Dreaming the World

We had a passing shower late yesterday afternoon and another over night. Still, Jennie was out early this morning watering our very stressed young lilac. Here in New England drought conditions run from simply dry to extreme drought. The distance of a few miles can mean the difference between parched soil and almost normal growing conditions. After a soggy spring and early summer much of norther New England is in “flash drought,” so named as there is simply no transition. It is as though someone turned off the spicket and left the yard.

The other day I was out and about earlyish when I encountered a small flock of turkeys. I was scootering up the sidewalk when they walked out of the trees, turned onto the sidewalk, and meandered along in front of me. A few crossed the street, briefly stopping traffic. Most of the drivers simply smiled and waited, seemingly enjoying the moment. One hit his horn and sped past.

The turkeys were not threated by the scooter and allowed me to get quite close. It is also possible they recognized me as they are welcome in our yard and more than a few grew up visiting our yard and fountain. The lighting conditions were abysmal but I still got a few decent pics.

Some of our adult kids were here for the weekend as we held yahrzeit for Jennie’s mom. While they were here they helped us take photos of our art piece for the online gallery. It took all four of us working together to get a few good enough shots! Now I need to focus on the sound.

Yesterday, when we got to Friends’ Meeting, for the second week in a row, the accessible door was locked. In all fairness, it has never been locked before so the situation is clearly an anomaly. That said, we had pointed out the problem to others last week and the issue remained. Jennie went through the kitchen door and let me in.

During silent meeting a few people rose to speak about violence. One moving moment occurred when an elder rose to talk about a friend whose death in Selma and catalysed the civil rights movement.

In the few years we have attended this meeting I have seldom, if ever, spoken in meeting. Yesterday, I briefly addressed the problem of the door in the context of long time disability and marginalization. I also spoke about the destruction of tribes and communities in the Amazon (communities and people dear to me), a genocide approved of by the US government at the time. I mentioned the endless microaggressions I experience as a Native person in coastal New England, then pointed out that locked doors, subtle racism, and genocide are all acts of violence.

This did not go over well. Both Jennie and I, independently, were admonished about my way of reporting the door problem. One person scolded me for making her feel shame (her brother is in a wheelchair), then pointed out that people in wheel chairs get in (and don’t complain.) No one commented on Natives or the Amazon, or the point that exclusion, subtle or outrageous, is the norm for many of us who are identified as minorities (even with very light skin) or who are visibly disabled.

A few people were warm, open, and empathic. One even gave us a key that did not work (ah! maybe a locksmith is needed!)! Still, the sense of being shamed and marginalized stayed with us. We found ourselves wondering whether we had witnessed the roots of the meeting’s inability to attract and keep young members. Perhaps there is less openness to Others than advertised.

This morning I awoke with an ancient, familiar sense of emptiness, sadness, and grief. I was flooded with feelings that are as old as my polio and marginalization in elementary school, identified as the Native kid and a gimp.

I know all too well that many people have it much worse. Still, very often I get the feeling I have been shunted into an alternative universe. In some ways, having the hatred, racism, and ablism (and other isms) that lie at the heart of our country rise to the surface is a relief. It does not reduce the crushing sense of marginalization and alienation, but it does expose the lie of acceptance that is the fall back position of the culture.

There is a phrase that is widely used by both polio survivors and Natives, “We are still here!” We are! And we continue to thrive in the face of hatred, while insist that society do better. I think many folks wish we would all just go away.