Mandescending and Mindfulness

You've heard the term "mansplaining," and I really like it. Whoever coined it was pretty smart. The definition is basically a man explaining to a woman something that the woman is either more knowledgeable about because it's her lived reality as a female, or something she has trained to do and knows how to do already.

For instance, my daughter The Fair was filming an event the other night with high-end equipment she is well trained to use, and some dude tried to tell her how to set up the tripod. Really?

I'm going to add a new term of my own: mandescending. This is where a man is condescending to a woman and dismisses her out of hand, even though her concerns are serious, maybe either health- or job-related.

Yesterday my school district had a professional development workshop, and part of it was yet another session on how to use the baffling new web site for which the district spent tons of money to purchase a full package. The web site does a gazillion tasks but is about as user-friendly as a potted cactus. Every time we get a demonstration, the same guy comes. He's yet another of those paid consultants who spent a few years in the classroom, couldn't wait to get out, and saw this web site as a ticket.

Honestly, I'll be the first to admit that if I had trained as a teacher I would have been looking to move into corporate somehow after five to ten years. The teaching profession is poorly-paid, overly scrutinized, underappreciated by the public, and physically and emotionally exhausting.

Part of what makes it exhausting is trying to learn the web site du jour.

To return to my narrative, I was attempting to keep up with the blistering pace of this man's presentation, and as usual I fell a step or two behind. When I asked why my page didn't look like his, he came to my station, flicked a few buttons, and said, "There you are." And sniffed with derision.

I went to the vending machine and bought a Snickers bar. First one I've eaten in two years.

The joy of the Snickers soon abated, but my fury has not.

This country treats its elders with condescension. Or mandescension, you decide.

In the summer of 1979, I was working in the Milton S. Eisenhower Library of the Johns Hopkins University. I had a job with a special archive of psychiatric documents that belonged to a prominent Hopkins physician named Adolf Meyer. In order to prepare a documentary list of the voluminous records this man kept (which included extensive correspondence with Freud, Jung, and other psychiatric luminaries), the university purchased a word processor. It was the first one any of us had seen.

A technician wheeled the word processor into our office space and showed the lead archivist how to use it. But then an interesting phenomenon occurred.

One by one, the oldest professors in the Hopkins community dropped by to see the word processor. These were men (of course, it was 1979) who had probably written multiple scholarly tomes, using Royal typewriters or even legal pads. They wanted to see the machine in action. And so did I.

A few years later, I found myself working for a publishing house, preparing copy for encyclopedias. The work was done with pencil and electric typewriters. Then the company bought two word processors, but no one was particularly interested in using them. Having had a little bit of exposure to one, I gladly accepted a spot at the word processor. I got a raise.

I know I should have kept up with computing. I know I should be more capable when it comes to new web sites. Perhaps it shouldn't count that I was the most proficient with technology when certain workshop presenters were probably learning to use the potty.

I know my mental capacity isn't what it once was. I don't even write for this site like I used to. But to be dismissed with such thinly-veiled disdain was a nasty jolt. I'm old. I'm obsolete. I'm female. Thanks for reminding me.

But wait, there's more.

After being humiliated in the web site training, I had to go back into a general faculty meeting for both of the Vo-Tech campuses. When both campuses get together, it's a lot of teachers. A good two hundred plus, I should think. We fill an auditorium.

The rest of the long day was spent in mindfulness training. We had to ground, center, follow our breath, feel our feet on the floor (mine were cold), yada yada yada. Be in the moment, and if your thoughts drift, pull back to breath.

First of all, when I do this practice, it is tied to my religion, which I firmly separate from my work responsibilities. So I deliberately let my thoughts go as haywire as they wanted to. Here's the short list:

1. Wow, that guy is such an asshole! Karma's gonna come for him when he's 60, for sure. I'd like to be there when he gets confused over the communication system between himself and teachers on Mars. He won't have tenure. Maybe he'll get fired! Maybe a woman supervisor will tell him, "You're all washed up. Hit the road!"

2. I wonder where that mindfulness facilitator got her dress. Is that drip-dye, tie-dye or some other process? I like the way it drapes too.

3. Damn, I wonder what's going on with this student teacher I got assigned all of a sudden! Did she flake out on her previous assignment? What's up with that? Why did I even agree to do it?

4. Getting old sucks. I'm so tired all the time. I'm sick of people. I don't want to go out for lunch. I don't want to go to the gym anymore. My body is so weary, and my feet are cold. Why don't they turn on some heat in here? Dammit, I thought about putting foot warmers in my shoes, and I didn't do it! Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

5. I wonder if I should pull back the ivy in the back yard just a foot or two. But grass doesn't grow well, and Mr. J never mows the lawn. Isn't the ivy better? But pulling the ivy would be good exercise. Yeah, but you know how annoying it is working with that English ivy. Yeah, maybe I'll just leave it. But if I had a nice straight line down the back, I could put up a stone border, like a rock wall ... what, am I supposed to be feeling my back against the chair? Fuck that. Fuck this whole thing.

6. I think I'll stop by Woodstock on the way home and see how they're doing. It's sort of on the way. Let's see, if I take Haterfield-Berlin Road to White Horse Road, and then ... that leads right to Springdale. Easy! Because it's such a long slog up Route 73. Oh! Why does everyone have their hand up in the air? Did I miss something? Who cares?

7. I can't believe I'm hungry after wolfing down that Snickers.

8. Donald Trump is an asshole. All powerful men are assholes. Geez, even Bernie Sanders couldn't run a tight ship. But this country will never elect a woman. Women won't vote for a woman. I wonder why that is? But I know it's true.

9. Camping or a hotel? I'm too old for camping! I'm not sleeping in a tent on the ground. But the hotel is so expensive. I could use that money to improve the front porch, so I don't have to look at the disgraceful, hideous house across the street ... Is it time to go yet? FUCK! Another two hours? I can't even. Like, camping isn't as bad as all that. You wake up in the cool morning air ... snap, I would have to buy so much equipment. But then I would have all the equipment, and I could use it again! Yeah, use it again to go camping. I'm done with camping! I spent my whole teenage decade in a tent! You know what else I'm done with? Mindfulness! Just another trendy stupid thing our school district is flirting with. You'd think they would train us on what to do when angry parents start shouting in our faces.

10. Whoa, look at the shop teachers! They are giggling like kids. Welding and mindfulness: perfect together.


If you've gotten this far, I know you get the drift.

Readers, my stats tell me that I have had over a million page views here at "The Gods Are Bored." I think a significant number of those are spammers of the pornographic variety. Still, someone has been reading my drivel. If that is you, do you want me to bake you a pie?

In Which I Hex Mark Ryan, Homebuilder, and His Partner P.J. Ward

Dear Readers, all six of you (bless your sweet, smart hearts), I am finally able to post "before and after" photos of the view from my front door. Of course, photos don't entirely capture the dramatic alteration in the vista -- nor do they account for the economic circumstances of the new neighbors -- but snapshots will have to do.

EXHIBIT A: 311 Windsor Avenue, Haterville, New Jersey, 2014

Missing is the 100-year-old tree that was cut down. It would have been to the left, just out of the frame.

EXHIBIT B: 311 and 313 Windsor Avenue, Haterville, New Jersey 2018

First World Problems, right? I know, I know. It's not like a hurricane roared through. But honestly. Cheap, shoddy construction. And that two-car garage perfectly aligns with my front yard. And the developer has charmed my husband by assuring him this improves the price of our home. Except that we don't plan to sell while I'm working, so why would that matter?

Well, as luck would have it ... if you can call it lucky to be home sick ... the builder is showing the property on the left today.

I am under strict orders from Mr. J: "Don't embarrass me!" Excuse me? You embarrassed yourself by swallowing the snake oil and calling it a cure.

So I have positioned my Truth in Advertising messages at the end of the driveway:

EXHIBIT C: RESIST, PERSIST, AND RISE

The fact that the car is old and ratty only adds a poignant touch.

I know that three of my six readers are Hillary supporters, and I hope you'll forgive me for being a far-left Democratic Socialist. But even you must admit that this pairing is more effective than a Hillary bumper sticker would be. (and yes, I most certainly voted for Hillary.)

Readers, my dudgeon is high not only because this project uprooted beautiful trees and decimated green space. It's also high because the buyers of these homes, in search of everything new and shiny, are basically purchasing high-end housing that was built with low-end products and labor. It's all show and no substance, which apparently is good enough for some millionaire who wants to purchase something in "move-in condition." With a mud room.

Ah, and now for the 662nd day in a row (not excepting weekends), workers are running something loud and motorized over there.

The greed is naked. The disdain is obvious. There's only one way I can respond that will give me any sort of quiet satisfaction ... and that's the way my ancient ancestors responded when the lord of the manor did them wrong.

Hexes all around. Mark Ryan, snake-oil salesman and greedy capitalist -- HEX! P.J. Ward, original hatcher of this travesty -- HEX!

And to my neighbors who happily sold their land to these greed-hounds from Hell -- HEX.

FROM ANNE JOHNSON
Across the Street

PS to Kimber: I heard about that earthquake, and I hope you and yours are all right. My own problems pale in comparison. Sedna says she's upholding you.

This Anger Is Justified

I don't know if you've ever taught school, but by around the second week in May, you pretty much feel like you've been dragged across a trackless desert with no end in sight. That's why a quiet Sunday morning at home is a real treasure.

But last May, my quiet Sunday morning at home was interrupted at 8:00 in the morning by an industrial sized wood chipper. A landscaping company had come to cut down the huge trees that were being slaughtered so that Mark Ryan Homes could put up two cheesy McMansions across the street from my house.

There's nothing quite like being awakened by a large chipping machine and a chorus of chain saws. On Sunday.

In high dudgeon, Mr. J went outside and told them to stop. The foreman gave Mr. J a sad smile and said, "Hey, we have to feed our families, okay?"

So Mr. J called the police.

It took Snobville's Finest about 45 minutes to arrive, during which the tree slaughter continued unabated. Neighbors gathered in their bathrobes to gawk. The policeman told the workers it was against the law to operate industrial machinery in Snobville on Sunday ... but then gave them another hour to wrap things up.

In the fullness of time a court date arrived for the charge of disturbing the peace, laid somehow on the builder and not the subcontracting tree murderers. The judge ordered the matter into "arbitration," and we got a date for the arbitration. It was August 21.

Mr. J and I couldn't quite figure out what there was to arbitrate. The builder broke a local statute. Shouldn't he just have to pay a fine, maybe get the infraction noted on his company's record?

On the eve of the arbitration, one of my daughters came for dinner, so I didn't go with Mr. J to the meeting. He left, nicely dressed and on time. And the builder was there. And apparently a jovial conversation ensued, in which Mr J aired his beefs in a civilized manner and the builder apologized and said it wouldn't happen again. (Which, how could it? The trees are gone.) At the end the builder and Mr J shook hands, and off Mr. Mark Ryan went with a clean record and probably a good fifty bucks ahead of the game, fine-wise.

When Mr. J came home all smiles, I went livid. At which time I got told by daughter and husband that I had better get a grip.

So, readers. You tell me. Is my anger justified?

*I now have two houses across the street, where there was one before. Four trees were killed, including one that was 100 years old. The killing occurred partly on a Sunday morning well before noon.

*The first house is sold. It sold for $900,000. To a young family that has already defied the building code and contracted for a patio in their under-sized back yard. The builder was not legally obliged to tell the young buyers that they couldn't legally construct a patio in their back yard. But, you know, he's doing so much for the Snobville economy by bringing in new tax revenues! (Wonder what's gonna happen to my house when it's assessed next?)

*The second house is in a bidding war. Mr J was made to understand that it might sell for a million bucks, which, you know, will make our house ever so much more valuable! (How that can be I have no idea, since these McMansions sport 4 to 5 bathrooms and my house has one.)

*I'm a public school teacher with a pensioner husband, living across the street from millionaires. I don't like millionaires. I voted for Bernie, remember?

*When I look out my front window, I see a framed two-car garage, just waiting for the luxury cars these millionaires will drive.

*Donald Trump is president. The Senate will soon confirm a Supreme Court justice that was nominated by a criminal.

*Rich people get away with shit that you and I could never pull. It could be ripping down trees on a Sunday, or it could be paying porn stars to keep quiet about extramarital affairs. It could be buying the loyalty of a town council and a borough planning board, or it could be undermining clean air statues on behalf of the fossil fuel billionaires.

And I'm supposed to get a grip? Not me. I'll slide right down the rock, thank you very much.

The Wrong War

Honestly, the Orange Menace at his lowest, basest, and most disreputable, hit on the truth.

When asked what would heal racial wounds in this country, he said, "Jobs."

He's absolutely right. He just doesn't have a prayer or a clue how to get the jobs we need.

You're always going to be able to turn over rocks in trash-filled drainage ditches and find Neo Nazis and White supremacists. But they would be fairly content to dwell under there, sucking on sewage, if they had halfway decent jobs.

And now they do have determined opposition. Anti-fascists are training to fight back literally against the hate criminals. Game on! And what you get, sadly, are real casualties.

Listen, my friends: The anti-fascists are not "alt-left" radicals. They are anarchists who don't believe in any government at all. Can you blame them? Do you have faith in this government?

When I see young men fist-fighting in the streets, shouting hateful slogans, and plowing people down with cars, what I see are workers who don't have jobs. The enemy isn't the other young white guy. The enemy is the ownership class.

All the wealth, all the growth, has funneled right to the top of our society. We have a few people who have way too much money and a ton of people who don't have enough. The problem is that the few are so removed, so insulated from ire by gated, guarded compounds. The few pay "newscasters" to manipulate and re-direct hatred. The few encourage race wars and political divisions. This piles on the insulation for the moneyed class.

The rich always smile when workers fight with workers.

I read in the news that one of the Neo Nazis at the rally was recognized from a photograph. He lost his job. His job was serving hot dogs at a Top Dog restaurant. How frustrating is it to be in your twenties, and the best job you can get is at a hot dog joint? Take that anger, and fuel it with Fox News vitriol against liberals, and you get a person who is furious against the wrong target.

The rich always smile when workers fight with workers. And this fight is joined, and it will be joined because good jobs aren't going to materialize.

We need a solid working class in this nation. People are so desperate for it that they voted, stupidly, for a snake oil salesman.

There are indeed two sides: those who have too much, and those who have too little. Who is the real enemy? We're bashing the wrong heads.

A Year Ago

It's not terribly popular in my circles to admit you were a Bernie supporter. In hindsight all female Bernie support seems like a betrayal of gender. Let me assure you that gender had nothing to do with my enthusiasm for Bernie Sanders. I thought his message had value.

Spare and I went to a Bernie rally in the spring of 2016. We stood in line all day at Temple University. This was as close as we ever bonded, I think ... and life kind of went downhill for both of us after this event.

The Democratic National Convention was held in Philadelphia in July of 2016. There were many well-attended pro-Bernie rallies and marches as a part of that convention. Since I wasn't blogging then, I'm going to walk down memory lane and show a few photos of the marching that came before the real marching.

Of course all the pro-Bernie rallies were organized over Facebook, and that's where I saw the message from the woman named Michelle. She left a comment: "I wish I could be there with you. I'm a single mother of a disabled son. I need single payer and a decent minimum wage. Please, someone, march for me."

So I did. Then I posted all the photos with her name tagged. Below, Exhibit A, is the "establishing shot" with City Hall in the background, so Michelle would know I was for real. I was wearing my Bernie hat and my Phillies shirt with no sleeves that I use on paint crew.

It was about 95 degrees that day with very little shade. The rally began at Thomas Paine Plaza.

It seemed like a huge crowd at the time, but now ... after the ensuing events ... it was little more than a congenial gathering.

I wasn't the only Baby Boomer in that crowd. Seemed like it skewed to older people.

Michelle wanted to feel like she was there, so I asked lots of people to hold my "Hi Michelle" sign.

To be absolutely honest, this was one of the few people in attendance that actually was a Bernie bro. He came in from Akron, Ohio.

Guess I wasn't alone in being a traitor to my gender.

Proof that not all middle-aged white men voted for Trump.

I talked to people from all over the place. Some of them weren't prepared for Philly weather.

Kinda wanted to flirt with this one, but didn't.

This is a sentiment I did not share, even at this rally. I was going to vote Democrat even if they nominated Bill Maher.

... INEVITABLE

More female voters who were seduced by the good looks and shallow charm of Bernie Sanders.

Philadelphia is a big city. It has real, live socialists. They hand out leaflets and everything. Here is someone who probably really didn't vote for Hillary Clinton.

Someone made a Bernie quilt.

Hi Michelle, we need to OVERTHROW this system! Someone? Anyone? Can I get a harrumph?

Again in hindsight, this one seems a little bit prescient. When it comes to voter fraud, I have my suspicions. And they rest squarely upon bullying, intimidation, and sketchy machinery.

Some of these folks, I just wonder. Did they really sit out the election? Or did they, like me, scurry to the polls to vote for Secretary Clinton, who -- I'll be the first to admit -- had every quality a leader of the free world would ever need?

These jackasses were scattered all over the city. There were 52 of them, one for each state, one for Puerto Rico, and one for the District of Columbia. Each one was painted differently. This one was Iowa.

So, on that hot day a year ago, we rallied at Thomas Paine Plaza and then set off on a march down Broad Street, exactly the same route the Mummers take on New Year's Day. It was so unbearably hot that I bagged the march at the corner of Broad and Pine, doubled back and took the El train home to Snobville.

On the way to the train, I got accosted by a young woman with an island accent (couldn't place it, might have been Jamaican or Haitian). She took me to task about Bernie in a way that led me to believe she had lived in Philly long enough to pick up its behavior patterns. How the hell, she wanted to know, could I support Bernie when a menace like Donald Trump loomed? How could I feel right about splitting the ticket? Didn't I know what danger Donald Trump posed to immigrants?

I assured her I did, and I promised that I would vote for Hillary (and I did), and with an airy wave at the throng of protesters, I said, "They all will too. Don't worry about a thing."

Never ask me to handicap a race. This last photo was shot on November 9, 2016. To this day I wonder where that island lady is, and how she is faring. Oh my bored gods, what burdens we bear.

Late addendum: Yes, Michelle saw the photos, and she loved them. She was very grateful and kind of amazed that I went to so much trouble for a stranger. I hope she has her health care and a decent wage.