We are in our new house as of Monday, June 1. I got it into my head on May 22 to ask the maintenance man (actually the building contractor) at our old place if he could find us a painter. He came over to look at it that day, and said he could do it himself the next day. I ran out to the big box store and picked out colors for the two bedrooms and the kitchen. While we were looking at the room, a mover I had called called back, and we were set. Meanwhile, Joe and I checked out the discount flooring place recommended by a friend. They sent someone out to look at the basement and the carpets. He suggested we just clean the carpets. We went back to the store to figure out what we would do with the basement floor. We are going with carpeting. The locksmith also has a carpet cleaning business, so that got done before we moved in.The basement floor will be done next week.
We are still living with boxes and clutter, unable to locate things or maneuver around. There are no curtains or blinds on the master bedroom window. Still, it's a relief to be in. Joe has set up shop in the basement, which will be much more comfortable when it is carpeted and decorated. We put our living room couch in the additional room in the back of the house, and Joe likes to read there. The second bedroom is now my office. I like the color I picked out, and I feel I have a room of my own, which I didn't in the old place. We sleep better without the ambulances to and from the two hospitals and the helicopters to Ruby Memorial. We've spoken to six of our eleven neighbors, more than we spoke to in three years in the old house.
Tappuz was traumatized by the move. We took her to the new house on moving day at seven A.M., and locked her in the bathroom upstairs with her litter box and food. I looked in on her when we showed up with the movers around noon. She was curled up behind the toilet, petrified. She's better now. We have a glass storm door out front. She can stand there all day and look out, but when we decided to let her go out, she took one step, then turned and ran back in the house.
We still have things that need to be done to make this house completely work, but so far Joe, Tappuz and I are happy to be in our new home.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Marriage, Republicans and the 2016 election
I have been thinking all week about the Republican candidates for United States President and how none of them think they can be seen as a supporter of marriage rights for same-gender couples. What I found in my research is that with a few exceptions, notably Mike Huckabee and Bobby Jindal, among possible major candidates, those running don't really want to alienate supporters of marriage equality. Their problem is that certain church denominations demand that candidates deny any possible compromise on marriage. The candidates all pander to the right when they feel they have to, like Rand Paul, who said at a recent prayer breakfast that there is a " moral crisis that allows people to think there would be some sort of other marriage."
Otherwise, like Rick Perry or Marco Rubio, they think states have the right to define marriage. Or like Scott Walker who said "I don't comment on everything out there," when asked. Ted Cruz, however, going against the "States Rights" argument, introduced a constitutional amendment to ban any recognition of same-gender marriages. I'm old enough to remember George Wallace using "States Rights" to protest Federal intervention in school desegregation or voting rights. Religious groups at the time used the Bible to support segregation.
More locally, Cindy Frich and Joe Statler, state delegates from Monongalia County, both voted for a resolution to support that amendment.
Part of me thinks that all the gay people in Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas and yes, West Virginia, should just pick up and leave. When Joe was looking for congregational jobs, I made the decisions about where to apply, and I vetoed Michigan and Nebraska because I saw them as anti-gay states. We only ended up in West Virginia because Morgantown is a college town, and the congregation here looked like a good fit. And now we've decided to stay here despite Cindy Frich and Joe Statler (and the two other Republican delegates from here). The house we just purchased is in the City of Morgantown, partly because the city council passed a resolution supporting same-gender marriage and a non-discrimination law.
One last thing I found in my research. Our real issues are economic. Rick Santorum's entry into the campaign did not focus on denying gay people rights. I'm sure he'll get to that, but meantime he wants to end "Obamacare," cut any regulations that he sees as "job killers" (i.e. environmental protection, minimum wage increases, anti-discrimination rules). He talked about what he will do for American workers. He meant what he will do for corporate leaders.
The Democrats have come out firmly, finally, for marriage equality. The more important issue is will they work for economic equality. Joe and I will be married no matter what the legality of it is. I will be more hurt if Social Security and Medicare are cut.
Joe and I will celebrate ten years together this coming December. We will be legally married seven years in November. People who think our marriage shouldn't be allowed are too late, by a lot. And they have no right to expect me to be even polite to them or their religious denomination.
Otherwise, like Rick Perry or Marco Rubio, they think states have the right to define marriage. Or like Scott Walker who said "I don't comment on everything out there," when asked. Ted Cruz, however, going against the "States Rights" argument, introduced a constitutional amendment to ban any recognition of same-gender marriages. I'm old enough to remember George Wallace using "States Rights" to protest Federal intervention in school desegregation or voting rights. Religious groups at the time used the Bible to support segregation.
More locally, Cindy Frich and Joe Statler, state delegates from Monongalia County, both voted for a resolution to support that amendment.
Part of me thinks that all the gay people in Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas and yes, West Virginia, should just pick up and leave. When Joe was looking for congregational jobs, I made the decisions about where to apply, and I vetoed Michigan and Nebraska because I saw them as anti-gay states. We only ended up in West Virginia because Morgantown is a college town, and the congregation here looked like a good fit. And now we've decided to stay here despite Cindy Frich and Joe Statler (and the two other Republican delegates from here). The house we just purchased is in the City of Morgantown, partly because the city council passed a resolution supporting same-gender marriage and a non-discrimination law.
One last thing I found in my research. Our real issues are economic. Rick Santorum's entry into the campaign did not focus on denying gay people rights. I'm sure he'll get to that, but meantime he wants to end "Obamacare," cut any regulations that he sees as "job killers" (i.e. environmental protection, minimum wage increases, anti-discrimination rules). He talked about what he will do for American workers. He meant what he will do for corporate leaders.
The Democrats have come out firmly, finally, for marriage equality. The more important issue is will they work for economic equality. Joe and I will be married no matter what the legality of it is. I will be more hurt if Social Security and Medicare are cut.
Joe and I will celebrate ten years together this coming December. We will be legally married seven years in November. People who think our marriage shouldn't be allowed are too late, by a lot. And they have no right to expect me to be even polite to them or their religious denomination.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Real Estate, Part Something
After some drama, we closed on the house Tuesday May 12. We were promised the HUD-1 statement, which lays out exactly what your costs will be at closing, by Thursday or Friday, with closing scheduled for Monday afternoon. When we didn't have it by Friday noon, I called the agent and the mortgage broker. Neither of them picked up, nor did they return my call. I could feel my chest tightening. I couldn't read, couldn't nap. Joe was out. I thought the whole deal would fall through. Then I called Sarah, the young assistant mortgage person, and got her on the line. I told her we couldn't close Monday if we didn't have our HUD-1 by Friday afternoon. She said she would check on it.
Then everyone called me back. The lawyer writes up the HUD-1 and he had other closings, leaving him with no time to finish our report. We could get it at closing. "No," I said. "We were promised it for Thursday or Friday. We need twenty-four hours to make sure it is correct and get the cashier's check from the bank. "
They were all angry. The sellers live out of town and were planning to come in for the day Monday, they whined at me. The lawyer is supposed to be away Tuesday.
"Oh, well," I said. Their problem. We got the report Monday, declined our title insurance, and got the check from the bank. Our closing cost was 14.9% over the "good faith estimate." It can't be over 15% higher. The extra cost was because the appraiser charged an extra hundred dollars because the house is semi-detached and she had to walk an extra fifteen feet around the other house to find the meters.
It all went smoothly, ultimately. They shoved lots of documents under our noses to sign, and acted impatient when I wanted to know what they were. I don't get why we couldn't have had all these documents a month before to look over. Neither of us really know what we signed. They gave us back $1200 because there was a mistake. I told the mortgage lady, Sandra, that I was sorry for giving her so much grief, but that her industry has a horrible reputation, and no one can be trusted. She said she was trying to correct that.
In the last ten days, we have most of the last packing done, and the locksmith came and changed the locks. The tile people are coming Tuesday to look at the basement floor. The tile that was there was pulled up, leaving dry black glue on the floor. They will look at it and give us options. We want to paint the bedrooms, but can't find an available painter. We haven't looked for a mover. People ask if we'll get a U-Haul and have friends help. We are sixty-five and fifty-eight. That's not going to happen.
I thought we could take a few things, get sleeping bags and camp out on the floor until everything is done. I'm ready to be out of our current house. I see more and more the advantages of the new place: Entering on the main floor instead of a flight of steps below, a tree in front of the house instead of a dying bush, our closest major intersection (because we will be in Morgantown proper) having a four-way "walk" light, fewer students who don't speak to us living on the block and a lower density and more space. I want to be away from the two hospitals with the ambulances and helicopters all night, away from the Christian commune where they use power tools all day Saturday right behind our kitchen. We will still be too close to the football stadium, although far enough away that we won't be able to hear the fans, and will be able to get in and out of our street before and after the games.
Tappuz is freaked about all the boxes in the house. She knows something is up, but we don't have a way to explain it to her. She will miss her two second-floor balconies, but hopefully, she will take to our fenced back yard.
Limbo is not a fun place to live. I hope we are out soon. I'll update.
Then everyone called me back. The lawyer writes up the HUD-1 and he had other closings, leaving him with no time to finish our report. We could get it at closing. "No," I said. "We were promised it for Thursday or Friday. We need twenty-four hours to make sure it is correct and get the cashier's check from the bank. "
They were all angry. The sellers live out of town and were planning to come in for the day Monday, they whined at me. The lawyer is supposed to be away Tuesday.
"Oh, well," I said. Their problem. We got the report Monday, declined our title insurance, and got the check from the bank. Our closing cost was 14.9% over the "good faith estimate." It can't be over 15% higher. The extra cost was because the appraiser charged an extra hundred dollars because the house is semi-detached and she had to walk an extra fifteen feet around the other house to find the meters.
It all went smoothly, ultimately. They shoved lots of documents under our noses to sign, and acted impatient when I wanted to know what they were. I don't get why we couldn't have had all these documents a month before to look over. Neither of us really know what we signed. They gave us back $1200 because there was a mistake. I told the mortgage lady, Sandra, that I was sorry for giving her so much grief, but that her industry has a horrible reputation, and no one can be trusted. She said she was trying to correct that.
In the last ten days, we have most of the last packing done, and the locksmith came and changed the locks. The tile people are coming Tuesday to look at the basement floor. The tile that was there was pulled up, leaving dry black glue on the floor. They will look at it and give us options. We want to paint the bedrooms, but can't find an available painter. We haven't looked for a mover. People ask if we'll get a U-Haul and have friends help. We are sixty-five and fifty-eight. That's not going to happen.
I thought we could take a few things, get sleeping bags and camp out on the floor until everything is done. I'm ready to be out of our current house. I see more and more the advantages of the new place: Entering on the main floor instead of a flight of steps below, a tree in front of the house instead of a dying bush, our closest major intersection (because we will be in Morgantown proper) having a four-way "walk" light, fewer students who don't speak to us living on the block and a lower density and more space. I want to be away from the two hospitals with the ambulances and helicopters all night, away from the Christian commune where they use power tools all day Saturday right behind our kitchen. We will still be too close to the football stadium, although far enough away that we won't be able to hear the fans, and will be able to get in and out of our street before and after the games.
Tappuz is freaked about all the boxes in the house. She knows something is up, but we don't have a way to explain it to her. She will miss her two second-floor balconies, but hopefully, she will take to our fenced back yard.
Limbo is not a fun place to live. I hope we are out soon. I'll update.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
David Fyffe
What would you do if you were a sickly gay boy growing up in Chillicothe, in Southern Ohio in the 1960s? You might become a hairdresser in the big city- Columbus. And if that were not enough? You might move to Los Angeles and become a Jew. Unlikely? That's what my friend David Fyffe did.
When I first met him at Beth Chayim Chadashim, probably in 1986, when I first joined that temple for gay men and lesbians, David introduced himself. He told me I was handsome, and that he was HIV positive. He was blind. "Figures," I thought. Of course the one who can't see me thinks I'm handsome.
He eventually regained some limited vision through a new kind of operation. He walked up to me at the first service he attended after his operation and asked if I had seen the really hot guy in this month's Playgirl. I hadn't. "How did you know I was Barry?" I asked. " I just knew that's what you looked like, even before I could see you."
We couldn't be a couple. I had given up being gay a few years before , from pure terror about AIDS, and was just taking baby steps to come out again. And here was someone HIV positive talking to me. I visited his apartment on Formosa Avenue in West Hollywood, and it was even more chaotic than mine, with everything randomly strewn all over everything. Neither of us would be housekeepers.
In the early 1990s, when I didn't have a car, I would see David on the bus on Santa Monica Boulevard or Fairfax Avenue. We would get into long discussions about the nature of God, the reason for Good and Evil existing in the world, or sometimes just about friends, ex-lovers, and who had died recently. David was modest, but he did brag that he was the last survivor of two different AIDS support groups at temple. The threat of disease and death was hard, but the loss of so many friends in their twenties and thirties was devastating.
We both assuaged our consciences by volunteering to be parachaplains- rabbis without the title who would visit Jewish patients at smaller hospitals that couldn't afford to have a rabbi on staff. I visited Hollywood Community Hospital, just off Vine Street, for several years. They had a dedicated AIDS ward - mostly hospice care, until better meds came out and people stopped dying. David also volunteered at a hospital.
Arlan Wareham showed up at temple in the mid-90s. There's a long, interesting story about how Arlan came to BCC, and eventually decided to be a Jew. He was smart, handsome, funny. I thought we might be a couple, but something held me back. I just couldn't see us together. Then one day David came to me and told me he had a new boyfriend- Arlan. It all fell into place. Arlan and David. Of course!
They had a grand wedding at BCC- not in any way legal in the 1990s, but that didn't stop Rabbi Lisa Edwards from blessing their union, nor did it stop their many friends from celebrating. I remember mostly that they made their own chuppa or wedding canopy.
They settled in San Bernardino County, where Arlan came from, but drove in sixty miles to services every week. I should have apologized for laughing in their face when they told me in 2005 that they were moving to Israel. Arlan admitted that it seemed crazy. It wasn't.
I last saw Arlan and David face-to-face in 2007, when a group of us from BCC toured Israel and visited them at their home in Tzfat, a medieval town in Galilee, where most of the residents were Orthodox. David fit right in with his long unkempt beard, plain white shirt and navy pants. Even the tube for his insulin pump, if you didn't look too closely, could have been tzitzit, the ritual fringes worn by Orthodox men. Arlan and David showed us where a missile from Lebanon had damaged their house.
They decamped for Eilat on the Red Sea, warmer and more resort-like than Tzfat. Arlan kept up a presence on Facebook and a blog. I didn't hear much from David. He was on Facebook, but didn't post much after 2011. This year, Arlan's posts grew more dire. David's mind and body were shutting down. David Fyffe died this week in a hospital in Beer Sheva, Israel. He was fifty-nine.
I remarked to Arlan a few weeks ago how fortunate they were to live in Israel, where medical care is better than in the United States, and covered by the government. They were blessed in their lives. I do sometimes go off into magical realism, where I attribute good events to God. David did that, too, but he also made good decisions - leaving his family in Ohio, becoming a Jew, falling in with many friends at BCC, finding and keeping Arlan. Despite being HIV positive for thirty years and suffering from periods of crippling depression, he managed to keep going when others didn't.
David was a holy man, a deep thinker, a crazy wonderful friend. He is survived by his husband Arlan Wareham and members of his biological family in Ohio. People who attended BCC before 2005, and other still remaining AIDS activists from Los Angeles will also mourn his passing.
Arlan Wareham has a blog: http://www.arlansday.blogspot.co.il
When I first met him at Beth Chayim Chadashim, probably in 1986, when I first joined that temple for gay men and lesbians, David introduced himself. He told me I was handsome, and that he was HIV positive. He was blind. "Figures," I thought. Of course the one who can't see me thinks I'm handsome.
He eventually regained some limited vision through a new kind of operation. He walked up to me at the first service he attended after his operation and asked if I had seen the really hot guy in this month's Playgirl. I hadn't. "How did you know I was Barry?" I asked. " I just knew that's what you looked like, even before I could see you."
We couldn't be a couple. I had given up being gay a few years before , from pure terror about AIDS, and was just taking baby steps to come out again. And here was someone HIV positive talking to me. I visited his apartment on Formosa Avenue in West Hollywood, and it was even more chaotic than mine, with everything randomly strewn all over everything. Neither of us would be housekeepers.
In the early 1990s, when I didn't have a car, I would see David on the bus on Santa Monica Boulevard or Fairfax Avenue. We would get into long discussions about the nature of God, the reason for Good and Evil existing in the world, or sometimes just about friends, ex-lovers, and who had died recently. David was modest, but he did brag that he was the last survivor of two different AIDS support groups at temple. The threat of disease and death was hard, but the loss of so many friends in their twenties and thirties was devastating.
We both assuaged our consciences by volunteering to be parachaplains- rabbis without the title who would visit Jewish patients at smaller hospitals that couldn't afford to have a rabbi on staff. I visited Hollywood Community Hospital, just off Vine Street, for several years. They had a dedicated AIDS ward - mostly hospice care, until better meds came out and people stopped dying. David also volunteered at a hospital.
Arlan Wareham showed up at temple in the mid-90s. There's a long, interesting story about how Arlan came to BCC, and eventually decided to be a Jew. He was smart, handsome, funny. I thought we might be a couple, but something held me back. I just couldn't see us together. Then one day David came to me and told me he had a new boyfriend- Arlan. It all fell into place. Arlan and David. Of course!
They had a grand wedding at BCC- not in any way legal in the 1990s, but that didn't stop Rabbi Lisa Edwards from blessing their union, nor did it stop their many friends from celebrating. I remember mostly that they made their own chuppa or wedding canopy.
They settled in San Bernardino County, where Arlan came from, but drove in sixty miles to services every week. I should have apologized for laughing in their face when they told me in 2005 that they were moving to Israel. Arlan admitted that it seemed crazy. It wasn't.
I last saw Arlan and David face-to-face in 2007, when a group of us from BCC toured Israel and visited them at their home in Tzfat, a medieval town in Galilee, where most of the residents were Orthodox. David fit right in with his long unkempt beard, plain white shirt and navy pants. Even the tube for his insulin pump, if you didn't look too closely, could have been tzitzit, the ritual fringes worn by Orthodox men. Arlan and David showed us where a missile from Lebanon had damaged their house.
They decamped for Eilat on the Red Sea, warmer and more resort-like than Tzfat. Arlan kept up a presence on Facebook and a blog. I didn't hear much from David. He was on Facebook, but didn't post much after 2011. This year, Arlan's posts grew more dire. David's mind and body were shutting down. David Fyffe died this week in a hospital in Beer Sheva, Israel. He was fifty-nine.
I remarked to Arlan a few weeks ago how fortunate they were to live in Israel, where medical care is better than in the United States, and covered by the government. They were blessed in their lives. I do sometimes go off into magical realism, where I attribute good events to God. David did that, too, but he also made good decisions - leaving his family in Ohio, becoming a Jew, falling in with many friends at BCC, finding and keeping Arlan. Despite being HIV positive for thirty years and suffering from periods of crippling depression, he managed to keep going when others didn't.
David was a holy man, a deep thinker, a crazy wonderful friend. He is survived by his husband Arlan Wareham and members of his biological family in Ohio. People who attended BCC before 2005, and other still remaining AIDS activists from Los Angeles will also mourn his passing.
Arlan Wareham has a blog: http://www.arlansday.blogspot.co.il
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Lavender Graduation at WVU
I am on the LGBT Equity Commission of West Virginia University as a "community" member. Princeton University rates colleges on a number of values every year. One of them is "gay-friendly." We were already living here before WVU filled out the questionnaire for this rating for the first time, so no earlier than 2012. They failed. The equity commission came out of that. WVU is trying to be more inclusive.
There are LGBT student groups now for undergraduates, law school students, and people in medical school and health sciences. There may be an LGBT student center next year. This is the second year of Lavender Graduation, a special ceremony to honor LGBT graduates. I didn't go last year.
This year, it was scheduled for May 2, a Saturday, at 2:30. Joe agreed to go with me after morning services and a potluck lunch at temple. I got dressed up for services and added a purple plastic Mardi Gras-style necklace to my ensemble for the Lavender Graduation.
I wasn't expecting much from this. After all, we are liberated now, and there isn't a need for a separate ceremony, right?
Most of the grads were women. I figured it is harder for young men to be out than it is for women. I was a year and a half out of college before I could admit to anyone that I was gay. Most of the girls looked like the rest of their classmates: long, straight hair, short skirt, and sandals. They could have hid. Some of the men were more "open" looking.
University president E. Gordon Gee spoke. He stressed the importance to WVU, and to him personally, that WVU be gay-friendly. He described himself as a "devout Mormon" and how, growing up in a small town in Utah, he didn't know any non-Mormons until he went to college. He seemed surprised at himself- that he has come so far. Joe and I were invited to dinner with him last month as a couple,which should seem just natural, but still felt to me like a big step. I have great respect for President Gee.
The grads were shy. Everyone was offered a chance to speak briefly, but very few did. Of those that spoke, most of them thanked Daniel Brewster, a professor in, I think, Sociology, and an advisor to student government generally, but also a mentor to gay students. One young person, long hair and dress, spoke. "I know I can't pass," she said in a deep man's voice, then ran out in tears. A friend followed, comforted her and brought her back in.
The program listed hometowns for the students. Some were from nowhere towns in rural West Virginia. I realized how hard it must be for them to be gay or lesbian. One student listed Benghazi as his hometown, and one man, who wore a suit and came with a beautiful woman, listed Tehran as home. I spoke with him at the reception after the event. He is trying to figure out how to stay in the United States. Returning to Iran is not an option. The woman with him is a friend, also from Iran.
In line for the food at the reception, I spoke to a young man, Jewish from Baltimore County, a Pikesville High grad and an actor. I told him I had attempted an acting career in Los Angeles. He was with another young man, an actor also. They asked me for advice, as if I had anything intelligent to say. I suggested not going to Los Angeles cold. I don't think they liked that, but they both have actor-related plans after graduation elsewhere. I introduced them to my husband, the rabbi, and wished them luck and blessings. They already work hard and have talent. I've seen them both in WVU theater productions.
I greeted Professor Brewster as we were leaving, and I thanked him for being a mentor to so many students. He told me that one of the men had never come out to anyone before that day. I was almost crying with emotion as we headed back to the car.
It's easy to be jaded after years of being out, but I was reminded how life-changing it is for a young person to be openly gay. It can mean a total break from family, friends, religion, and even one's country of origin. I applaud these new grads, and wish them a life full of love and blessings.
There are LGBT student groups now for undergraduates, law school students, and people in medical school and health sciences. There may be an LGBT student center next year. This is the second year of Lavender Graduation, a special ceremony to honor LGBT graduates. I didn't go last year.
This year, it was scheduled for May 2, a Saturday, at 2:30. Joe agreed to go with me after morning services and a potluck lunch at temple. I got dressed up for services and added a purple plastic Mardi Gras-style necklace to my ensemble for the Lavender Graduation.
I wasn't expecting much from this. After all, we are liberated now, and there isn't a need for a separate ceremony, right?
Most of the grads were women. I figured it is harder for young men to be out than it is for women. I was a year and a half out of college before I could admit to anyone that I was gay. Most of the girls looked like the rest of their classmates: long, straight hair, short skirt, and sandals. They could have hid. Some of the men were more "open" looking.
University president E. Gordon Gee spoke. He stressed the importance to WVU, and to him personally, that WVU be gay-friendly. He described himself as a "devout Mormon" and how, growing up in a small town in Utah, he didn't know any non-Mormons until he went to college. He seemed surprised at himself- that he has come so far. Joe and I were invited to dinner with him last month as a couple,which should seem just natural, but still felt to me like a big step. I have great respect for President Gee.
The grads were shy. Everyone was offered a chance to speak briefly, but very few did. Of those that spoke, most of them thanked Daniel Brewster, a professor in, I think, Sociology, and an advisor to student government generally, but also a mentor to gay students. One young person, long hair and dress, spoke. "I know I can't pass," she said in a deep man's voice, then ran out in tears. A friend followed, comforted her and brought her back in.
The program listed hometowns for the students. Some were from nowhere towns in rural West Virginia. I realized how hard it must be for them to be gay or lesbian. One student listed Benghazi as his hometown, and one man, who wore a suit and came with a beautiful woman, listed Tehran as home. I spoke with him at the reception after the event. He is trying to figure out how to stay in the United States. Returning to Iran is not an option. The woman with him is a friend, also from Iran.
In line for the food at the reception, I spoke to a young man, Jewish from Baltimore County, a Pikesville High grad and an actor. I told him I had attempted an acting career in Los Angeles. He was with another young man, an actor also. They asked me for advice, as if I had anything intelligent to say. I suggested not going to Los Angeles cold. I don't think they liked that, but they both have actor-related plans after graduation elsewhere. I introduced them to my husband, the rabbi, and wished them luck and blessings. They already work hard and have talent. I've seen them both in WVU theater productions.
I greeted Professor Brewster as we were leaving, and I thanked him for being a mentor to so many students. He told me that one of the men had never come out to anyone before that day. I was almost crying with emotion as we headed back to the car.
It's easy to be jaded after years of being out, but I was reminded how life-changing it is for a young person to be openly gay. It can mean a total break from family, friends, religion, and even one's country of origin. I applaud these new grads, and wish them a life full of love and blessings.
 |
| WVU President Gee speaking at Lavender Graduation |
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Baltimore
I grew up in Baltimore. I lived inside the city limits until I was almost four, and then again during my last three years of college, and for three years in my twenties. I left in January 1978, and have only been back to visit.
People don't believe me when I say Baltimore was as segregated in the fifties and early sixties as any place in the South. African-Americans did not attend movie theaters or Gwynn Oak Amusement Park, or dance on The Buddy Deane Show, except on specific days when the white kids didn't come. Someone once told me "Hairspray" was a "nice fantasy" but except for the happy ending, John Waters perfectly captured Baltimore in 1963.
Baltimore's schools integrated in 1954, and that, coupled with inexpensive new houses in the suburbs, led to an exodus from the city to Baltimore County, which surrounds Baltimore on three sides. African-Americans couldn't buy houses in the suburbs. The county schools I attended had only a handful of African-American kids, and then only beginning in 1959, when Baltimore County closed the separate schools. They came from formerly rural neighborhoods older than the suburbs.
The Civil Rights Act of 1964 opened up public accommodations for people who had money, but those who didn't were often excluded from good jobs and the deindustrialization which was already happening. There were riots in many American cities throughout the sixties, but not in Baltimore, where home ownership was more widespread and there were still jobs. When Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot, the city exploded. I was in college; my parents and sister left the day of the shooting for spring break with my grandparents in Miami. I was home with my uncle, trying to finish my coursework for my freshman year in college. The city and then the county were placed under curfew. Among my friends, many had parents who owned stores in the inner city that were looted and firebombed. Friendships were tested when this group of friends, angry at the rioters, confronted friends who were sympathetic to the rioters.
Baltimore today is very different than it was. The formerly white working-class neighborhoods are being gentrified at a fast clip; the African-American neighborhoods have been hollowed out by losing the middle class to the now-integrated suburbs. The once segregated and largely Jewish neighborhood where I grew up in Baltimore County is now mostly African-American.
I don't remember anyone ever being fond of the Baltimore Police Department. When I was in college, in long hair and bell bottomed jeans, the police always seemed just plain mean. There was a police riot at the downtown Flower Mart held the first week in May in 1968. The press said it was disrupted by thugs, but the truth was, it was peaceful until the police moved in. Nationwide in the last year especially, there has been a focus on police brutality and the killing of young Black men, with no action taken against the officers. I read on AOL this morning that a police report states that another inmate in the same patrol car heard Gray banging against the fence in the car, trying to injure himself. That seems self-serving from the police. A report from a group called "The Fourth Estate" says that Gray had back surgery before this incident. Even the police don't believe that story.
Like in Ferguson, it's time to blame the victim. Friends on Facebook posted Gray's long rap sheet. I had to tell one friend to say one hundred times "THE POLICE DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO EXECUTE ANYONE." Others have complained that Jeopardy was preempted or the baseball game was canceled, or it took a long time to get home from work.
Back in the day, when I protested the war in Vietnam by helping to block major streets in Baltimore during rush hour, people were ready to kill us for the inconvenience we caused. As opposed to the inconvenience of having your house burned by napalm, or your son killed in action or coming back a broken drug addict.
That's how I feel about this current unrest. People were inconvenienced. The ghetto in West Baltimore hasn't been a good place to live in a long time. There are blocks of empty houses, not many stores. It's bleak. And the police still apparently have the reputation for sheer nastiness they had in the 1970s.
I saw the looters in online videos (we don't have a working television). They were carrying rolls of toilet paper and boxes of diapers. As my late grandmother would say "It's a pity on them, they should have to live like that."
I lived through the Baltimore riot of 1968, safely out in the suburbs. Same with Miami's riots in 1980, only then I was laid up with hepatitis and couldn't go anywhere anyway. I lived off Vermont Avenue and Beverly Boulevard in Los Angeles in 1992, when the police were acquitted in the Rodney King case. I was in the middle of it then, but even before that, there was anger when a Korean store owner got probation after shooting a fourteen year old girl in the back. The local bus service had also been cut that year.
Los Angeles in 1992 was a terrible place. In Baltimore this week, neighbors came out after one night of looting to help clean up. Most of the protests were peaceful, although that wasn't entirely clear from the news broadcasts. I think Baltimore's mayor was right to delay asking the Governor for help. And I think bringing in the National Guard in full combat gear is excessive. It's not Iraq out there, it's just people frustrated and angry that the system is rigged against them.
I pray for the peace of Baltimore, as I do for Jerusalem, another deeply divided city.
People don't believe me when I say Baltimore was as segregated in the fifties and early sixties as any place in the South. African-Americans did not attend movie theaters or Gwynn Oak Amusement Park, or dance on The Buddy Deane Show, except on specific days when the white kids didn't come. Someone once told me "Hairspray" was a "nice fantasy" but except for the happy ending, John Waters perfectly captured Baltimore in 1963.
Baltimore's schools integrated in 1954, and that, coupled with inexpensive new houses in the suburbs, led to an exodus from the city to Baltimore County, which surrounds Baltimore on three sides. African-Americans couldn't buy houses in the suburbs. The county schools I attended had only a handful of African-American kids, and then only beginning in 1959, when Baltimore County closed the separate schools. They came from formerly rural neighborhoods older than the suburbs.
The Civil Rights Act of 1964 opened up public accommodations for people who had money, but those who didn't were often excluded from good jobs and the deindustrialization which was already happening. There were riots in many American cities throughout the sixties, but not in Baltimore, where home ownership was more widespread and there were still jobs. When Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot, the city exploded. I was in college; my parents and sister left the day of the shooting for spring break with my grandparents in Miami. I was home with my uncle, trying to finish my coursework for my freshman year in college. The city and then the county were placed under curfew. Among my friends, many had parents who owned stores in the inner city that were looted and firebombed. Friendships were tested when this group of friends, angry at the rioters, confronted friends who were sympathetic to the rioters.
Baltimore today is very different than it was. The formerly white working-class neighborhoods are being gentrified at a fast clip; the African-American neighborhoods have been hollowed out by losing the middle class to the now-integrated suburbs. The once segregated and largely Jewish neighborhood where I grew up in Baltimore County is now mostly African-American.
I don't remember anyone ever being fond of the Baltimore Police Department. When I was in college, in long hair and bell bottomed jeans, the police always seemed just plain mean. There was a police riot at the downtown Flower Mart held the first week in May in 1968. The press said it was disrupted by thugs, but the truth was, it was peaceful until the police moved in. Nationwide in the last year especially, there has been a focus on police brutality and the killing of young Black men, with no action taken against the officers. I read on AOL this morning that a police report states that another inmate in the same patrol car heard Gray banging against the fence in the car, trying to injure himself. That seems self-serving from the police. A report from a group called "The Fourth Estate" says that Gray had back surgery before this incident. Even the police don't believe that story.
Like in Ferguson, it's time to blame the victim. Friends on Facebook posted Gray's long rap sheet. I had to tell one friend to say one hundred times "THE POLICE DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO EXECUTE ANYONE." Others have complained that Jeopardy was preempted or the baseball game was canceled, or it took a long time to get home from work.
Back in the day, when I protested the war in Vietnam by helping to block major streets in Baltimore during rush hour, people were ready to kill us for the inconvenience we caused. As opposed to the inconvenience of having your house burned by napalm, or your son killed in action or coming back a broken drug addict.
That's how I feel about this current unrest. People were inconvenienced. The ghetto in West Baltimore hasn't been a good place to live in a long time. There are blocks of empty houses, not many stores. It's bleak. And the police still apparently have the reputation for sheer nastiness they had in the 1970s.
I saw the looters in online videos (we don't have a working television). They were carrying rolls of toilet paper and boxes of diapers. As my late grandmother would say "It's a pity on them, they should have to live like that."
I lived through the Baltimore riot of 1968, safely out in the suburbs. Same with Miami's riots in 1980, only then I was laid up with hepatitis and couldn't go anywhere anyway. I lived off Vermont Avenue and Beverly Boulevard in Los Angeles in 1992, when the police were acquitted in the Rodney King case. I was in the middle of it then, but even before that, there was anger when a Korean store owner got probation after shooting a fourteen year old girl in the back. The local bus service had also been cut that year.
Los Angeles in 1992 was a terrible place. In Baltimore this week, neighbors came out after one night of looting to help clean up. Most of the protests were peaceful, although that wasn't entirely clear from the news broadcasts. I think Baltimore's mayor was right to delay asking the Governor for help. And I think bringing in the National Guard in full combat gear is excessive. It's not Iraq out there, it's just people frustrated and angry that the system is rigged against them.
I pray for the peace of Baltimore, as I do for Jerusalem, another deeply divided city.
 |
| This is a picture I took last June of a street in the "Old West Baltimore Historic District" near where the rioting occurred. |
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Berks County
At the CCAR convention in Philadelphia last month, I met the rabbi from Reading, Pennsylvania, the city in Berks County. I had read that Reading was the poorest city in America. He said "We've moved up to second or third poorest." He told me his synagogue, Oheb Shalom, is located outside of Reading's city limits.
I got into this with him because Reading was the next place I planned to visit on my monthly trips away from Morgantown, and Berks County is the largest in population I plan to visit in Year Three.
I felt guilty about leaving Joe. We close on our new house May 11, and we are trying to get all our stuff packed. His administrative assistant at temple has been out sick for a few weeks now, making his work life more difficult. Still, I left him alone for three days partly because of my own obsessiveness about this travel project, and partly to take a break from my own stress about moving.
We've had some good weather, unfortunately not for this trip. There were a few drops of rain as I left, but before I had even gotten out of Morgantown there was a storm of driving rain, hail, and sleet. That continued across the mountains into Maryland where it was only windy and rainy.The weather has remained cool for late April. Today's high in Reading was only about 47, overcast and windy. The trees are all in bloom, just a few days behind Morgantown.
Downtown Reading isn't much of a walk-around place. There is some attempt to restore older storefronts, and I notice just a hint of gentrification downtown, old houses with cleaned-up brick, new shutters and planters outside. The hipsters live across the railroad tracks and the Schuylkill River in West Reading. Beyond that is Wyomissing, half old-money big stone houses and half suburban. Oheb Shalom is in the suburban part of Wyomissing, as well as Berkshire Mall, the better of the two indoor malls I found. There is a lovely park along a stream with an ominous sign warning that the park is for "residents and guests only." I suppose I could have been arrested for taking a picture. I had mall food court fast Chinese for dinner Wednesday. They had baked fish, asparagus and fried plantains, so I took advantage of those options.
I thought I would have time to find thirty historic sites from the National Register. Normally, I only look for ten. Of the first thirty on the list, five were in Reading. I looked for those before sunset Wednesday. I found one, partly because I didn't know where I was going, partly because construction blocked some streets, and partly because sunset is twenty minutes earlier at 76 West longitude than at 80. I did find an old school building in a residential and industrial neighborhood before going back to my hotel.
Thursday, I planned to find ten places in the morning, another ten in the afternoon, and the last nine in the evening. That was too ambitious. The morning went well enough. Lunch at an all-you can-eat pizza place slowed down my afternoon, and I couldn't get phone service for directions. Altogether, I found fourteen places on the National Register, and got pictures of eleven of them. It's interesting being in a county where European settlement took place before the American revolution. There are lots of semi-forgotten places out in the countryside going back to our earliest era in this country.
Berks County is only an hour drive from Philadelphia if the traffic is moving. I noted new houses in that direction for under $300,000. Probably a good deal compared to being closer in. Reading looks like Philadelphia, with blocks of row houses. It reminds me more of Baltimore, at least the way it was when I was growing up. Many of the row houses are tiny, like in East Baltimore, and there are small stores on many corners. To the north and southeast, there are larger row houses, like those near Druid Hill Park in Baltimore or in West Philadelphia, but not nearly as grand. Southeast of downtown is a mountain of sorts with a grand park. I might have explored more had the weather been better. At the foot of the park on the main road are two synagogues - one is the former home of Oheb Shalom; the other is a Conservative synagogue, Kesher Zion, in a classical brick-and-columns building with "Happy Are They Who Dwell In Your House" written on the lintel. That synagogue is still in operation. Reading has a Chabad, just north of town, in an urban neighborhood close to where I stayed.
The city population is largely Puerto Rican. At the mall, I saw them and Mexicans (different look and different accent in Spanish), Asians, well-dressed and also less elegant Caucasians and African-Americans. I didn't see any real tension. I also didn't speak to too many people on this trip. I'm not an extrovert.
I had suggestions from friends on Facebook about outlet stores, a theater, an artist exhibition space, and Daniel Boone's original homestead. Only the Boone homestead was on my list. It was one of the ones I didn't get to. I was feeling schvach ( Joe and I are taking an intro Yiddish class at OLLI) when I got back to the motel to rest at 4:30. I didn't think I could eat anything, but managed to get out to the Chinese buffet across the street from the pizza place where I had lunch. I ate only healthy stuff, except for the desserts. A little tea and sugar fixed me right up.
I'm considering different routes for the trip home tomorrow. I promised to be back for Shabbat. The Pennsylvania Turnpike is the fastest way, but it costs $15 in tolls and the food options are not great. We'll see.
Here are some pics:
I got into this with him because Reading was the next place I planned to visit on my monthly trips away from Morgantown, and Berks County is the largest in population I plan to visit in Year Three.
I felt guilty about leaving Joe. We close on our new house May 11, and we are trying to get all our stuff packed. His administrative assistant at temple has been out sick for a few weeks now, making his work life more difficult. Still, I left him alone for three days partly because of my own obsessiveness about this travel project, and partly to take a break from my own stress about moving.
We've had some good weather, unfortunately not for this trip. There were a few drops of rain as I left, but before I had even gotten out of Morgantown there was a storm of driving rain, hail, and sleet. That continued across the mountains into Maryland where it was only windy and rainy.The weather has remained cool for late April. Today's high in Reading was only about 47, overcast and windy. The trees are all in bloom, just a few days behind Morgantown.
Downtown Reading isn't much of a walk-around place. There is some attempt to restore older storefronts, and I notice just a hint of gentrification downtown, old houses with cleaned-up brick, new shutters and planters outside. The hipsters live across the railroad tracks and the Schuylkill River in West Reading. Beyond that is Wyomissing, half old-money big stone houses and half suburban. Oheb Shalom is in the suburban part of Wyomissing, as well as Berkshire Mall, the better of the two indoor malls I found. There is a lovely park along a stream with an ominous sign warning that the park is for "residents and guests only." I suppose I could have been arrested for taking a picture. I had mall food court fast Chinese for dinner Wednesday. They had baked fish, asparagus and fried plantains, so I took advantage of those options.
I thought I would have time to find thirty historic sites from the National Register. Normally, I only look for ten. Of the first thirty on the list, five were in Reading. I looked for those before sunset Wednesday. I found one, partly because I didn't know where I was going, partly because construction blocked some streets, and partly because sunset is twenty minutes earlier at 76 West longitude than at 80. I did find an old school building in a residential and industrial neighborhood before going back to my hotel.
Thursday, I planned to find ten places in the morning, another ten in the afternoon, and the last nine in the evening. That was too ambitious. The morning went well enough. Lunch at an all-you can-eat pizza place slowed down my afternoon, and I couldn't get phone service for directions. Altogether, I found fourteen places on the National Register, and got pictures of eleven of them. It's interesting being in a county where European settlement took place before the American revolution. There are lots of semi-forgotten places out in the countryside going back to our earliest era in this country.
Berks County is only an hour drive from Philadelphia if the traffic is moving. I noted new houses in that direction for under $300,000. Probably a good deal compared to being closer in. Reading looks like Philadelphia, with blocks of row houses. It reminds me more of Baltimore, at least the way it was when I was growing up. Many of the row houses are tiny, like in East Baltimore, and there are small stores on many corners. To the north and southeast, there are larger row houses, like those near Druid Hill Park in Baltimore or in West Philadelphia, but not nearly as grand. Southeast of downtown is a mountain of sorts with a grand park. I might have explored more had the weather been better. At the foot of the park on the main road are two synagogues - one is the former home of Oheb Shalom; the other is a Conservative synagogue, Kesher Zion, in a classical brick-and-columns building with "Happy Are They Who Dwell In Your House" written on the lintel. That synagogue is still in operation. Reading has a Chabad, just north of town, in an urban neighborhood close to where I stayed.
The city population is largely Puerto Rican. At the mall, I saw them and Mexicans (different look and different accent in Spanish), Asians, well-dressed and also less elegant Caucasians and African-Americans. I didn't see any real tension. I also didn't speak to too many people on this trip. I'm not an extrovert.
I had suggestions from friends on Facebook about outlet stores, a theater, an artist exhibition space, and Daniel Boone's original homestead. Only the Boone homestead was on my list. It was one of the ones I didn't get to. I was feeling schvach ( Joe and I are taking an intro Yiddish class at OLLI) when I got back to the motel to rest at 4:30. I didn't think I could eat anything, but managed to get out to the Chinese buffet across the street from the pizza place where I had lunch. I ate only healthy stuff, except for the desserts. A little tea and sugar fixed me right up.
I'm considering different routes for the trip home tomorrow. I promised to be back for Shabbat. The Pennsylvania Turnpike is the fastest way, but it costs $15 in tolls and the food options are not great. We'll see.
Here are some pics:
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| The park in Wyomissing |
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| Cotton and Maple Streets School, Reading |
.jpg) |
| Dreibelbis Station Bridge, Greenwich Township |
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| Dreibelbis Mill, Perry Township |
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| Boyer- Mertz Farm, Maxatawny Township |
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| Bethel A.M.E. Church, Reading |
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| City Hall, Reading |
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| Askew Bridge, Reading |
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| Bahr Mill Complex, Colebrookdale Township |
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| Bellman's Union Church, Centre Township |
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