“Exploited by The Poetry of Pimps” - The Disintegration of Today's Culture

By R. B. STUART
Part Thirteen


With the glamorization and mainstreaming of language from the underbelly of the street. The word whore is softened by the street pronunciation as ho’---making it not only more acceptable for the mainstream, but more acceptable for broadcast media. Whether comedy or news, Imus’ remarks would have cut him off the air instantly had he said the “square white man’s version” of the word, “Nappy Headed Whore’s.” It’s more of a derogatory and demeaning statement to all women, no matter what the hair type. Since the significance and outrage is on the word whore itself.

With societies adoption of this exploitive gutter language, he along with many others have been convinced that the terminology is cool. But it is not cool….thus the outcry by those that know better in the media and entertainment industry. The issue lies with the degradation of girls and young women in today’s culture.

I lost my childhood due to early sexual exploration and exploitation. And thought at 21 when I left the exploiter who was 20 years my senior, that I was leaving all the negative connotations and verbal abuse behind. But not so….as it has meandered from the slimy sidewalks into our living rooms. And it shouldn't take Imus’ comments for us to find outrage about the language used on our young women. Maybe it’s a blessing, for the discourse it’s created maybe we can share with the society that has welcomed it in….that ho’, whore and bitch, is unacceptable no matter what the color of a woman’s skin, as it is a direct violation against all womankind.

When I hear those words.…it turns me inside out with anger. The n word and faggot have caused equal reactions....it’s time that the softness of whore = ho' be taken as seriously offensive as its disrespectful and hurtful cousins mentioned above. And bitch, since it's not the modern day endearment of Darling, should be addressed and discarded too.

For the last eight years I’ve been trying to speak about the demeaning and exploitive language of Rap and Hip Hop music. The discomfort I’d feel daily while hearing snippets of it when flipping through channels on the television or changing the dial on the radio. As someone who knows the repercussions of this language, being assaulted with it for over seven years, I know first hand how damaging it can be psychologically and emotionally.

Most of the time this street language is used in unison with physical violence. Because there is no respect for women (ho's) in the street no matter what their race....and it is this exploitative, demeaning, abusive language used in the street as part of mind control by pimps, so as to keep the women with a low self-esteem.....afraid to leave them.

This street language and its negative attributes has infiltrated main stream not only because it's been glamorized and introduced through music, but because the self-acclaimed pimps, Snoop Dog and gangsta’ rappers have become the rappers pimping an entire culture, not the poets as Russell Simmons declares.

The young, urban fatherless boys emulates their local pimps from the 70's and 80's, as they were the black cultures version of Joe Cartright in Bonanza. And in essence began to sing what they knew...pimps and life on the street. It’s hardly poetry---but more profitable than pimping, and resulted in what we have today with Hip Hop and Rap. In 2005 I sat in angst and disbelief as I witnessed an Oscar being given to a new song, "It's Hard Out There for A Pimp" from the movie Hustle and Flow. Even the Academy has been seduced into believing it is cool to honor pimps. And I am astounded that the media rewards Snoop Dog’s exploitation with his own fatherhood reality show.

It was a struggle for me to sit idle while this verbal rape occurred on a generation of innocent women, but unfortunately the women’s magazines aren't ready to discourse the issue. When I attempted to emphasize the infiltration of language from the street and its dire consequences to editors…it fell on deaf ears. Maybe as Imus' statement slices deep as a knife into the heart and psyche of women as a whole, we can begin back peddling and correct what has been wronged.

I am not an advocate for censorship but, "Each one of us are socially responsible for the betterment of humanity." And right before our eyes we are losing a generation of young women. Because of their inherent need to be loved and accepted, they are sacrificing their self-empowerment and self-esteem---to be what men and boys want them to be. And it is through education, at home and in school, that we need to teach our children love, peace, respect, responsibility, all the healthy and positive aspects of life. Not the negatives; hatred, violence, racism, exploitation and abuse.

As adults we must be aware that children also eat with their ears and eyes---that the mental stimulation of positive music, video's and movies can teach them how to grow into healthy functioning adults. And as they digest this repeatedly---they'll emulate and learn the goodness about themselves, others and life. That will be....humanity at its finest.

Copyright 10 April 2007 R. B. STUART, All Rights Reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"REGULATION--DEREGULATION--STRANGULATION"

White Collar Crooks Pillage America
By R. B. STUART
Part Twelve


The acid reflux of the Clinton – Bush years has given us NAFTA, guised as a good trade agreement. But since it’s implementation in 1994 we’ve seen that isn’t so by the erosion of U. S. jobs. It’s left the American worker in a Mexican state of underpaid joblessness. You will soon find American workers hopping the fence to Mexico just to find work at the American companies that abandoned them. And although in 2008 Bush left us a $1.3 trillion deficit---the banking crisis we find ourselves is the culmination of President Clinton’s decision in 1993 to deregulate the banking system. And as the cleaner President Obama has come in to clean up the bad decisions and poor politics left to rot by Clinton and Bush.

I recall the very day the financial shafting began, I walked into my bank and looked at the metal stand that held the sign with removable numbers and letters. It notified the customers of the saving accounts percentage rates. The 5% or 6% rate had been replaced by the interest rate of 2%. We wouldn’t find out how much we were really losing until 2008.

Fast forward past Presidents 42 and 43 and a country riddled with Ponzi schemes. The white collar crooks would amass billions over a 15 year scam of stealing from the naive rich and unknowledgeable poor---and giving to the crooked corporate wealthy. President Clinton is the blame for the free for all attitude---President Bush for exploiting Clinton’s policy making. The deregulations Clinton enacted across the banking, telecommunications and transportation [airlines] sectors paved the way for Bushy and his cronies to step in and rape and pillage the U. S.---like a gang of Brooks Brothers wearing corporate oil thugs.

Clinton's decision to be soft on regulation initiated the financial gluttony within the first consumer driven corporations; Enron, Adelphia Communications and WorldCom to collapse under the weight of greed. By deregulating, the lack of government regulations and oversight, Clinton gave them the green light to gouge the consumer with ease. Fifteen years worth of buy-outs and takeovers, gaining financial momentum and no one to answer to---produced a greed beyond comprehension, and the financial ruin we currently find ourselves in. While consumer product and services suffer increasingly year after year, the public's only recourse is to file a grievance, which our Washington officials simply crumple up for use in interoffice putting practice.

We had our first taste of corporate greed with the CEO's at MCI WorldCom and Enron. It all began in 1996 when the first of the corporate deregulation's occurred between the Telecommunications Companies. The telephone companies involved were: NYNEX / Bell Atlantic (currently Verizon), AT&T and MCI. The deregulations were meant to assist the consumer with discounted competitive prices. But, within months additional taxes, taxes on top of taxes, surcharges and connectivity fee's were applied to the monthly bill. During the first year I observed the .75 cent connectivity charge creep to .98 cents, then $1.50, onward to $1.78.

At that point I wrote a letter to then AT&T CEO, Michael Armstrong in protest against this additional connectivity fee. For many months, I and others refuted the charge but without any support from our Governmental officials, AT&T extorted the fee. Behind the extortion was FCC honcho, Harold Furchtgott-Roth, raking in monthly from New York State residents solely (who pay the highest rates in the country) $37,763,000 (Yes, that's thirty-seven million dollars a month).

By the second year the connectivity fee went upward to $2.50, pulling in $53,000,000 million per month for Mr. Armstrong's lunch money. Allowing him in 1999 to purchase Time Warner Cable, or should I say "we" bought it for him. One month after the acquisition, cable companies were deregulated and the cable rate increases were unstoppable. By 2000 New Yorkers forked over $9.04 per month to the renamed Universal Charge (also known as The Universal Service Fund), giving Mr. Roth a nice little IRA of $191,648,000 million. Imagine $191.6 million dollars from ONE State in one month. Throughout the United States they pulled in a hefty monthly allowance of $2.5 billion from long-distance telephone users (separate from your long-distance charges).

What a profitable deal Washington, D.C. has made with the FCC. If the purpose of this Universal/ Connectivity Charge is really intended for the use of providing "affordable" telephone communications for low-income consumers, and consumers in rural areas, along with assisting schools, libraries, rural healthcare providers with Internet access and lastly disbursing funds to local telephone companies. Then with a liquid monthly income from The Universal Service Fund of $2.5 billion across the country, these recipients could have been wired ten times over. If they were truly spending the monies on the goodness they profess, then the surplus "Fund" money (PAC money) collected by American's should reach out further and wipe out poverty, hunger and homelessness in the United States, and probably could in one month.

Unfortunately for us, the Electric Companies followed suit. Hiding behind the shield of deregulation they are using the same staggered inflation practices. Electric bills were suppose to decrease $5 a month for each customer, has conveniently reverted to increasing rates. The cost of a newer form of deregulated energy.

Interestingly enough Utility Companies invested heavily in telecommunications. Allowing them to use jointly owned telephone/electricity poles they offered the consumer one-stop shopping. Telephone-television cable-electricity became "one," charging whatever they want since they bought up all the competition. This is the backlash from the 1994 Clinton administration's introduction to the "Information Superhighway."

The California Enron black-outs have shown us the repercussions of deregulation by using this strong arm control tactic: "Pay us more or you'll sit in the dark." This is a sampling of how Utility deregulation is letting the U.S. Citizens see that we have literally given our "power" away to Corporate Washington. Our water source is next. Maybe down the road even the air we breathe.

With such lucrative dealings in deregulation, acquisitions and merges---the airlines have jumped on the band-wagon. (I wonder if the board game Monopoly will add deregulation to their game?) The Airline Industry has spent the last decade dismantling competitive airlines by gobbling them up one by one without even a burp. With the fading antitrust regulations, three of the six major U.S. carriers have swallowed up other Domestic and International carriers through mergers and buy-outs---once again their reasoning: to supply the consumer with one-stop-shopping.

The new conglomerates called OneWorld Alliance, Star Alliance and Global Airlines in essence have formed an alliance against the consumer. Inflating fares on some routes from 30 - 200 %, and increasing pet fares from $75 dollars round trip to $400 for the same flight. Forcing the consumer to pay as much for Fido as for another human being and he won’t even get to sit beside you. Then after Sept.11th they all cried poverty and bankruptcy, and the Government bailed them out---repeatedly. Deregulation and bailouts---what more could a company ask for.

With the airlines in cahoots, as consumers we have to pay-up or shut-up. Shopping around with other airlines is a thing of the past. The big-three are banding together arm and arm charging the same prices. Using airport taxes, surcharges (there's that word again) and fuel costs to hide behind. And they wonder why there's air-rage. At what point must we the consumer be financially bled before we lock arms and regulate ourselves against Corporate Washington? Please, don't be mistaken---I have nothing against Big Brother. I kind of like living in the new Deregulated States of America, it gives me a warm, cozy feeling as I sit in the dark without a telephone or cable T.V., and wonder what life must have been like in the old Moscow.


Copyright 30 July 2001, revised June 2002 & March 2009, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"DOG DAY AFTERNOON"

An Intimate Portrait With Man's Best Friend

By R. B. STUART

Part Eleven


On Easter Sunday morning of 2003 my sister let me sleep through the much awaited first birth from her 3 year old Poodle, Snowy. A crying bunch of Apricot beauties plopped out in the center of her bed, three boys and one girl. The father Buddy, paced nervously through the house as he couldn't comprehend who was interfering with his beloved snow-white girl, and why she was so bitchy towards him. I dangled him over the bed, when he got a look at the mass of tan shiny rats desperately sucking his Lady's breast's---he was dumbfounded. Feeling confused and betrayed he was shooed out of the room by her crazed glassy stare and snappy white fanged smile. For his life and ours---would never be the same.

The enchantment was instant. One could simply not get enough of the four inch, close-eyed Chinese egg rolls. Their sweet watermelon pink noses, tongues and bellies, made me want to lick them like lollipops. But Snowy was doing just fine without assistance from the humanoids ogling her at each waking moment. Their squeaking cries signaling her for food and warmth.

Since they were born on my sister's bed, an impractical choice which would prove to be dangerous for these squirming quadruplets. As they blindly pulled themselves along the mattress towards the warm crevices of the covers, or scent of their Mumma, eventually reaching the edge of the bed then tumble and thump to the carpeted floor. Only a three-foot fall, but as my brother-in-law said, "To them it must have seemed like a sky scraper."

I was horrified the first few times as they would hit the floor either whaling in terror or stunned silence. I realized they were resilient and kept my fingers crossed. We began laying pillows, blankets and comforters on the floor around the bed---a safety net for the four tumbling blind mice. One even managed to find a hole in the seam of the comforter and crawled in it for warmth. Which I discovered upon my morning inspection when one was missing. I began to panic, looking around the bed, on the floor, under the bed. As I moved the comforter I noticed it protruding like a hot dog in a bun, nestled quietly asleep in the filling. I proceeded to untangle its needle hook claws from the white thread. Then laying him down to sleep safely with the others. Thankfully none were injured, and as to date there has been no brain damage.

As the days wore on Snowy singled out the runt. She began carrying him in her mouth, hiding under the bed, attempting feverishly to bury him by digging a hole in the carpet. The poor minuscule, blind-squealing-bundle was tucked in her jaw like a bone. She repeatedly terrorized him in this way. I insisted Snowy was trying to kill him by because he was either sick or the smallest. I volunteered to become his surrogate mother. With the Vet's guidance I attempted to feed him new born formulas with a bottle or eye-dropper. Keeping him warm by tucking him in the collar of my shirt; laying wedged between my bosom and neck, heated by the warmth of my heart.

His pugged face and unusually wide tongue made us wonder if there were some torrid affair with the local Bull Dog. The indescribable smell of his breath was a cross between a freshly opened can of dog food and mother's milk. So intoxicating and addictive, "Chanel" could create a new men's cologne called "Puppy's Breath"---it would drive women wild. Snowy eventually accepted him. He fought his way to her teats, pressing in between the others. (Surviving his tumultuous childhood, he is now a 2 ½ year old 15 pounder named Jake.)

At three weeks old their eyes opened. It is unknown whether they could focus on these gargantuan bare skinned humanoids continuously in their faces. Although they did lock their sweet, round, milk chocolaty velvet eyes upon ours. And expressionless, listen to you banter and coo a foreign language into them. I was enamored by all of them. So much so my life took 2nd place to this litter of love.

Once they developed their sight---their need to maneuver took precedence. On nimbly legs their drunken stumble kept them from wheeling over stuffed animals, and rubber toys scattered along the play pen like an obstacle course. After weeks of learning how to roll from their backs onto their feet---vocalizing erupted. Actual chirping was heard coming from Sunday's mouth (the male I kept). Soprano notes pealed from the gums of their toothless mouths---beckoning the warm underside of their mother's belly. Unaware as to what sound was coming out of their own months---they attempted to mimic Snowy, and horrify their neglected papa, Buddy.

When the white-bone needles broke threw the skin of their gums---they took delight and fascination in the wiggle of your toes. Your bare feet with a selection of 10 knobs to chew on--- provided enough entertainment for all four.

Once they began trusting their fleshy Amazon friends. While sitting floor level they'd climb your legs, arms and chest with the goal of reaching your hair, chewing on it or suckling on your bulbous ear lobes in a fervored attempt to draw milk. While their tiny breath blew warmly inside your ear, they'd continue to crawl up behind your head and rest under the mane covering your neck. At times I expected them to meow---reminiscent of a litter of frisky kittens.

Enthralled by their presence, I'd pose them around the house so I could catalogue their growth by burning it into a roll of Kodak film. It was the beginning of "Aunty's Baby Dog Book." My addiction to their faces connected me to each one as if I'd given birth to quadruplets. Nurturing, playing, cuddling, becoming a surrogate mother took precedence over my own daily meals and baths. Their innocent eyes put a glow on my face. Being childless, I had entered a world of motherhood---an experience foreign to me. My conversations were monopolized by puppy stories. I proudly shared my puppy photo album as if it were my own new born. My friends had noticed an apparent shift in my personality. A new level of calm centeredness had permeated my being. Healing the void within by protecting and unconditionally caring for the vulnerable creatures of the earth.

At six-weeks-old the boys were biting, chewing and rough housing with one another, by ganging up on the smaller ones. Jake (the one Snowy tried to bury) and the little girl, Lilly were taking a beating---mainly her---as they began using her as a chew toy. Boring a sore into her lower back. Coupled with her inability to push through at feeding time. She began a downward spiral of dehydration, weight loss and atrophy. Unnoticble until....

One morning I woke to find her hovering under the first step of the stairs. I was horrified to see her shaking, crying uncontrollably, unable to use her hind legs, and her bum covered with feces. I rushed her to the Vet's. It preempted a two week period of one on one nursing. I dusted off my Florence Nightingale whites and committed myself to Lilly.

The Doctor was instantly smitten by her. After a bout of emergency antibiotics and IV fluids, he carefully advised me of an every two hour feeding regimen and medicine plan. Lilly needed warmth, food and a soothing of her frayed spirit. When around the boys she needed constant supervision and to be separated at night. She gazed her sweet eyes upon me as I carried her around the house tucked under my arm upon my breast. At bed time Lilly laid lovingly next to my shoulder as we went peacefully to sleep.

Within 48 hours Lilly became progressively worse. She squealed in pain at each attempt to hold, move, or pick her up. Her stomach became distended, her fever increased and every 10 minutes she whaled out in pain. I wept as I saw the look of death upon her sunken innocent face and frail body. It was a look I'd never forget, since it was the same look of death I saw upon my mothers face just a year before. I wondered, would Lilly die in my arms the way my mother had? All I knew was that I had to tell Lilly I loved her and allow her brothers to be with her one last time.

I unwrapped her from the hand towel she was bundled in and laid her on the seat of a soft cushioned chair. And one by one I brought her brothers to her. Sunday was the first out of the play pen. He appeared scared. He cautiously sniffed her face then remembered she was one of them. Lilly laid with death around her. Sunday knew she was sick because he used his nose to cover her up with the towel. He expressed empathy. I didn't know it was possible in animals, never mind in a 5-week-old puppy. Next was Jake then Bee Gee (the largest male my other sister took). They both were afraid. They sniffed at her but seemed too scared to go any further. I was content they had said goodbye.

I took her gently in my arms and went up to my bedroom. I laid with her on my bed, lit candles and prayed to God and the angels who looked over animals. My voice cracked as I called out to the Universe to send Lilly a Vetnerian spirit to heal her, take away her fever, and assist in a full recovery. Even though my pleas weren't heard for my mother. Through the sorrow I cried out in faith that the Divine Spirits would hear me and come to her aid. We fell asleep in each others arms.

I woke the next day to a spunky little girl by my side frolicking with my fingers needing to pee. A miracle I thought, wait until my sister and her husband see the revitalized Lilly. I took her to the kitchen where she ate ferociously. Then tousled around the floor with her brothers. We were all amazed. The first 72 hours being the most detrimental---Lilly made it to day three and was holding her own---on the road to a happy pup hood. I breathed easier---and thanked the Divine Power for healing her, and for guiding me on how to care for my sweet, Easter Lilly.

In the interim the Vet had their eyes on her for a Father's Day present. My sister wasn't able to keep the entire litter, so at 8-weeks she'd rest her sweet gaze on someone else's face. Lilly slept with me one last time before I left NY for a business trip. With her tiny eyes resting shut I held her in the crook of my arm and kissed her goodbye. I bid her a wonderful life in a new home with a great family. I asked her if she could---to come back one day and see me again. The tears of farewell stung my eyes as I knew when I returned---she'd be gone.

By the time I returned Sunday, Bee Gee and Jake were approaching nine weeks old. Sunday seemed to have missed me terribly. Unbeknownst to me he had chosen me to be his lifelong friend. Sunday was feeling unprotected and not really identifying himself with a master. Snowy and Buddy belonged to my sister and her husband. They were keeping Bee Gee so they doted on him. We all fawned over Jake since he was the cutest, most lovable and had the happiest wagging tail ever seen (their tails were not docked). It clocked back and forth like a pianists metronome. Therefore, Sunday was at the bottom of the puppy pole, but not any longer, since Lilly was gone he could wiggle his way into my heart.

The second night back I slept on the living room couch. Puppies scattered along every crevice of my body. Wedged beside my head, my arm, in between my legs, Snowy at my feet, Buddy under my other arm. At 7 o'clock in the morning their excitement of seeing a humanoid sleep with them, woke me. They jumped off the couch and ran all over the house. Up the stairs into the bedrooms, the bathroom and of course peeing and pooping on the rugs before I could catch them.

As I was cleaning up after Bee Gee and Jake, Sunday was in the bathroom getting ready to vomit. I ran to him while he was dry heaving and snatched him off the throw rug and placed him on the newspaper on the floor. Out from his mouth came a blonde hair ball. I thought, "Gee he must have chewed on my hair a lot, or is this burnt grass?" I bent down and with my bare fingers plucked it up to throw it in the waste basket. When I did it began to uncoil. I threw it in horror. I scrubbed my hands with soap and boiling water and looked again, this time with a tissue in hand. The closer I got I noticed the coiled Vermicelli had dark brown horizontal stripes and was moving; it was a worm.

I was frantic thinking that they laid all over me through the night and at any moment worms could of slithered out of them---into me. My skin crawled, my psyche was traumatized for days afterwards. My sister was away so I called the emergency clinic asking if it was Ring Worm. She replied, "Round Worm. All puppies have them. It's time for them to be dewormed and given their shots." My days and nights were filled with the re-enactment of the episode. I shunned the puppies for days until they were dewormed. I researched the human contraction of Round Worm and began herbs to kill the "infestation" I was convinced I had.

I questioned myself if I really wanted a puppy. I was uncovering a fear of commitment over having to care for a dog. What if he dies or we're separated like the other dogs from my childhood? All that pain and sorrow again. I really never wanted a small dog anyway---especially a Poodle. What if I move and can't have pets? As the list expanded, the fear grew. Then Sunday began following me throughout the house.

Jumping up wanting me to hold him. Shadowing my every step by laying at my feet no matter how often I moved. Convulsing with excitement and joy when he'd see me in the morning. Bouncing off my calves when I walked around the backyard, trying to grab at the hem of my sundresses. His beautiful peaches and cream face dotted with a black Licorice nose, his personality and affection---was making it extremely difficult to renege.

By week ten Jake was ready to leave the den. Five dogs had become overwhelming and my sister had to let him go. Papa Buddy had already taken over the paternal pup rearing, while Snowy was recovering from "Chewed Teat Syndrome" and was more than happy to just lounge and eat steak Bon-Bons.

During this time Bee Gee and Sunday discovered their love for water. The grateful duo frolicked in a freshly filled kiddy pool every afternoon. They learned how to fetch Buddies beloved squeaky ball, run like Greyhounds, hop and leap through the air like bunnies---flying on the wings of the thrill of the fall. Blackened by dirt from rolling in the holes they dug like two junkyard dogs and yuking it up in the mud like a couple of swine, brought me to my knees with adoration. The same loving eyes a mother has while watching her children play outside for the first time---had shone upon mine. When I placed them at the top of the lemon yellow plastic slide on the swing set---they slid down in delight---further into my heart and mind.

When Sunday and Bee Gee neared 5 months old, these two Tenors learned to howl Indian chants in the morning as a wake up call. Baiting me downstairs to release them from confinement. I ignored their seductive pleas, as I attempt to break them and me, of their separation anxiety. Their manipulative serenades wean them towards independence---while floating a furry smile up the stairs to my face. Bee Gee had grown into a sweet, dopey, big, fury blonde bear---out weighing his parents, at 12 pounds.

And Sunday well, everyone thinks my one testicle male puppy, is a girl. I believe I've acquired the first gay Poodle. He's afraid of children and strangers, basically anything that moves. The excessive barking and growling he's adopted from Snowy, which I hope to change with obedient training and socializing. His morning kisses as he tucks his nose under my chin, wiggling up my arm to hang over my shoulder. Are enough to keep me engaged with this little blonde ball of softness, this feisty spirit of puppy love---for atleast another decade.

As 5 ½ years have gone by, this 16 pound pup has filled a void in my life I didn’t know existed. His unconditional love, his extreme patience, protectiveness, dedication, obedience, understanding and joy, was a gift I was unaware that I needed…..until I finally rescinded and opened my heart to make the commitment to love and care for him, as he does for me. Only then, did the hurts and pains from my past have the ability to heal, as I was swathed in love that he so endlessly and effortlessly provides his humanoid friend---me.

Copyright June 2003, R. B. STUART. All Rights reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"FASHION IS NO LONGER DISABLED"

By R. B. STUART
Part Ten

Upon entering Kohl's Department Store I hadn't sensed anything other then a discount clothes store. That is until I stumbled upon a pair of female mannequins, dressed in jeans, one sitting in a wheelchair. I was struck by this rare sight, it took me back instantly to my own mother's stroke. Leaving her with left side paralysis, self-conscious and wheelchair bound, to live the last five years of her life in a seated position.

The wheelchair made her extremely self-conscious producing a homebound shame that crippled her self-esteem. Her social life had diminished, her comfort came from a "pet" bowl of ice cream or chocolates. It took several years of cajoling when I'd come home for a visit to attend gatherings. She'd defy me and whimper with self-pity, "No one wants to see an old lady in a wheelchair." I'd reason, "No one is looking at you in your wheelchair. Do you stare and talk about people you see in a wheelchair?" "No," she'd answer pouting in defeat as and pivot into her metal chair.

Finally after four years of my drill sergeant methods to get her out of the house. She sulked when the transport service drove us to Physical Therapy then on foot to the mall. She hadn't been in a store since the stroke, relying heavily on home health aids and family to shop.

I wheeled her 5'10 frame down a hill. Because of her pride she never attached the foot rests, it would only amplify her disability to herself and the world, so her long basketball legs were stretched out before her, her metal knee brace peeking out from under her left pant leg. Rolling along the emergency lane of the bypass, trudging up another hill it began to sprinkle. She laughed and held her face up to the sky as the raindrops kissed her cheeks. It had been so long since she was out in the rain---like the tin man her caution gave way to ecstasy. Filled with glee she shouted repeatedly, "Honey, what an adventure!"

I tugged, pushed and pulled her around every bend until in a distance we saw Kmart. Out of breath, her legs in cramps, both damp from the rain, I let go of the wheelchair. Her feet clad in brown orthopedic Frankenstein shoes dropped to the floor and she pulled herself over to the first rack of clothes she could find. The excitement shown over her face. Childlike awe glazed over her protruding hazel eyes as she marveled and caressed each fabric, like it was a babies face. She'd gasp in adoration as each rack of clothes were better than the last. I can only imagine how she would have felt if she saw a mannequin sitting too---in a wheelchair.

A simple pop into a department store for me, was a life changing event for her. For after that landmark day, her desire for life began to bloom again and she joined a senior day care. So the walk into Kohl's had stirred such strong emotions in me, I needed to know who was responsible for this progressive, socially aware stance for the disabled and why? And was this a trend?

Kohl's was founded in 1962 by the Kohl family of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. And Larry Montgomery became CEO in 2003. I had hoped to speak directly with the man behind Kohl's, but a summer vacation took him away from the office. Thus, Vickie Shamion was elected to answer a few questions for me.

Who was consciously responsible in deciding to display a disabled mannequin? Ms. Shamion replied, "It is a total team effort. It takes a team to take a great idea that is representa- tive of customer demographics and bring it to fruition nationwide."

When was the first disabled mannequin displayed? "In 1995 and it was rolled out to a number of locations. It received a favorable consumer response and in the 589 Kohl's stores nationwide, over 90 percent feature wheelchair mannequins. Ultimately, every store will have one," she added.

I was able to interview a couple of industry insiders to see how widespread this was, their answers were much to my surprise. When I mentioned this unusual mannequin display to Alicia Hanson, associate editor at VM+SD Magazine she said, "I have never seen a mannequin in a wheelchair and I'm in charge of mannequin features and trend pieces. Although, the idea doesn't seem so unrealistic."

And Ron Rodrigues, VP of True Visual and former VP of VNY stated, "I have not seen the application of a mannequin, in a retail store, used in a wheelchair. However, I applaud Kohl's for apparently doing so. Nor have I witnessed them displayed in a wheelchair at any major industry tradeshows, and I have attended two to four a year worldwide, for twenty years."

This 9 billion dollar plus company may have gone nationwide, but they have been able to maintain the small family ideology born in Milwaukee over 40 years ago. In addition, Kohl's pioneering is bringing the disabled into mainstream society---through clothes. By acknowledging the disabled not only as active consumers, but someone's mother, father, daughter, brother or spouse. Then maybe through this simple act, the wheelchair they live life from---might become less conspicuous, and eventually disappear. If only my mother could have lived long enough to see this progressive change, I think it would have helped ease her discomfort of living life....in a seated position.



Copyright 2004. All Rights Reserved, R. B. STUART. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"TOUGH GUYS DON'T DANCE"

Twenty Years of Correspondence with Norman Mailer
By R. B. STUART
Part Nine

As a young girl in my early 20’s, I learned about Norman Mailer in 1980 from his controversial book, “The Executioner’s Song” chronicling the life and death of convicted Utah murderer Gary Gilmore. Mailer stirred something in me to write. My first attempts I penciled 85 pages about my own troubled childhood----but after dredging up so much emotional muck, I tucked the tablet in a manila envelope and scratched Norman Mailer’s name upon it….hoping one day as a Master writer, he’d guide me to finish the book. Six years later he’d come into my life by way of his novel, “Tough Guys Don’t Dance.”

Mailer’s dabbling in film as screenwriter and director, connected our paths in Provincetown, Massachusetts. He frequently spent the summers vacationing at his home on the tiny hook of seaside land at the end of Cape Cod. In 1986 when the 63 year-old veteran writer was scouting for locations and background talent Labor Day weekend for the film adaptation of, “Tough Guys Don’t Dance” starring Ryan O’Neal, Isabella Rossellini and Lawrence Tierney.

As a Bostonian, during a holiday the Cape was the place to be. My brother, and friends shimmied on the dance floor of a darkly lit local bar, The A House. Where the blaring and pounding rhythmic music replaced your heartbeat. On the cramped dance floor we gyrated in a frantic sweat---the bodyheat created a sauna. The shirtless male bodies thrusting against each other, passed around a miniature dark brown bottle of Popper’s that spilled between our hands. One sniff of the Amyl Nitrate sent heatwaves throughout your body, and your heart into a thumping overdrive. Casting a yellow haze over the Disco ball of lights, the short-lived euphoric laughter gave way to an aching jaw as the heaviness of reality reemerged.

It was then I noticed a man with an 8-millimeter camera on his shoulder shooting me while I danced. I figured they were with the Provincetown News taping the Labor Day festivities. He was standing on the perimeter of the dance floor panning the dancers and then focusing on me. There was another man with him, older, stalky with thick white wavy hair and protruding ears. He approached me to introduce himself. I strained to hear him over the music.

With a forceful voice thick with a Brooklyn accent announced, "Hello, I'm Norman Mailer. We're shooting some footage for a movie I'll be making. You have high energy. Is it alright if I shoot you for a party scene?" I was still trying to assimilate that he was Norman Mailer. In disbelief and wonderment, I thought is it really him? Or is this crackpot playing a hoax, but why? Apprehensively I responded, okay.

He walked away and the cameraman stepped forward and filmed me as I camped it up. The impostor returned with a white cocktail napkin and pen, handing it to me inquired, "What's your name?" I moved off the dance floor and replied. He added, "I like your energy. Would you sign your name on this napkin permitting me to use this footage?" I took the pen and napkin. I noticed there was something already scrawled on it. As I cocked my head tilting the napkin towards the light to read it, his voice barreled over the music informing me, "It states that you release to me what we taped. Your signature makes it a legal and binding document."

I listened, uncertain if he was truly Norman Mailer. I nodded then signed the cocktail napkin and handed it back to him. He thanked me, smiled and as a man on a mission---turned to make his way out of the thickening crowd. I went back to my brother who was still dancing and shouted in his ear, "Is that Norman Mailer?" He bobbed his head to look above the crowd and answered, "I think so. It looks like him. Why?"

I explained what occurred and as we moved off the dance floor he stepped on something. When he fished down for the object, he pulled up a strip of 8-millimeter film that was strewn across the floor. Cackling, "You're already on the cutting room floor!"

When the bar closed we walked up Commercial Street, Mailer was standing off the sidewalk observing the trickling by of partygoer's. I pointed him out to my brother and he affirmed yes indeed it was. Seeming somewhat vulnerable out on the street, I cautiously strutted over unaware if he was approachable.

I asked what the movie was and when he would be filming. He appeared open and replied in a husky tone from deep in his gut, "I'm making a movie from a novel I've written titled, "Tough Guys Don't Dance." Have you ever been in a movie?" he inquired. I replied no then sheepishly added, "I tried writing an autobiography once, but stopped after 85 pages. I didn't want to remember anymore." He listened curiously as I confessed the sins of my past life.

I don't know why I confided in him. It never crossed my mind if he was interested or just being polite. It was significant for me to come forth with my truths to him. Partly because I wanted him to accept me for who I was, but expected to be shunned. An aspect of me was still searching for the father I lost as a child. The unconditional understanding Mailer had for a strange, young creature, was representative of the kindness an older, wiser man possessed. Maybe his maturity and welcoming ear nurtured that wayward child within. And through him, I could glimpse what it would be like talking to my own father. Needing him to say, "It's alright my child."

In a sense he did. After I bared my soul he inquired with a half lit smile, "Would you like to be in my movie?" He stood solidly planted in the earth, his face pondered awaiting my response. Without hesitation I gleefully answered yes. He must have seen the excitement in my eyes---my face glowing with hope….

His letters, notes and doodles, encouragement and advice from over the last 21 years hang above my desk---as I am now the writer I wanted to become. I sit encased by the wall of Mailer---his strength, fearlessness, and words edge me into the abyss of the literary world. His wisdom echoes in my every step, “Don’t level off. The worse thing about leveling off in writing is when it begins to sink after a while. It could end up being tougher than anything you’ve ever done. But also, it could be the most enjoyable thing you’ve ever done.”

My paternal affection for him never waned, even after he asked me not to lipstick kiss the backs of the envelopes when I write, "Since that just causes trouble with my wife," he begged.
Norman filled the void as an elder, male figure with wisdom, authority and unconditional support, that any young fatherless girl would seek. I grew up in those letters. I emptied my longings into those pages to him....and asked for guidance as a young writer. In turn he advised me of my writing career, and reluctantly critiqued works in progress. “As understood I don’t go in for critiquing pieces---I save all that for my own stuff like the greedy bastard I am,” he quipped.

Whilst he was a literary icon.….he was also an approachable, caring, non-judgmental man. For that he will truly be missed. So on Wednesday, April 9th five months after Norman Mailer’s death at 84. Hoards of literary aficionado’s, family, friends, colleagues and readers of the controversial pen man---attended the Carnegie Hall, Random House farewell, “The Time of His Time” A Celebration of the Life of Norman Mailer.

The quiet auditorium laden with gold baroque and burgundy velvet, awaited the trail of mourners that would converge in honor of the literary giants life. Tucked neatly alone in the third row was a mysterious woman donning a wide brimmed black felt hat stuck with a gold pin. Her willowy body dressed in black from the neck, wrist and ankle---cloaked her pale skin. In an attempt to shield her from the masses who would share their condolences, his sixth wife, of 33 years, was the beautiful former model, Norris Church Mailer.

I hadn’t seen her in a decade, the once statuesque freckled-faced, red headed Texan girl, was replaced by an older frail woman. Battling not only her own illness, rumored to be colon cancer, compounded by the loss of her greatest love---seemed to have knocked the wind out of her. She sat like Greta Garbo….just wanting to be left alone.

Her contemplative solitude would be interrupted as a haze of confused reading bees parted the sea of red seats looking for their own. The lovers of Mailer stumbled upon each other as they ignored the backdrop of silent images from Mailer’s life scanning the stage wall.

As the patron dust began to settle, glimpses of the literary elite could be seen through the maze of heads; Joan Didion, Tina Brown, Don DeLillo, William Kennedy and Gina Centrello, president and publisher of Random House who’s published Mailer’s books for the past 23 years, as well as actor/director Sean Penn who said about Mailers acclaimed novel, “The Naked and the Dead,” “It influenced a generation of writers.”

A trombone softly echoed “Requiem for a Boxer” throughout the hall as over 2,000 attendees took their seats, for what would be a three-hour tribute. The Master of Ceremony, Charlie Rose, who had interviewed the two-time Pulitzer Prize winner a dozen times for his PBS show, forcefully took the reigns when he greeted the audience, “We are in Carnegie Hall celebrating a great man---so please make sure your cell phones are OFF. Get rid of them,” he instructed with parental authority.

Over the last six decades---Mailer wrote 40 books and crates of essays. His last two published in 2007, “The Castle in the Forest” was the first of an anticipated trilogy, and “On God: An Uncommon Conversation.” Tina Brown, former editor of Vanity Fair and The New Yorker took stage and recalled when she met Mailer in 1984 when he was working on his 34th book, novel, “Tough Guys Don’t Dance.” Written 36 years after his first novel was published, “The Naked and The Dead.”

No depiction of his life would be as poignant then the legacy of his nine children. Barbara Wasserman announced what it was like to be Norman’s sister, “He was loving, supportive and wonderful to be with. But over time I wondered where did he come from? Being someone who believed in reincarnation, I thought “Ancient Evenings” was an autobiographical book,” she mused.

There was a similar thread with each speaker---as they detailed Mailer’s piercing or searing blue eyes….blending with the blue skies. But it was his nine children bore by six wives, who eloquently read speeches as if pages from a novel. Each inheriting their own vibrant, identifiable Mailer trait of an articulate wordsmith---weaving memories of their father into a Bi-Opic novel of his private life. The wildly humorous but tender recollections from his family were captivating vignettes mostly of Provincetown. Their colorful memory reels of laughter---left no time for tears or sadness.

His nephew Peter Alson recounted the last days in the hospital with Mailer, his health failing one month after undergoing lung surgery. His final cocktail would be from his son Michael, who’d called asking his father if he wanted one last drink. His request was rum and orange juice. Michael arrived to the hospital with the spirits and found a glass at the nurse’s station. His father instructed him to mix two ounces of water, two ounces of OJ and four ounces of rum. Because of the breathing tube an inability to swallow, Michael dipped a lollipop sponge into the glass and wet his fathers tongue. After several unsatisfying attempts….Mailer grabbed the glass and began swigging it, then passed it around the bed for each to savor his life.

“Most people think of Dad as a great writer. I like to call him a weaver,” said his daughter Susan Mailer. “Weaving the family like a tapestry.”

Stephen Mailer, the self-anointed “wild card” was the most dramatic of the brood. Spouting, “I’m going to channel my father for your viewing pleasure.” Akin to an evangelist he stretched his grey suited arms up to the ceiling to invoke his fathers spirit. Calling out to his father to possess him. He smacked face flat to the stage floor only to arise in Norman’s stance, clearing his throat Normanesque style, bellowed in his fathers voice and diction, “Carnegie Hall—Carnegie Hall—why the fuck not!”

He went on to criticize his son Stephens song choice, “Candle in the Wind” for his memorial. “I was a forest fire in a hurricane,” he scoffed. Stephen rested his fist upon his chin, just as his father an avid boxer had done when sparring in the ring with his son. And in his fathers voice grumbled, “Goodbye. I love you.” Instantly Stephen hurled back to the floor, his father disappeared…. and the son reemerged.

Author Don DeLillo honored Mailer by accounting his work. “He wrote novels,plays, poems, essays and advertisements for himself. He was not just a voice, but a novelist of sweeping range. A great novelist thinking about the world sentence by sentence.”

Watching the video of Mailer in his earlier years on black and white newsreels, was like watching a gangster film with Edward G. Robinson. As Mailer salted with bravado was larger than life, a distinct voice rich with thunder and strength. The boxer, the tough guy, Marilyn Monroe obsessed, the activist, the non-conformist, a lover of Picasso, the poet, the writer, the author---the beloved father, the adored husband and the dedicated friend---we say goodbye. Congressman Neil Ambercrombie choked back, “Norman beloved outlaw and friend…fly away.”

Prominent criminal defense attorney and friend for over 25 years, Ivan Fisher remembered an afternoon with Norman and Norris. “His blue eyes gleamed as he looked at her and said, ‘Baby, I love you.’ ” It spawned a photo montage of their three decades of marriage. A smoky pre-recorded rendition of a sentimental song Mailer wrote for “Tough Guys Don’t Dance” wafted through the air, “You’ll Come Back (You Always Do),” sung by Norris Church Mailer.

She may have been a red head, but in the end….he found his Marilyn.


Copyright April 2008, R. B. STUART. All rights reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"AN AGING ROCK FAN FACES THE MUSIC"

By R. B. STUART
Part Eight

In an attempt to recapture my beloved 20's through the music of the 80's, while in NH the summer of 2004 I was compelled to see a concert at the Manchester Verizon Arena. The Rock n' Soul Review listed Hall & Oates, Michael McDonald and The Average White Band. I was so captivated by the line up---I decided to go alone.

I guess at 44 years-old one hopes to be grounded enough in who he is to solitarily entertain oneself. Without any conversational distractions; being solo allows you to immerse yourself in the situation, even if that means consciously observing yourself within the event, by allowing discoveries about how you view yourself to gurgle upward like heartburn in the aging world of baby boomers.

As I entered the brightly lit arena I was startled by the sea of leisure wear, Hawaiian print shirts, receding hairlines, eyeglasses and over weight balding men neatly tucked into their seats. Had I stumbled into a Wayne Newton concert, or could they really be my peers? No one was even wearing black (blame it on the region), even Michael McDonald was dressed as if he was jamming at home.

Everyone was sitting in a civil manner, not one stood on their chair and the only bottle seen swigging was that of Aqua. Where was the smuggling of liquor in your soda can, or bottle of beer wrapped in two fists with a cigarette hanging off your lips? The 50 year-olds had become music aficionados---simply there to listen, spouse by their side.

Had things changed that drastically in 10 years? The last concert I think I went to see was Alice Cooper in San Diego or was it Bowie and Tin Machine in NYC? I was in my mid 30's then, but now I'm closer to 50 than 20. I found myself rejecting the notion I was amongst my generation. All these old fogies around me must have chaperoned their rockin' 20 something children---for why would they like this type of music? I sat stoically dismissing the idea that they were there as I---for the sweetened music of the past.

Attending concerts in my 20's, I recall seeing U2 in Boston, standing on my seat gyrating, singing and crying with excitement from the intensity of their music. Flash forward twenty years and I find myself sitting motionless listening to Michael McDonald sing a Stevie Wonder song---weeping from the feelings of loss experienced in my life.

While listening to my favorite music at home or in the car---it seems to retain the fantasy of my youth. But the ebb and flow of time smacks me with the reality of aging. Now I sit amongst the other 40, 50 and 60 year-olds bobbing my head and reminiscing bits of my life woven into each song---remembering the loves gone by.

I realize that I may have been traumatized by this event---but when Hall & Oates trotted on stage---I jumped to my feet and burst out hollering, slapping my eyeglass case against my palm like a make shift tambourine, singing in a transfixed state as if I was at a Christian Revival. I saw them as vibrant, ageless, artists capable of stopping time for an hour---so that I too could feel, ageless once again.



Copyright July 18, 2004, R. B. STUART All rights reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"SUGAR : THE NEW CRACK COCAINE"

By R. B. STUART
Part Seven

When I began feeling like a junkie looking for a fix---I knew I had a problem---with SUGAR. The addiction symptoms were: anger, self-hatred, depression, lack of energy, sweet cravings, bloating, out of control eating and weight gain.

Having battled a food addiction for over 20 years (food my drug of choice) and while temporarily living with my sister after the death of my mother, I gained back 20 pounds and 10 of the 12 inches I lost while diligently working-out for the last 8 years. All the hard work I did vanished, by the daily temptation (of the Drake's isle in my sister's kitchen) and endless consumption of the over-the-counter drug: pure white (co)cane sugar.

Over 10 years ago a friend introduced me to the book "Sugar Blues," by William Dufty. She passed out copies like lollipops and preached about the psychological and physical addiction. I ignored her zealot attempts to convert me shunning a copy of the book she swore by. I figured I knew it all because I ate honey or brown sugar (refined white sugar dyed brown with Molasses). Never considering what she was trying to enlighten me to was the dangerous white substance traded on Wall Street. It was lurking in the cyclical ice cream, Funny Bones, holiday desserts, M&M's, and birthday cakes (my favorite) I made excuses to inhale. Except, I wasn't aware enough to see the correlation between my inability to lose weight and the physical symptoms of the sweet junk. That is until I was unplugged from NYC and living in the country trying to reinvent myself while mourning my mother.

Everyone experiences going home for the holidays and overeating because you are out of your element, seduced by your favorite childhood foods. But when the holidays are over and you're still there---and so are the goodies, coupled with those less health and body conscious---it can equal disaster. If your constitution is built on a flaky foundation of pastry crust---you will crumble---becoming "one" with the donuts.

My observation of the negative emotions associated with sweets became prevalent when I began eating insatiably after a morsel or two of the three C's: chocolate, cookies or cake. I'd say to myself, "I'll only have two Oreo's" (or one slice of cake or three pieces of chocolate). Then before the first bite slid down my gullet, I'd up the ante to 4 cookies then 6. Of course after a lightening speed consumption (similar to the initial rush of drugs)---I'd become sick from the sugar. A nauseous feeling came over my stomach as I swore I'd never do it again.

This went in circles for months. Arguing with my sister to stop buying the junk food and seductive desserts. She reasoned her husband liked sweets (so did she and her Poodles) after dinner, before dinner, for lunch and sometime for breakfast. I began hating myself for not being able to pass it by. It was the first time I felt like an alcoholic, unable to pass a cookie jar or chocolate layered cake without having a binge. I thought maybe I should adopt AA's philosophy by taking, "one day at a time." But how could I master control over the dreaded thousand mile walk through the "pastry shop" in her kitchen?

I managed to make the conscious choice and stop due to weight gain. For two months I felt energized, confident, hopeful, euphoric, centered, a general sense of well being. Feeling elated and in control of my life and eating, I decided to test myself at a function by eating only 2 bite size squares of a brownie and cheese cake. I remembered the taste---and it remembered me as I walked back to the table popping a few more in my mouth. Instantly I was sucked right back into the void of empty calories.

This pattern repeated itself over the last 24 months---until the tape measure expanded compounded by the strangulation of my clothes. I once focused on every curve and prided myself on finally seeing my hip bones---I observed the disconnection from my body. Ignoring the outer manifestations of the miserable life I was temporarily leading, in a household spiraling out of control with carelessness and intentional sabotage. I wondered why their self-destructive ways were more encroaching to me than my conscious, healthy organic life style on them? They were a combined force like a blender whipping cream. I had to fight for my life and piece together the cause and effect of my sugar habit.

Over the Christmas holiday [2004] it began to take root as I monitored my emotions and bodily symptoms after I'd eaten sweets. Like Einstein creating the atom---I saw the connection ---and felt it when I woke on the 5th day after my last affair with chocolate on New Years eve. Finally kicking my addiction to a crack pipe of burnt sugar cubes. Feelings of being in control again, happy, almost speeding with adrenaline, no longer felt obsessive and indulgent. The sensation of being healthy, whole and alive had been lacking. The motivation and desire to reconnect to the positive side of life once again emerged. Leaving me possessed with the ability to make things happen. I was no longer ignorant to my sucrose bondage. And the negative symptoms superceded the momentary desires of---my aching sweet tooth.

It may only be a forkful for some, but others a handful leads to a trough. Dr. Phil's mission this season focuses on this countries overweight epidemic, making us understand these foods were "created to be addictive." A legal and cheap way of hooking millions of people, while making billions of dollars. Sugar is big business---a commodity which produced 147.1 million tons world wide in 2002/2003. And we consumed 139.1 million tons of the decaying substance. Which is the real crack cocaine here?


Originally written: 5 January 2004
Copyright 2004, R. B. STUART. All rights reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"THE WORLD COLLAPSES"

The Sixth Anniversary of the World Trade Center Tragedy

By R. B. STUART
Part Six


On September 11th 2001, while living in New York City I watched the terrorist attack the World Trade Center on television. After an hour, when the numbness and denial faded, an urgency to volunteer swelled within, needing to care for the city the way she comforted me over the years. I would go to her rescue in any way possible and aid the two limbs that had been taken without warning. The Mother of all cities, was herself, crumbling down to the marrow below her streets. The solid bedrock which sprouted two of her tallest beauties, were savagely destroyed---taking with them the many children of her city.

The Twin Towers were akin to California Redwood Trees, only in an urban environment. The destruction of our Redwoods brought about an equal amount of emotion--just as tree-huggers feel watching the electric saw chip and cut away the thick brown skin of natures grandest. The disbelief while watching the calamity brought upon the defenseless, helpless victims---who sat perched on each of the 110 floors as they attempted to fly---becoming One with the towers. Kept the world standing in silence enveloped by a quiet banding together of those experiencing the traumatic event of mass devastation and sadness.

For a brief moment the grief and sorrow had given way to love and peacefulness. It was as though an intertwining between Pearl Harbor and Woodstock had occurred---lifting consciousness with prayers, white candlelight and solidarity. Emerging from the pain and suffering of our forefathers past and present who have fought in those very wars, most, needlessly by sending many to their grave and psychologically maiming others for the rest of their life. It was their history coming forth, and in so doing brought volunteers from across the country and from the foreign lands where those battles were once fought.

The unity had begun. A New World was forming. In the dark of the night as volunteers we worked side by side unloading trucks at the donation center at the Jacob Javits Center. Crews of construction workers and out-of-town cops, women and men, shoulder to shoulder---white collar and blue. All suspended in a new reality. Tied together by the red, white and blue ribbons that were pinned on our breast. A quiet sadness filled our hearts, and a peacefulness flowed from our Spirits---for once, we were all equal. The Hero's that died, united us, in compassion.

Some volunteers slept overnight on the cold sidewalks; the voluntary homeless with make-shift beds made out of newspaper and faded denim jackets, colored bandannas tied around their necks, scuffed yellow-buck work boots fastened at their ankles, pillows of blue plastic hard hats, with rows of white candlelight looming over head on the cement walls. The country was built on the backs of these men, and they were willing to break their backs once again by sleeping on the gray concrete their brothers mixed and poured years before. Even still---they would wake with ease. Then in the early morning hours at Ground Zero they would gather the ruins that were laced with sweat and toil from their forefathers. Which was now soiled with the blood of our beloved---and our enemy. And they would do so lovingly for well over a year.

The financial downturn that occurred in the aftermath of the city lead many New Yorkers to re- evaluate their lives as they knew it. The future of the city was uncertain and my own life took on a gloomy air. People seemed more caring in the weeks after the tragedy but it didn't last. The lack of connectedness takes its toll on you after awhile, you begin to absorb the cement from the sidewalks and the only way to rescue yourself---is to leave.

Hiring freezes happened immediately. The avenues became barren as stores posted "Going Out of Business" banners in the windows. Filled U-Haul trucks peppered the desolate streets as taxi cabs rode empty---a sign people were leaving. The city simply wasn't the same, and neither were the lives that lived within it.

Within four months my trepidation's about leaving became clear when my mother suffered a third stroke. The possible loss of one's mother shifts the order of your priority list. She would be the reason for weaning myself from NYC after 13 years. The magnetic pull of her failing heart brought us to her bedside for six weeks. We stood holding her hands---she was barely able to gaze at us one last time before dying.

She watched September 11th and its effects on her daughter, living long enough to see me come home safely to care for her. Not knowing six months after The World Trade Center tragedy, I'd witness my own tower collapse---my mother. If the survivors of September 11th can go on with the unexpected tragic loss of loved ones in their life---then I can certainly be grateful as I mourn, for the fortunate six weeks I had watching my mother make the transition to death. Breathing her sweet scent, caressing her brow, kissing her motherly hand while gazing at her childlike face and loving eyes one last time---is more than the survivors of September 11th had. I must find the grace in knowing that.

Since then I've observed the loved ones talk about those that have senselessly and suddenly died in The World Trade Center. They spoke of similar characteristics and qualities the deceased possessed: a good person, happy, humorous, a heart of gold willing to do anything for anybody, kind, considerate and loving. It sounded as if God was calling his favorite children, back home..... Maybe, just maybe---they can find peace knowing that.

Copyright September 2001, R. B. STUART. All Rights reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form. Above photo of rock in the sand taken at the beach 2005, "An Angel in The Sand."

"YOUR MOTHER WALKS WITHIN YOU"

A Daughters Journey Through Self-Discovery and Loss
By R. B. STUART
Part Five


Several years ago when my mother suffered her second stroke I began bartering with God, "Please let her stay alive for another ten years so she can see her daughters finally marry and maybe have children."

To atleast have one of her remaining four daughters marry and give her grandchildren was a long held wish. If we could give her that by the time she turns 80, her life would have been complete. Seeing her beautiful daughters have what she had: a wonderful loving husband and adorable children. Her mission in life would have been satisfied.

But as one knows what we pray for sometimes does not come into fruition. God has his own reasons why he takes those that we love at specific times. Whether we are ready to face that loss or not isn't his concern. No matter how many people love you---when he decides it's time to withdraw his last breath and stop your heart, as you were born into this life, you are born into another.

So in January of 2002 when my 73 year-old mother had a third relapse. I pondered my 13 years in New York City, my childhood, and the possible loss of my mother. I reached an under- standing; that in order for me to have a quality and healthy existence---I'd have to rescue my mother, my own life and leave New York. I thought I'd move in with her in New Hampshire where she spent the last thirty years.

In taking care of her disintegrating body I'd assist her as she made the transition into death. All the while still bartering with God that she'd recover from this one as she did the other two. My heart and mind were split in two while I listened to her yearn for the days as a teenager drinking bottles of Pepsi-Cola and eating Devil Dogs---in between her long swims in the cool ocean waters of Gun Rock Beach in Massachusetts. Mentally I knew she'd eventually die from refusing food, but in my heart I couldn't fathom the loss of my one and only--Mother. Yet, there was still so much I hadn't achieved in my life that I needed her to be around for. After all I owed her the happiness of seeing me marry a wonderful man, that is after I found one.

In the six weeks that followed she died. As her life had unexpectedly ended---mine began. Upon planning my mothers Memorial service---I planned my move out of NH where I restlessly left three decades before. During the first few months of mourning I'd experience waves of grief along with periods of acceptance and a sense of well being. But with emotions and their unpredictable manner, I felt consumed by the darkest moments. At midnight driving along quiet and still country roads listening to a Dean Martin cassette, remembering the old songs that she loved. I pictured her in the car beside me swaying to the music and singing in unison. That vision had put me into a tailspin of sorrow and grief. I missed her so. Riding down the blackened, barren roads howling in pain like a lone fox caught in a trap--no one to come into the cold, dark woods to rescue him in the deep of the night. Suffering---the ache tightly gripping my head from the forceful well of tears bursting from my heart---draining from my eyes. Sleep was the only remedy. She takes me back to Mum, and our family as it should be…

When I resuscitate myself from the tidal wave of pain, my memory ponders the last three years with my mother. I began to notice traits and tendencies of my own that I had apparently inherited from her. During the fall and winter months I'd always tuck a Kleenex tissue up the cuff of my left sleeve. On the last Christmas I spent with her I watched her stuff more than one tissue up the cuff of her awning-stripe, pale yellow and gray knit shirt, a handful of them bulging like a bull frog at her wrist. Like me, my mother recycled her unused tissues by placing them in a small plastic bag hidden in the bedroom closet or by squishing them like cotton balls into her blue tapestry tote bag, the one hanging on the back knob of her bedroom door with an aged wooden back-scratcher poking out. Both were overflowing with the white crumpled balls.

In February 2002 while she was in the NH hospital with her third relapse and bout of Congestive Heart Failure, she lamented that she needed her box of tissues from the TV table in the living room. As an environmentalist I continually lectured her on waste and recycling. In jest I tormented her by bringing to the hospital a large blue Kleenex box packed full of the white-balled tissues from the closet. When I placed it beside her on the hospital bed she gleamed and instantly reached for one. Having to dig her hand furiously into the tight, plastic-lipped cardboard wedge to fish one out is when she realized what I had done, in disbelief she looked at me with her widening hazel eyes and spouted, "What the hell is this?" I chuckled, "You know all the unused tissues that you've crammed in the bag in the closet." She interjected in her usual theatrical tone, "These are them? How embaarahsing!" I nodded and smirked at her apparent dissatisfaction with my recycled gall. She used them anyway.

Within moments a nurse entered to flush her I.V. lines and needed a tissue for the overflow. My mother moved the tissue box closer to the nurse and as the nurse reached in for a tissue she pulled out wrinkled ones and remarked, "Are these used?" Without hesitation my mother retorted, "I know Robin---how embarrassing!" Humored by my actions and her ability to still be feisty with such an uncertain situation. I explained to the nurse who remained preoccupied with her task at hand, that I was punishing her by using the bag of clean tissues from the closet that she'd collected from her purse and sleeve for the past two years. My mother with exaggerated dramatic Italian flair rolled her deep set bulging eyes and rested her gaze upon the nurse pricking her arm.

Out of her six children (five daughters) I was the only one who plucked a tissue from my sleeve in the cool months. Each night before bed I'd whisk my long sleeve shirt up and over my head and a white mass would tumble to the floor. Forgetting they were there---I'd wonder what had fallen. I looked down and the mere sight of a rumpled tissue laying at my feet, brings a memory that warms my heart. Remembering my holiday visits with Mum my eyes smile as I hear her voice tucked somewhere in my mind, with a faint glow on her face saying, "Just like Mummy." Inwardly, I gaze back at her contentedly watching me dress from her wheelchair while I slide a tissue up the sleeve of my turtleneck before going out. And now that she's gone---we're connected by traits. The tissues she wiped my nose with as a child, the tissues that I've sobbed in since her death. I am her---she is me.

From my nose to my toes she is there. I never liked my feet tucked tightly into the bottom of a bed sheet, I feel confined. The uncomfortable sensation of my feet being bound and trapped make me instantly kick the sheets off. While visiting my mother, after she changed into her nightie and pivoted herself from the wheelchair into the bed, I'd enter when she was settled and tuck her in.

With her left side paralysis from her first stroke she maintained her independent living, but her ability to do things as perfectly as before were no longer. Her days of synchronized swimming were over and simply turning onto her side in bed wasn't an easy feat. When I'd kiss her goodnight and bid her sweet dreams, I'd straighten out the pillow under her knees. Then position her feet against the pillow wedged between the mattress and foot board of the rented hospital bed. Her long 5-foot 10-inch frame made it difficult even with bed extensions to keep her long legs from pressing against the hard uncomfortable foot board. I'd carefully lift each leg propping her heel a top the pillow. Then gripping the lion throw along with her sheet I'd wave it into the air. Watching her short baby-fine white hair fly in the breeze as the bedware melted over her aging maternal body. She'd blurt out, "Don't cover my feet!" As she kicked the sheets off in unison to my response, "I know. I don't like mine tucked in either." I'd lightly pull back the bedding to her shins leaving her toes exposed and free. The same toes that I had. The same size 11 foot. The same hang nail on the big toe.

The same piggies she scolded me about as a child when I'd run around outside in the summer bare foot, and then try to go to bed with dirty feet. My late sister whom I shared a room with would tattletale more than once whaling out to Mum, "Robin's going to bed with dirty pigs feet again!" Mum would storm into our bedroom and yank me out of bed ridiculing me to wash those dirty rotten pigs feet. Adding, "What did I tell you about going to bed with dirty, black feet!" I never even noticed until they pointed it out to me. When I grew older I kept my toes manicured with red lacquer. Although Mum never let me forget those childhood instances, and as I walk through life---it is her feet that I will take with me. Even though she has passed, every cell of her remains alive within me. And it is her love and her humor that will stay lost inside---forever.

Copyright July 2002, R. B. STUART. All rights reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"THE CASTRATION OF THE AMERICAN MALE"

By R. B. STUART
Part Four

As one matures hopefully becoming self-aware is inevitable. Bringing with it an observation, in this instance the submissive nature occurring between the sexes; American men are kowtowing to women. It became apparent to me while traveling with my sister to Greece in 2000. The emotional warmth, masculine confidence and aggressiveness that men are organically born with, that deep-seated nature is being squelched by women; mothers, wives and girlfriends in the American landscape. When it comes to the female contender that they love and care for, a percentage of American men have lost their voice and backbone.

Several years ago the author Sam Keen uncovered this topic in his book, "Fire in the Belly" as did Robert Bly in, "Iron John." Being a single New York City woman I encounter men of my generation and younger that are suppressing their natural essence when it comes to the opposite gender. In the last two years I have spoken to numerous single women of different ages, and back grounds in a variety of shapes and sizes. And when discussing men the grievances remain the same, 'he's afraid of women.' I was disturbingly surprised that it wasn't me after all. Although this realization saddens me because I adore all men, especially for their masculinity, quiet strength, aggressiveness and in moments, tough-guy attitude. I have gravitated towards those qualities in men from the seduction of the silver screen. The epitome of maleness exuding from Bogart, Gable, Cagney, Robinson, Pacino and DeNiro. I know it's not fair to say since they are actors playing a role, but equally so it isn't fair to be held up against the bathing beauties in "Sports Illustrated." As men use Super Models and Playboy Bunny’s to gauge the ideal woman.

But this isn't a retaliation for a society of impossible standards for the beautification of women. This isn't about appearances whatsoever---it's about character. There's something to say about the confidence in a mans ability to sweep you off your feet…and if only they knew how simple it was to do. In my life it’s only happened once. It was while I was at a friends house-party eyeing this thirty-something gentleman for hours. Flirting upon his leaving, I asked him for a kiss goodbye. He took me in his arms and dipped me backwards to the floor. I held onto him as I fell within inches of the hard wood. He pecked my cheek. I felt extremely girlish and giddy as I was enveloped in his manliness, his quiet strength, his confidence. I relinquished myself to him, trusting he would protect me and not drop me. In his spontaneous response to my request, I was taken by his sweeping goodbye---he could of effortlessly captured my heart, with a simple dip. I never saw him again and I hear he now lives in Singapore. It was his gallant goodbye I'll never forget.

During an uptown ride on a local Manhattan transit bus to Lincoln Center, I noticed a subordinate interaction occurring between an older woman and her white-haired fifty-something husband, boyfriend or maybe even son. When they stepped on the bus she sat in the front seat available for the elderly and handicapped. He sat beside her, as one would when out with another. I sat alone in a seat beside them. Repeatedly, she said to him, "Sit there, sit there," as she pointed to the vacant seat next to me. At first he didn't budge. After another command, "Sit there," he moved.

I watched this interaction with a critical eye then spouted, "Can't he sit where he wants to?" Flustered with my apparent intrusiveness she retorted, "I thought he'd be more comfortable if he sat there." I thought to myself, ‘Well why didn't you suggest it that way. And how do you know what's more comfortable for him?" I waited for her to make another remark to "mind my business" so I could add another four-cents and tell her, "Mothers, wives and girlfriends have done a nice job over the years at castrating the American male. And being a part of the single female population I have to contend with 80 percent of the heterosexual male population being afraid of women."

I don't understand why mothers want to raise their sons to fear women instead of respecting and honoring them. The girlfriends and wives take the reins from the mother and continue "whipping" the man, pulling back on the bit, keeping his blinders on so the man doesn't fall out of line or stray. A man is a wild horse, unbridled with a beautiful inherent power, strong, with a sleek, raw, bountiful energy. The woman throws a saddle on his back at an early age and rides him until she breaks him. After he relinquishes his innate, masculine power he has opted for a life saddled, running circles in a corral.

Women have for whatever reason repressed the essential male desire to live his potential as a capable, confident, fearless stallion. The God-given beauty only men possess is cloaked with the ashes of fear and doubt. As he is not being who he was born to be. This is a calling out to all women---let our men run peaceful and free. We need them to be the men God intended them to be, the caretaker of our hearts, the passion of our Spirits, and the lovely manliness that quenches and nourishes our Soul.

Because of the American society's rearing practices between son's and mother's. Father's unfortunately take a back seat to this ritual. And if they themselves fear women, the fear is simply passed down through the generations. Ultimately giving us a homogenized version of man, created by woman. As women we need to support our men and reassure them that we are nothing to fear. That we need their manliness, their power, their strength, their warmth, their protection, their support, their logic, their courage, bravery and their intelligence…mainly, their love. For without it, a woman would merely be a wo_ _ _. And man would be---extinct.


Originally written July 21, 2001

Copyright, R. B. STUART All Rights Reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.

"THE WRITER"

By R. B. STUART
Part Three

While attending The Marymount Manhattan Writers Conference in June 2001, 16 months after resigning from my clients to pursue a long held dream of being a writer. I never thought I was intelligent enough to write, never mind a book. Since I didn’t have the formal training; whether creative writing, English-Lit or journalism, nor read the works of the greats…the classics. Although, I was an avid reader, had written poetry since I was a child, horded pens and paper, wrote letters, journals and collected books. I had a couple of book ideas tumbling around my head, and attempted to write a few chapters and outlines in my 20’s. But when I set out to write a 400-page memoir, I didn’t know how to use a computer.

But all those limiting thoughts couldn’t stand up against my determination and will to do it now or never. The desire to live my passions and the age of 40 was the catalyst, as the milestone was only months away. So in 2000 my sister Dawn, sent me her 1993 Toshiba laptop, with its black and white screen, parallel port, floppy drive and printer. Ignorant to the depreciated value of electronics, in return I gave her $1,000. And for the next year she would become my telephone technical support advisor…. teaching me long distance, how to manipulate the robot sitting between my legs.

I studied the trades on writing and publishing, and one suggestion resonated with me, that ‘when you write, each time, you must hit a vein.’ As a novice to writing and publishing, I did it all backwards; first I wrote a book, then essays for magazines, then a column for a newspaper. It’s usually done in the reverse order, now the manuscript sits on a shelf cushioned by 100 rejection letters. I went from newspaper columnist to a fluke feature in a national woman’s magazine, back to newspapers, onto E-zine columnist, blogs and magazines. The training has been the work itself, the assignments I blundered my way through, learning what the AP style was, and how word count and clean copy is imperative. The latter an easy task, since I’m bi-anal and OCD…numbers and perfection are counterparts to my breathing.

I had been shopping my manuscript [What Is Your Soul Worth? The Challenges of A Woman Trying to Save Her Spirit and Ultimately Her Soul] around Manhattan when I discovered Marymount was having their annual writers conference, so I asked to volunteer. Marymount’s director of creative writing, Lewis Burke Frumkes said after taking a look at my work, “You can teach writing, but you can’t teach talent…and kid you have talent. You put this manuscript together all on your own…you’re one smart cookie.” It was just the stroking I needed as a young writer, and he allowed me to assist them at the conference.

In the auditorium, before a panel of professional writers, literary agents and authors, a young woman stood after the lecture to ask a question: “I'm 24, work two jobs and don't have the time to write. So how do I go about writing, if I can't find the time?” The panel of authors replied, “If you want to write you have to sit down and make time everyday.”

During the last twenty years when I only dreamed about writing a book. I became desperate to write and be heard, so I wrote complaint letters to CEO”s and Editor’s In Chief. At certain moments in my life, great inspirations would mount bringing forth an outline to several books. Each time they were propelled by unusual and meaningful life experiences. I must say, that as the young girl asking the question about finding the time. I not only didn't have the time and dedication, but most importantly, the time wasn't right. I hadn't ripened yet as a writer. When I did, dedicating myself to the totally consuming and solitary craft of writing was effortless. I found the time after twenty years, because the timing was right.

Miraculously, all the experiences and words I absorbed until that point imploded onto the page. Words that never linger in my mind during conversations---peeled from my fingertips as if flipping through a deck of playing cards. Without thought or knowing the exact meaning of the word, it somehow fit. As if it knew where it was suppose to go in each page and chapter. In the interim, I trusted the flow of consciousness and wrote what was triggered by a memory reel or emotion. Having never been able to communicate emotionally, the words, sentences and paragraphs brought prose to my hidden suffering and antiquated pain, that I'd been unable to articulate. Applying written words to the emotions gave me the courage and verbal intelligence to communicate--- accurately expressing my thoughts, ideas and emotions.

I could feel the words and sentences gathering in my mind, fermenting. Too premature to write, I sensed them being suspended until the opportune time---then unleashing them into my vessel. I searched lifetimes for the vessel to hold my repressed love, sorrow and pain. I always thought it was in the form of a man. Much to my surprise while hovering over the laptop rewriting my past, it was the book I was searching for, the pages of my life, my memoirs.

The paper was my vessel. I poured all the love, sorrow, regrets and heartache into it. It was strong enough to handle the abundance of painful words. In its silence it effortlessly absorbed the overflow of what I could no longer contain. Unconditionally accepting everything I offered. The paper remained unfettered by the stream of consciousness no matter how light or dark. Bending backwards and sideways for me as my body contorted with memories. All the while maintaining an un-bias stance of my prose. Watching my pen tickle across the lines of the page. Never changing its form or color. The vessel is the holder of my passions. And what I poured out, in its own way pours back into the Self in the form of self-expression, self-awareness, acceptance, understanding, accomplishment and unconditional love for who I am, the writer; a vessel for my Soul.

So after the conference, I ran into eight time author, Malachy McCourt [A Monk Swimming & Singing My Him Song], he was teaching a workshop. When I saddled up to him in the corridor I told him my inferior thoughts on writing. I was elated when he affirmed, “All writers have those fears. I too felt I wasn’t intelligent enough to write a book. Since I didn’t have the proper education.” He then invited me to sit in on his memoir writing class.

Norman Mailer, whom I met Labor Day weekend of 1986 in Provincetown, Massachusetts, and became pen pals. Corresponding for 14 years, I looked at him in an endearingly paternal way, since my own father had died when I was six. I longed for a wise, strong, male elder to comfort and guide me through my reckless life. I grabbed the crumbs I could from him, by sifting through his brief letters of encouragement.

When I turned onto another fork of the road at 40 to become a writer, I solicited Norman as a mentor for advice, he wrote back, “If you’re starting to write don’t think of agents or editors for the first five years. Think about learning how to write, read good writers, take classes in writing. Darling, learning to write well is as difficult as learning to play the piano well. But it can be done.”

I ignored his words of wisdom for I couldn’t abate the storm of memories, words, and chapters rushing into my mind. And wrote the 120,000 word manuscript, “What Is Your Soul Worth?” The Challenges Of A Woman Trying to Save Her Spirit and Ultimately Her Soul, in 15 months.

In 2005 at my five-year mark, I realized in an unconventional way, I had spent that time studying and learning how to write. After the book I began writing essay’s and pitching them to NY editors. My first, “Rescuing My Mother---Myself,” I used here as my first post. Was sent to Harper’s Magazine legendary EIC, Lewis Lapham, and was returned to me with a personal rejection letter from him, “As much as I enjoyed reading “Rescuing My Mother---Myself,” I can’t find a place for the text in Harper’s Magazine. I wish I could send more welcome news…and I send this with reluctance, admiration and regret.” His words welled my eyes….as I sensed I had hit the vein.

Now seven years later, I have over 200 clips in my portfolio; cover features, columns, articles, the NYT, GLAMOUR Magazine….and no longer need to call my sister for tech advice. Last year Norman wrote, “RB, Now that you’re a published author---that’s what I’m going to call you, I think it’s terrific. I know how hard you’ve worked and the disadvantages at which you started and you never gave up, which is the mark of somebody who’s going to become a writer and a good one.”

He continued, “If I have one bit of advice for you it’s not to level off. Now that you’ve moved on and gotten into print, enjoy it for a while. Do a few more stories, but don’t level off. The worse thing about leveling off in writing is when it begins to sink after a while. It could end up being tougher than anything you’ve done, even with your life, it could be tougher. But also, it could be the most enjoyable thing you’ve ever done. My best to you, and I mean it.”

In 2005 I relocated to the Hampton’s area to freelance full-time. The toughest aspect thus far is with the newspapers and some start-up magazines in local markets with circulations under 20,000. As ten – twenty cents a word doesn’t pay the rent. Some offer you columns for no pay. Or offer pay at five cents a word. Others will pay a flat fee as a weekly contributing writer, which is equivalent to ten cents a word, but then dance around the check book when it’s time to pay for the work. The publisher, editor, comptroller, bookkeeper play hot potato with the invoice when it’s time to ante up.

As I see it freelance writers aren’t much respected unless it’s a National publication and over 150,000 circulation. Magazines pay more than newspapers, from one – four dollars per word and pay you on time…but you have to sign your rights away with a Work for Hire contract. Publishing appears to be a flaky business, as many editors make promises with doubletalk. Without writers they’d have no pages for adverstisers to run ads on. And the Mast Heads at the top need to remember that. I think the only way to help them treat freelance writers fairly is to form a union…with nominal dues, that will institute our own guidelines that include fair treatment and fair pay.

So my fermentation has froth at the top, I’ve boiled out all the words and have come up with Passion has a price, I’m now $30,000 in credit card debt. And as I’ve lost money, I’ve gained 40 pounds. I may be healthier psychologically, more attuned communicatively…but suffer physically. And still, I haven’t found a vehicle which my “voice” searches for.

So you want to be a writer…..


Originally written July 2001, updated June 10, 2007

Copyright 2001, R. B. STUART, All rights reserved. No reproduction of this blog in any form.