Who can believe this damn thing still works. But it does, with its two white Pyrex bowls and a crumbling cord no doubt leaking asbestos covering across my counter.
This is no Vita Mix. It needs some help creaming butter and sugar together, scraping the sides of the bowl toward the beaters, unclogging the beaters which...just don't go fast enough. It's not that they've slowed down. It's that things just didn't go as fast in those days.
In the six years since she died a month before turning 91, I've been surrounded by a lot of my mother's stuff. My brother, a local garbage hauler who had loyally and miraculously lived with and cared for our diabetic parents until each of their deaths, had run up some debts and could not afford to keep the house. We had to empty and sell it. Our parents had lived in that same cheaply built tract house in Mystic, CT for 41 years at that point. Previous to that, they had resided in the house they built for themselves, with heavy plaster walls and an ocean of front lawn on land my maternal grandmother had given them next door to her own, for only 16 years before moving to Mystic to follow my father's entrepreneurial dreams.
Yes, those cereal canisters in the background of this photo were my mother's too.
Finding myself making banana bread with my mother's mixer caused wave after wave of longing for my parents and my grandmothers to crash over me: for times when I, an adopted child, was secure and loved and cherished by the strangers who took me in. Blessed.
That's how everyone wants and deserves to feel right now: secure and loved and cherished.
And very few do. The COVID-19 pandemic has us quarantined in our separate homes, many, especially elders, fighting the ills of social isolation. As I write this, almost 4,000 people A DAY are dying from COVID here in the U.S. alone. And all around the world, people continue to die not only from the pandemic but from violence, starvation, grief. Many try to flee the horrific circumstances in which they find themselves, refugees seeking better lives just as my biological French ancestors did emigrating first to Quebec and then across the border to the U.S. But we, the wealthiest nation in the world, essentially closed our borders and wallets to refugees under the Trump administration.
It's possible that Trump himself and his "base" feel the least secure, loved, and cherished. They sure act that way. Their white male "politics of resentment" is right from the playbook of the insecure. Like the Confederacy before them who fought to keep Black people enslaved in their service, these fellows' insecurity about losing their white privilege and power becomes aggression against the rest of us. The fragility of their white masculinity is on display for the world to see.
Change is tough, and to achieve equity those of us with privilege -- whether skin color, education, gender, or economics -- are all gonna have to give up something. We need to use government to do what it does best: bring us into the commons where we can figure out the difficult solutions that will best serve the most of us, and in particular those with the least among us.
It would be easier to feel compassion for these angry white men if they were not so hateful, armed, and violent.
In the meantime: we have to hold them accountable for themselves not cherishing those around them. Not the women, girls, boys, people of color, or legislators with whom they differ. They are operating under the misperception perpetrated by Trump: that their government supports their incivility. They are wrong, and our government now needs to hold them accountable for their uncivil, illegal behaviors. Only after they realize they are NOT supported can we start to urge them toward healing.
Mine, on the other hand, is densely filled with banana mash and walnuts.
A fine example of plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.
1 comment:
a slower speed is helpful right now, as is doing it from scratch. grounding in the chaos of change
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