Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, despite one of my Thanksgivings being one of the worst days of my life.
I love Thanksgiving because it's simply about being together and being grateful and sharing food. No gifts. Sharing a meal together is such a powerful thing, and a Thanksgiving meal is a great representation of that power. In addition, many studies over the past decade have found that people who consciously count their blessings tend to be happier and less depressed. Deliberate gratitude shifts one’s attention away from toxic emotions, such as resentment and envy
I have had wonderful Thanksgiving meals with friends and wonderful Thanksgiving meals with people I didn't know that well, who took pity on me for being so far from my family. I celebrated Thanksgiving in Germany with American friends, even daring to cook an entire Thanksgiving meal for my French friends (they loved my homemade stuffing). I have spent just one Thanksgiving alone: somehow, I didn't get any invites to a dinner, and too embarrassed to invite myself, I just cooked myself a little meal at home and watched movies all day with my dogs. It actually wasn't half bad...
The bad Thanksgiving day, I think in 1986, featured a lovely Thanksgiving meal and a stress-free gathering I hadn't enjoyed with my family in years. It was one of the last hosted at my paternal grandmother, before she got too old to put it together and, instead, started attending my mother's side of the family's celebration. It was the only family Thanksgiving dinner I ever went to that my father didn't come to at all.
He had said he wasn't coming, and I was glad: no drunk, sullen Dad, sitting there, listening to everyone talking, convincing himself that every comment was meant somehow to insult him, that every gesture by my grandmother was somehow her making fun of him. What he saw at family gatherings and what the reality was could not have been farther apart. Not having him at Thanksgiving that year took enormous pressure off the event. I felt like we were all laughing a bit more, we were all more at ease, we knew the 500-pound gorilla was not going to be sitting in the room, waiting to explode later at my Mom's. He was living in his own apartment, and I had no plans to see him at all while I was at my Mom's - I was done with ugly drunken encounters, encounters that were getting more and more menacing.
After the meal, sitting in my Mom's living room, intending to spend the rest of the weekend with her before I returned to college, I commented, "I'm sorry to say this, Mom, but this really has been the best Thanksgiving I've had in a very long time." She agreed. We went back to watching our movie.
Then the phone started ringing.
When she would answer, there was silence. It was Dad. He wouldn't speak at all. He did this a lot with her. She would sit there for a while, then say, "I'm going to hang up now." A few minutes later, the phone would ring again, and she'd answer again, and just sit there, and after a while, hang up.
Then the phone stopped ringing.
Then came the banging at the door.
A lunge at me, me running, my Mom getting pummeled, my frantic phone call to the police, and the police arriving, talking to him more than us, and then allowing him to drive back to his apartment - obviously drunk. No arrest. My Mom and I packed up my things and jumped in her car and drove to Owensboro, where we stayed in a hotel and she put ice on her swelling face. She drove me on to university the next morning and returned to her home. I called to check on her, but she refused to talk about what happened that night. This incident hasn't really been discussed since.
A year later, Dad got sober. About a decade later, Dad killed himself. He ever dealt with his profound anger and paranoia. To his dying day, he still thought every comment was meant somehow to insult him, that every gesture somehow made fun of him or referred to some weakness he felt he had. It was only in reading his suicide note that I knew just how full of resentment he still was.
I don't know why I didn't let this incident define Thanksgiving for me, why I refused to associate Thanksgiving with such an ugly, dangerous incident of domestic violence. I was determined to keep Thanksgiving something special for me. Staying away from Kentucky for a few years and being in control of my own celebration helped greatly with that. I worked to make sure Thanksgiving quickly again became something I looked forward to every year.
It's 2019, and another Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I've had a lovely time.
But I'm also not sure why I have been thinking about this incident so much this year. It's usually just a blip in my brain, one I move on from in a sea of food preparation and eating and time with my husband and memories of far more good Thanksgiving. Since it's come up, since I've been thinking about it, I decided to write about it. I'm writing about it because I want to remind anyone who might read this that you really can make a holiday your own, you can make any day your own, you really are in control of how you think about your past, and you really can celebrate any special event - and every day - anyway YOU want to.
I hope you have a lovely Thanksgiving and will have many more to come.
Friday, November 29, 2019
Wednesday, November 27, 2019
Ancestry drama
Hope you have a happy Thanksgiving, if you celebrate such. It's my favorite holiday. I so miss those huge family meals. If you get to experience such, take LOTS of photos and ask your family lots of questions about your past. Bring a written-out family tree on poster board and have people fill it in - and record the stories they tell as they do so.
Ancestry.com redid its DNA testing methods, and then went back and retested all their DNA tests on files. In their first round, I was mostly Scottish and Irish and Scandanavian, plus mixes of lots of other stuff. I was delighted. But in this next round, it says I am 73% English.
Oh, the disappointment. Just English. Nothing special. Colonizers. Oppressors.
The idea of being associated with the people who have been in Ireland and Scotland for the last several hundred years thrilled me. The idea of being as much Greek and Roman as I was English thrilled me. But, wham, better science, and suddenly, I'm just English.
I wrote on Facebook how disappointed I was to be so boring, and an English friend responded:
But what IS English? We’re a complete mixture. Aside from 2000 years of trade with Europe and beyond, mixing with the Celts, we’ve been invaded by Vikings (Scandinavian), Romans (from anywhere in the Empire from North Africa to the Balkans and Germany to Spain) and the Normans (french people of Nordic origin) so actually you’re still desperately exotic, windswept and interesting!!...
Okay, maybe it's not so bad... and the reality is that the people I thought I was descended from in Ireland and Scotland didn't even build all the rock circles there - the people that built those were smaller, darker, and share genetic heritage with the people in Sardinia now - and, sadly, were completely wiped out by the people I thought I was related to.
The more I study ancestry, the more I see that there's no such thing as race, that we are all mutts. All of us. And there is SO much artificial construction in what gets defined as racial groups. And, yes, people have differences in their hair, skin, builds, shape of the face, vulnerability to disease... but not mental, emotional or creative capacities.
In other Ancestry.com news, I had a hard look at a 1880 census that I'd linked to one of my ancestors. And I realized it shows that the names of the two people I've been listing as my great, great grandmother's parents were, in fact, her GRANDparents. Meaning one of those older sisters of hers is, in fact, her mom. Later documents, including her death certificate, call those two people her parents and, yet, looking at the ages and the earliest document, I know it's not true. I know the 1880 census is very likely the truth, given the ages of those involved. I seem to be the only person among family on Ancestry.com that's noticed... other family trees have all gone with the later info. I've wondered if this is why my great-grandmother - who I knew - was oh-so-tight-lipped about her family history: maybe she knew her older "sister" was, in fact, her mom.
Ancestry doesn't make this kind of thing easy to incorporate. I had to delete an entire line of ancestry and start over in order to change a sibling to a parent.
I've also realized that my now great, great, great, great grandmother (there's now an extra "great" in there) is not from Ireland. My Mom told me that once upon a time, and there is someone with that name and around that time on Ancestry, but it's not her. That's something I wish someone had told me early on about doing genealogy: no matter how archaic and unique you think an ancestor's name is, you have to remember that, back in the day, there was very likely at least one person with that same name, living at the same time, and often, very nearby.
But the lines I want to know about most - my paternal grandmother's Dad's family - remain dead ends. I knew my great-grandfather, and I have no idea why, when I started doing genealogy, it was his family was I was so excited to trace. But they were poor and moved around a lot. There's just no documentation on who his people were.
What does it all mean, really? I don't know. I'll be frank: I don't like the idea of people choosing their identity exclusively through their ancestry. I cringe at people making comments that their ancestry somehow makes them more "in tune" with land or water, or specific land or water. Or people imply that they have a "special connection" to some kind of music because of their genetics. The culture you identify with absolutely influences you, and the culture you grew up with definitely conditions you to like, even love, certain things. So does your life experiences, which may be unique to you, different from others brought up in your culture. And as you encounter other cultures, through food, music, books, dance, movies and more, you are going to be further influenced to like, or feel a connection, to something. It's why I love seeing a Japanese American singing Bluegrass. Or a Black American singing Italian opera.
I loved Scotland the moment I crossed its Southern border on the back of Stefan's motorcycle. I dream of moving there. I was thrilled at the idea of being connected to the people that live there now, genetically, and I had hoped to find an ancestor who actually came from a specific town there, and visit that specific town someday. I loved that feeling of being Scottish. And now that I know I might not have any connection at all? I still love Scotland. I still dream of moving there.
My previous blogs on this topic:
Uncle Minnie
Rethinking "indigenous" & DNA results
Ethnic, cultural, gender identity - good luck with your definitions
What is Southern heritage? What is worth celebrating?
Ancestry.com redid its DNA testing methods, and then went back and retested all their DNA tests on files. In their first round, I was mostly Scottish and Irish and Scandanavian, plus mixes of lots of other stuff. I was delighted. But in this next round, it says I am 73% English.
Oh, the disappointment. Just English. Nothing special. Colonizers. Oppressors.
The idea of being associated with the people who have been in Ireland and Scotland for the last several hundred years thrilled me. The idea of being as much Greek and Roman as I was English thrilled me. But, wham, better science, and suddenly, I'm just English.
I wrote on Facebook how disappointed I was to be so boring, and an English friend responded:
But what IS English? We’re a complete mixture. Aside from 2000 years of trade with Europe and beyond, mixing with the Celts, we’ve been invaded by Vikings (Scandinavian), Romans (from anywhere in the Empire from North Africa to the Balkans and Germany to Spain) and the Normans (french people of Nordic origin) so actually you’re still desperately exotic, windswept and interesting!!...
Okay, maybe it's not so bad... and the reality is that the people I thought I was descended from in Ireland and Scotland didn't even build all the rock circles there - the people that built those were smaller, darker, and share genetic heritage with the people in Sardinia now - and, sadly, were completely wiped out by the people I thought I was related to.
The more I study ancestry, the more I see that there's no such thing as race, that we are all mutts. All of us. And there is SO much artificial construction in what gets defined as racial groups. And, yes, people have differences in their hair, skin, builds, shape of the face, vulnerability to disease... but not mental, emotional or creative capacities.
In other Ancestry.com news, I had a hard look at a 1880 census that I'd linked to one of my ancestors. And I realized it shows that the names of the two people I've been listing as my great, great grandmother's parents were, in fact, her GRANDparents. Meaning one of those older sisters of hers is, in fact, her mom. Later documents, including her death certificate, call those two people her parents and, yet, looking at the ages and the earliest document, I know it's not true. I know the 1880 census is very likely the truth, given the ages of those involved. I seem to be the only person among family on Ancestry.com that's noticed... other family trees have all gone with the later info. I've wondered if this is why my great-grandmother - who I knew - was oh-so-tight-lipped about her family history: maybe she knew her older "sister" was, in fact, her mom.
Ancestry doesn't make this kind of thing easy to incorporate. I had to delete an entire line of ancestry and start over in order to change a sibling to a parent.
I've also realized that my now great, great, great, great grandmother (there's now an extra "great" in there) is not from Ireland. My Mom told me that once upon a time, and there is someone with that name and around that time on Ancestry, but it's not her. That's something I wish someone had told me early on about doing genealogy: no matter how archaic and unique you think an ancestor's name is, you have to remember that, back in the day, there was very likely at least one person with that same name, living at the same time, and often, very nearby.
But the lines I want to know about most - my paternal grandmother's Dad's family - remain dead ends. I knew my great-grandfather, and I have no idea why, when I started doing genealogy, it was his family was I was so excited to trace. But they were poor and moved around a lot. There's just no documentation on who his people were.
What does it all mean, really? I don't know. I'll be frank: I don't like the idea of people choosing their identity exclusively through their ancestry. I cringe at people making comments that their ancestry somehow makes them more "in tune" with land or water, or specific land or water. Or people imply that they have a "special connection" to some kind of music because of their genetics. The culture you identify with absolutely influences you, and the culture you grew up with definitely conditions you to like, even love, certain things. So does your life experiences, which may be unique to you, different from others brought up in your culture. And as you encounter other cultures, through food, music, books, dance, movies and more, you are going to be further influenced to like, or feel a connection, to something. It's why I love seeing a Japanese American singing Bluegrass. Or a Black American singing Italian opera.
I loved Scotland the moment I crossed its Southern border on the back of Stefan's motorcycle. I dream of moving there. I was thrilled at the idea of being connected to the people that live there now, genetically, and I had hoped to find an ancestor who actually came from a specific town there, and visit that specific town someday. I loved that feeling of being Scottish. And now that I know I might not have any connection at all? I still love Scotland. I still dream of moving there.
My previous blogs on this topic:
Uncle Minnie
Rethinking "indigenous" & DNA results
Ethnic, cultural, gender identity - good luck with your definitions
What is Southern heritage? What is worth celebrating?
Friday, November 22, 2019
My review of The Foxfire 45th Anniversary Book: Singin', Praisin', Raisin'
In 1987, I performed the lead in Foxfire, a play with songs, by Susan Cooper and Hume Cronyn, based on the Foxfire books about Appalachian culture and traditions in North Georgia. I loved being Annie Nations. I adored the young man who played my husband, and still call him "Hector." I remember once in rehearsal when I was supposed to be angry, and my Hector just wasn't giving me anything to work with - the audience would see any reason for me to get angry. So I told him I really, really needed him to get angry or annoyed - something. And he said, "But how can I get angry at those sweet brown eyes..." I'll always love "my" Hector (hi, Andy!).
Foxfire was a natural choice for the theater department at Western Kentucky University, and I was beyond honored to be in the show. It remains one of the most special, wonderful experiences of my life. But I didn't really know the story of Foxfire, not until years later. In case you don't know the story: the Foxfire series began in 1966, when a high school class in Georgia interviewed their relatives and local citizens about their youth and young adult days, their traditions and culture, and how things had changed for them over time. The stories were published in a magazine, and those stories are also expanded and published in books. The content is written as a mixture of how-to information, first-person narratives, oral history and folklore.
I found The Foxfire 45th Anniversary Book: Singin', Praisin', Raisin' last year at the Texas Book Festival and finally got around to reading it this year.
I have mixed feelings about it.
Any project that is working to preserve the voices of elders and their culture from their youth and younger days deserves to be lauded. If you have enjoyed listening to your own grandparents and elderly family members talking about their youth and early adult days, whether they lead a rural, urban or somewhere-in-between life, you know how precious those stories are, and the appeal of the Foxfire stories won't at all be a surprise to you. This particular book is a good representation of what the series generates annually and regularly, and if you aren't familiar with rural white culture beyond stereotypes on TV and in movies, this is a good introduction - it's best to pop on a bluegrass soundtrack to get the full effect. And if you are familiar with this region and love its music and land and food culture - as I do (I'm from Kentucky), you also will love it as it lovingly, reverently talks about such - you may even find, like me, hearing the people in this book telling stories and situations you have heard from your own family members. It also is a great example of what could be done in regions all over the world: young people going out into their own communities and preserving the stories of their elders. If you are looking for a monologue for an audition or other drama performance, this provides outstanding source material.
However, there are some uncomfortable insights that some readers will experience, at least I did: the presence of black Americans in the area is almost completely ignored, not only in the choice of storytellers but in the recorded memories of the storyteller. There ARE black Americans in Appalachia - Google it if you don't believe me. There are no mentions in this book of the ugly sides of historic mountain life, like child marriage or racism. There are also idealizations that just simply aren't true, not only by the storytellers but by the editors, like this from the start of the chapter entitled "Knoxville Girl: Crime Close to Home": "Crimes were rare and murders were virtually unheard of... " That is just patently not true. The overall perpetuation of poverty as "beautiful" in this book makes me uncomfortable. I appreciate what the book honors, but I just so wonder how many stories get left out because they might make local people not look quite so noble and honorable.
It was also disturbing to find out that the founder of the project molested young children, which I did when I did a little online research in writing this review. I'm so glad the project has survived that disturbing association - I hope MercyCorps does as well. But all I could think that's a perfect example of what I mean: bad things happen everywhere, including in Appalachia. No place is paradise, no time is a perfect time. We need to acknowledge the bad with the good.
Foxfire was a natural choice for the theater department at Western Kentucky University, and I was beyond honored to be in the show. It remains one of the most special, wonderful experiences of my life. But I didn't really know the story of Foxfire, not until years later. In case you don't know the story: the Foxfire series began in 1966, when a high school class in Georgia interviewed their relatives and local citizens about their youth and young adult days, their traditions and culture, and how things had changed for them over time. The stories were published in a magazine, and those stories are also expanded and published in books. The content is written as a mixture of how-to information, first-person narratives, oral history and folklore.
I found The Foxfire 45th Anniversary Book: Singin', Praisin', Raisin' last year at the Texas Book Festival and finally got around to reading it this year.
I have mixed feelings about it.
Any project that is working to preserve the voices of elders and their culture from their youth and younger days deserves to be lauded. If you have enjoyed listening to your own grandparents and elderly family members talking about their youth and early adult days, whether they lead a rural, urban or somewhere-in-between life, you know how precious those stories are, and the appeal of the Foxfire stories won't at all be a surprise to you. This particular book is a good representation of what the series generates annually and regularly, and if you aren't familiar with rural white culture beyond stereotypes on TV and in movies, this is a good introduction - it's best to pop on a bluegrass soundtrack to get the full effect. And if you are familiar with this region and love its music and land and food culture - as I do (I'm from Kentucky), you also will love it as it lovingly, reverently talks about such - you may even find, like me, hearing the people in this book telling stories and situations you have heard from your own family members. It also is a great example of what could be done in regions all over the world: young people going out into their own communities and preserving the stories of their elders. If you are looking for a monologue for an audition or other drama performance, this provides outstanding source material.
However, there are some uncomfortable insights that some readers will experience, at least I did: the presence of black Americans in the area is almost completely ignored, not only in the choice of storytellers but in the recorded memories of the storyteller. There ARE black Americans in Appalachia - Google it if you don't believe me. There are no mentions in this book of the ugly sides of historic mountain life, like child marriage or racism. There are also idealizations that just simply aren't true, not only by the storytellers but by the editors, like this from the start of the chapter entitled "Knoxville Girl: Crime Close to Home": "Crimes were rare and murders were virtually unheard of... " That is just patently not true. The overall perpetuation of poverty as "beautiful" in this book makes me uncomfortable. I appreciate what the book honors, but I just so wonder how many stories get left out because they might make local people not look quite so noble and honorable.
It was also disturbing to find out that the founder of the project molested young children, which I did when I did a little online research in writing this review. I'm so glad the project has survived that disturbing association - I hope MercyCorps does as well. But all I could think that's a perfect example of what I mean: bad things happen everywhere, including in Appalachia. No place is paradise, no time is a perfect time. We need to acknowledge the bad with the good.
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Sweet home, Chicago...
I love Chicago.
I think the first time I went to Chicago was in the summer of 1987. I could be wrong. But I do know I took a Greyhound bus from Evansville, Indiana to Chicago, and spent my time there with my friend Dennis from high school and my friend Monica from university - both theater geeks like me. Chicago seemed like another planet, bigger than I could comprehend. I saw a terrific dinner theater production of Dream Girls on that trip ("And I am telling you I'm not going...")
I went again a few years later, to see my friend Carmen and ring in a new year. I will always associate the city with her - no one loved it like she did. She told me tales from that city that could have filled a book - I should have written a book just one what she told me.
I went a third time in 2008 or so, flown over from Germany to speak at a conference. On that trip, Stefan got to see more of the city than me, although we did have a meal at an Italian restaurant that was epic in terms of its food and in terms of the clientele - take me out for a drink and I'll tell ya about it... you won't believe it.
So, not counting the many times I've transferred flights in Chicago, this was my fourth trip to the windy city. This time, it was primarily to see a friend I worked with in Kabul, Afghanistan, who I hadn't seen since 2007. But this was the first time I'd been in charge of my own schedule in the city. My goal, other than seeing my friend, was to see the Art Institute because I felt like it was ridiculous that I'm 53 years old and still hadn't been there. Luckily, another friend drove up from Hendo to see me and she also wanted to go.
It. Was. Amazing. I love art museums. I love the permanent exhibits, I love the special exhibits, I love them all. I love the British Museum, I love the Louvre, I love the Prado, I love the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I love the Speed Museum and now I get to love the Art Institute as well.
Here's some important advice: go through the side entrance, not the main entrance: the lines are shorter, including at the coat check. Trust me on this.
We toured the American Art collection, European Painting and Sculpture, the Modern and Contemporary Art and the special Warhol exhibit. That took up almost the entire day - I would have loved to have seen more, but there's a point where you aren't seeing the art anymore, when your brain is full and it's time for a coffee.
The highlight for me? Edward Hopper's Nighthawks. It's one of my favorite images ever. I love the subject, the composition, the themes and interpretation that's on the surface and what you can make up about it. It represents so many things to me... more than I can put into a blog.
I also was thrilled to see The Picture of Dorian Gray by Ivan Albright - I audibly gasped when I saw it, because I wasn't expecting it, and I walked around a corner and, ta da, there it was! I love the movie so much, I love the story so much... did George Sanders look at this painting? Did Angela Lansbury? Sigh...
I loved seeing Paris Street; Rainy Day, by Gustave Caillebotte. I can hear the rain...
All the Degas and Renoir was a thrill - anything by those two of my very favorites.
It was nice to see Grant Wood's American Gothic and Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, but they weren't the thrill the others were.
As for the Warhol: most of his stuff doesn't do it for me, and then, WHAM, I will love something. I love the Mao portrait more than I can put into words - what it represents, or, what I think it represents, I love what it mocks... it's just stunning. Same for his The Last Supper, covered in military camouflage. I LOVED Ethel Scull 36 Times: Warhol took socialite Scull to a Times Square photo booth and prompted her to take 300 black and white photographs of herself. Warhol told her jokes so her headshots would be animated. The result is a character study - it's awesome. And I laughed out loud at the Poloroid Hammer & Sickle with Wonder Bread. And I LOVED the Elvis prints, so much that I wish I had looked better, because I would have loved a photo with them (I wasn't looking good that day - not good enough for Elvis).
But I feel like most of what gets exhibited from Warhol are outtakes - and I'm not fond of outtakes for MOST artists. When I watch "scenes deleted" section of a DVD's special features, I rarely think "Oh, they should have included that!" They are experiments, they are tryouts, and they are NOT always brilliant. I think half of this could have been left out of the exhibit and we wouldn't have missed out on anything. I don't think all of his portraits are brilliant - Liza and Mick Jaggar, yes. Truman Capote or Pele? Meh.
I loved all of Chicago, from the friendly folks at my airport hotel to the gritty L trains full of hilarious people and more stories than I can possibly tell on a blog, to the glitter of the night sky. And I loved Volare restaurant so much, I went twice: the food and the service was oh-so-excellent. They fussed over my friend from Afghanistan when I brought her for her first Italian meal ever, and then recognized me two nights later and were THRILLED to see me.
I would love to have stayed at Cambria on Superior Street, where my colleague from Afghanistan got to stay, but it was almost twice as expensive a night as the place I found out by Midway, so... loved the paintings of Chicago's own Bill Murray, Harrison Ford and Michael Jordan in the lobby.
I loved the diversity of Chicago, the different American and foreign accents all around me, the hugeness of the city, the African cab drivers, and the FRIENDLINESS of Chicagoans, whether they were born there or immigrated there. It's glorious.
And a million songs go through my head when I'm in Chicago, everything from Blues Brothers covers to the Chicago song from Victor Victoria. I just so wish I'd visited when Robbie Fulks was doing his infamous weekly shows there - he's moved to Los Angeles now...
Sweet home, Chicago, indeed. I just wish I hadn't left my favorite gloves in one of the cabs I took.
More about my travels.
Sunday, November 10, 2019
art and horrible people
I love when humor makes me laugh AND makes me think. I love when comedy makes me aware of a fear or prejudice I didn't know I had. That's probably why I love satire and black humor so much: I laugh and think, geesh, I now have to admit that thing they are doing is something I fear / am bothered by as well. Also, I'm a dark person with a wicked sense of humor that I hope never gets revealed online in all of its glory.
There are times when I think complaints about comedians are ridiculous, usually when I've interpreted a joke as trying to provide biting social commentary and the complainer just hears the surface - as in, just takes the joke literally. Same with a lot of stage productions or movies - people hear or see a clip and get offended, but if they'd seen the entire context, they would have seen that there was an overall commentary being made that, I hope, they would agree with. Think of seeing just the musical number from the original The Producers and thinking, my God, this is horrible and cruel and tasteless! Well, yes. Yes, it is. And you have to see the entire movie to see that the filmmaker, Mel Brooks, totally agrees with that assessment - that's part of the joke.
And there are also times when there is no nuance and you have to say that Louis C.K. is a creepy troll and a sexual predator and he actively worked to ruin the careers of at least a few women and I can't believe anyone would pay to go see him now and I can't believe Janeane Garofalo defends him. Once upon a time, yes, I loved his standup, I admit it. But then his TV show came along and watching just two episodes creeped me out beyond measure, so much that when the revelations came out of what he'd done to women, I wasn't a bit surprised. Yuck.
As my hopefully-still-my-friend, almost-not-creepy comedian Todd Holloman said:
The thing about Louis CK is that before we knew what a fucking creep he was, his comedy was funny because a lot of it was self-deprecating. He wasn't afraid to make himself the butt of his own jokes. Now, he's just another angry old white dude who got called out on his bullshit, so he makes fun of high school shooting survivors and trans people, which isn't edgy or shocking. It's sad and pathetic. It's also lazy AF and nothing that you can't hear at any open mic anywhere in America from some hack comic who wants to be Offensive-On-Purpose instead of funny. Wow! A older white guy is bitching about the younger generation? Hardy fucking har. Never seen that before. So brave!
Sometimes, I can just write an artist off who has had work that I've enjoyed when it turns out they are, at their core, a horrible person - like Louis C.K. The revelation happens and, that's it: no more watching their movies or listening to their music or reading their books. All of my interest evaporates immediately. Poof!
Sometimes I am able to watch someone on TV that I have had an in-person experience with where they have been quite unkind to me, and I can just see them in that work as just an actor or actress or musician in a role, not the person that was a jerk, and I can appreciate their work without reservations. Other times, it's all I can do not to hiss at the screen or speaker.
With some artists and politicians, I struggle because I have such a personal, emotional connection with their book or movie or words or whatever. I don't want any part of their new work, because I don't want them to have any profits per their sexual assaults, their harassment of women, their predatory behavior, their virulent anti-Semitism or Islamaphobia or homophobia or misogyny. But that previous work is so precious to me, it's all wrapped up in my psyche... and I struggle with how to think about it.
I have a friend who gushes about a particular musician, and I sit there quietly while she gushes. I never tell her about an incident involving that person that another friend told me, that my friend saw first hand, and that horrified me so much I can't listen to that person anymore. The incident didn't involve doing anything criminal against someone, so I don't feel obligated to give out a warning in order to protect someone's safety - it involved that person being a horrible person in terms of character. And I just can't let it go when I hear this person's music. But does anyone else need to know what I know? I haven't thought so so far...
I won't be buying any future Alice Walker books, I won't pay to watch any future Kevin Spacey movies. I'm going to avoid whatever Sean Penn decides to be in next. But I'll also still watch reruns of Parks and Recreation, I'll still watch The Usual Suspects or The Color Purple if it comes on and I'm available. I do watch Joan Crawford movies (the early ones, especially). But I'm not sure I'll ever be able to listen to Bill Cosby records again. I never really liked most of Woody Allen's stuff anyway - the creepy alert went off in his movies for me long before the revelations about his daughter and stepdaughter came out.
The biggest struggle for all of us is when the person who, at their core, is a horrible person is also a dear friend or family member. I do get that. Your first reaction is, usually, "Well, he's never been that way to ME." Because you love that person. You look at that person through a lens of love and/or friendship and the respect that comes with that. Every good moment you have had with that person is real and true and is in stark contrast to what you have been told. You don't want to think of this person doing this horrible thing they have been accused of. I get that. I really, really do.
But I guess I've just read and seen so much, and it's made me so much of a cynic that, when someone I love very much was accused of something horrible, my first reaction wasn't, "There is no way he could have done that!" It was, "Did he do it?" It was said through shock and tears. As much as I wanted to stand by that person, I first had to know the truth. I was very happy to learn that, in fact, he didn't do this horrible thing. And I seethe with rage regarding the person who made the false accusation - false accusations DO happen. But that experience hasn't stopped me from listening to what others say and taking accusations seriously - especially when there are multiple people making such.
Can a person make mistakes, learn from those mistakes, and become a better person? Yes, I believe they can, but only so long as, at their core, they aren't a lousy human being. But how do you figure that out? I'm still watching, and hoping, regarding Al Franken and Neil deGrasse Tyson, and a couple of other very famous married men who have made some of my friends uncomfortable, friends who have told their story to me but not to any media. These guys have made mistakes. They have made women uncomfortable in a creepy, predatory way. They seem confused that they have made women uncomfortable - yet, when I read the accounts, I think, um, yeah, that would make me uncomfortable. And they are getting dangerously close to denying that anyone should have been uncomfortable by their behavior. I hope all men can really reflect on how these circumstances and think about it - but if you go down the I don't care if it's half a dozen women, I still don't think I did anything wrong road, I'm done with you.
There are musicians in my CD collection who had 14-year-old "girlfriends." There are actors and directors in my DVD collection have said things, on the record, I find utterly distasteful. I still watch and listen to them. Maybe you have purged some of those very same people from your collection and, if so, I respect that. But before you condemn me, I guarantee I could go through your CD collection and your movie collection and point out some things... remember, I'm an annoying history and trivia hound. Oh, like you could ever forget it...
In short, I'm still working on this. Not sure I'll ever figure it out.
There are times when I think complaints about comedians are ridiculous, usually when I've interpreted a joke as trying to provide biting social commentary and the complainer just hears the surface - as in, just takes the joke literally. Same with a lot of stage productions or movies - people hear or see a clip and get offended, but if they'd seen the entire context, they would have seen that there was an overall commentary being made that, I hope, they would agree with. Think of seeing just the musical number from the original The Producers and thinking, my God, this is horrible and cruel and tasteless! Well, yes. Yes, it is. And you have to see the entire movie to see that the filmmaker, Mel Brooks, totally agrees with that assessment - that's part of the joke.
And there are also times when there is no nuance and you have to say that Louis C.K. is a creepy troll and a sexual predator and he actively worked to ruin the careers of at least a few women and I can't believe anyone would pay to go see him now and I can't believe Janeane Garofalo defends him. Once upon a time, yes, I loved his standup, I admit it. But then his TV show came along and watching just two episodes creeped me out beyond measure, so much that when the revelations came out of what he'd done to women, I wasn't a bit surprised. Yuck.
As my hopefully-still-my-friend, almost-not-creepy comedian Todd Holloman said:
The thing about Louis CK is that before we knew what a fucking creep he was, his comedy was funny because a lot of it was self-deprecating. He wasn't afraid to make himself the butt of his own jokes. Now, he's just another angry old white dude who got called out on his bullshit, so he makes fun of high school shooting survivors and trans people, which isn't edgy or shocking. It's sad and pathetic. It's also lazy AF and nothing that you can't hear at any open mic anywhere in America from some hack comic who wants to be Offensive-On-Purpose instead of funny. Wow! A older white guy is bitching about the younger generation? Hardy fucking har. Never seen that before. So brave!
Sometimes, I can just write an artist off who has had work that I've enjoyed when it turns out they are, at their core, a horrible person - like Louis C.K. The revelation happens and, that's it: no more watching their movies or listening to their music or reading their books. All of my interest evaporates immediately. Poof!
Sometimes I am able to watch someone on TV that I have had an in-person experience with where they have been quite unkind to me, and I can just see them in that work as just an actor or actress or musician in a role, not the person that was a jerk, and I can appreciate their work without reservations. Other times, it's all I can do not to hiss at the screen or speaker.
With some artists and politicians, I struggle because I have such a personal, emotional connection with their book or movie or words or whatever. I don't want any part of their new work, because I don't want them to have any profits per their sexual assaults, their harassment of women, their predatory behavior, their virulent anti-Semitism or Islamaphobia or homophobia or misogyny. But that previous work is so precious to me, it's all wrapped up in my psyche... and I struggle with how to think about it.
I have a friend who gushes about a particular musician, and I sit there quietly while she gushes. I never tell her about an incident involving that person that another friend told me, that my friend saw first hand, and that horrified me so much I can't listen to that person anymore. The incident didn't involve doing anything criminal against someone, so I don't feel obligated to give out a warning in order to protect someone's safety - it involved that person being a horrible person in terms of character. And I just can't let it go when I hear this person's music. But does anyone else need to know what I know? I haven't thought so so far...
I won't be buying any future Alice Walker books, I won't pay to watch any future Kevin Spacey movies. I'm going to avoid whatever Sean Penn decides to be in next. But I'll also still watch reruns of Parks and Recreation, I'll still watch The Usual Suspects or The Color Purple if it comes on and I'm available. I do watch Joan Crawford movies (the early ones, especially). But I'm not sure I'll ever be able to listen to Bill Cosby records again. I never really liked most of Woody Allen's stuff anyway - the creepy alert went off in his movies for me long before the revelations about his daughter and stepdaughter came out.
The biggest struggle for all of us is when the person who, at their core, is a horrible person is also a dear friend or family member. I do get that. Your first reaction is, usually, "Well, he's never been that way to ME." Because you love that person. You look at that person through a lens of love and/or friendship and the respect that comes with that. Every good moment you have had with that person is real and true and is in stark contrast to what you have been told. You don't want to think of this person doing this horrible thing they have been accused of. I get that. I really, really do.
But I guess I've just read and seen so much, and it's made me so much of a cynic that, when someone I love very much was accused of something horrible, my first reaction wasn't, "There is no way he could have done that!" It was, "Did he do it?" It was said through shock and tears. As much as I wanted to stand by that person, I first had to know the truth. I was very happy to learn that, in fact, he didn't do this horrible thing. And I seethe with rage regarding the person who made the false accusation - false accusations DO happen. But that experience hasn't stopped me from listening to what others say and taking accusations seriously - especially when there are multiple people making such.
Can a person make mistakes, learn from those mistakes, and become a better person? Yes, I believe they can, but only so long as, at their core, they aren't a lousy human being. But how do you figure that out? I'm still watching, and hoping, regarding Al Franken and Neil deGrasse Tyson, and a couple of other very famous married men who have made some of my friends uncomfortable, friends who have told their story to me but not to any media. These guys have made mistakes. They have made women uncomfortable in a creepy, predatory way. They seem confused that they have made women uncomfortable - yet, when I read the accounts, I think, um, yeah, that would make me uncomfortable. And they are getting dangerously close to denying that anyone should have been uncomfortable by their behavior. I hope all men can really reflect on how these circumstances and think about it - but if you go down the I don't care if it's half a dozen women, I still don't think I did anything wrong road, I'm done with you.
There are musicians in my CD collection who had 14-year-old "girlfriends." There are actors and directors in my DVD collection have said things, on the record, I find utterly distasteful. I still watch and listen to them. Maybe you have purged some of those very same people from your collection and, if so, I respect that. But before you condemn me, I guarantee I could go through your CD collection and your movie collection and point out some things... remember, I'm an annoying history and trivia hound. Oh, like you could ever forget it...
In short, I'm still working on this. Not sure I'll ever figure it out.
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