I stepped on the scale this morning and groaned. Instead of shedding a few pounds, I had gained them. Self-flagellation ensued. “You should never have ordered the Bento box at lunch yesterday, and what about that gin and tonic with popcorn last night, let alone the sweet snack at church?” In other words, I fell victim to the Law of Three. Let me back up. The Law of Three is a pattern of affirming, denying, and reconciling. In the case of losing weight, it plays out this way: the affirming force is my desire for healthy eating habits; the denying force is bad food and drink; the third force is willpower. But willpower is not a good reconciler, because it requires great mental effort to overcome preconditioned behavioral patterns. So, the result is usually self-canceling forces, leading to frustration with those extra pounds. But then I remembered the reverse Law of Three, where the first and second forces are reversed. The affirming force becomes my desire for salty, sugary treats and alcohol, which deny my healthy eating and weight loss. With this shift, the third force changes. I honor and satisfy my desire—but consciously. This can work for other temptations, too, such as losing my temper. The Law of Three: My desire is for a healthy relationship, but when I deny anger, willpower often fails me. The reverse Law of Three: I affirm that I feel angry, which can deny a healthy relationship. So, I pray for truth, kindness, patience, unselfishness, gentleness, courtesy, calm, and peace. You see, as far as the Law is concerned—Old Testament Ten Commandments and New Testament love God and neighbor—I need all the help I can get.
I was raised in a lily-white American suburb. The only direct experience I had with The Law - meaning police officers - was when one came to my elementary school class to talk with us. I think it may have been a show-and-tell, some kid's Dad telling us about what it's like to be on the force. He was friendly, fun, and white. Other than that, I'd read about Mr. Friendly Policeman in children's books, and was told by adults to trust The Law - police were helpful and would take good care of us. I had no reason to question this, especially because the one time I was pulled over as a teenager (cracked brake light), the policeman was friendly, funny and white. He let me off with a warning.
In my mid-thirties, I moved to Washington, DC to work in a shelter for homeless, pregnant women. Not one of those women trusted cops. Not one had ever had a positive interaction with a cop. In stark contrast to my experiences with Officer Friendly, these women had been taught as children to mistrust and fear The Law. As adults, they had been roughly handled and lied about by The Law. I was shocked by their vehemence; they were incredulous at my trust. It was my first understanding of my privilege and how it had sheltered me.
In 1958, my husband and I arrived at the University of Alabama where he was to be a visiting artist. It was the year after George Wallace stood in the door to the University to prevent the University being desegregated and Klan members and state police surrounded the campus. We soon discovered that the town and gown relationship was rather “strained “as it was seen as a hotbed of liberalism and antithesis to the values of the community.
It was late August and unbearably hot, so we headed to Miami Beach. Both of us tan easily and by the time we returned to campus we were coffee brown. When Mel applied, he had sent them a photograph, but it was somewhat bleached in tone. The look of shock on the faces of the community was quite amusing. They kept asking “from what part of India do you come?” hoping that they hadn’t inadvertently hired a “negro”. Our skin color and Jewish- New York roots were not working in our favor.
One evening early on we decided to see a film at one of the local movie houses. We purchased our tickets and found our seats. Shortly thereafter an usher came up to us with a flashlight and said we would have to leave. We were confused and asked why. He said, “It’s the law”, whites are not allowed in colored theatres and if we were seen, there would be serious consequences. Thus, our introduction to the contradictions in the South.
I was curious about Papa, so I googled him. I knew he had graduated from Indiana University law school in the 1920’s, but not much else. Thanks to the Freedom of Information Act, a single, enormous 378-page PDF file appeared. I was intrigued. This was the documented work-history of my maternal grandfather’s 27-year career at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. J. Edgar Hoover’s boys were looking for G-Men and, at 35, he became one. His career with the F.B.I. spanned from 1941 to 1968, an era of great transition in the United States. Special Agent Paul Cox would go on to achieve success in the Domestic Intelligence Division, Subversive Control Section, under the command of Assistant Director, William Sullivan.
Every progress report, performance rating, even electrocardiographs and physicals, are included in the FOIA document. The otherwise innocuous pages take on significance as a trail of discovery about my grandfather. What he must have seen and done. A small window into the life of a complicated man, made immortal by the internet.
My mother wasn't the hugging type. So, when I was taken to the police station at age 14 for possession of marijuana, I was shocked when she arrived and immediately gave me a hug. What could this mean? But it wasn't a hug really. She pulled me to her and whispered, "Where did you get it?"
"Mark," I whispered back. He was my boyfriend at the time.
"Don't tell them anything," she hissed. The she let me go. She adored my 18-year-old "boy" friend. That's how it was back then (sardonic eye rolling here). Mom didn’t trust uniforms of any kind. When she was 14, she was in a German displaced person’s camp during WWII where she learned how to stave off hunger with cigarettes. When the Nazis came back for her, long after she had moved to America, the doctors treated her bipolar hallucinations in hospital after hospital. I learned to fend for myself. When I was six or seven, I dialed “0” to tell the operator that my mom’s wrists were bleeding. When the police and ambulance arrived, the look she gave me was both passive and intense, if that’s possible. I don’t think she ever forgave me.
One of the more frenetically charged moments I've experienced was during a trip to California. A young woman I'd met touring with a rock band had pleaded with me to come help her kick the habit, so I borrowed the airfare from my grandmother and headed West. It was easy to see why she asked, as all of her “friends” were rock stars and bikers, and either users or dealers. I spent a couple of strange weeks entrenched in the LA music scene that I don't think helped her much at all. My return flight was cancelled for snow back East and I had to stay a few extra days which happened to include my birthday. A large Samoan member of the Mission Beach Hell's Angels kindly baked me a cake, but while in his apartment filled with twitchy folks snorting whatever, one fella got paranoid and suspicious because I wasn't partaking. He pointed a gun at me, accused me of being a narc, and said I'd better do a line or else. I guess my chemical phobia was stronger than my fear of guns, or addicts. “You're going to have to shoot me then because I'm not doing any of that shit.” I felt sure my heart was now beating so hard it was visible, like in the cartoons, as we stared one another down in the suddenly silent room. Eventually, the big guy told him to shut up and sit down. Undoubtedly the only day I've ever been mistaken for law enforcement.
God bless in-laws, or outlaws, as they jokingly call them in my husband’s family. They are, through the generations, the ones newest on the scene, the ones who weren’t around for the years of whatever has been, their fresh eyes drawn right away to what the insiders don’t even see anymore. The insiders go by feel, know how it goes by heart, to the point where it has become invisible to them, like the clutter that builds up in one’s own home. But the in-laws see it, whisper of it to you in baffled tones, and then, once it has been seen, named, identified, called out, even in a whisper, you are magically lifted from it, feel it falling away, feel yourself floating above it, feel yourself breathing slower, deeper, feel yourself squeezing the in-law’s hand, hanging on.
Back in the early eighties, it was rather novel: a child with her own lawyer in a custody case. Aged 10 or 11, I thought it was cool. I liked the lawyer, a young, friendly woman with dark curly hair. I wouldn’t be in the courtroom, so the lawyer would represent my interests: that I wanted to live with my father. That I got along better with him and with his wife, my stepmother.
Child that I was, I didn’t give a thought to my mother’s side of things. It must have seemed like a nightmare to her: the ex-husband who left her wanted to take away her only child, who also wanted to leave.
After cases were presented with witness testimonies, including a husband and wife who took different sides, the judge granted sole custody to my mom and visitation rights to my dad. After all, we were both female. And with my tan skin, I resembled my mother more than my father. My father had a new wife and child, but I was all my mother had. The custody fight was one of many painful, drawn-out legal and personal battles between my parents throughout my childhood.
I stepped on the scale this morning and groaned. Instead of shedding a few pounds, I had gained them. Self-flagellation ensued. “You should never have ordered the Bento box at lunch yesterday, and what about that gin and tonic with popcorn last night, let alone the sweet snack at church?” In other words, I fell victim to the Law of Three. Let me back up. The Law of Three is a pattern of affirming, denying, and reconciling. In the case of losing weight, it plays out this way: the affirming force is my desire for healthy eating habits; the denying force is bad food and drink; the third force is willpower. But willpower is not a good reconciler, because it requires great mental effort to overcome preconditioned behavioral patterns. So, the result is usually self-canceling forces, leading to frustration with those extra pounds. But then I remembered the reverse Law of Three, where the first and second forces are reversed. The affirming force becomes my desire for salty, sugary treats and alcohol, which deny my healthy eating and weight loss. With this shift, the third force changes. I honor and satisfy my desire—but consciously. This can work for other temptations, too, such as losing my temper. The Law of Three: My desire is for a healthy relationship, but when I deny anger, willpower often fails me. The reverse Law of Three: I affirm that I feel angry, which can deny a healthy relationship. So, I pray for truth, kindness, patience, unselfishness, gentleness, courtesy, calm, and peace. You see, as far as the Law is concerned—Old Testament Ten Commandments and New Testament love God and neighbor—I need all the help I can get.
I was raised in a lily-white American suburb. The only direct experience I had with The Law - meaning police officers - was when one came to my elementary school class to talk with us. I think it may have been a show-and-tell, some kid's Dad telling us about what it's like to be on the force. He was friendly, fun, and white. Other than that, I'd read about Mr. Friendly Policeman in children's books, and was told by adults to trust The Law - police were helpful and would take good care of us. I had no reason to question this, especially because the one time I was pulled over as a teenager (cracked brake light), the policeman was friendly, funny and white. He let me off with a warning.
In my mid-thirties, I moved to Washington, DC to work in a shelter for homeless, pregnant women. Not one of those women trusted cops. Not one had ever had a positive interaction with a cop. In stark contrast to my experiences with Officer Friendly, these women had been taught as children to mistrust and fear The Law. As adults, they had been roughly handled and lied about by The Law. I was shocked by their vehemence; they were incredulous at my trust. It was my first understanding of my privilege and how it had sheltered me.
In 1958, my husband and I arrived at the University of Alabama where he was to be a visiting artist. It was the year after George Wallace stood in the door to the University to prevent the University being desegregated and Klan members and state police surrounded the campus. We soon discovered that the town and gown relationship was rather “strained “as it was seen as a hotbed of liberalism and antithesis to the values of the community.
It was late August and unbearably hot, so we headed to Miami Beach. Both of us tan easily and by the time we returned to campus we were coffee brown. When Mel applied, he had sent them a photograph, but it was somewhat bleached in tone. The look of shock on the faces of the community was quite amusing. They kept asking “from what part of India do you come?” hoping that they hadn’t inadvertently hired a “negro”. Our skin color and Jewish- New York roots were not working in our favor.
One evening early on we decided to see a film at one of the local movie houses. We purchased our tickets and found our seats. Shortly thereafter an usher came up to us with a flashlight and said we would have to leave. We were confused and asked why. He said, “It’s the law”, whites are not allowed in colored theatres and if we were seen, there would be serious consequences. Thus, our introduction to the contradictions in the South.
I was curious about Papa, so I googled him. I knew he had graduated from Indiana University law school in the 1920’s, but not much else. Thanks to the Freedom of Information Act, a single, enormous 378-page PDF file appeared. I was intrigued. This was the documented work-history of my maternal grandfather’s 27-year career at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. J. Edgar Hoover’s boys were looking for G-Men and, at 35, he became one. His career with the F.B.I. spanned from 1941 to 1968, an era of great transition in the United States. Special Agent Paul Cox would go on to achieve success in the Domestic Intelligence Division, Subversive Control Section, under the command of Assistant Director, William Sullivan.
Every progress report, performance rating, even electrocardiographs and physicals, are included in the FOIA document. The otherwise innocuous pages take on significance as a trail of discovery about my grandfather. What he must have seen and done. A small window into the life of a complicated man, made immortal by the internet.
My mother wasn't the hugging type. So, when I was taken to the police station at age 14 for possession of marijuana, I was shocked when she arrived and immediately gave me a hug. What could this mean? But it wasn't a hug really. She pulled me to her and whispered, "Where did you get it?"
"Mark," I whispered back. He was my boyfriend at the time.
"Don't tell them anything," she hissed. The she let me go. She adored my 18-year-old "boy" friend. That's how it was back then (sardonic eye rolling here). Mom didn’t trust uniforms of any kind. When she was 14, she was in a German displaced person’s camp during WWII where she learned how to stave off hunger with cigarettes. When the Nazis came back for her, long after she had moved to America, the doctors treated her bipolar hallucinations in hospital after hospital. I learned to fend for myself. When I was six or seven, I dialed “0” to tell the operator that my mom’s wrists were bleeding. When the police and ambulance arrived, the look she gave me was both passive and intense, if that’s possible. I don’t think she ever forgave me.
One of the more frenetically charged moments I've experienced was during a trip to California. A young woman I'd met touring with a rock band had pleaded with me to come help her kick the habit, so I borrowed the airfare from my grandmother and headed West. It was easy to see why she asked, as all of her “friends” were rock stars and bikers, and either users or dealers. I spent a couple of strange weeks entrenched in the LA music scene that I don't think helped her much at all. My return flight was cancelled for snow back East and I had to stay a few extra days which happened to include my birthday. A large Samoan member of the Mission Beach Hell's Angels kindly baked me a cake, but while in his apartment filled with twitchy folks snorting whatever, one fella got paranoid and suspicious because I wasn't partaking. He pointed a gun at me, accused me of being a narc, and said I'd better do a line or else. I guess my chemical phobia was stronger than my fear of guns, or addicts. “You're going to have to shoot me then because I'm not doing any of that shit.” I felt sure my heart was now beating so hard it was visible, like in the cartoons, as we stared one another down in the suddenly silent room. Eventually, the big guy told him to shut up and sit down. Undoubtedly the only day I've ever been mistaken for law enforcement.
God bless in-laws, or outlaws, as they jokingly call them in my husband’s family. They are, through the generations, the ones newest on the scene, the ones who weren’t around for the years of whatever has been, their fresh eyes drawn right away to what the insiders don’t even see anymore. The insiders go by feel, know how it goes by heart, to the point where it has become invisible to them, like the clutter that builds up in one’s own home. But the in-laws see it, whisper of it to you in baffled tones, and then, once it has been seen, named, identified, called out, even in a whisper, you are magically lifted from it, feel it falling away, feel yourself floating above it, feel yourself breathing slower, deeper, feel yourself squeezing the in-law’s hand, hanging on.
Back in the early eighties, it was rather novel: a child with her own lawyer in a custody case. Aged 10 or 11, I thought it was cool. I liked the lawyer, a young, friendly woman with dark curly hair. I wouldn’t be in the courtroom, so the lawyer would represent my interests: that I wanted to live with my father. That I got along better with him and with his wife, my stepmother.
Child that I was, I didn’t give a thought to my mother’s side of things. It must have seemed like a nightmare to her: the ex-husband who left her wanted to take away her only child, who also wanted to leave.
After cases were presented with witness testimonies, including a husband and wife who took different sides, the judge granted sole custody to my mom and visitation rights to my dad. After all, we were both female. And with my tan skin, I resembled my mother more than my father. My father had a new wife and child, but I was all my mother had. The custody fight was one of many painful, drawn-out legal and personal battles between my parents throughout my childhood.