Ballgame!

From this morning's Ashland Times-Gazette

With the election only ten days away, there’s still plenty to say about what is to come. But I’m not going there today (cheers), because as I write these words, it’s Tuesday, October 25, our forty-first wedding anniversary, and we’ll be celebrating by watching (from our couch, not Progressive Field) the first game of the World Series – broadcast from CLEVELAND, OHIO (starting with the NBA ring presentation at the Q, of course).

Writing a column on a time-sensitive subject is risky, as much can happen between the composing and the printing. Of course, the best case scenario is that we’ve got our brooms out to complete the sweep tonight. But worst case scenario, the Tribe is down a couple of games by the time you read this – and we all know what happened the last time that other Cleveland team was down 3-1. They’re wearing the rings to prove it.

It’s been fun to watch this baseball season unfold. We expected the Cavs to make the finals on the coattails of LeBron, Kyrie and Kevin. But this Indians team has no superstar lineup. Their best player, Michael Brantley, has been out most of the season with a shoulder injury. Their starting pitchers and catcher have been dropping like flies, attacked by broken bones, strained muscles, and even a drone, as pitcher Trevor Bauer stood dripping blood on the mound in Toronto.

And yet somehow, they’ve persevered. They’ve pitched from the bullpen. Ryan Merritt, drafted in the fourteenth round from McLennan Community College, pitched 4 1/3 shutout innings in Game 5 of the ALCS, only his second major league start. They acquired former Indian outfielder Coco Crisp just before the regular season ended, and he’s contributed in a big way. However, I was disappointed the popular Grady Sizemore didn’t return for us girls, but you can’t have everything.

Not only have they persevered, but they’ve had fun along the way. Pity the poor guy who gets interviewed by Andre Knott after the games, because they’re going to get splashed with a bucket of water. And pity the guy with the walk-off homerun, as he’ll be piled on at home plate.

They’ve also been quietly caring for our community. Ace Cory and Amanda Kluber have greeted children with chronic illnesses every week, and young Cleveland Clinic patient Aly and a companion were in the Kluber seats on Tuesday night. The team passed the hat in the locker room and raised a million dollars to kick-start the new Larry Doby fund, to assist the underserved youth of Cleveland. And the ever- grinning rookie Francisco Lindor had his own Smile Squad, welcoming a Miracle League athlete to the game each Monday, providing a unique baseball experience for people with disabilities.

Yes, I know it’s only a game, and I know it’s Big Business as well, with a capital ‘B.’ I can only imagine the mark-up on those championship t-shirts, caps and hoodies flying off the shelves as soon as the Indians won the ALCS. After such a long drought, we’re thirsty fans, and we’ll gladly wear our Cavs and Tribe gear with pride.

But for diehard Cleveland fans and long-time Northeast Ohio residents, the 2016 NBA Championship and the 2016 World Series is so much more than a game, so much more than a big business. Because through both the Cavs victory and the Indians’ World Series appearance, they’ve helped all of us to re-write the Cleveland narrative. The ‘curse,’ if it ever truly existed, is vanquished. We can patch things together. We can overcome adversity. We can come together and believe together. We can come back when we’re down. We can stand tall and proud.

And if we can do that on a basketball court, around a baseball diamond, we can do it in our homes, neighborhoods and cities. The days of the burning river and the mistake by the lake are over. This we believe!

Yes, we know that winning isn’t everything. But we’re going to ride this wave while it lasts, savoring the moment and wearing our colors proudly. To quote Tribe announcer Tom Hamilton, “And once again Cleveland, you will have an October to remember.” Let’s go Tribe!

I'm Mad. Let me name the ways!

At age six, the lovely Madelyn Simone is recognizing that her world isn’t always a happy place. When I spent some time with her last week, she made a list of eleven things that made her mad that day. I failed to get my pen out and record all eleven, but I do remember a few. “I’m mad because my parents won’t let me wear makeup. I’m mad because Nana won’t let me lick all the seasoning salt from the bottom of the popcorn bowl. I’m mad because my friend Austin has to go to his dad’s house on Thursday. I’m mad because my sister bit my finger. I’m mad because summer is over. I’m mad because I couldn’t wear my new shirt to school today.” You get the picture.

I felt her pain, even if I was the cause of #2 on her list. While I believe that another person doesn’t have the power to make us angry, as we do have some control over our emotions and reactions, I’m not sure her six-year-old mind could grasp that point. I did sympathize with her, as certain circumstances and people get me rattled too. But like a good grandmother, I tried to steer her away from her list of eleven, urging her to see just as many things that make her glad. After all, isn’t that what Hailey Mills taught me to do in the 1960 Disney film, Pollyanna?

But you know what, Madelyn? I’m wrong to laugh at your carefully articulated list of ‘mad,’ because I’m mad as well. I agree with you about being mad that summer is over, as I love to wander around with bare feet, eat tomatoes off the vine, and soak in the warmth of the sun. I get upset when someone hurts another person too, although you do have some responsibility to keep your fingers out of the mouth of a baby sister who is teething.

  

What makes my blood boil? I’ve got a list, yet my word limit only allows room to write about one today. So here goes: I’m angry about the ‘isms’ – the belief that places people in categories where they are seen to have less value because of the color of their skin, their ethnic heritage, their physical or mental challenges, or their gender. The result of these beliefs, these biases, is prejudice, stereotyping or discrimination on the basis of gender, color, weight, ethnicity, etc.

Some time ago, I heard an interview with former prime minister Julia Gillard, the first female to serve in that role in Australia. She pondered the dilemma she faced. “Should we just ignore sexism or should we name it?” As someone who’s attempted to elevate the position of women in a variety of settings, I understand the challenge. When sexism (or its various cousins) is ignored it will continue. But when it’s named every time it raises its head, the one who names it is labeled a complainer, whiner or worse. ‘There she goes again, making a mountain out of a molehill.’

In a New York Times Op-Ed in July, Gillard wrote about our presidential campaign: “Every Democrat, every Republican, every person who believes that women and men are equal should call out any sexism. . . In 2016, I hope there are many brave voices naming and shaming any sexism in the presidential contest. The next generation of potential female leaders is watching.”

It’s sexism when we ask, can a woman handle the job (president or auto mechanic)? Does she smile too much, not enough? What is she wearing tonight? It’s sexism when similar behavior described as ‘focused and controlled’ (male) becomes ‘cold and calculating’ (female).

I’ve heard it often enough. ‘Come on, JoAnn. Get off your soapbox. In the grand scheme of things, does this really matter?’ Yes, it does matter. Who we are must not be limited by brown skin, 3X clothing, wheelchair use or female genes. Whether in the workplaces and playgrounds of our neighborhoods or in the presidential race, prejudice, stereotyping and discrimination must be named for what it is. Because, as Gillard reminds us, the next generation is watching, including my precious grandchildren and yours.

Cookies in Hand

When Larry and I were first married, we were active with the Salvation Army in Binghamton, New York. Church services were held morning and evening every Sunday, and often, a number of older couples would end up at one of their houses following the evening worship for a late Sunday supper. As newlyweds, we were invited to tag along, which we sometimes did. One memorable Sunday night, the group told us, “Guess what? We’re coming to your house tonight.” Hindsight tells me I should have locked the door to our apartment and hid under the bed, but instead, we agreed to welcome a dozen people to our very narrow, very humble home, hoping against hope we had made the bed that morning.

As we raced to get to Clinton Street before the hungry hoard descended on us, I considered a possible menu. We had a loaf of bread, one can of tuna, a couple of slices of lunch meat (already earmarked for the week’s lunches), some eggs, and a package of Oreos. Oh, and our go-to staple, peanut butter and jelly. Given our bleak bank balance, we definitely weren’t ordering pizza for twelve that night. Despite my misgivings, we had a wonderful time that evening, and I learned an early yet valuable lesson about hospitality on the fly.

Fast forward forty years, and I’m saddened to realize how little of my life happens on the spur-of-the-moment. Even in semi-retirement, I’m still scheduling phone calls a week out. Yes, you read that right – phone calls, not visits or lunch.

It’s even happening with the little ones. Saxie Dowell’s song from 1940 doesn’t quite work in 2016: “Playmate, come out and play with me and bring your dollies three . . . And we’ll be jolly friends forever more.” We don’t want our kids climbing apple trees, rain barrels don’t exist anymore, and few homes have cellar doors to slide down. Instead of knocking on the neighbor’s door to ask if Johnny can come out to play, we’re planning play dates two weeks out for our children, even the toddlers.

An anonymous twenty-year old Singapore resident blogs about his structured life: “Plans are now drawn up like the blueprints of a skyscraper; get those plans messed up, and the skyscraper may just come crashing down. The scaffold that holds my life together will buckle and crush me under it.”

Whatever happened to spontaneity? It does depend on your personality, for by nature, some people divide their calendars into fifteen minute increments from the womb. While others may live with more flexibility, we still are hesitant to intrude on another’s space without prior arrangements.

But what about making spur-of-the-moment decisions? Actor Alan Arkin has some good advice for us in his memoir, “The Improvised Life:” “That’s what we’re all doing, all the time, whether we know it or not. Whether we like it or not. Creating something on the spur of the moment with the materials at hand. We might just as well let the rest of it go, join the party, and dance our hearts out.”

Larry was recently reminiscing about the molasses cookies my mother and Aunt Annamae used to make. As we talked, my mouth was watering for those plump, raisin-filled treats, so I decided, spur-of-the-moment, to make some, surprised I even had molasses in the pantry cupboard. Yet instead of walking next door with a plate covered in waxed paper, I posted the following comment on Facebook: “Warm molasses cookies. What more can I say?”

The post got fifty-nine ‘likes’ and nearly twenty comments, including the following from friends in Apple Creek: “Come on over. With some cookies, of course . . .” Did they really mean it? Could we really just “stop over?” A few text messages later, we were in the car, and the subsequent evening with Ron and Doris was both delicious and delightful.

I may have stumbled on a solution. Keep an eye on my Facebook page. Sugar cookies, chocolate chip cookies, and frosted chocolate walnut cookies could be in our hands, on their spur-of-the-moment way from my oven to your table. Larry likes sugar in his coffee, I like ice in my milk!

Kick Me

From today's Ashland Times-Gazette

I was privileged to attend the Mental Health and Recovery Board’s annual RSVP conference here in Ashland on Wednesday, a day always guaranteed to get my social justice juices flowing. Our local conference came on the tail of the International Human Trafficking and Social Justice Conference held in Toledo last week, leaving me disturbed in my spirit by the injustices often experienced by people who’ve been diagnosed with mental illness, by those whose lives have been trafficked in some way, and by those who have faced unimaginable trauma.

One of the goals of conferences like these is to inform those in attendance about the challenges faced within the public and private systems charged with caring for people who need support, such as ordinary people who are going through rough times, including veterans, mental health consumers, and trafficking survivors. Dr. Paula Caplan, the keynote speaker at the RSVP session, has spent her life in the mental health field, and raises thought-provoking questions about mental health diagnosis, treatment and medication. As a longtime advocate for appropriate mental health care for those who’ve faced trauma, she is especially invested in inviting veterans to be heard by others through the listening project, “Welcome Johnny and Jane Home.” In that role, she reminded her listeners of the power of both connection and creative expression in the recovery journey, for “that’s what brings you home.”

As she spoke about some of her concerns with the ways diagnostic labels have been determined and how the use of many labels can be damaging to people, I was reminded of the times when someone would tape a sign on the back of an unsuspecting victim with the phrase, “Kick Me.” That particular label, even when removed, caused quite a few chuckles as others remembered the humiliating action that some took in response to the sign. With Caplan, I sometimes wonder if mental health diagnoses can bring about a similar reaction. Can psychiatric diagnoses possibly function as ‘kick me’ signs, labels that stick long after symptoms are no longer apparent? What happens to a five-year-old child labeled with oppositional defiant disorder, or to the young woman struggling with grief who is given a personality disorder diagnosis? It whispers its accusing words: ‘you’re different, you’re flawed, you’re other.

’ It was Caplan’s commitment to advocacy that first connected her to fellow advocate and Ashland County resident Patrick Risser, whose memory was honored during the RSVP conference’s luncheon. A long-time champion for those who have no voice within the mental health system, Risser died in June. As those who had worked alongside Pat shared their memories, it was evident he had a tremendous impact on others. One quoted the lyrics from Wicked, “because of you my life has changed,” while another simply said, “Anytime I think of giving up, I think of Pat.” It is evident, as a third speaker said, that “we have a hole now where Pat used to be,” for his advocacy and activism was relentless, yet remains only in memory.

For me, the distress I feel in my spirit over both systemic short-comings and difficult individual circumstances is balanced by a sense of encouragement in regards to what can be done to create change in our culture and our community. Pat Risser led the way in the mental health field here in Ohio for many years, but I’m convinced that other voices will – and must – arise to speak truth to power and to take a seat at the table where decisions about policies, procedures, and legislation are being made. Pat may have done what he was able to do, but the question remains: am I too doing what I am able to do?

As I reflect on these days of training and inspiration, the ancient words as spoken through the prophet Amos run through my veins: “. . . let justice roll down like waters.” Whenever we name injustice, stand with those who have been harmed, listen to each other’s pain, or speak truth to power, we release another drop into a stream that will well up into a mighty flood of justice. Might it be so.