Why I Can't Jump Back On The Peace Train

On some date back in 1976, I was the giddiest, most excited teenage girl on the planet. I was at what was then The Music Hall in Boston with my sister Joanne and her boyfriend to see Cat Stevens live.  I'd been to plenty of concerts before, but this was different. It was THE CONCERT. I was in the same airspace with the one musician I worshiped, whose posters were the wallpaper in my bedroom (he was SO hot!), and whose every song I knew verbatim. I played his records so much that I could anticipate exactly where the scratches on the vinyl were. I'm pretty sure I floated into the Music Hall, and was in such a hypnotic state that I guess I picked the seat with the best stage shot, which just happened to be BETWEEN my sister and her boyfriend, a fact she reminded me of years later (Sorry Joey, but I needed the best view of my future husband!) The concert was probably the the most incredible show I've ever seen, Cat Steven's gorgeous self filling the room with that gorgeous voice, moving with ease from guitar to piano and singing every song so passionately. Amazing stuff. But unbeknownst to his millions of fans, it was also to be his last tour as Cat Stevens.

Apparently, what happened was Cat Stevens was swimming somewhere in South America, had a "near death experience" involving a large wave, promised God that he would Serve Him if his life was spared, miraculously made it to shore, was given a Quaran by his brother, found The Truth, ditched the evil secular music, changed his name to Yusuf Islam, and then pretty much disappeared. And that life change was totally his choice, even though, as such a huge fan, I went through all of Elizabeth Kubler Ross's Stages of Grief, from Denial to "Whatever." In the pre- internet days it wasn't easy to get information about him, but some of the articles I was able to find described a man deeply immersed in a world of medieval religious zeal, a man who refused to look female journalists in the eye, a man who shunned music, his greatest gift, and would not touch an instrument...his transformation was, to me, disturbing. He became a person who embodied so much I fundamentally abhor. So I suppose it's not a shock to report that we DIDN'T get married. In fact, he let his mother pick his wife for him. Go figure...he says she's a really good cook.

The Big Wave In The Ocean episode was not to be the last of Cat Steven/Yusuf Islam's "epiphanies" though. After a few decades out of the music business, although not always out of the headlines, all the while steadily building an internet and somewhat more public presence, he's decided to do another tour. According to him, some years ago his son brought a guitar home, he picked it up and VOILA! He had another "Magical Moment!" Music wasn't so evil after all! Of course he wrote a book about the life altering experience of touching a guitar again, instead of just saying "I've been sort of a mindless shit for a lot of years, but I need the money, I miss the attention, and I just want to sing again. Oh..and thanks for the Hall of Fame thing!" That's just not quite profound enough for Yusuf/Cat Stevens (which is how he's referring to himself now). Hence my personal dilemma.

Nostalgia has a very powerful lure, so OF COURSE I wanted tickets to the Boston leg of his first North American tour in thirty years, and of course they were nearly impossible to score. So I joined his "internet fan club" to see how other people were getting their tickets. The impossibility of purchasing tickets for a high demand show was my initial beef, but I very quickly began to notice another very uncomfortable "theme."  I "get" it's a fan site, and there are plenty of now middle aged women who, like me, stood in a concert hall when they were teenagers listening to the musician whose posters were also all over THEIR bedroom walls who chimed in on that space. But it was also weirdly religious, full of people who consider "Brother Yusuf" to be almost God-Like. So after reading a lot, I eventually "Went There." (It's just who I am and what I do..I am an equal opportunity critic of all organized religions, Islam MORE than included). I mentioned that pesky "Rushdie Thing." The backlash against me was immediate and Holy Shit and Crap! Yusuf Islam has verbally danced around this "issue" for years..but I simply cannot "un hear" his words. He said, unequivocally, on a British television show called "Hypotheticals" in 1989, that he supported a Fatwa against a writer whom he believed insulted his religion, and that he would personally do the job himself if he lived in an Islamic State and was directed to do so by a cleric. He's never said, when later asked about his words, "Yeah. I'm sorry. That was an asshole, morally wrong, thing for me to say." The Fatwa is still in effect, as evidenced by Salman Rushdie's name being invoked just last week when some Pakistani's were "celebrating an "I Am Not Malala Day, in reference to the young woman who was shot in the face and left for dead because she wanted to go to school. Mr. Islam says only that he was "joking" when he initially supported the Fatwa, yet he has not denounced it either. I'm sure Rushdie is just cracking up over That one, as he attempts to go about his life knowing he has a bulls eye on his back.

So the bottom line is I've been "prayed for" on Mr. Islam's fan site. I've been told I wasn't "Riding The Peace Train." (Seriously) One poster even told me that Vanilla Ice was now Amish, so TAKE THAT, you heathen! And I've eve been told to simply "shut up." (Like THAT'S ever gonna happen!) But here's the deal. The world has changed dramatically since the late 70's. The person who used to be Cat Steven's wants back in, and we're embracing him too quickly. His voice and his platform could be SO huge, but he's been curiously silent about some VERY real issues. And his newer songs are overtly religious and political, so he doesn't get the "Love and Peace" pass. He's an enormous musical talent, but he is still a religious zealot. He'll make a pile of money from women just like me, but I'll bet my next paycheck there will not be a female musician on his stage. One sane fan wrote to me privately and said, basically, that she too was disturbed by the tenor of the discussion on his fan club site, that she loves his older body of work, but believes fully that he is attempting to straddle two worlds for financial gain. I would also add hubris to his "motivations."

And let me end by saying that I am no longer the giddy teenager I once was...but the man's voice DOES still get to me, in a visceral way. But his WORDS are pure blather, bullshit, and religious weirdness. It's sort of sad that this once Super Duper Teenage fan wouldn't attend his concert if I was GIVEN tickets now, because I've got my my own moral absolutes to live by. And I have no patience for hypocrites, cowards, or True Believers, especially if Thy Name is Cat Stevens.

Indulgence

William Styron, in my opinion one of the most gorgeous voices in the world of American fiction, wrote an equally captivating non fiction account of his profound struggle with Depression in a painful memoir entitled Darkness Unveiled. It is not light reading, but as only he could do, he designed a piece of art through words attempting to illustrate an abstract malady in terms that those who have not suffered could grasp, while at the same time trying to grapple with it himself. And he does it with beauty, force, and an almost incomprehensible ability at self reflection. It's easier not to reflect, but William Styron had no choice.

I don't have Styron's cerebral cortex, or his incredible gift with words, but I do share the illness that consumed his life. I entitled this piece "Indulgence" because while emotionally I know what Styron was feeling, intellectually it's embarrassing and almost shameful to focus so much on my "feelings." In fact, I will always default to the intellectual...until the feelings begin to consume my very essence. That push and pull has become a hallmark of my life, in fact.

Being Depressed is not a state that anyone would choose. Why would they? I use a capital "D" when I write about Depression because it's real. I'm somewhat smart. I understand that people cannot quite understand an illness they cannot identify easily...any illness that manifests itself in behavior is always suspect. But I'm the type of person who needs to know. I can and have tried to dismiss it. But it's bigger than me.

Imagine trying to run through a pile of mud, with the wind blowing directly against your body. That's what Depression feels like. Simple tasks become Olympic feats. You have to congratulate yourself for accomplishing the most basic, normal day to day routines. And sometimes you cannot even manage those.

I'm writing this piece because I understand how invisible this illness is. I refer to it as "Psychic Pain," because there's nothing physically broken. And as a result, it's not real to so many. I hate the term "Mental Illness," because it is so loaded with judgement, as if ones brain is disconnected from their physical body. No one would tell a person with two broken legs to run a Marathon, but when it comes to Depression we are supposed to just snap out of it.

So I indulged. We are way behind the curve on this issue. I've taught Psychology for over two decades and I KNOW there is more that we can do. I KNOW that research has shown that there are doctors who can do better, if they choose to do better. And I hope that if some stray person reads this post and is profoundly sad, know that it's not your fault. You have an illness, and one you should never be ashamed about. Styron grappled with it, and he paid a heavy price. But at least he tried.

Lethal Eye Contact

Here's the scenario...You're doing a really important presentation. Like one that determines, say, the future of your entire life. And one of your siblings decides to support you by showing up. In normal families this gesture would be actually appreciated. But I don't come from a normal family.
I come from the crack-up family. Weddings, funerals, business meetings...nothing is sacred. We just remember the crack ups...those moments when you try so desperately not to, but happen to catch a siblings' eye at time that is so inappropriate, and you start to laugh.It just happens. It's actually embarrassing to admit that we rate our crap ups....Joey, Julie and I have done a lot of Def Com III's.Serious crack-ups.

Which brings me to my dilemma. My youngest Annie has to present her Senior Research Project. It's a big deal....lots of research, preparation, and a public presentation. But she invited her SISTER to watch her. Hello Annie??? As if you're going to stand up on a stage and present your project with MADELINE sitting there watching you? And you two aren't going to dissolve into a major crack up as soon as you even GLANCE at each other?

Maybe they'll pull it off without a crack up. But I doubt it.They're Nicolazzo girls...and a major crack up is in their immediate future.

And The Award Goes To....

It's politically incorrect to use the word "retarded. " I get it. As a technical diagnosis it's been retired, and for many good reasons. But as a lifetime Massachusetts resident, I will not apologize for using the term for people who actually deserve it. I'm referring to people who are not developmentally delayed, but whose stupidity is so mind bending that nothing but head scratching, incredulous, "REALLY?" dumbness earns them the title of "Wicked Retarded."
Since no one is actually reading this, I am announcing an annual Wicked Retarded award. It will be a very important award as soon as my family starts reading my blog. And this very special inaugural Wicked Retarded Award goes to Dennis Rodman.
Why Dennis, you ask? There are so many contenders! But even the most cerebrally challenged, slightly aware person wouldn't purposefully visit.a fat loser kid murderer Stalin Wannabe dictator of a country where people are literally starving to death, sit next to him at a basketball game, and then try to explain to the world press that the chubby sociopath dictator is actually just a really good guy who cares about his family and his people.
So Dennis gets the Wicked Retarded award this year. And his prize? A lifetime stay at one of Kim Jong Ummmmm's Gulag Retreats.

Alice's Restaurant and TMI

Global Warning....I spell for shit. I don't know why, but I'm sure it was my third grade teacher Mrs. Jackson's fault, but I'll get to her later. Everything's her fault. But since Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead, I get to say whatever I want about her.

I was driving south on 495 with my daughter Annie on Thanksgiving day. We hit the road fighting at around 11:15, and then I remembered that Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant gets played on the radio every Thanksgiving at noon. I told Annie I wanted her to hear it, but she was pissed at me about something and wanted Radio Control so she could hear the same five songs that they play over and over again and frantically changed the station just in case she missed one of those songs, but I stood firm. I was going to hear Alice's Restaurant whether she liked it or not. But she showed ME, and put her ear plugs in to listen to one of the five songs she might have missed because I wanted to share an experience with her.

I'm an historian...it's in my DNA. I am fundamentally incapable of experiencing anything without attempting to figure out its roots. I'm not PROUD of this fact..it's just the way I'm designed. Alice's Restaurant is a classic....very funny and at the same time very profound. And I would have loved to listen to it with my daughter, but hey, there might have been a Rhianna song on at the same moment.

Despite what the stats say, I'm not a Boomer. But my older siblings are Boomers. I was just a kid who managed to walk directly into moving traffic, drank Drano, and ran through glass doors while my older siblings were busy being Boomers. I was just a witness to their anti-war hippie antics. I worshiped them (my parents made me) and learned a lot on the sidelines.

My brother Michael was just at that age during the Vietnam War where he had a number. Ask any man in their sixties about their number, and about the experience that Arlo Guthrie talked about in Alice's Restaurant, being called up by the military to check if they were fit to fight, walking around some compound with dozens of other men naked, scared shitless, and examined by military doctors. My parents' ardent fight against the Vietnam War might have been personal-their son was not going to go there-but they were actually right. And every person who was responsible for engineering that war hopefully is rotting in Hell.

But I will tell you, as a wide eyed young bystander, what those years were like for me. I was a kid, but I remember seeing a young John Kerry at an Anti-War Rally in Boston Common. I have a weird memory snapshot of him. I remember an Anti-War Rally at my own house, where our livingroom was packed with teenagers wearing black armbands, and my father had to take a phone call from some angry adult who called him a Communist. Yikes! A Communist! That was worse than being called a pedophile at that time! And Mrs. Jackson yelled at me in front of my Third Grade peers, and told me my brothers were "hippies,' who wore "Love Beads." And I couldn't even do a cursive "S" to her satisfaction. Bitch.

I wanted so much for my daughter to listen to Alice's Restaurant. It's twenty five minutes of a guy, with a guitar, so funny, telling his story about the still unresolved irony of young people being asked to fight wars that old people create (SO not my words!) I got a really awesome education growing up (despite Mrs. Jackson). My parents fought for what was right....my other friends' parents were never as brave....and I got to listen to The Who and Joni Mitchell, when everyone else was listening to Donny Osmond..

And as an historian, I will tell you that not much has changed. We need to listen to Arlo Guthrie a whole lot more.

Bemis and the J's

My parents had way too many kids. Eight because they were Catholic in the 1960's...they might have had more until my mother finally discovered that we had a living room couch.

Of the eight, I was one of the "Four Girls." Because my parents thought it would be wicked cute to give all of us girls names that began with the letter "J.", this is how my dad would refer to us when he needed to speak to anyone of us individually if we might have POSSIBLY done something wrong: "JoanneJanetJoyceJulie...Or whatever the Hell your name is! My sister Jean was exempt, because she was close in age and thus a kindred spirit to the Holy Patron Saint Michael of The Sacred Church Of Five Howard Road.  Or so she was told until she said "Huh? What's so fucking great about Michael? I had to tell HIM there was no such thing as Santa Clause!"

Not that any of us Four Girls JoanneJanetJoyceJulie did anything WRONG, by the way. No sireeee. When SOMEONE sprayed my dad Bemis's shaving cream all over the closet and he was so pissed and we were scared and we were never scared of him, it wasn't ME. It was Richard. It was always Richard. But if it wasn't Richard, it was Joanne. Because who can get mad at Joanne?

Virtually all of my friends grew up in big families, and we all have the same advice to anyone getting all Brady Bunch or Kennedy nostalgic on us. Birth control is awesome. And if that doesn't happen and someone in your undoes something really stupid to piss your parents' off, just blame it on my brother Richard. Because he probably did it. I know it wasn't ME.