too often merely perform their "wokeness" for those of us who are gender queer. And it's when the rubber hits the road -- when your long-term partner is ill and enmeshed with the medical establishment for their survival -- that the depths of this performance really matters. And blessedly, on the professional end -- thanks in large part to the too many who lost their lives to AIDS -- this performance has really changed.

I am grateful for that.

So Happy Pride. I hope you all will join me in continuing to fight like hell.

#happypride
#fightlikehell
#queerwomen
#lesbian 
#misogynystillexists
#EndThePatriarchy

The Other Half

I recently traveled by car, train, and bus to Florida to provide health care support for some friends.

I thought about my Dad a lot while there, because he loved it so.

He didn't subjectively love it: as in, there were all these favorite places and people he was eager to see each winter.

No, Evert Hjalmer Nelson -- only son of Signe who immigrated from central Sweden to New Britain, CT, when she was 17 to help her sister, who was ill, raise twin girls -- OBJECTIVELY loved Florida because of what it represented to him.

Climbing aboard the mid-size motor home he and my mom first rented, and later purchased; and hitting I-95 south for Florida for several winters in the 1980s - 1990s meant, to my dad, that he had "made it."

He'd achieved one of his lifelong goals: to be a guy who could afford to spend part of his winter in the warmth of the South rather than battling the coastal ice of New England.

Like the motor home itself, the place they landed every winter was very modest: Woodsmoke Campgrounds in Fort Myers, on the Gulf Coast. Because it wasn't really "the South" in which they were interested. It was Florida, very much its own nation-state in White American culture.

Evert Hjalmer and Mae Louise Nelson
circa 1980's

Woodsmoke is directly on the "main drag," the infamous Tamiami Trail ribboning south along the coast from Tampa and then cutting across the Everglades to Miami. I don't remember how they ended up at Woodsmoke, but it became a place both he and my mother loved. Dad could ride his oversized tricycle around the park; Mom paddled around the pool, walked the camp loop and made a few friends. They forewent the omnipresent shuffleboard (I've never known anyone who played, although having shuffleboard seems, in those days, to have increased the camping appeal) and stuck mainly to their slab of concrete and picnic table. The one time I visited them there the whole place was very neat and tidy. No mud, no puddles laced with thin ice.

This winter pursuit was a bit of a busman's holiday. My Dad's other big dream, the one of many that had resulted in this big dream, was to a) quit the machine factory in which he was working on my arrival b) own his own business that was preferably c) a franchise (this was the 1960's, we were in awe and desirous of McDonalds) and, ideally d) a KOA (Kampgrounds of America) campground.

Here is one of the big gifts my Dad gave to me: he was a dreamer who actually pursued and obtained this creative dreams.

Very cool.

And like any first generation, mid-20th century veteran of World War II, a good number of Dad's dreams had to do with attaining what other guys had, and this of course had a lot to do with what was pitched to them and what privilege they had as White men in the post-war era. A house with a (small) yard in the (white) suburbs rather than the rooming house in Connecticut's "Hardware City" in which he had grown up: a completely multicultural place whose tool factories drew workers arriving from Sweden and especially Poland. After World War II, Puerto Rican immigrants were recruited to fill a labor shortage in the tobacco fields of the Connecticut River valley, and by the 1970's the demographic had shifted to that New Britain and Hartford now have some of the largest per capita percentage of Puerto Rican people of any cities in the U.S.

Other aspect of Dad's post-war dreams: being the boss of his own business. Cars, decidedly plural. Boats, same.

My dad was fascinated by and envious of how "the other half," as he called them, lived.

He liked to drive through neighborhoods with bigger houses than ours. He and my mom would go out for dinner by picking up a takeout burger and motoring down to Stonington Point (CT) where they could watch the beautiful sail and motor boats go by. It was kind of like a pre-internet shopping trip for my dad as he decided what boat he wanted to buy in the future: that far away and mostly imaginary day when he might have the means. Or they would grab a pizza and take my brother and I, and sometimes aunts and uncles and cousins, to sit at a picnic table at a rest stop on Interstate 95 so my dad could count the campers going by. In retrospect, I suppose this constituted some form of market research.

When realized, our own campground in Mystic was scraped together in 1970 from a gravel pit. Like much about their adult lives, I have no memory of how my dad connected with his partners -- Woody, who owned the land and the bulldozing equipment to make it into a campground; and George, the thin, sharp-faced lawyer, maybe the one who financed and brokered the deal? -- but there we were, by 1971, having moved 25 miles east down the coast from the mouth of the Connecticut River where my mother, and then we, had been born and raised.

We went as a family twice to Florida during February vacation: because that's how "the other half" lived, by my Dad's definitions, and he wanted, and worked hard for, that "better life" for his family as well. In kind of the same way he wanted us to have the college educations neither he nor my Mom had.

Going to Florida was a big deal. My parents didn't fly (or ever have credit cards), so we had to be gone for at least two weeks, which meant my brother and I had to miss a week of school in addition to vacation week. After some soul-searching and minor arguments between them on the merits of this, they took the plunge anyway.

Year #1: camping outside Disney World, not long after it opened and pre- any other associated theme parks. The monorail! Going through the fancy hotel at which we could not afford to stay! Pretty magical.

Year #2: a tiny rented houseboat on the Intracoastal Waterway. Pretty harrowing.

That first trip to Disney was kind of de rigeur -- i.e., "everyone" was going, now that we had access on the east coast to the "wonderful world" which had opened in 1971, the same year as the campground. The second and last trip the four of us took together was more of a family tragi-comedy.

I was 14 that year, as in: a ninth grader who was not happy about being dragged away from my basketball team, music, and friends. It was 1975, the U.S. appeared to be falling apart as our last troops were evacuated in a panic from Saigon following on the President's impeachment and resignation and the Watergate trials, Captain & Tennille's "Love Will Keep Us Together" was the #1 song and I wanted to believe it desperately about one of the first girls for whom I had a self-identified crush. As in: if I went away, she would forget me. Out of sight, out of mind. No cel phones, no email, no texting.

Despite having an angry, unabashedly surly teenager in tow my Dad decided the best option was to put us all aboard a houseboat and float us away from any chance we had on land to escape each other. In retrospect, this choice had nothing at all to do with us and everything with fulfilling another of Dad's Dreams.

And, in perfect metaphorical fashion, he ran the boat aground on a sand bar.

We could have just waited for the tide to come in which, in fact, we ultimately were forced to do.

But that was after hours of Dad, inexplicably in his extra large whitey-tighty underwear, and me in my swim suit jumping in and out of the very warm, very shallow water, heaving our combined weights at the boat while our feet sheared out from under us on the sandy bottom, and screaming at each other in frustration, blame and filial anger.

By the time we motored back and I was able to jump to the dock, I never wanted to see Florida or how "the other half" lived, at least in Dad's imagination, ever again.

New development in Sarasota County, FL

Almost 50 years later, the dreams Dad shared with others of his generation -- the White, U.S., what-was-then-the-middle class dream in which you get a car, you get a car, you get a second home, you get a boat, you get a vacation, you get a vacation, etc., the impact of which was then inflated with each handoff to the next generation -- has overwhelmed Florida and is the engine of desire perpetuating our culture's widening gulf between the "have's" and "have not's."

Like California's, like Texas's, Florida's roads are nearly impassably clogged with vehicles. In Sarasota alone, 20,000 new building permits have been issued and three story elevator shafts, to facilitate living spaces now mandated to be 13 feet above ground to prevail over the king tides of climate change, lurch from the muddy, bulldozed remains of the Florida scrub like so many extraterrestrial gophers.

Most of us raised as members in White American culture have been, for the most part, "trained to obtain" since birth, especially when it comes to property and other material goods already owned or obtained by others. Our colonist ancestors wanted the land/beaver/trees/labor/wealth those resident on this continent had, and every generation since we've strived to obtain that material definition of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." If someone else can have it, why not I?

I've had to wrestle with this monster ever since leaving the campground and attending Bowdoin College: a realization of another of Dad's Dreams, to have college-educated children who could more easily attain and experience how "the other half" lived. But once I landed at this small, elite institution populated by the children of some of the U.S.'s wealthiest and most powerful citizens, the gulf between those "have's" and me and my family proved too dangerously wide to cross. The few times my parents ventured onto campus, Dad was stricken by horrible migraines and had to hide from all social events in my dorm room.

Now, as I witness the gentrification of the small, Downeast Maine island I have called home for almost 25 years -- watching as the urban wealthy buy multiple homes and invest in rental properties to acquire more wealth while gutting our community by reducing workforce housing -- I sometimes feel as if I am standing on a sandbar where multiple seas, each representing "the other half," intersect. The tides, winds, and currents of the wealth, power, and control of others rip, buffet, and swirl around my calves, threatening to pull me -- with my one foot in and my one foot out -- to death? to paradise? Certainly to a place that no longer resembles our authentic, year-round communities.

It takes a lot of energy, muscle, and intention for each of us to stand tall right where we are against the values and dreams of "the other half."

Yet stand we must.

#gentrification

#theotherhalf

#newblogpost

#connecticut

#florida

#daddreams

Oh, Jimmy: The Peanut Farmer Who Became A Beloved Statesman

Oh, Jimmy.

In 1980, you were the first person I ever voted for for President.

But the majority of the country, including my family and my home states, the usually reliable Democratic electorates of Maine and Connecticut -- arguably still in shock from the string of four political assassinations and frustrated by the upheavals of the1960s and 1970s they marked -- mocked you as an inept buffoon.

You broke my young and hopeful heart, winning only six tiny states and losing in a landslide to Ronald Reagan.

Your loss precipitated nearly 40 years of a widening wealth gap and decimation of the middle class in our country, thanks to Reagan's "voodoo," or supply side, economics and tax cuts -- in both of which too many are still fooled into believing.

You were then still young, in your 50s and not the leader you would become, belatedly winning the Nobel Peace Prize in 2002 for your "decades of untiring effort to find peaceful solutions to international conflicts, to advance democracy and human rights, and to promote economic and social development.” (The Nobel Prize)

We forget the terrible situations you inherited as President in 1977, only remembering you appeared to be unable to correct those most key to voters -- inflation, an ongoing energy crisis that was resurgent in 1979, and the Iran hostage crisis. 

Yet on your second day in office you pardoned all Vietnam War-era draft evaders. You created the Departments of Education and Energy, and introduced energy conservation, new technologies, and price controls. You facilitated a lasting Egypt-Israel peace treaty.

You were a working class kid from a small rural town who became a submariner and inherited nothing, yet then worked successfully to revive your family's peanut farm. You believed in your service to the world and pursued numerous strategies to create healing for many, culminating in your establishment of the Carter Center to promote and expand human rights in 1982 -- for which you have been working ceaselessly since.

As high school students, we made fun of your big, toothy grin and that you were called "Jimmy," had a brother called "Billy," and couldn't seem to restore U.S. power and privilege. All of which, to many, appeared "unpresidential."

Yet now again you set a leadership example for us, opting to stop hospitalized medical care to return to die at your home, with your family. Having lived a good life and choosing to die well, too.

In following your many examples, it is good for us to remember to forgive; to always to return to the potential and beauty within each of us; and to know that we are merely servants to love in this world -- and that that is a commitment which requires decades of hard work.

Oh, Jimmy. Thank You.

"The reason that remarkable stories of forgiveness take our breath away is that we instantly feel the liberation in the lifting of boundaries, the end of separation, of “inside” and “outside.”

Roshi Nancy Mujo Baker, “The Seventh Zen Precept”

#1980 #voodooeconomics #wealthgap #diplomacy #jimmycarter

The Real Genius of Theater is How it Builds Community: Remembering Jean Wilhelm in Eastport

The towering Eastport Arts Center,
formerly a Baptist Church in Maine's
easternmost community.

As theater makers, we deal in physicalities.

The voices and bodies of actors. The buildings and stages in which we gather audiences and create imaginary worlds that heal our hearts and minds, that build new, temporary mini-communities with every performance. We learn to and honor being present in our bodies and places.

Our work often involves buildings -- saving old ones and at times building new to house our stages, roofs under which to bring people together.

So it was with our dear compatriot Jean Wilhelm throughout her career, but especially in the last two decades as she helped to purchase an old Baptist church in Eastport, Maine -- our nation's most eastern outpost -- and create the Eastport Arts Center.

As its website says, "The Eastport Arts Center (EAC) nurtures and promotes six year-round constituent groups engaged in theater, art, music, film education and community outreach."

Music to Jean's ears, and a song to my soul.

Jean, who was in her late '70's already when she relocated to Eastport, didn't do this on her own. She worked closely with another woman, Joyce Weber, who died two years before Jean, as well as many, many community members. Because in theater we don't do anything on our own. Theater is the art of the ensemble, of community. It is about bringing people together to share an experience, "to breathe," as one friend of mine said, "the same air."

This is its most potent power for change.

Jean Wilhelm memorabilia at her memorial
service August 13, 2022  in Eastport, Maine.

From the moment Jean sought us out at Opera House Arts in Stonington we knew she was a kindred soul. She believed deeply in the need for every community member to participate in and experience art of all forms. We asked her, in 2008, to direct a community playreading and she chose three exquisite short plays by Tennessee Williams: "The Lady of Larkspur Lotion," "27 Wagons Full of Cotton," "Portrait of a Madonna." The language in these plays is almost ridiculously beautiful, stunning, and Jean guided the community members young and old -- most unfamiliar with the work of Williams -- to find themselves within these stories from the 1940's.

Jean had fairly auspicious roots but, born in
1927 and graduating from high school in 1943, she became a woman during a time when being independent was not the norm. She had to, and did, literally sail her own course: straight through Smith College where she worked with the iconic Hallie Flanagan and on through advanced degrees in theater at West Virginia University and the University of Minnesota, on to the University of New South Wales in Australia and Goucher College in Maryland and finally on up the Maine coast. It was while getting her PhD in Minnesota that she forcefully introduced herself for hire to the legendary director Sir Tyrone Guthrie; opening up, as she said, "a whole wonderful sequence of events" including directing Guthrie's infamous worldwide touring version of Oedipus Rex in Australia in 1970-71.

The thing that most resonated with us about Jean was not even her artistic work -- we traveled up to see both Brian Friel's "Dancing at Luhnasa" and Williams' "The Glass Menagerie" under her hand in Eastport -- but her dedication to democracy: in civic life as well as in theater. The two came together for Jean as they do for us.

Jean's official President Obama
commemorative photo.

For example, at her memorial service on August 13, 2022, I newly learned she had been in front of the Eastport post office every Saturday -- protesting George W. Bush's falsified war in Iraq. She shamelessly supported Democratic candidates, including Obama. Her small-D democratic values powered her work -- as it did our own.

Jean's nephew Bill deBlasio, former Mayor of NYC.

As her most famous nephew, Bill deBlasio, former mayor of NYC noted at the beginning of his comments Saturday, the beautiful photo of Jean and Joyce talking with each other, taken by a student, was right out of the Nixon era of "un-indicted conspiracists." It turns out the two actually WERE conspiring at that moment, seated on a bench in the unfinished upstairs theater space above where the photography workshop was happening -- plotting the creation of the Arts Center.

In Jean's bright blue eyes, the world was always wonderful and marvelous and the charge was always ONWARD! This is just the expansive, glass overflowing attitude we in theater and really in all our lives need to accomplish our work and improve our communities, or so much of it would never get done. It is a world in which, in Jean's own words, death is “not frettable.” (sic)

ONWARD! dear Jean. And ONWARD! all of you making moments of beauty that gather and heal those around you, whether through theater or faith or civic duty.

#MaineCulture
#CultureChange
#NewBlogPost
#Onward

Goosed

Our biggest challenge along the
Erie Canal Bike Trail??

Hissing, beak wide open, wings spread, the goose came at my right flank. I swerved the bike and accelerated my peddling. It was a narrow miss.

The goose was protecting its brood, mate, young and fellow geese, of whom 15-20 were spread across the Erie Canal Bike Trail. Repeatedly. It's June, and the goslings are of different ages, many verging on adolescence, and the adults are in full molt: they lose their big wing feathers at this time of year, and cannot fly, leaving them extremely vulnerable.

And defensive.

On Day 1 of the ride we'd witnessed a rider knocked to the ground by a flock of geese in Tonawanda.

They appear to be the most dangerous part of our 400-mile journey. Clustered at many various points on the trail, protecting their young, charging us on our bicycles as we attempt to part their feathered flocks and urge them not-unkindly off the path into the canal.

But being goosed -- prompted, urged, herded -- is for many of us a rather necessary thing.

Doing a long ride such as this, dependent upon your own physical strength and mental determination, "gooses" one forward toward new revelations and perceptions. As any herd dog, or goose, might tell you: a bit of a sharp nip on one's haunches, a change of scenery, a physical challenge is often what one most needs to get to the destination(s) one desires.

Riding the trail last month, I was goosed to consider what it really means to be a 60-year-old queer, feminist, childless woman out in the world, a body visibly traversing in real, human time the state of NY.

In my welcoming Maine community, I live a fairly protected life in which such facts of my difference from the normative culture don't often present themselves. But out here, exposed to the hissing of geese and the fury of young white men, I am just an old white dyke in their way.

And since then, there is the Supreme Court with all its illegitimacy and unrepresentative decisions that threaten our individual human rights -- including overturning the "settled law" of Roe vs. Wade.

It's easier to forget in these days, when fluidity of gender and sexuality has been more normalized in many-but-not-all places, what internalized homophobia and misogyny feel like.

As I pushed my body and my mind along the path for those two weeks, I was reminded of the things I carry that for the most part I have successfully evaded. In response to the cat calls and questions and assumptive "sir's" comes the internalized reality that to be a masculine female is indeed not only to be triumphantly queer but to be wrong. To be a woman my age without kids or grandkids: wrong. How much easier it seems were I to take testosterone, grow a beard, lower my voice even further so I could just be one and not the Other: both. A queer butch woman, unapologetically without children, masculine and yet still a woman. Powerful in myself, cycling 400 miles: someone others in their fear of what is different would like to disempower.

My tactic for the past 50 plus years to prove my rightness to myself has been to assert the power of my sexuality. To seduce and to charm the world around me. 

But I am 60. I am tired. I don't want to charm anyone anymore. And it is in that final 10 miles, riding through the 40th mile to the 50th, that I feel very alone and sad: living proof that the choices I've made are naturally wrong. We all have these moments when confirmation bias is achieved and escape velocity not. This is the point of vulnerability at which the power of the loving community is paramount.

#newblogpost

#queer

#whatisnormal

#imokyoureok

#lovingcommunity

Post-Bike Trail Notes: The Many Roads Not Chosen

One of my many paths not chosen was the path of classical music performance.

Riding a bike every day, all day, creates that beautiful space that dancers and other performers know well: the life right here now, in the physical body in time and place.

As the cinder of the Erie Canal Trail from Buffalo to Albany unspooled beneath my wheels the first two weeks in June, I could spin into a kind of trance state of cadence and motion. Being.

Yet at every juncture, choice and often action were required. Wayfaring signage was not always available or clear, maps not detailed enough, priorities of co-riders not the same. And at times, even with due consideration, initial choices to follow a certain route had to be remade. Sometimes a path just didn't "feel right," and a 360-degree turn was required.

Bicycling is, of course, a well-used metaphor for life. And the trip gave me time to reflect on several roads I did not take.

The first of these materialized in the first few days of the ride when we arrived in Rochester -- home to the Eastman Kodak company, inventors of the Brownie camera that popularized and democratized photography at the beginning of the 20th century; and its philanthropic offspring, the Eastman School of Music at the University of Rochester.

Kodak Hall, the largest performance venue at
he Eastman School of Music in downtown
Rochester, NY.

George Eastman, the inventor who founded Eastman Kodak (Kodak is not a collaborating partner but rather a name Eastman devised for his company), ascribed to the philosophy of "noblesse oblige." He stood alongside Rockefeller and Carnegie as one of the most philanthropic men of his era. He provided Kodak employees the first "stock bonus" in U.S. corporate history, and invested millions in education at MIT and in Rochester. He was the largest contributor to HBCU's in the 1920's, and a pioneer in dental and medical philanthropy.

A scientist, he also recognized the links between the creative and scientific processes, particularly through music. "There are no drawbacks to music: you can't have too much of it," he famously said.

This passion led him to establish one of the nation's most famous music conservatory programs, the Eastman School of Music, where my path nearly intersected with Eastman's vision and philanthropy for music.

I became a trumpet player at age 9 by accident: we were invited to begin in our school band program at that age, and this was the instrument found moldering in my grandmother's attic -- provenance still unknown. But I took to "blowing my own horn" like a fish to water: I love music, and I love the feeling it creates in my brain and body when I create it myself.

The trumpet is an utterly collaborative, ensemble instrument: yes, you can solo, but it is not really the instrument for living room confabs. As a wind player, I pursued first concert band, then orchestral playing, then brass quartets and quintets.

My love for it was so clear that my parents -- who had earlier told me a piano was beyond our financial reach -- broke down and sent me off to NYC with my junior high band instructor to purchase a decent instrument along the hallowed musical hall of 48th Street.

But most importantly, they hooked me up with private lessons and somehow I was charmed enough to wind up with one of the best trumpet instructors in New England: Irvin Bourque, who had previously taught at the Juillard School and who had himself studied with the famed NY Philharmonic trumpeter William Vacchiano and played for the larger-than-life conductor, Arturo Toscanini (bringing a type of "What would Toscanini do?" filter to my life!).

All more esoterica on trumpet legacy than you may need on a Monday morning.

Mr. Bourque, who dragged me willingly with him from town to town as part of the Norwich (CT) Civic Band and several brass quartet/quintet configurations, had me headed toward Eastman, at which one of my best friends, a French Horn player, matriculated the year before I was to go.

Through her, I began to understand what it meant to go to a music conservatory. Hours and hours of practice alone in a cement block practice room! What of softball, what of history, what of writing, what of lesbian bars?!

The world was too wide and enticing. It distracted me from the alluring tones of the Eastman Wind Ensemble and landed me instead -- again, almost by happenstance in the form of a high school U.S. history teacher whose sister worked in Bowdoin's Hawthorne-Longfellow Library

Ultimately, at Bowdoin, I DID spend hours and hours in that cement block practice room with my horn, as well as on stage with the college orchestra and pit bands, as well as on Bowdoin's fields and in its seminar rooms. Yet standing before the hallowed hall in Rochester fired my imagination: what a very different life mine would have been in choosing the Eastman path!

#music

#musiceducation

#EastmanSchool

#trumpet

#newblogpost

Our Longing for Home Along the Highways of New Ideas

We are all migrants on this continent,  even many of our First Nation peoples whose following of natural food ways resulted in the creation of winter and summer camps.

As White immigrants who arrived here fleeing persecution, poverty, and oppression and seeking something better, we tend to think of ourselves as exceptional and ahistorical -- a country full of "firsts" -- while at the same time being obsessed with the concept of "home."

Yet the internet, that glorious, fast, invisible tool that sends information, our thoughts, and visual depictions of our lives flying around the globe, is by no means the first highway of new ideas in the U.S.

That badge of honor MIGHT be said to belong to the Erie Canal, opened in 1825. 

This new super highway was quickly flooded with those headed west, as it was a relatively flat and quick route that avoided crossing the Appalachian Mountains. It is said that more migrants and immigrants used the Canal to move into and across the western frontier than any other means.

Among those headed north and west in the mid-19th century were many escaped slaves, as well as others who just didn't "fit" where they were -- the queers, the radicals, those who wanted something other than the Puritan, male, patriarchal state.

The Underrground Railroad ran strongly along the canal with critical junctions in Syracuse, Rochester, and Niagara as gateways to Canada. These cities became known for their abolitionists, who also fomented other radical, social justice oriented movements -- including Utopianism, Mormonism, and Feminism. Enveloping all of these movements was the Second Great Awakening, a period of religious revival that was so strong in western and central NY along the Canal that it became known as the "Burned-Over Diistrict." Without access to many trained clergy, individual laypeople created an evangelical air of "extravagant excitement" -- leaving the impression in many others that religion was a mere delusion -- all seeking the path to "go home" to the Lord.

Among those who had his beginnings along the canal was L. Frank Baum, noted author of The Wizard of Oz and a large number of fantasy books, born in Chittenango in 1856. A small, family-run museum alongside the canal exemplifies our obsession with Oz, Dorothy, the Wizard, the Witches, and of course the yellow brick road.

The scene I best remember from the cherished movie version of this book is at the end, when we are back in black and white from our Technicolor fantasy and Dorothy is waking up in bed surrounded by family and farmhands -- all of whom had become characters in her fever dream. "There's no place like home," she is chanting/mumbling as she awakens from her unconscious. There's no place like home.

As an adopted person and in spite of my wonderful adoptive family, I too am a person who will always be yearning "to go home." But as so many have said - from German-Jewish refugee philosopher Hannah Arendt, who spoke of the need of the persecuted Jewish people to carry their libraries with them, in their heads, as they fled pogrom after pogrom; to current musicologist and musician Rhiannen Giddens, who speaks of the power of music to allow us to carry our ancestral homes in Africa and the Middle East within us as we flee and fly -- the only homes we have are those we carry within us.

One more reason for raising readers, writers, musicians and artists, and for developing rich, complex arts and cultural sensibilities in our selves and our communities.

#arts #culture #eriecanaltrail #bikeride #Oz #home #community

God’s Country

Day 4 of cycling the Erie Canal Bikeway found us in Palmyra, southeast of Rochester, about 100 miles and a third of the way along the Canal.

If that name rings a bell for you, it may be because you are aware of enough American religious history to know that Palmyra -- named for a village in what is now Syria -- is where Joseph Smith found the golden tablets from which he translated and printed the Book of Mormon. At the end of today's 28 miles, we participated in a guided tour of the local print shop which took on the massive job of publishing 5000 copies using 1830 technology from two new, 19-year-old female missionaries whose delight in the book's creation and meaning was palpably contagious.

Biking through the lush farmland here, it is easy to feel its inspiration as a source of revelation. From giant black walnut trees whose thick, low arms reach out in broad embraces to hummingbirds sheltering in visible nests and an orchestra of songbirds to the sheep and lambs roaming the verdant hillsides, it is easy here to feel the abundance, generosity, and awe-inspiring beauty that is creation. How blessed we all are, however we choose to make sense of our place in cosmology.

Smith was a determined and highly successful religious visionary, and the first and only home-grown American one. Mormonism is very particularly American in its belief in America and this nation, its citizens and Constitution as exceptional and chosen peoples. These beliefs, as much as the revelatory beauty of the world surrounding Joseph Smith, continue to inspire millions around the world to follow the Book of Mormon and Smith's other published teachings.

Gratitude: On Receiving Bowdoin College’s Common Good Award

President Rose, Trustees, members of the Alumni Council and McKeen Center for the Common Good, fellow honored guests, friends, family, classmates, collaborators and co-conspirators.

It is with stunned humility that I stand before you today and gratefully accept Bowdoin’s Common Good Award.

When this winter I received a FedEx envelope from the College delivered to our island address, I was gripped by a familiar fear.

The College had finally uncovered some bill I’d not paid!

This is comical in retrospect – I graduated 39 years ago. I know the College finance department is much more efficient than that…

Yet my instinctive fear points to who I am, where I come from, and the ambivalent relationship I’ve had to the College for much of my life – all of which make this award that much more meaningful to me.

I am deeply moved by, and grateful for, the College’s recognition of my lifelong passion for the arts, and of their power in my work in cultural and economic community development  in Maine. In particular, in our more isolated rural areas and with our young people. Work I have undertaken, in large part, as a way of returning to the State the great privilege of the excellent education I received here. And everywhere I go in this expansive state, I am awed by the number of Bowdoin alum I encounter serving the common good. It does seem as if the beautiful Offer of the College works deeply in us. With so very many deserving of this recognition, I am especially humbled by  this award, one I look forward to sharing with my many peers in service.

Having my my work recognized and amplified in this, the 50^th anniversary year of women at Bowdoin, is a huge honor and a tribute not only to me but to the many women who’ve worked collectively over these 50 years to make so much change possible.

I love the word common. I am proud to be as common as they get.

I am a queer, working class activist  whose heritage is only two and three generations deep on this continent. My grandparents had sixth and eighth grade educations; my parents were awarded high school diplomas; and it was hoped for if not expected that I would take the next step, to college.

An important part of being common is being PREVALENT: there are many of us. We are not exceptional, and that’s a good thing.

Yet there were not many of me when I arrived at Bowdoin in 1979. My family was always deeply uncomfortable when visiting. I and several of those here today, and many more, quickly learned to create commonality across differences to collectively battle our shared oppressions –boarding school students to financial aid kids, CIS gender to queer, black women to white women.

My best work and biggest successes have always occurred in the creation of these commons – the free, open, public spaces shared by all – and their communities. I am honored to have been one small part of the greater collectives that launched Bowdoin’s Women’s Resource Center, now the Center for Sexuality, Women, and Gender; that created Opera House Arts and restored the historic Stonington Opera House; that is currently forming the Cultural Alliance of Maine to strengthen the state’s commitment to its important indigenous, immigrant, and local cultures.

Every time we come together, for any reason – a meeting, a movie, a musical performance, church - we create new community: unique gatherings of commoners. From each community, we learn something. From each, we are able to launch collective action for healing, for hope, to advance our common good.

Our work is not done. Too much violence, and great and painful inequities, continue to exist and threaten to divide us. And so I will leave you with this. In 1980, one of the first books we purchased for the Women’s Resource Center was lesbian poet Judy Grahn’s The Common Woman Poems. In it she wrote a verse that appeared on many of our walls and T-shirts for years to come, a poster of which has since wound up in the Library of Congress. “A common woman is as common as a loaf of bread,” Grahn wrote.

“And she will rise.”

Let us keep rising. Let us commoners keep gathering in the commons.

Thank you.

 

Are We Too Late to Adopt "Community Rules"?

An annotated tax map of downtown Stonington, ME.
The pink dots represent properties owned by non-residents.

 

In 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic accelerated and exacerbated a trend that was already well underway: the sale of our communities to investors and "non-residents" -- people who do not work here, vote here, or live here year round.

The map above shows the impact on the village of Stonington. Only 30% of our downtown properties are owned by residents. And only 15% are commercial enterprises. 

That means 55% of downtown properties are owned by non-residents. And outside of the village, 80%+ of the total Stonington shoreline is the same.

Some call this gentrification: when wealthier people from other areas, in search of a higher quality of life, gravitate toward beautiful, end-of-the-world places formerly populated by people there because of birth or work -- including artists. Because property values and incomes are higher where they originate, their interest in and purchase of local properties in communities such as Stonington drive real estate values beyond the reach of local workers.

Change is inevitable and those who engage with the same place year after year know the glories and the heartaches of these changes. The questions are: can we direct and influence change with community values and actions? Knowing what history has taught us: how could we do this differently? How might incoming property owners show more respect for preserving the cultures and places where they want to spend time, too?

Because in some ways, we might also consider some of these changes as a kind of ongoing colonization. After all, the generational White islanders who make up a majority of today's Deer Isle residents replaced the indigenous people who stewarded and used the natural resources for more than 2,000 years before we asserted our own White European cultures.

Here's a suggested, partial checklist of "community rules" for everyone's consideration -- feel free to add to and share this!

Get to know a place and its people and economies before purchasing property. Buying property in bidding wars "sight unseen" on the internet is no different from being part of a gold rush. And just like previous gold rushes, it's destructive to a place's natural and cultural resources. 

Our community is more than your financial investment. We live here year round, through the cold and muddy grind climbing March hill. We raise children here and struggle to maintain our local schools. We work here and what we harvest and make creates a sustainable year-round community. We vote and volunteer as firefighters and ambulance drivers; we serve on committees and participate in the municipal process, moving the gears to make a livable, sustainable place that can welcome visitors such as you. 

Don't put your own desires above the community's needs. I know this is a tough one given American individualism, but...well...it's not all about you and what you can afford and to what you feel entitled because you happen to have the cash -- or the real estate to attract the cash. Feel blessed by and grateful for your privilege. We didn't allow our "rusticators" of the past to gobble up all the real estate so that workers had no places to live, and they in turn didn't rent their seasonal cottages to others to churn in and out of every three days as if this is a party boat. Love Deer Isle-Stonington? Buy a non-winterized cottage and spend five months here, volunteering for nonprofits while you are here. Or establish a regular rental from a year-round person who needs the income to pay their property taxes. Already doing these things: thank you! Remember that you already own a place and vote and work somewhere else: you don't need to own here, too. 

Be of service, make a positive impact. If you've made it through the first three bullet points and are still determined to buy, sell, or rent a place, consider how you can contribute -- with your time, expertise and heart, in addition to your wallet -- where the community has the greatest need. Some communities add transfer fees to real estate sales to fund needed community projects. Or if you buy and are only going to visit for two weeks of the year, consider renting it for the other 50 weeks to a year-round, working community member. It's not as sexy or as flush with cash as being an AirBNB host, but it will eventually help you to become an actual member of a real and beloved working community.

In the meantime, the Stonington Economic and Community Development Committee is running a Short-Term Rentals Task Force with the objective of lessening the negative impacts some of these are having on our communities. We meet monthly and welcome your input to econdev@stoningtonmaine.org.

Our island is suffering from the top-heavy impact of a new wave of colonizers. Our workers have no places to live and are cut off from the source of their labor and passion on our working waterfront. Our natural resources and infrastructure -- such as Stonington's Sanitary and Water districts -- are stretched beyond their capacity. Our schools don't have enough students to be sustainable, and our teachers and nurses can't find housing. Our beautiful village is dark and empty for great swaths of the year.

What can we do differently?

Losing Our Nonprofit Religion: Bad Boards and Misunderstanding JEDI

Myles Jordan and Kirsten Monke, two members
of the DaPonte String Quartet, in a 2012 concert 
of new music produced by Opera House Arts
at the Burnt Cove Church in Stonington.
Photo by Karen Galella.

This weekend's news about the hostile board takeover of the Friends of the DaPonte -- ousting the founding musicians as salaried employees and changing the organization's name and mission while waving a false flag of "diversification" -- is, I can only hope, the straw on the camel's back of nonprofit board culture gone seriously awry.

The nonprofit sector, and the "culture of philanthropy" that supports it, has been -- like the "fourth estate" of the press -- an important leg of the stool that is the U.S.'s socio-cultural economy.

We all need it to be functional.

The sector's purpose -- to fill unique charitable needs -- is intended to take the capitalist rule of transactionality off the table: experiences and services are not measured solely on attendance and earnings; community relationships are more important than transactions. In the U.S., the sector, like government, exists to serve the common goods of our communities, filling gaps in public services that in other industrialized countries the government often provides more of -- including the arts.

And in the nonprofit cultural sector, some organizations are appropriately leading the way in doing the work of JEDI -- justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion -- centering the voices and work of those who have for so long been excluded, as well as adopting new ways and teams of cooperative, equitable working.

Yet over the last 40 years, in parallel with the "Reagan Revolution" move toward "supply side" economics, we've experienced an increasing amount of dominant, capitalist culture values and strategies creeping into the nonprofit sector, until today our common goods and charitable purposes are awash in a flood tide of transactional programming (services and events without relationships) and egocentric leadership (building individual resumes and prestige). Boards are too often comprised of affluent people suffering from the entitlement of "father knows best" because they've been successful in the capitalist marketplace, and they bring those unexamined, dominant culture values with them.

Nowhere is this more starkly apparent than in the recent actions of the Friends of the DaPonte board.

The DaPonte's uniquely charitable, laudable, and purposefully specific mission was to advance equity for artists. The founders knew that to truly practice and present their craft, strengthening communities through access to live music and music education, they had to create a stable income base. Remarkably, over 30 years they achieved this. 

Now along comes an ambitious new Executive Director/composer and a board that misunderstands not only its governance role to steward the nonprofit's mission but how to pursue JEDI. The result: by changing the name and purpose of this nonprofit and firing the musicians as employees, they are stealing assets that don't belong to them and flying in the face of JEDI values.

Diversification of programming is laudable and necessary. So are equitable pay for artists and good governance values such as respect, listening, relationships, artist leadership, and stewardship. 

It seems clear the ED and board could not get the DaPonte to go exactly where they wanted them to go -- specific programming not being the purview of the board in any event -- so instead pulled the rug out from under them.

The DaPonte are artists who created a nonprofit with a small, singular purpose to sustain their craft and their community impact. If, after discussions with them, the ED and individual board members remained dissatisfied, they had several options open to them -- notably recognizing they are in the wrong place and departing to start their own nonprofit chamber music series. 

Instead, they've chosen the path of theft and disrespect, laying bare the damaging mechanics of inequitable governance run amok. 

Let's hope this incident can, first, be over turned and secondly that it sparks the necessary conversations, awareness, and changes the nonprofit governance model desperately needs.

#nonprofitmaine

#governance

#culture

How Together An Island Can Sustain What Matters

On May 7, all are invited to join a free, guided, 90-minute walk in downtown Stonington from 11:30 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.: "Pier to Pier: A Jane's Walk Through Time, Fishing, Quarrying and Culture."

The Town of Stonington is hosting this walk as an opportunity for community members to engage with Stonington's history and also the serious current challenges with which the Town is grappling: sea level rise, fishing industry changes

Who is Jane Jacobs, for whom this walk -- part of a series of walks happening around the world -- is named? Why is the Town of Stonington, along with its partners the Deer Isle-Stonington Chamber of Commerce, the Stonington Public Library, the Harbor Cafe and Maine Center for Coastal Fisheries, hosting this event?

creative ways to do workforce housing

D.C.: Cherry Blossoms and Heartburn

First view of the U.S. Capital from aboard the Palmetto.

I'm arriving in our nation's capital for less than 24 hours as I train my way back up the eastern seaboard. I'm feeling sad, somewhat disassociated, which is odd as I'm on my way home from a terrific visit with one of my oldest and best friends.

It's the capital building itself. It sends a direct current through my heart, creating a sharp burn from the moment the crown of its dome pops into view.

The cherry-lined shore of the Potomac.

From Fredericksburg to Alexandria, VA, Amtrak's Palmetto line runs up the Potomac. It is a big river, wide and throaty brown, but not as long as Virginia's famed James River. With its headwaters in the western Appalachian Mountains beyond the Blue Ridge, the James -- originally the Powhatan, like those who lived here for thousands of years pre-colonization -- brought in ever increasing numbers of British colonialists and took out tobacco, the labor intensive and soil killing export that made the settlements, with the labor of enslaved peoples, economically viable. The James dumps into the Chesapeake at the large, protected harbor of Newport News/Hampton Roads: a place I've never been but know as the primary competitor for the New England sub- and ship-building Navy towns around which I grew up and still reside.

D.C.'s fabulous cherries are in bloom along the Potomac, the Tidal Basin, and every street. Yet just as in my previous post about the desert, the burning pain in my heart vies with all this beauty for my attention.

I'm a product of the school of American Exceptionalism: I was taught to believe and accepted as reality that the U.S. is different from other nations, that our values and political systems are unique in history such that it is our destiny to lead.

A magnificent old cherry propped up outside the Library of Congress.

I believed it about our country and, as a citizen of this country, about myself as well.

I took off the rosy glasses about myself at 14, about the time when many, teetering on adolescence, do.

My first muse and champion, my Grandmother Mary, had died several years earlier. Fourteen was the age at which I first quit the Catholic Church and understood myself to be a lesbian. None of this fit the radiantly perfect image of who I was intended to be.

By 1975 I'd also had to adjust my rosy lenses in regard to the country. I wore a leather peace sign around my neck and had completed my high school prep watching the Watergate trials and Nixon's resignation.

Yet still, my "city on a hill" syndrome of romantic nationalism persisted. Once it gets its barbed hooks under your skin, removal can be difficult and painful.

In 1978, on our junior class trip to D.C., my first views of the Capital Rotunda, the Lincoln and Jefferson and Washington Memorials, the Library of Congress and the Supreme Court awed me with their grandiose aesthetic portrayals of our "uniquely" American values.

Even the first Presidential election in which I was able to vote in 1980 -- with an apparently rigged Iranian hostage crisis, devastated cities and rampaging inflation working together to sink President Jimmy Carter, the most moral politician I knew -- didn't manage to put the final nail in a coffin that was almost but not completely sealed for me.

There have been thousands of nails added since. And still, I held onto something -- can I call it hope? -- until January 6, 2021 and the assault of armed citizens on the Capital building in an attempt to overturn a legitimate election.

Let's not kid ourselves. While the coverup of and gaps in the teaching of American history are very thorough, at some point most of us are forced to accept that a nation built on genocide, land theft, and enslaved labor is rotten at its core.

What some of us keep hoping for -- followers of Martin Luther King, Jr. and others -- is that our efforts for change will create opportunities for redemption.

I'll keep working for #justice, for #love. But the sight of the capital dome, and the memories of armed hordes assaulting Capital police desecrating symbols of our democratic ideals, is now a shot of direct current that burns my heart.

The rear of the Supreme Court: "Justice the Guardian of Liberty."

#americanexceptionalism

#powhatan