Sunday 28 September 2014

20 years since my first hug from Jesus


The legs of my chair scraped against the floor and seemed to protest on my behalf.  I pulled viciously at my tartan skirt and contorted my spine to escape from behind my desk which was clearly built for a toddler.  As I shuffled towards the front of the class and approached Dr. Miller tentatively I noticed, really for the first time how small he was. We locked eyes for a second; I dared myself not to look away. All at once his head was on my shoulder and his arms were around me, squeezing. I heard him let out a little sigh; so I bit my lip and examined the ceiling. Cracks, holes, gum…? There we stood, pressed together making the world’s most awkward, empty sandwich.

In my teenage brain an eternity passed, though I know it must have only been a matter of seconds before he whispered into my ear with a smile in his voice ‘that was a hug from Jesus.’ I pulled away and held him at arm’s length. Through tightly closed lips I grinned and inhaled deeply through my nose. I nodded my head slowly as our eyes met again. ‘Yes it was.’ I whispered back before I turned on my heel and made my way back to my tiny desk, each whisper and giggle making contact like a slap as I manoeuvred myself back into position just in time for the bell to ring.
 

 I was fourteen-years old when I got my first ever “hug from Jesus,” though much to my chagrin it was not my last. Hell, it wasn’t even my last that day. This bodily gift from Christ was delivered to me by my Religion teacher, Dr. Miller. He was also my homeroom teacher, so I was lucky enough to see him first thing in the morning and also just before I went home each day. He was a very special teacher to me. He was kind, funny and incredibly smart. He taught me the Hail Mary and never once made me feel different for being the only Jewish girl in a Catholic school. A very sharp contrast to Mr Neim, my Sophomore Religion teacher who after much fierce debate about the fate of homosexuals after death declared me a “dirty Jew” in front of the whole class and followed that slur with the statement that he hoped ‘me and those fags would be having a disco party in hell.’ What a cliche! Everyone knows that disco is dead and that it would be a Madonna party we'd be having. I'd be 80's Madonna. Material Girl, not Lucky Star. Anyway, that cheerful exchange forced Mr. Neim into early retirement, but I hear Dr. Miller is still teaching, and I’m extremely happy about that.

It was shortly after morning prayers that the first sacred cuddle took place. It was customary at St. Mary’s Catholic high school to say prayers in the morning for those who had passed away in the days before. This particular day was the day that my Mother’s death was announced over the loudspeaker and the day that to most of my classmates, I became very different.

Mom was sick. I knew, though she never said; well not until it was too late. She was in and out of hospital since I was 11 or 12. My brother and I watched as she came back each time transformed. He skin stretched, her hair thinned and one day she came back with tubes running through her chest and in her arms. I still don’t know what those were for, but they certainly didn’t make her any better.

I was only two weeks into my high school experience when she died. The rabbi had come for me four times before. “It’s time” became our mantra in those final days. I felt like an expectant father without any of the joy or excitement. I paced halls, I cracked knuckles.  That last time he fetched me I had grown tired of the routine. I knew once we arrived home there would be countless people there. Some I recognized, some I did not; fretting, crying, running around the place pushing me into the wall, shooing me from her bedside. I was ready for it to be over. I thought I was ready for it to be over.

Her death, though thoroughly expected, was somehow still a wretched surprise. It was nothing like the countless deaths I’d observed on cinema and television screens. I genuinely thought people just closed their eyes and gracefully expired. She didn’t. I counted the seconds since her last breath; 50, 60, 70, Christ, 80 seconds! Then she breathed again. The sound of it, violent and quick like she was trying to hold on to something earthly. She wanted to stay, but in that moment, I just wanted her to go. In that second I stopped breathing too. I squinted my eyes so hard that my cheeks ached and thought a prayer that must have gone something like this: ‘fuck. God. Cut this shit out.’ At fourteen, I was sure it was some kind punishment for one of us watching, and that she might suffer like that forever, until suddenly I was holding the hand of a corpse. I wanted to scream. To drop the thing and run away, but I couldn’t, even though it was seriously freaking me out and probably doing long-term psychological damage.

I held onto her limp hand and exhaled. My lungs burned. Then just as I was about to excuse myself, this wet, gurgling sound came shimmying and shaking up her throat. I thought for an instant it was her soul until the black liquid erupted like a fountain of tar out of her mouth. There was no end to it. I have seen that moment in my nightmares ever since. I’d never wanted to disappear so badly as I did then, but when you’re fourteen you have nowhere to go.

To this day people ask me how I could have gone to school the day after she died. The only answer I can give is: ‘what the hell else was I going to do?’ I was desperate for distraction, for normality; desperate to get out of a house that smelled of death, which was bursting at the seams with too many people that walked through me and brought casseroles. I could see their disappointment. I overheard their hushed conversations about my lack of emotion. How I should be ashamed for not crying, for always making things difficult by not joining in with their “circle of sobbing” as I liked to call it. They thought I was cold. They probably still do, but they would be wrong. 
These people could be upset. They knew her. Really knew her. They were married to her or were related to her or she was their best friend. She was someone so special to them that they never understood that she didn’t trust me, so I resented her.  To me it felt like she was just an ever-fading presence in my house that deserted me before ever telling me anything important, she was the person who thought I was too young to handle the truth about her diagnosis.

Before Mom’s death there were no makeup lessons; there were no big talks about boys and about sex. The following year I would be in a hotel toilet in Kansas City trying desperately to figure out how to insert a tampon before a dance competition while my Dad, with his ear pressed against the other side of the door shouted ‘any luck?’ ‘Didya get it in?’ My Mom died at the precipice of my womanhood without leaving me so much as a Lady Bic, and I found rationalizing my abandonment difficult. Rationalizing her death was  impossible.


At school I assumed my anonymity would act as a shield, so I wouldn’t have to talk about it. I figured that it was only my second week there, so no one would even know my last name. I didn’t anticipate Dr. Miller dragging me up in front of the class to be publicly squeezed. But I managed to make it through the rest of that first day without too much embarrassment. Occasionally I would meet the gaze of another student in the hall and they would look at me, all big, wet eyes. I quickly realized that avoidance may not be as easy as I had hoped. A few people approached me open-armed and embraced me. Others offered condolences or shook their heads and whispered things like “shiiiiit” in my ear.  It all felt very strange, but at least I wasn’t at home.


Dr. Miller greeted me cheerfully at the door for last period and handed me 6 sealed envelopes.


I took them from his hand and met his eyes with mine, ‘Hey Dr. Miller. What’s in these?’

With a mischievous wink he replied ‘warm fuzzies.’


I raised a curious eyebrow, but before I could ask for an explanation he had wrapped his arm around my waist to keep me in place and requested that the rest of the class take their seats. He turned to face me and declared that because I was having such a rough time he’d asked all of his other classes to write me some messages of support or “warm fuzzies” as he called them. The dread began to pool in my stomach when I realized that he expected me to share them with the class. I winced at the idea, but he looked so proud of himself I couldn’t refuse. I cleared my throat in an over-the-top comic way to try to lighten the mood, but my fellow classmates were looking at me so earnestly it broke my heart.

I pulled out a bright green slip of paper that had written in lovely script ‘Sorry about your Mom. You have pretty hair.’ Everyone clapped and nodded and assured me that yes! I did have very pretty hair. I pressed the paper scrap to my chest, turned to Dr. Miller and made a face that I thought read ‘I’m done.’ Apparently not, as he just nodded at me, beaming.'
‘One more!’ he begged with his hands clasped in prayer position.  I sighed. This time it was a bright orange scrap that read ‘Dear Lee, I don’t know you, but it sucks your Mom died’ another chorus of agreement. Yes! It did suck! This oracle of wisdom had united us all with a common thought and something in my chest bloomed.

I fingered all those lovely little bright scraps of paper as a fist formed in my throat. In the sea of grief that I could not navigate and could not master, I struggled onto the driftwood of stranger's sentiment. In those silly, well-meant words, I found the comfort I couldn't find anywhere else and was so grateful to Dr. Miller for his incredibly kind exercise. I looked out at my classmates and tried to smile. Instead I felt tears sting the corners of my eyes, and just before my vision was obscured completely, I heard the familiar scrape of the too-small chair on the floor and one by one everyone in the class get up and give me a “hug from Jesus” before the last bell rang. 


 

Sunday 21 September 2014

Bully for you!

When I was a child, well let me be more specific. When I was between the ages of eight and eleven I was a real douche. I still have the ability to be douchey, but I will never be able to outdo the doucheness that I was back then. This morning while I was lying in bed, very much awake next to a snoring Steve I found myself reflecting on this part of my life and feeling a guilt more powerful than the guilt  I reserve for being childless in my 30's.

Back in 1988 I had a bowl haircut and an overbite. I could put a pencil between my front two teeth and my mother dressed me like a toddler well into adolescence. I was the perfect target for bullying, yet I can't recall a time at school where I ever felt truly persecuted. Not like some of the stories you read about today. I thank the clouds regularly that I was spared the prepubescent cruelty that plagues Bebo and Facebook and has caused awkward kids like me to cut and to kill themselves.

Back before computers, the only way to bully someone was in the flesh. I was called names like 'meatloaf' (a clever play on my surname) and was teased for being a boy on the daily, but then I was also the little androgynous madame who wold slap the glasses clean off your face for doing so. I was never afraid to get physical. I would grab you by your arms and spin you round and round until you were having fun and then I'd let you go and watch you fly across the playground and land in the dirt. 'Call me a boy one more time' I'd think to myself as I displayed my bottom lip to my victim in mock sadness.

Assaulting those who pick on you is definitely the wrong answer. I know that now. And if you are reading this and you are Shaun or Stan, I'm sorry. But the thing that I will never understand about child-me is that in addition to slapping and throwing people across the playground. I used to punch my friends. Well actually just one friend, really. Why? Who the hell knows, but I did it.

Poor Sadie, wherever you are, you are probably traumatized by our friendship the way that I am haunted by it. I really, really loved Sadie. We were best friends and the other girls at school were mean to her because they once saw her pick her nose and eat it. Who cares? Not me. Like I said, I loved Sadie and I couldn't ever figure out how to show her, so sometimes I would become so full of love and admiration for her that I'd punch her in the arm. Hard. Why? Fuck knows, but I used to do it from time to time and I think about it now and feel very bad about it and wonder just what the actual hell was wrong with me. What couldn't I just hug her?

Many years after Sadie and I were friends, I saw her again when I was waiting tables at Cheddar's. She came in with her whole family and she looked so beautiful. We chatted as I brought and cleared plates and refills of fizzy drinks and when she left she hugged me. She didn't flinch as she came towards me, so that's a good sign! But still I would have liked to apologize and I never did. 

I am not longer friends with Sadie, and though I've tried to find her on Facebook, I've been unsuccessful. I hope this is because she's married somewhere with everything she wants and is insanely happy. I hope she doesn't think about me and my little hands punching her very often and I hope that wherever she is, no one is hurting her.

Luckily I outgrew this mean streak and by the time I hit middle school I basically pooped rainbows and was friends with everyone and never hit anyone ever again (except the time all those girls beat me up, but I don't think my fist actually connected with anything that whole time), but I did shove a piece of cake in someone's face a la The Three Stooges, and for that I will always feel remorse.

It was a girl I was kind-of friends with as well. A girl who wasn't having an easy time and was a very easy target. I was given, as a dare, the grizzly assignment of smashing a piece of cake in this poor girl's face. In front of the whole school. And I did it. This is the time when my friends list on Facebook drops dramatically and I totally accept that.

What a terrible thing to do to someone. Looking back I should have said 'fuck your dare!' And possibly smashed some cake in their face, but I didn't. I relented to what my father calls 'peer pressure' *cringe* and did something terrible to another human being. and for this I am terribly ashamed. I do still know her and I have apologized, but when I did I could tell that memory, though 13 years old at the time, was very fresh for her. It was like she'd dressed a bullet wound with tissue paper and I'd just stuffed my finger in it. I did a very bad thing. 

I suppose I'm writing this as a kind of catharsis. I used to be a dick and I've seen some kids be dicks to each other recently and I look on with my judgmental, knowing eye as their parents shrug and say things like 'they're just kids.' That is most definitely true, but what they do as kids will stay with them and affect them as they grow. Look at me! Stewing on a Sunday morning about deeds I committed before even hitting double digits!

Mean shouldn't be tolerated or even encouraged just because it's being employed by the young. That's when it should be spoken about and discouraged. Kids often can't control themselves, but by insisting that they don't need to, and excusing bad behavior, we are potentially making their lives and their Sunday mornings harder later on.


Wednesday 10 September 2014

The Lady is a Marvel

Poised at the front of the queue I waited as the usher shifted her weight from her left to right foot and eyed me up and down for the fifteenth time. She knew I meant business. As more and more people filtered in through the door, the adrenaline started to rush into my veins and caused my face to get hot. None of these people would cut in front of me. No. Fucking. Way.

A pregnant woman teetered on her toes next to me, looking over my shoulder. I wrestled with my morality for a moment. No fetus was going to beat me down the stairs. It hadn't even bought a ticket, the cheeky fucker. The woman let out a frustrated breath and wrapped herself around her belly as if it were a parcel she were carrying and not a belly full of fluid with a person suspended in it. I rolled my eyes and created a tiny pocket in front of me and motioned for her to fill it. Of course I let the pregnant lady wait ahead of me. I'm not a monster.

Just then the usher unhooked the rope, and at last we were off. Everyone had to make the same decision, to run or to possibly spill our drinks. We all looked like adult egg-and-spoon contestants trying to contain the liquid in our glasses whilst we maintained a brisk pace down the stairs. Steve and I settled in some equally cold and uncomfortable seats at the front of the stage. I always get a seat at the front of the stage. That's why I show up early.

I had seen lady Rizo two times before. Once on a whim before I had ever heard of her, and then the last time for her Violet album launch. It's a fantastic album. You can listen here: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/artist/lady-rizo/id319457979 Last night I was unsure of what to expect. The first two shows were drastically different and this time she'd just finished her run at the Edinburgh festival and had recently completed a tour of Australia and New Zealand. Through my Twitter feed I followed her; inexplicably proud, as if I'd discovered her. And I had, as thousands of people are now discovering her. I wanted her to be as good as she was the first time I saw her. When I was totally absorbed in the glamor and the fun. For her to not have watered down her show too much, for it to be worth me nearly cutting off a pregnant woman and it was. It really, really was.

To say Lady Rizo is a delight would be like saying a perfectly chilled glass of vintage Dom Perignon was 'nice' and not 'utterly delicious.' She is a force majure of raw, visceral vocal skill, pure sexuality and unapologetic humour. Last night she added a denuded vulnerability I'd not seen before, and at times felt I shouldn't have been seeing, but I never even attempted to look away. It would be impossible. She is a bejeweled, disco princess of desire. She is somehow both vintage and current and you can't take your eyes off of her.

In the three times I've seen Lady Rizo, she has had varying musical accompaniment. From a full band, to just a guitar and a drum kit. The musicians she works with are impeccable. Their timing and their cohesion never falters. Last night she performed with just her cellist come guitarist, Yaine. He is her beautiful co-writer who at times appears to know what Lady Rizo is about to do before she does. His cello wept and rejoiced under Rizo's sensually dark, dripping vocals. At times, while watching them together I caught myself fantasizing that they were lovers. The intimacy between them feels more than musical and is insanely beautiful.

Last night's performance centered around her genesis as Lady Rizo. An angel and a devil were selected from the audience with much hilarity, and as her tale of romance and betrayal unfurled, mash ups of DeAngelo and the Carpenters surprised and thrilled us. The whole night she had us eating out of the palm of her hand, and occasionally her beautifully displayed cleavage.

The evolution of Lady Rizo's gowns continue to reveal her success. No longer the head-to-toe sequins, which upon closer inspection were damaged and patched multiple times. Last night's gowns looked as though they stepped right out of the Charles James exhibit in New York. The feather eyelashes were retired and it was an altogether very sophisticated Lady Rizo that stood before us. Her costume changes were as theatrical as they were inclusive and are all part of the fun. We in the audience were as invested in a boa made of ribbon as we were her melancholy and slightly manic rendition of  Amanda Palmer's 'I Google you.'

Once the show was over she sat in the back happily signing autographs with the enthusiasm of someone who still maybe can't believe people want them. I told her giddily that 'I really appreciate what you do.' To which she responded with a very sweet 'thank you for standing in line to tell me that' and then signed the tank top I bought at her last performance, her hooded eyes printed across my breasts. I hope people tell Lady Rizo that they appreciate what she does every night, but if they don't, the crowds she is drawing certainly convey that very important message.

If you live in London. please do yourself a massive favour and go and see her in this tiny, stuffy, incredibly intimate venue before she starts filling stadiums. The rest of the world, please look here to find her performing somewhere local to you. http://www.ladyrizo.com/calendar/






Tuesday 2 September 2014

Not. For. You.

I didn't Google Jennifer Lawrence's tits today. A small piece of me wanted to; because I like to see nice tits. But I also really, really don't like looking at tits that people don't want me to see.

When an Irish and a French magazine posted topless photos of Kate Middleton on holiday awhile back I was disgusted. Those photos should not have been taken and certainly shouldn't have been published. The fact that those photos, taken under such voyeuristic circumstances actually sold magazines is so, so disappointing. If that was your girlfriend or wife that some stranger was photographing and then profiting from you'd be livid, but the desire to see the food source of young Prince George outweighed greater conscience. The response to these two publications which were most regurgitated was that 'she shouldn't have been topless then.'  She was a girl on holiday. We're all topless at some stage. It's not about those tits belonging to a princess, it's about them belonging to a person and our obsession with celebrity often forgets this crucial detail.

Celebrities like Jennifer Lawrence and Rhianna were today exposed by technology. Nude photos that they'd taken for personal use have been posted all over the internet. Photos that they may have thought were deleted, photos they took for themselves or for someone else, but most certainly not for me and you. Some may argue that stars like Rhianna, with her sexy videos and twerking leave little to the imagination anyway, but that's not really the point is it? Marketing your body and your persona is a choice. Having your body exposed to the world by creepy hackers is totally different. She wasn't asking for it.

The most upsetting thing for me is to read the commentary that 'if they took the photos, then they deserve this.' No they don't. These photos were stolen. These women are victims. This rape-culture bullshit is such a fucking cliche and I thought we were getting better, but it appears that victim-blame is alive and well. The fucker. 'If she was wearing that she deserved for it', right? No. Just because someone took some naked photos does not mean that you get to see them and comment on them and judge them and perv on them. If you have downloaded those photos today then shame on you.

I was listening to BBC Radio 2 today (try not to judge me) and there was a whole call-in segment where people could comment on this fiasco. What the great people of Britain were saying was pathetic. 'She looks great, so what's the problem?' This whole idea that a violation becomes less of a violation if it's in some backwards way complimentary is infuriating. Well yes, I'll tolerate you wanking over my image because at least it's enough to turn you on? No. The reality is that none of us should be discussing these photos because none of us should have seen them.

When we download and share these images we are committing a crime against these women. We are looking at bodies we should not be looking at. Like a peeping tom, downloading those images and looking at them is wrong. These women have reported this violation as a crime. If you are looking at these images you are a criminal and what you are saying is that your hard-on is more important than the person. You are disregarding the wishes of an actual person with feelings. These women are saying 'no'. They have said 'no' and there are still people downloading these images, that give no fucks and this is scary.

In this age where nothing is sacred and every thought is shared with everyone else it may be hard to believe that we do not deserve to see these photos. After all, we are people and we deserve all the stuff. But these photos were never intended to be seen by us. I implore you to please not click on the links, don't perpetuate this culture that 'because internet'. These women can't help the fact that they were hacked and violated, but we can help to not violate them further. 



Monday 1 September 2014

The Big Six

It's been six days since I signed off of Facebook and here's the top six things that have changed in my life:

1. I think about what I say more
That's not to say I consider my words before opening my mouth...hopefully in 6 more days that will happen. However, when there is no immediate outlet for your thoughts you have to turn inward and think about where these thoughts are coming from, what they mean and how to use them constructively.

2. I take less photos
I have seen numerous hilarious things all over London in the past 6 days and eaten some fabulous food and photographed none of it. I'm just enjoying it and that has been a nice feeling.

3. People have to try harder to contact me
In the last 6 days I have gone out four nights or afternoons and not one of those dates was organized on Facebook. It's gooood! I'm using my phone again like an actual damn phone! Eureka!

4. I spend more time talking to my lovely husband
Instead of us both being on our phones, we are talking to each other. He's finally figured out that when he asks 'did you see on Facebook...?' the answer will really be 'no' and that he'll have to tell me what the funny thing was, and that's nice.

5. I'm spending more time on E-Bay
They say you normally replace one addiction with anther, so this was a natural progression. So far I have bought a neon pink kimono and some Pekinese dogs made of porcelain.

6. I have more time
Yes we just established that this extra time is being spent on E-Bay, but I'm planning on taking a screenwriting course and a Mindfulness course this month. I have so much more time. I'm yet to start using that to my advantage, but I'm confident I will.

Try it for a week and see what you discover. You really don't have anything to lose. All that bullshit you tell yourself about things being organized on Facebook that you will miss is really bullshit. If people want you there they will call you or text you. Fact.

You can still watch stuff on the internet. I still saw the farting remix of Anaconda without Facebook! The internet exists beyond the blue thumbs! Live, people! Live!

That said I may be back next week. I haven't decided yet, but for now I'm enjoying being totally retro and communicating with people and not profiles.