Today is the Monday following what I’ve read described as the largest protest in United States history, the women’s march on Washington. I vowed to attend the local march where I live and am feeling guilty that I didn’t make it. In penance, I’m going to make another donation to the ACLU.
The photographs of Saturday’s turnout around the world are heartening and even inspiring.
I’m worried that it is too late.
Wall street effectively smirked and said “Isn’t that cute” to the Occupy movement. I get the feeling those jockeying for position in the Trump administration (many of the same people, turns out) will treat Saturday’s demonstrations similarly.
Saturday was the school yard equivalent of a handful of scrawny 12 year olds yelling “stop picking on that kid” to a band of 16 year old bullies. They’re not scared of us. They’re scared of the teacher that might see what’s about to happen.
That’s why the incoming Trump administration is trying to flash bang the press while they replace as many compassionate actors in the bureaucracy that they can.
We need to treat what’s happening much the same way I approached the last fight I was in.
It was a pillow fight.
I was 20 years old and getting close to the end of my rotation in Germany for the Army. My company was staying in temporary barracks while our regular digs were being updated. The inside of the barracks was set up so that one set of bunk beds lay next to two accompanying standing double door wall lockers. The lockers were set up so that the next pair of bunk beds was against the back wall of the locker preceding it, forming rows.
The Army continually rotates new people in as those whose rotations are up leave. We had just moved into the temporary barracks where I had claimed the top bunk when a new soldier rotated in. He had the bottom bunk beneath me. I had a nice fluffy pillow for my bunk. He had a saltine cracker for a pillow.
One morning, I came back from brushing my teeth to find he had switched them. I asked him what the fuck was my pillow doing on his bunk and he replied with ‘it’s not your pillow anymore.’
At which point, I immediately grabbed him by the throat, shoved him into the wall locker behind him and then kneed him in the balls. As he was lying on the floor clutching himself, I pointedly switched the pillows back. I then told him if I caught him even looking at my stuff funny he’d be eating from a tube for the next few months. Sometimes prison rules apply in the Army.
While we were brushing our teeth on election night, Russia, evangelical Christian conservatives, neo nazi fucks, and the phantasmagorically stupid switched our pillows.
I’ve been putting off writing and posting what follows for awhile now. In fact, this has been the longest stretch of time I’ve spent on an entry since I began this folly. It’s not writer’s block, which I won’t mock because only a fool challenges an ill wind. No, I’ve been putting this off because I know exactly what I have to write about.
I just don’t want to write about it.
Not just because it’s so trite that it even makes me want to retch. Not just because in so doing I risk offending the subject. I just don’t want to talk about the longest relationship I’ve ever had. I think most people would agree the last thing they want to do is talk about their mother.
Really. The last thing. Especially in public with a vow of honesty backing it up.
But I must. There’s no getting around it. Events dictate it. Mom came to visit for Christmas, you see.
It’s axiomatic that I’m too close to the topic to be objective; evidence, analysis, and cool detachment must be my watch words.
See how much I don’t want to do this? 193 words and no closer.
So here we go:
My mother and I have always had a difficult relationship. In this, we are no different than, well, probably you as well. It can only get one step more Freudian than this, but after much thought I’ve concluded that the primary reason for this is because my mother has always had terrible taste in men.
Mom has had three main romantic relationships that I’ve known of since I was born – my father, who I grew up not knowing for good reasons, my adoptive father, who is at least an entire entry on his own, and my mother’s current partner, who she’s been with for almost 30 years now.
Each one of those men were a disaster for her. I realize that if not for my biological father I wouldn’t be sitting here calling any of them a disaster. But these men weren’t good for her. And she is not the type of person to keep displeasure to herself.
Ask any of the three aforementioned men.
I have my issues with my mother but I don’t see her as the wellspring of all my woes.
A great part of why we have a difficult relationship is beyond any blame I can lay at either of our feet. She is a product of her time, geography, and parents as much as all of us. I tell myself this often. I have to tell myself this often otherwise I’d be tempted to treat her as I was treated growing up.
And that would be the very worst thing I could allow.
You could say my parents were an excellent example of parenting. I simply take most of the things they said and did and do the opposite. This has been an excellent rule of thumb in the raising of my own child.
My mother loves me. I know this. I know it because of the things she sacrificed not only for me, but for my brothers as well. She stayed married to a man who clearly made her and everyone else unhappy for much longer than she ought to have. She worked long hours to personally pay for my private high school education, when my father would not. Whenever I needed to come home, she always had a place for me.
She also kicked me out of the house on my 18th birthday. To be fair, she did warn me it was coming. I just didn’t believe her.
My mother once told me a story of when I was 3 years old and we were living together in an apartment in Massachusetts. I still wasn’t speaking at three and she was getting concerned that I might have a hearing impairment, so she set up an appointment to have my ears tested. She was relating her concerns to a neighbor when said neighbor opined that perhaps I wasn’t deaf but merely retarded (it was the term used at the time).
What my mother said next was enough to make that neighbor avoid her in fear for the rest of the time we lived there.
My mother is a loud, opinionated, strong tempered woman raised in the south by a World War 2 veteran who survived the sinking of two navy destroyers. He taught her how to spit watermelon seeds across the street at six years old and how to box when she was 12 (he was a Navy golden gloves). Believe me, it took me 16 years to learn how to not be a sucker for her left hand feint (she never closed her fist, cold comfort indeed). She wasn’t just quick with her hands either, she was equally sharp with her tongue, as the military found out.
In a previous post I mentioned my time in the infantry. After I had been in for a little over a year, I took my accumulated leave and went home to Arizona from where I was stationed in Germany. I had quite a bit of time accrued, so I used it all, a month.
I employed a method of travel called “space available.” This means that as an active member of the armed services I was able to fly on air force planes going my way if space was available. I do not recommend crossing the Atlantic in a C-130. It’s uncomfortable but it’s also very cheap. It can also take a long time for space to become available.
This wasn’t a concern on my way to Arizona. It became a concern going back to Germany.
After four days of flying starting in Phoenix, I found myself in Dover, Delaware waiting for a seat to take me back to Ramstein, Germany. The nice air force NCO had just informed me that it would be at least two more days before a flight looked likely. I was due back in formation the next morning at 0600.
The army does not like it when you’re not standing at attention in formation at the given time. Especially when they haven’t heard from you before hand. They take this very seriously. They use terms like “absent without leave” and “desertion”. Those are not things you want to hear said.
I panicked and did something I’m not proud of: I weaponized my mother and aimed her at the army.
In retrospect, this was using a flamethrower when a bic lighter was sufficient but again, I panicked.
I called my mother collect and gave her the number to my company in Germany with instructions to tell the soldier answering the phone that I was held up in Dover but would be there soon. Why didn’t I just call myself? Because this was during the days of no cell phones, no computer networks, and pay phones. Did I mention that I was broke?
So, duty done, I waited for my ride and made it back only a couple of days late.
To find my company commander waiting for me at the sign in desk.
Apparently he happened by the phone when my mother called the duty desk. C.O.s rarely answer the duty phone. That’s what privates are for. Dumb luck, call it.
He said, “PFC Hero, I was going to have you scrub toilets for a couple weeks to pay for the extra leave you decided to take. Your mother is one ball busting bitch. If you’ve been spending the last month with her, you’ve been punished enough. Now get back to work.”
Of course, this was all long ago, and time has changed us both.
She’s only 19 years older than me, so as a 50 year old man, I have a mother that is relatively young. Her current long time partner is only 8 years older than me and met when I was in my early 20’s. Normally I’d say, go mom. Except, she has terrible taste in men.
Both she and her partner came for Christmas this year and it was all I could do to maintain a calm steady demeanor. Here’s where my compassion fails me: I blame my mother for her terrible taste in men.
Now before I go any further, I want to make sure I’m not casting that proverbial stone from my glass house. I’ve had enough marital troubles to equal two ex wives and plenty of serious relationships that were horrible mistakes. Almost without exception, these relationships ended not just from things I did but also from things I failed to do. I’m still learning and hope to always care enough to try. Given the behavior of far too many men, I feel compelled to note that I have never been violent with a romantic partner, physically, verbally, or emotionally.
Full disclosure, I did once have to disarm a steak knife from a very drunk girlfriend, pick her up as she was curling furrows of flesh off my back with her nails, and set her outside my door. Gently, I might add. But at no time was I violent, or even angry. If anything, I was a little scared. Yes, she was one of the exceptions I just mentioned.
It can’t be emphasized enough the importance of who you decide to be with. This is an obvious statement that too many people simply grunt and roll their eyes at. We enter into romantic relationships with the best intentions – otherwise you’re either delusional, self-loathing, sadistic, or banally haven’t thought it through. I’ve been all of those things except sadistic and with the best intentions. You can be clear eyed, utterly in love, and completely committed to the prospect of the rest of your lives together and not only can you still fail, you probably will. A stable, mutually loving and fulfilling relationship that lasts decades is just not likely.
Unless you choose wisely and get a little lucky. You can also be a fool and get fantastically lucky. A fool’s luck eventually runs out though. But I digress.
Because I hate talking about my mother.
I try to see these things as clearly as possible. I’m a grown adult with my own life to live and so is my mom. None of us get to make decisions of the heart for anyone else but ourselves and sometimes not even then. Who am I to say so long as she’s happy, right?
The answer to that question is: As her son, I have more of a say than most. I’m the product of and witness to almost every romantic relationship my mother has had and I can say she is remarkably consistent in choosing her partners poorly.
My maternal grandmother had it right, I think. After my grandfather died, she never remarried and never had another romantic relationship that I ever saw. True, she also smoked like a crater and had a highball in her hand by 10 am. I guess we all chase our own happiness in the end. I can’t help but think she was happier with a drink and a smoke than she’d ever be with someone not my grandfather.
Family is a strange thing. You can love a family member but have little in common. You can love a family member and not like them. That’s the hardest love to maintain. It gets very easy to let distance and time erase whatever vestigial ties of affection remain. Harder still when the family member in question is your mother.
They say that if you want to be cared for by your children in your old age, you should have daughters or enough sons that daughters in law are part of the picture. Apparently, sons are notoriously absent when it comes time to take care of elderly parents.
If you read this mom, rest assured that I will care for you in your dotage, as I’m positive that Trucker Cowboy McCrass will not.
I haven’t posted anything here at EH (well, I care) for quite some time now. This is for two reasons. The first I address in the regularly scheduled and ever expanding piece this post is preempting. The second is because I’ve been visiting my brother out of state for the better part of last week.
I have two brothers that I grew up with (there’s a third that I haven’t met in person, more on him at a later date) and this trip to visit my brother Rich has been in the planning and replanning stage for the better part of a year. It has been far too long since I’ve seen him and while it’s been very good to see him, it has also been bittersweet.
He’s sick, you see.
I won’t mention the name of his illness for it’s not something I’ve asked him if it was alright for me to say publicly, but I can say that his condition is currently incurable, progressive in nature, and ultimately fatal. Fortunately for him, his wife is a registered nurse and the best possible person to care for him, which she does with an attention to detail we should all be so lucky to receive.
But this post isn’t about my brother or our relationship. I bring it up because it is necessary background information for something that happened yesterday between myself and my brother’s neighbor. Allow me to continue – because of the nature of my brother’s illness, he is allowed a certain amount of cannabis to help alleviate his symptoms, cannabis that he’s also permitted to convert into hashish for the purpose of making food. Did I mention my brother is also an award winning chef? He’s already taught me how to make beef wellington (sans cannabis) and a few other dishes (also sans cannabis) since I’ve been here, much to the delight of my wife.
Yesterday I learned how to make hash. Not the kind with potatoes and corned beef. Specifically, I learned how to make hash with my brother’s neighbor. Now, the production of hashish, at least my brother’s method, is a laborious and tedious process that is also rather time consuming. This happens to be true for the acquisition of most things worthwhile with the possible exception of children.
As you can imagine, there is a detailed list of things you need in order to make hash, pretty much no matter which method you choose.
The first thing you need is permission from the state you happen to live in. (Ok, this is optional, but I’m a law abiding citizen officer.)
The second thing you need is the raw cannabis that will be converted into hash.
The third thing you need is the gear that makes such a conversion possible – in this case, five gallon buckets, ice, water, a drill with a specific attachment, and a series of bags whose bottoms are made of successively smaller screens.
The final thing you need is a place to work you don’t mind getting messy, if it comes to that (and it did). This is where my brother’s neighbor comes into the story.
My brother is a good neighbor. He makes it a point to be a good neighbor. Like me, his default position involves good manners and a desire to be someone anyone would want to live next door. Rich is very good at this. He cooks for people (did I mention he’s an award winning chef?), he loans them his vehicle and tools, takes care of their animals, and does his level best to be helpful without being intrusive.
Needless to say, his neighbors are very fond of him. Including his Trump supporting neighbor. The neighbor I got to spend over 3 hours sitting next to over a bucket filled with water and ice.
Now, the fact that my brother and his neighbor are neighbors with a great deal of mutual good will towards each other (you don’t just let anyone make hash in your house) doesn’t obviate the fact that this neighbor actively supports the layer of scum that rests atop sewage known as Donald Trump. Did I mention my brother’s wife is black? I think this is the only reason why I would. You know, Trump and a significant portion of his supporters being who they are.
My brother and I share conclusions when it comes to the incoming bowel movement that is our new government and warned me of his neighbor’s political tastes before I even met him. He needn’t have bothered. It would have been apparent to me within moments.
There’s a Trump uniform, you see. Not everyone who plays for the Trump team wears the same uniform, as there is more than one. This uniform is a favorite among the demographic of 60+ year old white males with an education that ended during or with high school. Ball cap, beard past his neckline, tshirt with an old flannel shirt over that, and jeans. Clothes aren’t the indicator though. Minus the baseball hat and beard, I have dressed the same way. No, it’s the clothes in tandem with a certain shine to the eyes and a manner of speaking. Ignorance has a certain cadence. Much like the Peanuts character Pig Pen, uneducated people steeped in Fox News carry a nimbus around them which is clearly visible when the light shines a certain way.
Because I’d been forewarned and I’m not the kind of asshole who is going to cause potential problems for my brother and then fly away, I resolved to be on my best behavior when I was introduced to, let’s call him David.
Not only that, I resolved to charm the fuck out of him.
Normally, my inclination is to not speak much with people I don’t know or particularly care for. This is especially true when I’m in public. That doesn’t mean I don’t like to talk. I think anyone who has gotten this far could probably deduce that. In fact, if I like you, I can be downright loquacious.
I gave David the full treatment: Unfeigned interest combined with questions both initial and follow up that are natural to ask when meeting someone for the first time. Or in other words, I got him to talk about himself and what he cares about. Which unsurprisingly was the sorts of things not just Trump supporters care for: sports, hunting (ok, maybe that one is more of a conservative pursuit than a liberal one), his dog, family. I sought common ground (we both like Bill Murray movies) and made him laugh when I was trying to make him laugh.
I avoided politics, religion, and comments that might evoke either.
At one point David said to Rich, “I like your brother, you should bring him over more often.”
Success.
Too successful I guess because he offered Rich the opportunity to get his hash made while simultaneously teaching me how. Because it is a labor intensive and time consuming process that has the added benefit of hash at the end, my brother was thrilled at the idea.
It works like this: In a five gallon drum insert the bag with the finest screen inside. Inside that bag place each successively larger gauge mesh bag inside the one which proceeds it. The idea is to nest them like those dolls found in both Vladimir Putin’s country and soon on top of the oval office desk. Then fill the bucket half full with ice. Next pour inside the cannabis. Now almost fill the rest of the bucket with ice. Finally, fill the bucket with water.
The process involves using a drill with a special attachment to stir the ice/weed/ice/water mixture into slurry and then allowing it to rest. Care has to be taken not to let the drill attachment hit the bottom or the sides of the bucket. There’s also the speed of the drill to be careful of, so as not to slosh the contents overboard while still being fast enough to begin breaking down the ice. After that, you remove each bag allowing as much water as possible to drain back into the bucket.
The first bag you pull always contains the slurry, which is immediately set aside. All the other bags are then drained in turn and each of the filters are scraped onto a place to dry. This is your hash. As you get deeper into the bucket, each bag yields a finer and more potent grade of material.
This takes more time than you would think. The screens on the bottom of each bag except the first one pulled out are extremely fine and draining takes longer the deeper into the bucket you go and the screens get finer. Once you pull a bag, you have to hold that bag over the bucket without letting the screen back into the bucket. The bags are wet, cold, and heavy. You can understand why my brother was excited about me doing it.
This brings us to David and I companionably sitting over buckets filled with a slurry of ice, water, and weed. Most of the time we sat in silence listening to classic rock while we minded our respective drills.
My continued policy of avoiding politics and being as affable as possible yielded a surprising result.
Brown Sugar by the Rolling Stones was playing when out of the blue David says, “I’m almost positive you’re a liberal and hate Trump. But if you don’t mind my saying so, I have a few opinions.”
I told him I was a guest in his house and I would be a poor guest if he thought he needed to censor himself in any way in his own home. So he began with, “Ok, well, hear me out and wait for me to finish before you answer.” I told him that was a great idea.
What followed was the litany of grievances, some true and some imagined, about Hillary Clinton, trade, the state of blue collar labor, Obama, and how Trump’s election was a good thing because if nothing else it upends the status quo. He did not use the words status quo.
As agreed, I sat in silence as he spoke. This was a good thing because it allowed me to do two things.
It gave me time to accurately assess that all of his information came from Fox News. This is important because I’ve learned that you cannot combat Fox News and the people who only watch Fox News with reasoned arguments using facts as your evidence. It just doesn’t work. The second thing it allowed me to do was formulate a response that spoke to his concerns without directly contradicting what he perceives as true.
So I said, “There’s a lot of truth in what you said. It’s true that the middle class has gotten screwed. It’s true that globalization has decimated manufacturing and allowed cheap labor to lure businesses out of America. It’s true that politicians are politicians. But the truth is like, well, it’s like making hash.”
“Think about it. The first bag holds everything. The water, ice and weed. It’s mashed all together mixed so thoroughly you can’t get the good stuff, the hash, without putting it through a beating and then filtering it so only the good stuff is left. The world is like the first bag, the truth is there but you have to work for it, you have to filter out the untruth until only the good stuff remains.”
“The truth you get from the second bag is what you get if you only watch Fox News or MSNBC. It’s truth is the basest sort. Still mixed up with a lot of impurities. Some would say the hash you get from this screen is not even worth making into edibles. The truth you get from the third and fourth bags gets harder and harder to get to and takes more of an effort. The payoff is worth it though.”
David said, “So you’re saying that liberal truth is the fourth bag and conservative truth is the second bag?”
“No,” I answered, “I’m saying that if you don’t put in the effort you can’t get past the first bag. When it comes to filtering for the truth, each bag is an order of magnitude harder to sift than the bag before it. The hardest part? Not letting what you want to be true color your perception of what is true.”
And then I stopped talking.
And so did he.
The subject changed because there was a mishap with my first bag during the sifting process. It didn’t want to drain because the mesh was clogged, causing slurry to spill over the sides and contaminating my second bag.
Much like our current state of affairs.
You might be interested to know that my first time making hash turned out to be a stunning success. David and my brother were both impressed by the yields of every screen I scraped.
I’m not under any illusions that my attempt to strain David will yield similar results. I do believe the effort must be made.
