You'll never get off the playground (short fiction)

She knew it was ridiculous, she knew she was obsolete, and most of all she knew she was alone.

There were days when everything just seemed to be in spin. Not that it was exciting or anything, in fact she could barely see or remain upright. A person her age? Should be able to see by now. Or make sense of things at least.

It was the computer, no, the way things had changed, no, the expectations on her, no, the way you were just supposed to know things without any learning process at all.

Did she really need to review all this again? How many times was this, anyway, the fifty-thousandth?  Didn't she remember when she couldn't skip double-Dutch and was thrown off the team and then after a while stopped trying and hid in a corner of the playground?

That was where she was spat upon. Literally, some boys from the other side of the playground. They banded together and held her down. Because she was such a loser. Loser loser loser loser loser loser loser. She stood there hunch-shouldered and crying, looking like the thing she was.

Years later, and oh yes this was in public, a woman she knew old biddy really, stood behind her and grabbed her shoulders and began pulling and yanking and pulling and yanking. "Stand up straight! I can barely stand to look at you."

That, too, was her fault.

So she wondered why, no, she didn't wonder why certain things just ripped the top off, ripped off the carefully-constructed facade she lived behind and exposed the raw unhealed flesh beneath. The unacceptable her, the real her.

The thing is, you're supposed to just know how to do these things. You're born knowing. Boy, I got to the party late, very late, so late that everyone else knew each other already and was proficient at things, party games and the like, that I knew nothing about and would never know anything about because it was too late.

She has been writing and deleting, writing and deleting for several days now, trying to get rid of feelings she doesn't want to have. She can only talk about a tiny fraction of them now, because she is beginning to realize that the internet is just one big stage, a protracted performance and a huge popularity contest. Just like back in school! If you're a good performer and have lots of "social skills," you do great. The more Facebook "friends" you have, the more successful you are as a person. But it must be a bare minimum of 300. That's the quota, don't you know? If you

(No, strike that, it was "bad" and someone would see it.)
I was always rotten at all of it. What makes me think it's going to be any different now? I constantly have a feeling of being hopelessly out of my depth. I came to the party late, far too late, and everyone knows each other already - wait, I already said that - and has no interest in talking to that odd person standing awkwardly in the corner with her head sunk between her shoulders like a dog that has been treated very, very badly.

When did this start? Probably before the egg met the sperm. Laugh now, laugh like the therapist did, not once but twice when I was trying to express a pain beyond language. "Oh, Sarah!" she exclaimed, and threw her head back. She thought I was being witty, entertaining and ironic. Or else performing, which for once I was not. Or else so outrageous, I had no right to be that way. Oh, Sarah!

Not that anyone's listening, but, see, I learned to be entertaining and I learned it young because it was the only way I could survive. If I didn't constantly play the court jester I would be almost literally thrown on the scrap-heap, so I kept on frantically performing. I got especially good laughs when the mask fell off and some of my pain slipped out.

I will never forget. It was the time I was really teetering, and for once I just could not wear the mask. Someone close to me said, "You're just faking this to get attention." It was a double-twist, one of those deliriously sick half-nelsons that may have caused all this insanity in the first place. I was faking being sick, when it was one of the rare times I was NOT faking. The rest of the time, I was faking being well, but to almost everyone I knew, it was "real" and this self-indulgent whimpering was "fake". When your brain is twisted around into a corkscrew, can you help being in pain, can you help crying out? Yes, you can, so SHUT UP.

Anyway, back to more important things.  This Facebook stuff, everyone else gets it, but all she gets is blunders, criticisms, awkwardness and more pain. Like double-Dutch, she does't even know how to do it. There are no instructions, and everyone is too embarrassed to show her any of it because you are supposed to know. This doesn't just damage her self-esteem, it reminds her once again that she doesn't have any.

(A few weeks ago she was publicly ripped apart on someone's blog in a way that was truly breathtaking. But it was HER fault, for putting her stuff out there! Everyone told her so, especially people who "loved" her. If she actually had those mysterious social skills that everyone else seems to have been born with, it never would have happened at all)

So she ruthlessly cut two paragraphs. Then three more. What am I going to do with this? But it was only her diary. Her diary? Why was she editing a diary no one would even see? She didn't even read it herself. Because it was just too bloody difficult. Even if no one ever saw it at all.

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Lovely Erica

Sometimes, when you're having a sucky rotten day, you just have to try to focus on what is good in your life.

I have four things. Well, five. Let's not forget that I've been married to the same man for nearly 40 years.

I just feel bruised, and off my base, and hurt and angry because of something someone posted on Facebook, someone whom I thought was a friend (and used to be, years ago). Did I take it the wrong way? Whatever it was, I felt like I was back on the playground again being spat upon.

Something I was very proud of was mocked and made fun of and demeaned, as if it was stupid of me to put any time into it and as if I had nothing better to do.

There are times when I think you never do get out of the playground, that it's fate, kismet, whatever, and all your efforts to escape are so many headlong runs at the brick wall.

I did try to get all this out of my mind, to delete and delete, but it's more than bothering me, it hurts with that deep howling hurt that makes you wonder if you really can keep on living. If there is in fact any point.

Do I need to explain my feelings? I shouldn't have to. But I have been in exile too long. Perhaps for my whole life. There is no cure for what you are.

Meantime, I have this.

http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.com/2012/01/synopsis-glass-character-novel-by.html

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Ever knitted a dinosaur?

I knitted these guys for my dino-loving grandson Ryan for his 6th birthday. NOT life-sized!

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The flight attendant from hell, part 2

The more things change, the worse they get, it seems.

Yesterday I wrote quite a long post about that incident involving an American Airlines flight attendant who “went berserk” on the plane, ranting over the PA system for 15 minutes about 9-11, the plane crashing, and other bizarre possibilities (screaming, at one point, “I’ll kill them all”).

Yes, this was an extreme case, but a few details have come out that I think are VERY strange.

The public are understandably “concerned” (read: terrified) about the possibility of something like this happening again. Flight attendants are supposed to keep everyone calm no matter what the situation, so this hellish rant was more than disturbing.

But in the aftermath, certain facts are emerging.  Alarmingly, it turns out that airlines do NOT screen flight attendants for mental illness. Pilots, yes. But pilots have an important job. I think the old idea that “stewardesses” are just there to keep everything jolly and mildly sexy still hangs around.

So if this woman is bipolar, as she claimed she was, she would not have been required to disclose it in applying for the job. Even if the airline knew about it, it would not have been grounds for letting her go.

I am all for hiring people with mental illnesses, given the fact that the huge majority of cases are manageable with medication and a regulated lifestyle. But how regulated is the life of a flight attendant? Sleep deprivation, constant major time zone shifts, meals coming sporadically if at all, meds accidentally left at home (and where do you get lithium if you’ve forgotten it?) – and add to this the current level of job uncertainty as American Airlines teeters on the verge of bankruptcy – and you have a potential recipe for disaster.

But there are no safeguards in place here. It seems to take a traumatic event like this one for hiring practices to come to light. Failing to screen flight attendants for ANY kind of medical disability is negligent and potentially dangerous.  In this age of lurking terrorism, the stakes are even higher. Flight attendants are, as the airlines are now scrambling to tell us, “first responders”. To say the least, they need their wits about them at all times.

Whenever anything weird and scary happens, other weirdness leaks out. Many of the headlines for this international news item referred to the woman as a “stewardess”, a term I haven’t heard in decades. The police report about this strange event said she was experiencing “mental lunacy”, a term that hasn’t been used for about 100 years!

Someone else described her tirade as a “word salad”, a way of containing and distancing the terror with an obscure, clinical term most people have never heard of.

Then we have this bestselling author, Heather Poole, a veteran flight attendant who just happens to have written a book called Cruising Attitude, popping up and saying, “It could have happened to any of us.”

Oh, really?

So any “stewardess”, at random, just picked out of the crowd, could have gone completely berserk and screamed for 15 minutes while on the job? Any flight attendant, perhaps stressed by job uncertainty, could have flipped out into a state of “mental lunacy”, needing to be carried off the plane in restraints?

We still have a deep dread and horror of mental illness, a put-them-in-shackles mentality. This buried unconscious reflex is what causes us to lapse into language that is shockingly obsolete. On the one hand, bipolar disorder has been sanitized as a kind of diabetes of the mind – and in the vast majority of cases, it is something like that. On the other, we see people who are experiencing a serious episode as “demonic” and “possessed”: attitudes that go back to when humankind was preverbal and terrified of any behaviour that threatened the safety of the band.

Back in the day, “stewardesses” traditionally took care of men’s needs, all the way up to (or down to) sexual release. Thus, the “Fly Me” advertising slogan that was popular 50 years ago. On the (best ever!) TV series Mad Men, a retro look at Madison Avenue in the ‘60s, Don Draper is practically accosted on a plane by a “stew” taking an aggressive sexual stance. They were all there for the picking, it seems. Even the title of that book, Cruising Attitude, has a suggestive tone: cruising for what, exactly?

And will this bizarre episode help Heather Poole’s sales? I can’t see how it could hurt. She just lucked out, I guess.

I believe all airlines should change their policy immediately and begin to rigorously screen flight attendants for mental illnesses, especially major ones like bipolar. I don’t think this is discriminatory, and in fact I believe it would ultimately protect applicants from getting into situations like this that they cannot control. It’s unlikely this woman will ever work again in her chosen career. If the airline knew about her condition but turned a blind eye, what does that say about them? Did they pretend it wasn’t there? Did they think not hiring her would violate her civil rights? Do her civil rights trump public safety?

Why are pilots so rigorously screened, when (according to the airlines) flight attendants also carry huge responsibility for safety? I think it’s the remnants of the “Fly Me” attitude. “Stews” just squeeze up and down the aisles in tight skirts, serving cocktails with a smile. They’re really not very important, subservient to the real crew, the guys who fly the plane.

You say that’s not true? That things have changed? Then where does this “mental lunacy” label come from? Will we now begin to call mentally challenged people “idiots” and “imbeciles”?

This woman did not “flip out” because of “job stress” and “economic uncertainty”. What happened to her could NOT “happen to anyone”. It could only happen to someone who is either extremely high on drugs, or seriously mentally ill. If it’s the kind of illness that requires regulation with medication, and the medication is cut off, we have a problem.

We have a problem that could have crashed that plane. Had it already taken off, had she been armed, had she been packed with explosives like a terrorist (and do you think it couldn’t happen? How carefully are flight attendants screened, if their mental health problems are being routinely ignored?), we would have had a disaster on an almost unimagineable scale.

Will there be a response to this obvious weakness in the system? I don’t think so. I think the policy will stay the same, because we don’t like to look at mental illness. We look away at the first opportunity, as if it isn’t really happening.

It’s lunacy, after all, a term that reverberates with an ancient and even primal terror.

Cruising Attitude by Heather Poole (hot off the presses, girls!)

This synopsis/blurb appeared on the Amazon.com web site.

Flying the not-so-friendly skies...

In her more than fifteen years as an airline flight attendant, Heather Poole has seen it all. She's witnessed all manner of bad behavior at 35,000 feet and knows what it takes for a traveler to become the most hated passenger onboard. She's slept in flight attendant crashpads in "Crew Gardens," Queens—sharing small bedrooms crammed with bunk beds with a parade of attractive women who come and go at all hours, prompting suspicious neighbors to jump to the very worst conclusions. She's watched passengers and coworkers alike escorted off the planes by police. She can tell you why it's a bad idea to fall for a pilot but can be a very good one (in her case) to date a business-class passenger. Heather knows everything about flying in a post-9/11 world—and she knows what goes on behind the scenes, things the passengers would never dream.

Heather's true stories in Cruising Attitude are surprising, hilarious, sometimes outrageously incredible—the very juiciest of "galley gossip" delightfully intermingled with the eye-opening, unforgettable chronicle of her fascinating life in the sky.

http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.com/2012/01/synopsis-glass-character-novel-by.html

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The flight attendant from hell, part 1

Yesterday I heard a disturbing news story about a flight attendant on an American Airlines aircraft (still on the ground, fortunately) who flipped out and began screaming in an incoherent, paranoid rant that went on for 15 minutes before the crew dragged her out of there in handcuffs. The “story” (not yet confirmed, yet blasted all over the so-called “social network” which is about as sensitive as an old-time carnival crowd at the freak show) is that she’s bipolar and missed her medication, but I wonder about that.

Would an airline hire someone as a flight attendant if they knew they were bipolar? Would NOT hiring her violate her human rights? What about the risks of being a flight attendant for someone with that sort of condition: constant fluctuations in sleep, time zones, meals, stress? I'm not trying to hold up people with mental illness for criticism. But as a concerned consumer, I would like to know the policy.

If in fact the woman is bipolar (or HAS bipolar disorder: people don't go around saying "I'm Parkinson's disease" or "I'm rheumatoid arthritis", do they?), did she feel compelled to hide the fact so that she could be hired? What would be the official policy for those other illnesses, or chronic conditions in general? And why is it that the only time we ever hear anything about mental illness is when someone goes completely over the edge? Some commentators are calling this an opportunity to "educate the public" about mental illness, but this idea rattles me down to the fillings in my teeth.

Educate them how? To associate bipolar disorder with behaviour that is frightening, destructive and completely out-of-control? Won't that just intensify the smart quips about "crazies", which are meant to distance us from them as far as possible?

I have read from reputable sources that over 80% of bipolar patients live “normal” or “nearly normal” lives, meaning that they are "functioning" to one degree or another. But surely that means more than machinelike/mechanical functioning. It should mean having meaningful work and meaningful relationships and joy in living, “even” (and why do we need that word?) with a disability as serious as this one. 

It's almost a truism or an old saw by now that artists, writers, and all that lot (which of course does not include me, because my blog has been deemed "embarrassing" by someone who nevertheless never stops reading it, waiting for something more to attack) are much more vulnerable to these kinds of illnesses.

The psychiatrist /author Kay Redfield Jamison has made an entire career out of proving this, to the point of claiming that almost every famous writer we have ever heard of was bipolar.

Does the illness create the need to make art (since it seems to go along with a kind of hypersensitivity to the human condition? Not that we want any of THAT.) Or does making all that art drive people crazy, causing them to scream and yell and scare the hell out of grounded airline passengers who are violating every rule in the book by recording it all on their "Smart"-phones (a misnomer if ever I heard one)?

In the video footage I saw on the news, people were gawking, rubbernecking, not even staying in their seats. I heard quite a bit of arrogant laughter. I can just picture the late-night talk show hosts playing this up as a rich bit of business. "Hey, how about that American Airlines flight attendant who went nuts on the plane?"

I can't even think of a punch line for this because the  very idea sickens me. I can just see Letterman doing the Top Ten Reasons Why you Don't Want to Fly American Airlines (which is bankrupt anyway). No doubt the parade of nasty little jokes would mingle mental illness issues with terrorism and demonic possession.

There are certain cliches that always materialize at a time like this. It usually  comes down to “oh, she didn’t take her meds”, as if missing one pill causes a person to resemble Regan from The Exorcist. It’s remotely possible for a person with a heart condition to miss one pill and drop dead, but  it's also highly unlikely. No doubt much, much more was going on, but it might be better for us all if we never know about it. She is a human being with an illness, but unfortunately it manifested in the worst possible way for someone working on an aircraft.

No: scratch that. It was just a lot of screaming and yelling. No guns, no explosives, no box-cutters. It could have been a LOT worse, folks. But will anyone even think of that as they gleefully shred and dissect this woman's pain with millions of badly-spelled, ignorant tweets? Let us hope the social network piranha don't devour any more of her privacy and dignity than they already have.

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Unconditional love: a gif

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Should I have taken the Road Not Taken?

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Quirky little thing, this poem. It's probably Robert Frost's most famous, largely because of the title of an M. Scott Peck self-help tome called The Road Less Travelled. In fact, I have seen people vehemently argue that that's the real title of this poem. On being corrected, selfsame people seem to want to have it legally changed, as if the original Frost title makes no sense.

It makes no sense.

How did all this get started? It's a chain, as usual. I was indulging my obsession with all things Oz, particularly the Tin Man, when a line from a ridiculous old song came to me. I thought it went, "I couldn't say anything to the Tin Man/That he didn't already know." Looking it up, as usual, I had remembered it wrong. The line was "Oz never gave nothin' to the Tin Man/That he didn't already have." The song was by a '70s group called America, known for their impenetrable easy listening songs that often seemed to cover a range of three notes.
While looking up Tin Man, I noticed another song by the same group called Horse with No Name. Oh yes, I remember that one: talk about monotony! But then that one stirred the memory of a truly passionate and tender song, Wildfire. And thus a post was born.

Way leads on to way.
If you take another look at the Frost poem, it isn't at all the way we remember it. The conventional synopsis is, "A guy is standing there in the woods and the path forks into two. One of the paths is smooth and straight and well-tended, whereas the other path is grown over with weeds, rocky and twisted. In a great act of heroism, he decides to take the road 'less travelled by'".
Then comes the capper: "And that has made all the difference."

I probably did not recognize until this very second that Frost's best-known poem is saturated with irony. That momentous existential fork in the road isn't at all what we assumed:

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same About the same? He's saying here that the two paths really aren't that much different. It's almost a toss-up which one he'll take. Eeny-meeny, and all that. So his decision to go with. . . OK, that one is really not so momentous. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. He's saying, OK, I'll take that other path next time I'm back here, but. . . I don't really plan to be back here. Ever. It's that line "yet knowing how way leads on to way" that grabs however: don't we all realize that, at a certain point in life (maybe age 50)? My process in going from a rusty old tin man to a stunning song/poem about a wild pony happened in steps or stages. Way led on to way. But this is a pretty trivial example. College leads on to career. Date leads on to marriage. One-night stand leads to accidental conception and a new human being that nobody wants. Body-smoothers lead on to a billion-dollar empire (sorry, I couldn't resist slipping that in). It's as if every decision we make, whether large or small, can divert us from the path, or even cause us to abandon it altogether. Or is it this way? This fellow is bumbling along in the woods, sees two paths that are practically identical, says to himself "OK, that one," then waxes lyrical about how this momentous choice changed his entire life. So what's he saying? I wonder if it isn't some kind of satire on the Scott Peck idea of taking the heroic path and giving up the conventional. Taking the ultimate risk. Ultimate risk? He already told us that both paths were relatively virgin. Both paths were not particularly worn down, yet not treacherous either. So when Frost concludes "that has made all the difference," is he having us on? Is it a sort of play on the heroic choice: "Look what risks I took in life! I went left instead of right!" Or maybe he's serious. Left or right can be hazardous; we simply don't know. My own personal philosophy is that anything can happen to anyone at any time. If Frost's outlook had any connection to this sort of belief, then he's saying something that surpasses irony. The title, The Road Not Taken, always puzzles and even offends people, which is why they seem to think he got it wrong. It might refer to the conventional traveler who rejects the "risky" road, but it could also mean the safe road he rejected. But why use that as the title, when it really isn't about that at all? But maybe it is. If you actually read the thing, which most people who quote it don't, it becomes clear that it's pretty much all the same to him. The paths are almost indistinguishable. Infuriating, these poets, all that damned ambiguity. The rest of us mortals have to try to figure all this stuff out. Could it be something as simple as this? Each path is going to have its own hardships, or else be boring and disappointing. Taking one over the other may make a huge difference, or barely any difference at all. If it's a path you've never been on before, you just don't know. Maybe the important thing is to put one foot in front of the other, no matter how leaden or uncertain.  Foot, foot, foot.  Get going. Now. Move.

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