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Posts Tagged ‘Philadelphia’

Yesterday, my father’s ashes were interred at The Washington Crossing National Cemetery in Newtown, Pa.  This is a relatively new cemetery – for veterans and their families — on an endless expanse of green — marked with tiny identical gravestones — and a series of walls — identical square vaults in each one — where my father would have his final rest.  After a moving service of two military representatives — two uniformed young men — who played taps and opened and folded the flag above that white square brick of my father’s cremated remains on the dais — who then presented me with the triangular folded American flag, I read the following brief remarks. My partner pointed out later that during the moment of silence at the end, there was a palpable presence of peace.

 

Albert Mason 1919 to 2017

I remember my father, Albert Mason, telling me that when he was a boy growing up in the Fishtown section of Philadelphia that a picture of the Parthenon hung on his family’s wall. When I was forty, about five years after my mother died, I visited the Parthenon, which is situated on the Acropolis, the highest part of Athens, Greece.

As I told a street vendor in Athens, a Greek man, this story – that even the humblest of Americans recognize and pay respect to the origins of Western civilization — he nodded thoughtfully.

After my father died – on May 7th — I found a postcard of the Parthenon at his house and it now sits on the shelf in my office along with a photograph that I took of him in Fishtown on a trip that we took more than ten years ago.

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Both of my grandparents on my father’s side, Albert Mason (also the name of my grandfather) and Florence Jones Mason died before I was born in 1959.  But it has recently occurred to me that my interest in antiquity started with my father as a child looking at that picture of the Parthenon on that apartment wall in Fishtown.

Since my father’s death – and somewhat before – I’ve been interested in different philosophies on the afterlife. Recently, in researching a novel set in the Middle Ages, I came across the writings of Augustine of Hippo, a Christian philosopher who was born in the year 354.

I thought of my father when I read Augustine’s words:

“….we say of the righteous … that he is dead according to the body but not according to the soul.”

And when Augustine (also known as Saint Augustine) quotes Cicero, the early philosophical statesman and orator, I thought of my father:

“…we may have good hope that although our power of feeling and thinking is mortal and transient, it will be pleasant for us to pass away when life’s duties are done.  Nor will our death be offensive to us but a repose from living; and if, however, as the greatest … of the ancient philosophers have believed, our souls are eternal and divine, then we may rightly suppose that the more constant a soul has been in following its own course, that is, in the use of reason and zeal in inquiry, and the less it has mingled and involved itself in the vices and delusions of man, so much the easier will be its ascent and return to its heavenly country.”

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My father was 98-years old when he died.  There is much to be said of his life.  He was a good father and a good man.  Perhaps my biggest testament to him, was that I chose a life partner who is so much like him.  And after we were together more than three decades, he was able to say, “So you’re finally marrying Barbara!?”  He loved her like a second daughter or as my mother wrote in her journal decades ago, “an unexpected daughter-in-law.”

We all have different memories of Albert Mason and in those memories are slices of his life. I want us to take a moment to remember Albert  — and in particular (since he had such a good sense of humor) to remember him making us laugh.

Then let’s take a moment to promise him that we will take care of ourselves to the best of our abilities and then release him to the universe and to his heavenly rest.

 

 

Peace 

Here is my first remembrance of my father, Albert Mason, after his death in May.

 

“When my father died, it felt like a library burnt down.”

–Laurie Anderson

My father, Albert Mason, Jr., died on May 7, 2017. He was ninety-eight years old.  He was born on March 28th, 1919. There is much to be said of his life which lasted nearly a century.   A decorated veteran of the US Armed Forces (Army/Air Force), he served in World War II where he unloaded the dead and wounded off of helicopters.

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This is my tribute to the holidaze — proof that #WeAreAmerica — and that diversity if fun!

In this first video we had Unitarian Universalist bookends on our day of festivities in Mt. Airy which began with an alternative xmas play (with my partner Barbara Drumming) at the Unitarian Universalist Church of the Restoration on Stenton Avenue where I attend services and am a lay minister. Afterwards we went to the Mt. Airy Art Garage’s holiday sale in the neighborhood where our friend Gloria regaled us with some really beautiful singing. And that evening we went to the Solstice celebration at the Unitarian Society of Germantown which is close to our house.

 

 

On December 24th (the first night of Hanukkah and Xmas Eve) we went to the Gershman Y event in Chinatown. Barbara who has always wanted to go was looking at a photo of the stand up comics in a mailing — and when she saw Julie Goldman she exclaimed — “Who is that guy? I know him.”  It turned out that the “guy” was Julie Goldman (who we first saw on The Big Gay Sketch Show on Logo — impersonating Liza drunk) and boy is she hilarious!

 

 

 

 

 

We saw Paint the Revolution, Mexican Modernism, 1910-1950, at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.  It is a truly awe-inspiring exhibition and is showing through January 8th.

When you get blue, remember that #WeAreAmerica and get busy making art and embracing your life!

Happy New Year!

 

 

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originally in The Huff Post/Fifty

I am parked at a light when I notice a bumper sticker on the SUV in front of me. It reads:

Does this ass/make my/car look fat?

The words are stacked on top of each other and to the right of them is a small circle with the clownish face of Donald Trump.

I am running errands with my elderly father near his home (where I grew up) in the working class area of lower Bucks County and Bristol. It’s an area where the Trump signs outnumber the Hillary signs — about three to one. Actually, there aren’t many signs for either of them. And signs for third party candidates are nonexistent. This is the land of the silent majority. To counter it, I have a large blue bumper sticker for Hillary prominently displayed on the back of my red car. The bumper sticker on the SUV in front of me is, in fact, the only other bumper sticker I have seen all day even though I have been on at least five major highways.

My father is 97 and a Trump supporter. The bumper sticker in front of me has made my day and I can’t help sharing it with my father. He is blind in one eye and has severe glaucoma in the other. He used to be liberal (thank you President Nixon) but since 9-11 has become increasingly conservative. When I describe the bumper sticker, he laughs and says “I guess that means they’re not voting for him. Even I can see that!”

In my early 20s in the early 1980s — more than 25 years ago — I came out as a lesbian to my parents. My father said being a lesbian was just one more thing I was doing to “buck the system.” I couldn’t disagree — though I would have changed a critical consonant. I was always rebellious, but I really was a lesbian. Eventually, he came around and loves and accepts my partner as my spouse and as a second daughter. (I am an only child.) Times were different then. I “escaped” from my background, was the first in my family to graduate from college, and then moved to a nearby city about an hour away. Since I left, I notice that things have changed. For one thing the “white” working class is increasing racially diverse.

After the errands on the way to his lady friend’s house, I note a few Hillary signs displayed prominently. On one street, two houses side by side display political signs. One is for Trump and one is for Hillary. I have a private moment of glee imaging the interactions between the neighbors.

On the front lawn of a house near our destination, a Hillary sign is displayed on the front lawn. In the front window, rainbow letters from the Hillary campaign say, “Do the most good.” I know there is no talking to him about politics, but decide to give it another try. I mention the sign to my father, who quotes Fox news to me. Loudly. (This is the only news he watches — when he is not listening to conservative talk radio.) I counter his statements by asking a few questions starting with “How do you think Trump made his money?”

My tactics don’t work. My father changes the subject. He is hard of hearing and refuses to wear a hearing aid so he repeatedly says “ha?” and I spend a lot of time repeating myself. My father is a decent person. He may live in an area that is mostly white and tract house but I never heard him utter a racist word. When my feminist mother was alive, he was pro-choice. I helped him take care of my mother 20 years ago when she was terminally ill, which I chronicle in my book Tea Leaves, a memoir of mothers and daughters. When my mother’s hospital bed was delivered to the house by a young black man, my father spoke to him respectfully and invited him into the house.

When we pull up to his lady friend’s house, she comes outside and I show her my bumper sticker. She agrees that the blue sticker against the red car looks very nice. Then she says “Who are you going to vote for?” She looks sincere and bewildered. She is a tiny, white haired 92-year-old woman, a retired seamstress, who still gardens and keeps an impeccable house.

She tells me she was just talking to her son about this. (Her son is a non-college educate white male — who lives with his wife and daughter and told his mother that he is voting for Hillary and that she should too.) “I was going to vote for him,” she says referring to Trump, “but he’s turning out to be crazy.” I reassure her that he was always crazy.

In the house, over a dish of strawberry ice cream, my father’s lady friend laughs when I tell her about the bumper sticker and then she turns to me and whispers (so my father won’t hear) “I think he’s guilty.” I nod in agreement and when my father states that “He is a smart business man.” I point out that another Trump casino in Atlantic City has just gone belly up.

My father’s lady friend has compassion on her face for the people who lost her jobs. Then she nods with concern at my father. She is telling me silently that he is 97, and I shouldn’t say anything to upset him. She is right. As my late aunt once said (about seven years ago), “At his age, it’s good he has any opinions.”

She was right. I promised my mother, when she was on her deathbed, that I would take care of my father. But it is more than that. I love and respect my father. I wouldn’t be here without him.

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Just a few weeks ago, the bridge at the foot of my street — which had been closed for renovations for several months — had a re-opening party.  This is the historic Walnut Lane Bridge. Walking down my street to the party, I had a sense of living in a village.  There were lots of Hillary stickers and people of all stripes — and instruments and food too.  We even ran into old friends!

 

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We attended the grand opening of the new Mt. Airy Art Garage (their new pop-up location done, I believe in collaboration with Mt. Airy USA across the street from the Post Office where my partner Barbara worked and retired from).

MAAG is a great community hub — an excellent place to run into old friends and explore the world through art. For more information go to http://mtairyartgarage.org/

I took these photos and thought I would share them with you.

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This morning at the Unitarian Universalist Church of the Restoration (in Philadelphia) I did a reading from Maya Angelou’s poem “The Human Family” and a talk on “Difference” — the theme of this week’s service.

To see the reading and the reflection on YouTube, click here. (You can also view the YouTube video at the bottom of this post.

“If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.” — Dalai Lama 2 dala lamai petting cat compassion png

 

I am different, of course. We all are.  In my view that’s what makes life interesting. I would say I gravitate to difference.

I’m a lesbian-feminist who came of age in the early 1980s and I had the good fortune to hear and meet many of the icons and writers of that era — including Audre Lorde and Adrienne Rich.

It was at the celebration of Audre Lorde’s life — the “I Am Your Sister” conference held in Boston in 1990 two years before she died of cancer at the age of 58 — when I went to one of the conference’s “Eye-to-Eye” sessions. There, I really began to understand difference.

The idea behind the “Eye-to-Eye” sessions is that you break into a smallish group of people from a similar background and have  a heart to heart discussion.  It was based on Audre Lorde’s philosophy that she writes about in Sister Outsider, a collection of her essays, that we cannot love each other until we love ourselves.

This is the same theory that RuPaul, the internationally known drag queen icon, says every week on his televised program Drag Race — if you don’t love yourself, how the [heck] are you gonna love anyone else?”

(RuPaul is one of my sources of spiritual inspiration.)audre-lorde-1062457_H130420_L

At the conference, I chose the white working class women Eye-to-Eye session. The other Eye-to-Eye group that I could have chosen was white lesbians — but lesbians tended to be everywhere in my world back then and it seemed more important for me to focus on class.

I still remember being in that room with the tall windows and high ceilings — sitting on the floor in a circle of women. It was like being back in my high school bathroom.  But this time we were honestly discussing our lives instead of masking our pain with drugs and alcohol.

As I recall, the discussion that we had in that room was liberating.

To make a long story short, I have absolutely no connection with anyone from my background — except that my partner and I are lucky enough to still have my 97 year old father.

But in this election year, I was reminded of my background, every time I turned on the television news.

I found the racism at the rallies — and I think you know which rallies — to be painful. I also find it painful — and appalling — that someone — some unnamed someone in power — is fanning the flames of fear and hatred.  But I also do not think  that all of the people in the white working class will be taken in to vote against their own interests.  I also strongly suspect that the media is just showing us a slice of white blue collar voters who are racist — etc. — and that most people have neighbors and co-workers of all races including African Americans, Muslim-Americans, and Mexican Americans.  And even if they don’t, white working class voters can think for themselves and realize that racism and xenophobia are wrong.

This election is getting under my skin. The stakes are high, and it feels personal.  When people tell me they are not planning to vote — educated people, who might feel more privileged than they are under the circumstances — it kind of makes me crazy.  Of course, this is not a good feeling.

I meditate almost every morning — and it came to me during my meditation that I need to be more compassionate.

I was watching the Discovering Buddhism series number 11 on You Tube, when Richard Gere talked about a practice that was so helpful to me that I thought I’d share it with you. Years ago, Gere started wishing every being — insect, animal, or human — that he encountered with the greeting: “I wish you happiness.”

“I wish you happiness.”

Gere talks about the fact that there are times that this is difficult, and that these are the times when this thought turns a destructive emotion into love.

I have just started this practice and don’t know where it will take me. I suspect, though, that it will make me even more aware of the fact that as Maya Angelou writes in “The Human Family” that we are more alike, than unalike.

“We are more alike, than unalike.”

 

 

Namaste

Oh, and remember to vote.

“I wish you happiness.”

 

 

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For the past several years, I’ve been attending a Unitarian Universalist Church that has a tradition of Poetry Sunday.  Each week, poetry is included in the service. I was delighted to find out that a long time favorite of mine, Mary Oliver is a UU and that her poetry is often used. Of course, many other poets — from Rumi to contemporary poets — are often used also. One Sunday a year is dedicated to poetry’s role in UU and all spirituality.

For me especially — since I started my writing life as a poet — poetry represents a sense of the sacred (and the profane has a place in that!)

This year’s theme was empowerment — and I was honored to read from my collection “a woman alone” chronicling my trip to Greece. I read the following two poems:

a woman alone
hears the cooing of pigeons
and the flap of wings
folding air;
she hears Cathedral bells
answering one another;
and morning light
sputtering traffic
into existence; a
woman alone is a city
awakening.

a woman alone lives
in the house
of the double ax;
she enters her own labyrinth
and comes out amazed;
she is the minotaur
the earth womb
turned to a monster;
she is her own silver thread
leading herself to the center
of the maze that is her,
a woman alone.

 

Anne Arfaa, another featured poet this year, also read on the theme of empowerment. Listening to her, I was taken on a trip down memory lane. Anne and I were in a feminist writing group for many years — and from that we became fellow travelers on the road of life.

 

 

Last year, I was one of organizers of Poetry Sunday and here I am talking about the poetry of the late poet Audre Lorde who prophetically wrote “Poetry is not a luxury.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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