Playing Fair and Being Kind

Slowly, imperceptibly I have combined force fields with Nina Olff. Over a period of one year we circled and observed one another until I invited myself to her neighborhood in metropolitan Boston for a quick day visit. We met at her and Eric’s house in Brookline. She and Eric have been married for about twenty years. They complement one another perfectly. Bickering is allowed and seems to provide a grounding rod of sorts. Both are intelligent and deeply caring and politically active. I enjoy their company. Eric is an omnivore, Nina sort of vegetarian, and I vegan. Meals are an adventure and fun.

I call Nina or she calls me when something important needs to be said. We are familiars. That neat-o kind of friendship that needs no introduction. There is no woo kind of element. Simply the ease with which we can connect and converse. I Googled her a million time to find out more. A million times I was left out in the field unsatisfied. I saw she’d written a book, American Heritage: Many Tribes, Many Languages. I bought it and saw soon what it was that sang to both and to others I’m sure. Find the book and read page 18, “Peony in Lower Manhattan”. You’ll see. Or not.

I called today. She is down. That mystery fucking disease hangs on and on. We talk a while and I’m paying attention to her voice and the time so I don’t add to the misery. We get into that sardonic vein and I can tell she is feeling better. Oh, the street has taught us so much. The survival skills and the experiences have charmed us with the short form of the “Serenity Prayer”: Fuck it! The attitude of the strong, the wise, the ones who are able to find the flowing currents in the rivers of life. Fuck it! We laugh and riff off each other into a better attitude and feeling. This is my example of a friend.

While we talk I explain to Nina my most recent disappointment with the Maine State Prison system where I facilitate weekend workshops that improve the non-violence efforts in the pods. I have had two timely workshops cancelled because there was a new program coordinator staff that needed more time to adjust to his new job. Although I’d scheduled months ahead with the previous staff he wasn’t prepared to support me in the moment. Aaargh! A classic case of Structural Violence.  Read about it here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Structural_violence

I’m sure we’ve all experienced Structural Violence as we trudge the path to happy destiny. The confusion of lines at the DMV. You get up to the counter after a long wait in line only to find you were in the wrong line. There was no way to avoid the mistake because the signs were not clear or the directions were not up to date, whatever. Go back to end of the right line now. The average person gets into the wrong line fifty percent of the time at least. This is one example of Structural Violence.
Other examples include public transportation that is inadequate in that the connections cause undue stress, travel times, easily missed connections for the populations that rely on said public transportation to get to work in order to meet other demands of our society. Even having to rely upon these systems to get to appointments, interviews, jobs, health care can be challenging or downright impossible. These are the Structural Violence issues that cause greater stress in our lives. Now here is the reason the term ‘violence’ is used; the system can be changed/improved but it isn’t. The fact that the system failing is allowed to stand even though it could be corrected is the ‘violent’ element of Structural Violence.

Before I leave you to continue trudging my own path I want to tell you about another phenomena. Structural Abuse. The modern day use of robocalls is a most visible example. You answer your phone, there is a slight pause and then a recorded message tells you that you can get a good deal on a lower interest rate or whatever. Perhaps that is most pervasive lately. The others are present during election campaigns. Not nearly as bad as Jehovah Witnesses though, I’ll admit.

I was in New Mexico and one of Naomi’s bus trips hit a snag and I was tasked with driving a new bus across the state to replace a broken down bus at a remote campsite. The campers and their chaperone were relieved and grateful and I was left to get the broken bus to a repair shop in Deming. I had my cell phone and a barely satisfactory signal strength number of bars showing. It was late afternoon and I had to use the road service provided by the contract with UWC. The Structural Abuse showed up when I was placed on hold after connecting with the road service agent. I had to stay on the line or lose my place in the queue. I didn’t dare lose connection or hang up. The abuse element of the Structural Abuse was the music blaring into my ear while I was on hold. I think the piece being played came from the holding facility at Guantanamo Bay. It was pseudo-western/popular song that was on loop coming through the earpiece. That is Structural Abuse. If I wanted to stop the torture of hearing the blaring audio distortion I would lose my place and not get the service for the broken bus, etcetera.

There you have it. Now you know more about how miserable life can be and you know that it doesn’t need to be the way it is. Of course those of us in vulnerable positions know it inherently.

I hope your day is as beautiful as this day in Trevett, Maine. The sun is bright and the water is blue and the trees are green, green, green. Just like the photo that heads this blog.
Ciao, baby!
G. M. Goodwin
15 November 2017

Here is a memory from the early eighties. My son Sam’s mother was an anthropology student at Brandeis near Boston. While we were just new to each other she would visit my studio apartment on Beacon Hill and do her studying there. One time she brought some of the artifacts she was studying and classifying. Here is a story about one of them.

Some time ago I was handed a piece of stone. This artifact held a relic of someone’s life. As soon as the stone touched my hand I held it carefully, joining my two hands together to ensure its safety. I didn’t want to drop or otherwise mishandle this treasure. I was told it was more than two thousand years old; it was a piece of stone that had been shaped and decorated by someone way back a long time ago in a strange, far away place. Monte Alban in Oaxaca, Mesoamerica during the pre-Columbian period. Powerful stuff, I thought. This artifact was shaped and carved by a human being who was living during that period before the Europeans showed up.

I held the item and stared at it. I turned it over and around examining the texture, feeling the rough surface, and noticing the marks someone two thousand years ago made to decorate and record their thoughts and feelings forever. The stone was the size and shape of a sewing thimble. The piece could be stood on its broad end with the tapered part up. On its surface was carved a face. The punctured eyes were near the tapered end with the nose and mouth marked with punctures below toward the base. On each side of the face were incised ears; simple single curved lines in the shape of ears. It was a simple but clear representation of a person carved on a tapered finger size stone.

Another detail that had been punctured into the face detail is what caught my attention and stirred some part of me deep inside. The person who carved this piece of stone had used a tool to mark with punctures tear drops from one of the eyes back toward and around one of the ears. I instinctively turned the head on its back so that the tears ran downward toward the ear and around it in a semicircle. As soon as I place the head on its back so that the tears ran toward the back of the head and around the ear I felt a deep sadness well up inside me. I felt what I imagine the person who carved this stone felt and recorded two thousand years ago. Of course at this point in my examination of the stone imagination took over and the ride was deeply stirring as well as healing. I fell deeply in love with the person who sat some place in the Oaxaca valley in Monte Alban two thousand years ago and recorded a sad, reflective event for me to connect with in the future. Thank you, dear friend. I’m sorry I missed you but I got your message.

Love,

G. M. Goodwin

17 March 2017