Category Archives: Journal


Children have never been good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.

James Arthur Baldwin

Credit: sideshowmom

The Temple Bell Stops

Credit: jade |

The temple bell stops–

but the sound keeps coming

out of the flowers.


Basho – 1600

Attempt Something Unknown

Let me say to the writers out there:  attempt something unknown.  Attempt something that is dangerous to you.  No, even more:  attempt something impossible.  After all, how do we expect our books to change the lives of our readers if they don’t change our own lives, first?

M.T. Anderson

Me, Too

Credit: sweetpea |

The man was my godfather and my family physician.  I “loved” him, because I was supposed to love him.  My mother revered him.

He terrified me.  He was gruff, sarcastic, and critical in sudden unexpected bursts.  And yet, trailing after my mother and her awe, I climbed the stairs to his exam room, located above the lobby of the local movie theater, with a tingling anticipation every time.

He called me “blondie.”  My mother said once, many years after I was grown, that she thought he probably couldn’t remember my name.

When I was of an age for the first tender buds of breasts to make their appearance, he approached me on the exam table, with my mother sitting close by, and pretended to turn the knobs on my chest as though I were a radio.  My mother said nothing then or after we left his office, so I assumed he had the right.  I also assumed my humiliation was merely another mark of my own awkwardness.

One day he banished my mother from the exam room in a sudden outburst of “What are you doing in here?”  (She left meekly.)  By my mid-teens, he moved beyond fiddling with radio dials.  Far beyond.  “There is some light missing in you,” he told me.  “I’m going to fix it.”

Because I had been brought up to “respect,” because neither my family nor the larger world had ever suggested that I had a right to own my own body, I endured, endured, endured.

I told no one . . . except one friend one time.  But even as I told her, I explained it away.  “It’s all right,” I said, “because he’s my godfather.”  And she, having as little knowledge as I, said nothing.

So my family physician, my “loved” godfather sent me into the world naked, and occasionally another man, always older and more powerful than I, saw my vulnerability and knew what to do.

It took many years for me to learn to own myself.

I’m an old woman now, but the memory does not dim.  When any woman says, “Me, too,” whether speaking workplace harassment or child abuse, I hear.

I remember being an entertainment, an object to be “fixed” for a man’s pleasure.  Remembering, I offer no apologies for the fact that “good” men—men, at least, who are doing good work—are being caught in a change of rules they never could have anticipated. I don’t even offer apologies for the occasional man caught in the sudden surge of “me, too’s” who might have been misconstrued.  As painful as all this is—more painful to the accusers than to anyone caught with his metaphorical pants down—it is a good and necessary pain if women are ever to be free.

There are major questions to be asked about what level of predation or simple boorishness, once exposed, requires a man to step down from whatever height he may have attained.  And I hear the arguments for “due process.”  We are a nation founded on due process.  Yet in circumstances where so often and for so long due process has failed the vulnerable due process becomes too easily a cover for the status quo.

It never occurred to me at the time of my molestation that my godfather merited censure of any kind.  And yet, if he were still alive, surely I would want him to be prevented from “practicing medicine” on other innocent girls.  But even when predators are forced from their positions, that barely touches the solution.  We all know that in this country if a man is enough of a “star” he can get by with anything, because we will “let you.”

I know a woman who was raped in her home by a stranger.  When asked if she was involved in women’s activism against rape, she replied simply.  “No, because rape is men’s problem.  Women can’t fix it.  Only men can change the culture that allows and encourages rape.”

And only men can change the culture that allows all levels of sexual exploitation, the one girls and women live in our entire lives.

If we keep saying it, do you suppose one day the world will listen?

Me, too!

Me, too!

Me, too!

When Love Conquers Death

The Christmas my son, Peter, my first child, turned three was, of course, the first time he was old enough to make sense out of the Santa story.  And being the child he was, Peter made too much sense out of it.

“Mommy,” he said to me when I came into his bedroom on Christmas morning, “did Santa Claus really tiptoe into my room and put those things in my stocking”—having no fireplace in our Texas home, I had hung his stocking on the end of his bed—“or did you do it?”

I seem to be incapable—unfortunately, in this case—of telling a direct lie, especially to a child.  And so I admitted that I had done it, and then I spun a story about Santa Claus as the spirit of giving, etc., etc., none of which interested him in the least.  He had the information he’d asked for.  Mommy had filled his stocking.

So when his younger sister, Beth-Alison, grew old enough to comprehend the Santa story, she had her big brother close at hand, delighted to let her know that it was all a big game the grown-ups were playing.  There was no Santa.

She once told me that was the worst thing I ever did as a parent, depriving her of the brief chance other children have to believe in Santa.  I defended myself by saying, “If that’s truly the worst thing I ever did, you’re pretty damned lucky.”

I only wish it were.

But what is it about truth-telling and Santa?  If Peter’s question had been less direct, I might have found a way to respond without spoiling the fun.  Because the truth of Santa isn’t about who did the tiptoeing.  It’s about what the gifts honor.

However close or far we are from the real Christmas story, what is meant to be honored in this season is the victory of love over death.

And that’s a truth we search for, every one of us of every faith or no faith at all, our entire lives.

Peter & Beth-Alison

The Peter who so determinedly and mischievously—he was good at both determination and mischief—spoiled his little sister’s Santa story, died almost eleven years ago.  At age 42, he left little behind except his wife and three sons, living proof of his ability to love.

Peter died after a long illness that robbed him inexorably of body and mind, and dying, he went to such an unknowable place that none of us who loved him could follow.  Yet if I was unable to truly accompany his death, that three-year-old Christmas morning still lives in me.  “Mama, did Santa Claus really . . .”

And so much else lives in me, too.  And in his father and his sister.  And in my beloved daughter-in-law.  And in those three adored grandsons.

Can love conquer death, even if you don’t believe in Santa . . . in more than Santa?

When Peter’s father is gone, when I am gone, too, so much of his Peterness will be gone with us.

And yet I believe in the imperfect love that brought my son into the world.

And I believe in the imperfect love that will live still in those he created, in those he touched.

“Mommy, did Santa really . . . ?”

If I could return to that surprise moment with the perspective of age, I would answer his question differently.

“Yes, my son!  Yes!  Love tiptoed into your room.”