I got suspended from school ’cause I’m pregnant which I don’t think is fair. I ain’ did nothin’!*

I first read this opening paragraph of “Push,” the novel by Sapphire, about 12 years ago as an undergraduate. I was taking an Honors English class called “The Imagination of Childhood,” and the novel was part of an assigned reading list. The protagonist, Clareece Precious Jones, an obese,  black girl, pregnant by her father for the second time, does not mince words; having found her way to an alternative school and been inspired to write by her teacher, Precious tells it like it is and doesn’t let ignorance of grammar and spelling get in her way. And the horrific impact of her initial sentences, like sniper shot, gave me nowhere to hide. Like it or not, by the end of the first paragraph, I knew the grim catalogue of misery I’d be dealing with if I chose to read further:

• Child abuse
• Incest
• Statutory Rape
• Pre-teen and teen pregnancy
• Early illiteracy and educational delays
• Current educational deficits wrought by gross negligence
• “Down Sinder,” or Downs Syndrome, possibly due to incest

Caught between shock, repulsion, and pity, I could have skipped the book and read an online review, checking in with more conscientious peers to see whether there was anything I had missed. But I didn’t – because by the second paragraph, I was hooked. Because Precious, who has seen precious few joys in her 16 years, mercifully buffers her readers from the worst of her trials with her matter-of-fact commentary; because she turns round and makes you laugh with some wise crack when you want to cry; because despite enduring monstrously adult hurts, she’s still a kid who doesn’t think it’s fair she’s being suspended due to her second pregnancy – after all, “I ain’ did nothin’!”

Bottom line, the combination of ignorance and knowledge, feistiness and victimization, child and woman, and the bizarre irony of situation that these qualities produce – as though Precious’ suspension from school comes anything close to the robbery of her childhood and innocence – all these elements made me want to stay with Precious, to persevere with her story, even though it was hard, just as I ached for her to persevere with her struggle, despite her many obstacles.

And “Push,” or perseverance, is what the novel is all about, something the brilliant movie version of the novel, “Precious,” by Lee Daniels brought home to me. First and foremost, Precious must push to transmute the negativity of her father’s pushing/assaulting – into the love she bears her children. She must also push to bring her children into the world, push to survive the unending misery of her daily existence, push to break through the literacy barrier, push to find hope and joy with her children, and push to transcend her anguish, as awareness gradually dawns upon her. Ultimately, Precious must push to take ownership of her name; to be valuable, lovable, cherished – to be Precious.  

From the novel “Push,” by Sapphire, Knopf, NY 1996

This September also marks the anniversary of my rebirth – 8 years since my escape from the World Trade Center where I worked on 9/11. I was one of the lucky ones – not only did I survive, I didn’t even know any of the victims. Both physically and psychologically, then, I remained intact. Somehow, I had been able to tune out all but the most important of survivor instincts – action and reaction – insulating myself from the horror until I was safe. What kept me going was the sense that I had to put one foot in front of the other, get out the building, and reach my family. That’s all I thought about, all I allowed myself to think about, and it saved me. Even once I was out of the building, I never looked up, never looked behind me – except when Tower II collapsed – and kept moving forward. Watching the planes crash through the towers on TV later that day and on successive days, I was horrified at how close I had come to death. At the time, though, adrenalin had buoyed me up and away from the terror of the moment.

September, of course, heralds the beginning of the Jewish High Holy Days, which incorporates Rosh Hashanah, the New Year and, 7 days later, Yom Kippur, the Day of Judgment. During this auspicious period, God judges his people and determines their fate. Depending on the year, Rosh Hashanah will fall either in the beginning, the middle, or the end of the month. In 2001, Rosh Hashanah fell one week after the Trade Center Tragedy; the irony of this juxtaposition was lost to none of us. The liturgy for Rosh Hashanah includes Unesaneh,Tokef, or, “Let Us Relate the Power,” which describes how, on this day, God will inscribe our fate for the coming year: “…who will live and who will die…who by water and who by fire…who by plague, who by strangulation, and who by stoning…” As I stood in the synagogue that Rosh Hashanah and recited the prayer, I realized that for the Trade Center victims, death had meant “all of the above.”

This Rosh Hashanah, I will have an additional reason to celebrate: the welcome change in my circumstances. After almost 5 months of unemployment, I am working again, as a freelance Communications Consultant, and have just begun my MS Ed in Mental Health Counseling. Five months of unemployment probably seems a relatively short period given the current market. Still, those were 5 arduous months in which I developed my blog, networked, applied for jobs, dutifully did a round of informational interviews, courtesy of outplacement training, and braved the questioning stares of my neighbors every time I walked by in my trusty interview suit. “Not yet,” I’d say brightly, before they had the chance to ask, “but soon – I’ll let you know when.” Occasionally, during that 5-month period, I’d lose it and cry as though the world was coming to an end, much to the distress of my family. Once the deluge was over, though, I’d dry my eyes, hug it out, take a deep breath, and move on.

It’s September again; this year, along with the end of summer and the anniversary of my rebirth, I’ll also mark the hopeful change in my prospects. And on one of those perfect fall days, as I hurry about my business, I’ll bask in the dappled sunlight dancing through the wind-swept branches, and envelop myself in the promise of new beginnings.

Of course, I have to be on the look out for signs of God’s protection. Daily existence is full of static that tends to drown out the sources of epiphany, so it helps to remain alert. That’s why, for me, concepts such as God, clarity, and the unseen aren’t limited to the synagogue and High Holy Days. Rather, belief, faith, and the Deity are omniscient and omnipresent in my world, and this helps me find answers or hope in the most unlikely of places. Like horoscopes. In the Jewish tradition, horoscopes are considered kishuf, or magic, and therefore forbidden. Nevertheless, nothing will stop me from finding my daily horoscope and testing it against my current reality. And here again, my approach is trusting and untroubled. If my reading is on target, God is obviously sending me a message, channeling it through the horoscope because he knows I read it daily. If my reading misses the mark, though, I overlook it; no one gets it right all the time.

I think my first inkling of the synergy between the divine and the secular occurred when I was 11. Doctors had found a benign lump in my shoulder and determined it had to come out. My parents didn’t tell me until the day before the actual surgery was scheduled to take place, and while I didn’t kick up a fuss, I was scared. This was not my first surgery, but it was the first time I faced the prospect of going under anesthetic with full knowledge of what that entailed: I would be unconscious for the space of time it took to perform the minor procedure, and it was this that filled me with panic.

The following day, sitting up in bed in my hospital gown, I waited to be taken to the operating room while my parents alternately held my hand consolingly or wandered the halls. Feeling sick with anxiety, I tried to take my mind off the imminent ordeal, and picked up a magazine. As I flipped distractedly through the pages, the horoscope section caught my eye. I’d never really paid much attention to horoscopes before, and given my current state of mind, didn’t even know for sure whether I was a Virgo or a Taurus; I settled on Virgo – who wants to be a bull? – and proceeded to read the following: “You’re very nervous about an event that will take place in your life. But don’t worry, everything will be all right.” That was it. For some reason, the simple sentences I’d already heard from my parents and doctors comforted me enormously. The fact that, as I later discovered, I was actually a Taurus, did nothing to dissipate my belief that God had sent me a message – on the contrary. I was in need and God had found a way to palliate my fears – it was wonderful, mysterious, and I was not going to argue with it.

Over the years I’ve continued to check my daily horoscope. In addition to the sometimes-apt readings, it’s become a way to mark time until my sign is first on the list, which means my birthday month has arrived. These days, though, I’m careful to check under Taurus rather than Virgo. Now that I know better, I can’t expect God to work overtime on my behalf.

On one level, “The Hurt Locker” is an astonishingly suspenseful movie, focusing on a 3-man U.S. bomb disposal squad stationed in Iraq. On another, the movie serves as a canvas against which basic human emotions are played out, along with complex motivations for the action we see.

Staff Sgt. William James, the movie’s protagonist and the actual bomb disposal specialist, does not enjoy war per se, so much as the thrill of mastering what makes Iraqi bombs – well, tick. His approach to war is that of the obsessive, single-minded genius, fascinated by the bombs he defuses, challenged by their structural complexity, and determined to locate and disarm their operating systems, even when his actions endanger both his own and his men’s lives. By contrast, James cannot quite manage the humdrum routines of civilian life. He is a man for whom, as the voiceover at the start of the movie observes, “war is a drug.” You can almost see a pre-military James finding less acceptable outlets for his recklessness – until the army teaches him to sublimate those tendencies and live life on the edge in the name of patriotism. Like any addicts, then, James both loves and needs to diffuse bombs, even though the means to his salvation may one day kill him.

But while James is impervious to fear, he is no psychopath. He shows affection and concern for an Iraqi boy with the unlikely name of Beckham; continually encourages Specialist Eldridge, the most inexperienced and apprehensive of the 3-man operation; is reluctant to brag about his accomplishments; and clearly wants to save lives – those of innocent Iraqis as well as Americans. Yet James’ careless bravery, irrespective of its results, angers and terrifies Sgt. Sanborn and Specialist Eldridge, for whom survival is the name of the game in just another dangerous tour of duty. While they’re counting down the days to the end of their deployment, James revels in the daily peril and once home, pines for his next Iraqi stint. Back in the combat zone, the cockiness returns to his eyes and the swagger to his tread. James is such a cocktail of recklessness, compassion, and naïveté, that you find yourself sitting on the edge of your seat, uncertain whether to shake your head or cheer him on. He pulls off his protective gear to detonate a multiple bomb structure in the trunk of a car, claiming that “we’re dealing with enough ammo to blow us all to Jesus, so I may as well die comfortable”; is a pleased as a child when finally unearthing the deadly operating switch; and doesn’t even get angry when Sanborn, whom he technically outranks, decks him for ripping off his headphones in frustration. James isn’t in this for honor or pride – he just loves what he’s doing; nothing he’s done has come closer to feeding his adrenalin rush. Hooked, armed, and dangerously likeable, it’s no wonder James scares Eldridge and Sanborn; they never came to Iraq expecting to fight the enemy in their own back yard.

*A reference to a poem of the same name by Brian Turner, the Hurt Locker symbolizes, among other possibilities, the repository for the weapons and agents of destruction spawned by the war.

In the movie, Clint Eastwood is Walt Kowlaski, a retired auto worker and misanthropic loner so haunted by his painful experiences in the Korean War that he is unable to connect with other human beings, never mind his own family. Snarling, cantankerous, and unabashedly racist, Walt makes short shrift of the 27-year old priest who rashly promised his dying wife that he would persuade Walt to go to confession, dispatches his son and daughter-in-law with even less ceremony when they suggest Walt move to a retirement community, and churlishly rebuffs his new Hmong neighbors. With his wife gone, Walt’s only connections are to his 1972 Gran Torino, well maintained, but rarely on show – like Walt’s good heart – his dog Daisy, on whom he lavishes the affection he cannot show his family, and his barber with whom he exchanges heavily barbed racist repartee on a monthly basis.

Then circumstances throw Walt together with Thao and Sue, his young neighbors. Local gang members pressure a reluctant Thao into stealing Walt’s Grand Tornio as an initiation rite, but Thao fails when the old man catches him in the act. Gang members show up to “give him another shot” despite Thao’s clear desire to be left alone and his older sister’s furious attempts to protect him. When the altercation spills on to Walt’s lawn, he orders them off his property at rifle-point – and ironically becomes a hero to the descendents of a people he was once ordered to kill. Irony piles atop irony as we examine the full ramifications of Walt’s action. When he draws his rifle at the intruders, he doesn’t bother to distinguish victims from attackers. All he sees, in purely blinkered terms, is a bunch of trespassing gooks. Successive events, however, teach Walt to view his neighbors through a prism of grudging tolerance. After he saves Sue from hectoring young black men, Walt is exposed to this fearless young woman’s teasing attempts to draw him into her world. Having no trouble standing up to menacing gang members, Sue remains unfazed by the racist slurs Walt throws her way; she recognizes these as the defenses Walt has erected to keep the world at bay. In fact, she parries his verbal assaults with cheerful explanations of the people and customs Walt learned to demonize in surviving Korea’s daily horrors. Ultimately, Walt starts to run out of steam in the face of Sue’s persistence, along with that of his Hmong neighbors who continue to leave food on his steps as tokens of gratitude to their unwitting “hero.” He also reluctantly agrees to let Thao work off his Gran Torino-theft offense, and under his rough tutelage, watches the withdrawn young man gradually come into his own. In time, Walt becomes more connected to Thao and Sue than to his own family; more receptive to the community’s holy man than to his own priest; and more aware with every day that goes by, that this family will find no peace as long as gang violence against them continues unchecked.

When his neighbors’ home is subjected to a drive-by shooting and Sue is violently raped, events crystallize for Walt into an unspoken epiphany. Without articulating his intent to anyone, without even clearly articulating it to himself, Walt begins to prepare for battle: he has his hair cut and tips the astonished barber $10; he has himself fitted for a custom-tailored suit; he leaves Daisy with Thao’s grandmother, a woman with whom he shares a mutual bond of elderly mistrust – and he goes to church to make his confession, much to Father Janovich’s consternation – “what in God’s name have you done!” Never once amid these seemingly mundane events, heavily loaded with portent, does Walt’s grim humor flag, his courage wane, or his façade crack. He remains formidably cranky to the end. Significantly, the one sin Walt does not confess to is killing men under orders during the Korean War; he is about to atone for this in actions rather than in words.

When Walt confronts the gang members at their home, he draws out the tension until he is certain there are plenty of witnesses to what will ensue, secure in the knowledge that for him, this is the point of no return. Walt is not even carrying a gun when the gang open fire; significantly, he falls to the ground arms outstretched. Like Jesus, Walt dies to save others; unlike Jesus, though, his sacrifice expiates his own burden, redeeming his soul by bringing hope to the descendents of men he unwillingly shot in Korea. Precise and responsible to the end, Walt is ready for his burial – hair trimmed, custom-made suit ready to be picked up from the tailors. All that remains is for Father Janovich, the young priest’s forebodings confirmed, to deliver the sermon. And as the final pièce de résistance, Walt bequeaths his Gran Tornio to his emotional heir, Thao; freed of its owner’s burden, the material symbol of Walt’s goodness can finally see the light of day.

So what, actually, is Walt’s reasoning in his moment of epiphany? He comes to the realization, in common with his Dickensian analogue, another sardonic, nobly flawed character, Sydney Carton from “A Tale of Two Cities,” that nothing in his life is more important than saving those he loves, that nothing in his life stands in the way of his departure, and that ultimately, expiation through self-sacrifice is “….a far, far better thing I do now than I have ever done.”* We can only hope that, along with Sydney Carton, having fulfilled his destiny, Walt finds his way to “…a far, far better place…than I have ever known.”*

*A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. At the moment of sacrificing his life for his rival, for the sake of the woman they both love, Sydney Carton says:

“It is a far, far better thing I do now than I have ever done. It is a far, far better place I go to than I have ever known.”

If you enjoyed this article, you may also like Fallen Angel, Man in the Mirror: Michael Jackson and Dorian Gray, Susan Boyle: From Transcendent to Transformed, and The Dream Lives on: an Open Letter to Susan Boyle.

Let’s take a step back and analyze some of more arcane of these terms, like RIF. For those of you who’ve managed to remain blissfully ignorant of the term, RIF is an abbreviation for Reduction in Force, which in its turn, is a euphemism for being laid off, which in its turn is one way of saying you’ve been let go, which in its turn…I could go on, but will spare you.

The point is, RIF joins the pantheon of wildly euphemistic expressions for losing a job. Why euphemize a necessary corporate decision? Because no company or CEO wants to be associated with human grief, humiliation, and all the nasty, messy stuff job loss entails. So any kind of language that throws a mist of ambiguity over the stark truth is an absolute boon to the corporate hierarchy.

The funny thing about ambiguity, though, is the variety of meanings it can disguise. After all, the only reason RIFs signify job loss to us, is the same reason Pavlov’s dogs started drooling for food when they heard a bell  – conditioning – the combining of a neutral stimulus with an unconditioned stimulus which, through repeated pairing, turns into a conditioned response. So after a while, we don’t think about the phonetic associations or actual denotation of RIFs, because like Dr. Pavlov’s canines, we’ve bought into the whole conditioned reflex scenario.

But humor me, if you will, and assume you’re one of fortunate few who’ve never heard of RIF or any of the veiled references to job loss. What might be the first thing to enter your mind when you hear one of these terms?  

Let’s start with RIF. Add another “f” to “RIF” and you’ve got, in essence, a joke or witty expression. Like my riff on the inanities of corporate etymology. So before conditioning turns the phonetic denotation of “riff” into its unmistakable connotation, the mysterious RIF could be misunderstood as a joke or sly aside – hardly subtle on the part of corporate when you think about it. I can see the headlines now, “Getting Fired Isn’t Funny!” or “RIFs – Nothing to Riff About.”

Here’s another favorite of mine: “Your position is being eliminated.” Now to “eliminate” means to get rid of – it also means to expel waste from the body. So as the possible meanings of this expression pass through your mind, you’d be forgiven for the accompanying restroom imagery. No wonder you run tearfully from the site of your “elimination” deeming yourself no better than toilet paper. As for being “terminated” – Schwarzenegger machine-gunning his way through your cubicle wouldn’t be an unusual stretch.

So what do we have here? Instead of some harmlessly bland expressions prompting employees to vacate the premises in a civilized fashion, we have arguably harmful expressions whose ambiguity connotes a variety of unpleasant meanings. Is it any wonder, then, that getting RIF-d, eliminated or terminated is seen as a personal affront?

In his famous 1946 essay, “Politics and the English Language,” George Orwell wrote

“Modern English, especially written English, is full of bad habits which spread by imitation and which can be avoided if one is willing to take the necessary trouble. If one gets rid of these habits one can think more clearly…”

Precisely. Which begs the question – does corporate America seek to think more clearly? I leave you with this parting thought: on occasion, playing dumb isn’t the sole province of blondes.

*For more articles related to layoffs and unemployment, please click on Laid Off: Variations on a Theme and You Know You’ve Reached an All-Time Low When…

In many ways, we can use “The Picture of Dorian Gray” to understand the tragedy of Michael Jackson. As the beautiful, irresistibly talented young man soared to the heights of fame, his oddities seemed to grow apace. And, as the rumors of his behavior grew more insidious, the beautiful face grew increasingly distorted, plasticized, artificial, surreal. Unlike Dorian Gray, however, Michael had no painted doppelganger to absorb his disfigurements – he had to deal with them in the flesh. While the causes of Michael’s facial changes are well documented – vitiligo, plastic surgery, drugs, etc. – from a literary perspective, it seemed the alleged perversions of which he was accused had slowly turned outward, destroying the perfection of the once beautiful, mischievous – but for all that – innocent face. The change began innocuously enough – no longer a child sensation, Michael strived for more edge. In the process, though, the whoops of joy became whoops of anger, the handsome male, a handsome anomaly, the fluid movements, an exercise in jerky, twisted virtuosity. Ultimately Michael’s dead eyes, waxy-pallor, and frozen features became a parody of the dancing eyed, adorable dimpled, enormously talented man we knew. The adopted eccentricities – masks, veils, etc – served only to emphasize this irrevocable transformation.

Forced to bear his physical and moral disfigurements in life, in death, Michael has been given a second chance. And, as Dorian Gray’s death restored his portrait to its innocent perfection, Michael’s demise has restored his reputation. In our minds and in our hearts, he is the joyous, good humored, beautiful young man we remember him to be. And in memory of that man, we deal kindly with the poor, ruined face of the Man in the Mirror.

For more on the Michael Jackson tragedy from “Rivkah Writes…” see Thrill Seeker.

Your  Bag, My Bad                                                                                                                        

It’s Tuesday at 7.00 pm, a sweltering day in June, and I am only just heading home. It was hard enough dragging myself out of bed this morning after only 4 hours sleep. This pathetically insufficient interval was all that remained of my “night” once I hit “send” and dispatched my paper on “The Misery of Modern Man.” And please, please, no snide little riffs on art imitating life – I really don’t think I could stand that right now.

Anyway, having silently harangued myself through the last ten hours, the last thing I need is standing room only on the subway ride home. So once the train doors open, with unusual determination, I make a bee line for the only available seat. Now said seat – actually more of space – is located between a pretty young woman and a craggy Master of the Universe type. Both are deeply preoccupied – the one in balancing a Louis Vuitton hobo and a bunch of flowers on her spandexxed thighs and the other in punching keys furiously on his blackberry. Between the two is a pole, which complicates matters somewhat, but does not deter me. I slip into the narrow lacuna afforded by the pole, feigning complete – albeit guilty – indifference to the older woman weighted down by “Macy’s Sale” shopping bags who has hurried in after me, no doubt in pursuit of the same seat.

“Sorry,” I tell her silently, “ordinarily, I’d let you sit, but you can always put those bags down, and you’re wearing flats, and someone’s bound to get off at Grand Central Station, or at least Union Square, whereas I am exhausted, in 4-inch heels, and will definitely pass out if I’m not sitting.” And as the woman glares accusingly at me, I retort wordlessly, “please – at least you got to take advantage of “The Macy’s Who-the-Hell-Cares-What-Day-it-Is-Anyway-Let’s-Have-a-Sale!” sale, while all I got to do was write a horrible paper I was too brain-dead to proofread, which is why I now have a splitting headache and will no doubt get a C…”

And so my thoughts run along, until, swayed by the soothing rhythm of the train and the sudden lack of mental activity that has kept me going throughout the day, I abruptly pass out. A strange, troubled sort of slumber this is – for while profoundly zonked, I’m still hyper-alert to my surroundings: the refrigerated train; the Spandexxed One’s legs occasionally touching my own in their bright yellow skirt – yes, I thought the color might inspire me to Tropicana-like feats of wakefulness; the intermittent elbowing of MOTU responding to yet another email; the laughter and loud remarks of some young guys – budding MOTUs themselves by the sound of it…the insistent poke of something near my lap…a note of worry creeps into my cocoon…”what is that object?” I wonder, “oh, of course, it’s my bag…but, aren’t I already holding on to it? And if I so, why don’t I feel the bag, only this poking?” Anxiously, I grab the bag’s handles, the more firmly to secure them in my hands – “no one’s going to take advantage of me just because I’m sleeping, that’s for damned sure,” I vow – and feel a sudden resistance…a pulling…what is it? Desperately, I try to open my eyes, but they are so heavily paralyzed by slumber along with the rest of me, that I just-can’t-make-it…until someone taps me on the shoulder, and I suddenly spring awake. Bleary-eyed, I look around me – and realize I have grabbed the Spandexxed One’s Louis Vuitton; the owner herself is trying to pry my fingers off the handles, a half-amused, half-annoyed expression in her eyes.

Stammering, dry-mouthed, I apologize profusely, subsiding into silence as the young woman assures me it’s fine and gently retrieves the hobo I am still convulsively clutching. Meanwhile, MOTU leans towards me and suggests, sotto voce, that partying a little less mid-week might help me avoid this sort of scenario. As I try to defend myself amid the general, ensuing laughter, I catch Ms. Macy’s smug glance. Clearly, her expression reads, I’d have done better to offer her my seat when I had the chance. Resettling my own bag – it was in my lap all the time – I resist the temptation to suggest where MOTU can shove his advice, and stare stoically into space as the train rattles on, unperturbed by its occupants’ shenanigans.

Saints & Sinners

It’s Friday morning in mid-August, and I’m settled in for the long train-ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan, lilac shawl wrapped tightly around me against the mandatory, May to September subway chill. Today, I’m not letting this bother me. It’s Friday, I’m meeting friends after work, and am wearing my favorite outfit. I know I look good, and the glances of other passengers confirm this, so I’m not going to let a little refrigeration ruin my mood.

As I let my eyes wonder lazily around the train, I notice the Make Up Diva opposite me and feel reassured. Make Up Diva (a woman whose skillfully sculpted features could put her age at anywhere between 35 and 55), is always on time, so her presence today bodes well for my punctuality which hasn’t that been that stellar of late. I allow myself a small smile as I watch Make Up Diva – her mouth and eyes open unnaturally wide – apply a third coat of mascara, constantly checking the result in a small pocket mirror. Sensing my gaze, she pauses mid-sweep and raises a well-groomed eyebrow in my direction; I get the hint and hurriedly look away, meeting the scrutiny of a handsome black woman with salt and pepper hair holding what looks like a well-thumbed bible. Shifting uncomfortably, I turn away, wondering how long this woman’s been staring at me and what she finds so fascinating, when the word “Jezebel!” is suddenly hurled in my direction. Startled, I turn to face my accuser who continues spiritedly, despite the stares of everyone around her, “So saith the Lord, the painted harlot shall meet her end, for she is the Devil Incarnate…” My body sprints up of its own accord and I start blindly for a seat in another part of the car. In spite of my better judgment – the woman is obviously deranged – I’m indignant. “Me – I’m the painted harlot?” I think angrily, as I wedge my way into a seat between two guys, “what about Make Up Diva next to you? Maybe you should take a look at her before you start hurling biblical accusations at me – at least I don’t put on my make up in public!”

Everyone studiously ignores the Preacher, though, so finally the sermon ceases and the Preacher goes back to studying her bible. I calm down and doze off. Suddenly, the train jerks forward, and I am drenched with water that must have collected behind the advertising pane during the last storm. I dart up, gasping with shock, aware of the scandalized gasps and giggles afforded by my predicament. For while my neighbors haven’t gotten off that lightly either, I’m the one who must look spectacularly foolish in my ruined favorite outfit. Sighing stoically, I examine the damage and shrug my shoulders, assuming the bravura needed to get me through this event. As I dab at myself ineffectually with tissues and decide against sitting down again, the Preacher rises slowly, turns to me,  and intones: “The Lord has spoken – all is vanity,” and with perfect timing, exits the train just as it slows to a stop.

Cheeks flaming with embarrassment, I clutch my bag, hold on to the pole, and keep my eyes locked on the Administration for Children’s Services ads in front of me while I wait for the next – and my last – stop. “Are You Tough Enough?” asks one intrepid Child Protection Specialist. “Are You Strong Enough?” demands another. “Sure,” I reflect wryly, as I exit the train, “I got through this train ride, didn’t I?”

And for my final encore…

Leg Room Only

I am wedged into the corner of the hard subway seats, trying to edge away from the hairy, outstretched legs of the young man beside me. Hairy Legs is hunched over, arms and curly head between his knees, shaking to the rhythm of the tinny screech clearly audible from his iPod. His earnest, be-spectacled face is transported, rapt. Eying him critically, I decide against calling his attention to the inequity in our leg room situation; the kid is clearly oblivious, not rude. Sighing stoically, I cross my legs, calculating – correctly – that I’ll have more room if the only part of me taking up space is my butt. Meanwhile, Hairy Legs continues to jostle to the beat, and, taking advantage of the extra half-inch afforded by my leg-cross maneuver, appreciatively moves his legs even further apart, the better to delve into the existential puzzle of life residing between his knees. I shoot him a murderous glance and, very deliberately, uncross my legs and reclaim my rightful half inch. Upon impact, and without either missing a beat or looking up, Hairy Legs instantly shifts over. Shutting my eyes and trying to settle in for 8 more stops, I muse upon the fact that ignorance truly is bliss.

For some people, myself included, no joy comes close to that thrill of accomplishment. And that’s all well and good. The problem is not excellence per se, but the pursuit of excellence, which becomes a curse in and of itself. Like many tormented perfectionists, Michael was never content to rest on his laurels, to take a step back, to simply enjoy his accomplishments, because there was always another barrier to conquer, another goal to attain, another “first” to dream up, choreograph, and perform. But what’s a superstar to do once he’s created the best selling album of all time, conquered racial and cultural boundaries, used the cultural signifiers of his day to produce cutting edge iconography and videography, raised tens of millions of dollars for Africa, ripped his shirt, given back, and given his all, over and over again? The burden must have been enormous, unimaginable. And so by the time Michael was in his 30s, he had scaled the summit of his innovative powers and reached the dark side.

Despite his crotch grabbing, hip thrusting, chin jutting postures, Michael was clearly confused about his sexuality. Watch his video for “The Way You Make Me Feel.”*  See how he circles his female prey, hurls his desire at her like a challenge, yet neither touches nor dances with the supposed girl of his dreams. Never fully gown up, Michael took up the Peter Pan persona in earnest, turning his home into a theme park, and playing dubious games with children that had the media up in arms. And, as he slowly transformed himself through layers of surgical artifice, the grotesque result seemed to parody the songs that had brought him fame. Here was the “Man in the Mirror,” turning in horror from the “Thriller” he had spawned. Here was what happened when Michael, in truth, could neither “Stop” nor “Get Enough,” when “Beat It” became the command he used to drive himself to further and further feats of the bizarre until there was no turning back. From the pinnacle of fame Michael had reached the pinnacle of notoriety. What else remained but to bow out, tragically?

I am not and never was in Michael’s league, either professionally or personally. My struggle’s just that of your average OCD personality who, as I’ve said before,** can never cut him- or herself enough slack. Every day, though, my unhealthy tendencies are redeemed by a loving family that give me the kick in the butt I need to stay sane – and alive. It’s a shame no one could do the same for the legendary King of Pop.

* ”The Way You Make Me Feel,” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sEU9Q8NlOiY.

**In “The Dream Lives On: In an Open Letter to Susan Boyle” I wrote:

 “As a fellow masochist, I too make incredible demands of myself, get depressed for inevitably falling short, yet would never dream of imposing such demands on my husband, children, or loved ones. To everyone other than myself, I am kind, patient, encouraging, and tender – yet I cannot be that person for myself.”

I am sensible to your disquietude; nevertheless I reserve my belated right to speak up on the “Twilight” phenomenon. So bear with me if you will.    

In the past I’ve mentioned my passion for fairy tales – Hogwarts, Narnia, Hobbits, Mordor – oh, and of course, vampire tales. Long before Stephenie Meyer dreamed of crossing over to the dark side, there was Ann Rice, Lestat, and the erotic, sensuous otherworld of the undead.

There’s a special atmosphere created by all classic works of magical fiction, and it is to envelop myself in this atmosphere that I re-read these books and anxiously await their screen debut, hoping this medium does not wreak havoc on my beloved tales. In most instances, my fears go unrealized. The movie versions of “The Lord of the Rings” and the Narnia tales, for example, are as wondrously realized as the original novels. I admit I may have tuned out over that whole Tom-Cruise-Brad-Pitt-“Interview-with-a-Vampire” phase. Still, once my daughter became enamored of the “Harry Potter” and “Twilight” series, I matched her, book for book, movie for movie. But that’s when the trouble started. Because, while the Harry Potter movies depict a wholly re-imagined world, their setting and characterization as effective on screen as in their original conception, there is one major problem with the “Twilight” movie; its magic does not ring true.

Now don’t get me wrong. The “Twilight” books themselves are terrific.  Meyer brilliantly uses “good” vampires struggling valiantly against innate blood thirst as a metaphor for humanity fighting innate – but unacceptable – impulses. The novels juxtapose mystery and magic with teenage angst, and just enough romance to set the pulse racing. Oh the thrill of the shy, withdrawn maiden chosen by the gorgeous, tortured, demonic hero – oh the delicious constancy and devotion he manages to hold in check for 2½ entire books. Indeed, Meyer renders unconsummated yearning and desire so viscerally, Keats* himself would be proud. And in the movie itself, Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart admirably personify Edward and Bella. True, Edward could up the smolder factor a notch, but he is believable as the brooding, conflicted creature determined to transcend his blood lust through devotion to Bella. And Kristen Stewart re-creates Bella’s awkward self-consciousness with wonderful subtlety. I also loved the “bad” vampires – such devilishly sexy characters, their “good” counterparts seem pallid by comparison.

But the movie’s truly fatal flaw lies in its special effects; to be brutally honest, they left me cold. In a crazy way, the movie’s atmosphere is “Twilight”-meets-MTV-while-under-the-influence – almost self-consciously un-magical, using cult appeal and edgy music to inflate scenes as un-sinister as they are unbelievable. Edward’s incredible speed translates into a cartoonish immediacy that comes off as amateurish. Is it just me? Back in the days of yore, was “The Six Million Dollar Man”’s incredible strength interpreted that much more skillfully? Maybe I’m just older and more critical.

Moving right along, what about that horribly unrealistic snarling – was I seriously meant to be frightened by that? By contrast, think of Bilbo Baggins in “The Lord of the Rings” begging Frodo to let him hold the ring one last time. Think how the ring’s power turns that benevolent face terrifying in a matter of seconds. What’s a few second of terror within the elfish paradise of Rivendell, right? But that demonic face made my blood run cold.

Oh, and when Edward removes his shirt to reveal why he must hide from the sunlight, his sparkling, waxen-hued torso made me want to laugh rather than empathize with his undead condition. And no, you can’t just write me off as a middle-aged cynic. I mean, when Harry Potter teaches Dumbledore’s Army members the Patronus spell to combat Dementors in “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix,” the resulting scenes make me smile with childish pleasure, so clearly I’m not cynical, right? Well then, why does “Twilight” magic make me want to rush for the exit? Because – and here’s the irony – successful fantasy feels real, even when it clearly is not.

So my message to directors filming “New Moon” – the “Twilight” sequel – is this: make magic I can believe in and a world I yearn for…edgy music optional.