Music, Personal Essay

The old folks at home

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By Scott Ross

This afternoon I listened, for the first time in decades, to the single most curious album in our late parents’ collection. Generally speaking, most of their records were pretty good, in the more or less standard middle-class manner of the time. (Roughly 1957-1973.) While they did not own any Broadway cast recordings, their copies of the soundtrack albums for My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music and The Unsinkable Molly Brown exposed me to musical theatre at an early age. (Your fault, Mom and Dad; musicals being, as everyone now knows, a gateway drug to homosexuality.) Their Peter Nero, Louis Armstrong, Herb Alpert and, later, early Neil Diamond, records still give me great pleasure today, and a collection of Miklós Rózsa themes piqued in me a real passion for movie scores.

Some of the sappier stuff they owned was at least explicable: Frankie Laine was very popular when Mom and Dad got married, as were Jackie Gleason’s Muzak-y romance collections. And my folks were conventionally religious, so I guess the Tennessee Ernie Ford Christmas LP made a certain amount of sense, even though the rest of our annual holiday music background scores were far more secular. But we were Ohioans, and our mom and dad they were not (at least before we moved to the South) noticeably racist. So this one is a genuine mystery.

When they did away with their old television/stereo console and Mom meted out their record collection on to my sister and me, I kept A Tribute to the Original Christy Minstrels because I used to enjoy listening to some of the old 1890s songs, and even a bit of Mr. Interlocutor’s comedy; I suppose when I was a child I didn’t notice that all the singers and speakers were obviously white and affecting stereotypical “coon” accents… nor, apparently, did the “yuck-yuck-yuck” interjections of the End Men register with me. But I’m still puzzled. Why did they buy this?

Why, Mom and Dad?

Why???

Copyright 2016 by Scott Ross

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Gay History, Personal Essay, Theatre

Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road

By Scott Ross

Forty-seven years ago, on the morning of 22 June 1969, my family was living in Mt. Vernon, Ohio. It was a lovely summer morning, pleasant and dry, and as we didn‘t have a subscription to the Sunday Columbus Dispatch, someone had always on that day of the week to walk down to the little general store nearby and pick up a copy of the paper. It was either my turn, or I volunteered, I no longer recall. After I paid for the newspaper, I walked back home, looking at the front page. The banner headline said that Judy Garland had died, at 47.

I was a very naïve child, in many ways. In part, I suspect, because I seldom voiced my inner thoughts, and therefore seldom had my misconceptions corrected. For several years during early childhood I was convinced that the people we saw on television lived inside the box, and sprang to life when we turned on the set. The only thing I knew of Judy Garland, at that time, was that she was Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, which we watched every Easter. And while I no longer believed that people took up residence inside our black-and-white(!) Sylvania television console, I must still have maintained some notion that film froze the people on it, or that movies were, somehow, live. Judy Garland’s age really puzzled me. How could that young girl be 47 years old? She looked only a bit older than my sister. And 47—why, that was 12 years older than my father!

I think of that walk back home every year at this time. Sheltered in the Ohio midlands, in a place that was something between a large town and a small city, I had little idea what was going on in the outside world. And that summer, a great deal was going to go on, very soon, in America at least. I certainly had only the vaguest notion, despite odd stirrings within my own self for years, what a homosexual was, and wouldn’t have understood what was about to occur in a place called Greenwich Village. Whether or not grief over Judy Garland’s death had anything at all to do with the furious reactions at Stonewall—the playwright Doric Wilson thought it hadn’t, and he was there—the almost umbilical connection between “Miss Show Business” and many of her gay male fans was very real, and something I would come to understand well, some six or seven years later.

Garland obit

When I shared the following dialogue from my play A Liberal Education on Facebook Doric, who has since died, gently set me straight (so to speak) on the tempting Garland connection. When I thanked him and said I would consider revising the scene, he replied that I shouldn’t change a word. I loved him for that. We never met in the flesh, but I miss him. He was a wonderful writer (his play on Stonewall, Street Theatre, should be required reading for every gay boy and girl), a kind man, and a living link to that moment that altered so much, for so many.

Anyway, here’s the dialogue in question.

NICK:
David, tell them your theory.

JO:
Oh, goodie—theorizing.

DAVID:
Well, we were talking—on the way over—about the differences in gay behavior.

JO:
There are differences?

DAVID:
Not for nothing, sweetie, but some men are gay and some are—
(He stands and throws his arms up and out in a “v”)
gay!

JO:
Thanks for the clarification.

NICK:
I mean, you take me. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to swish—

DAVID:
He tried once. At a New Year’s Eve party? Pathetic.

JO:
(Singing)
I can’t camp—
(SHEREE joins in)
—don’t ask me.

DAVID:
Whereas I might as well be wearing a flashing neon sign. Anyway. I was thinking, about Stonewall. And as far as I can gather, that little shin-dig was thrown by a whole lotta pissed-off drag queens and effeminate Hispanic boys and oh-so-butch ladies—

NICK:
Drag queens and nellies and dykes—

JO:
Oh, my!

DAVID:
Exactly. Has anyone ever made the connection that, the week those girls said, “Get over it, Miss Cop,” Our Lady of the Rainbow had just doffed her ruby slippers for the last time?

NICK:
Isn’t it funny to think that Judy Garland just might be the unofficial mother of the whole modern gay rights movement?

SHEREE:
Hysterical. Does that make Liza Minnelli the step-mother?

JO:
Please.

NICK:
You have to admit, if you take anger, frustration and high temperatures and compound them with grief, you’ve got one very volatile combination.

DAVID:
So, the next time some slab of overfed gay beef gives me shit for camping, I’m just going to sing him a few bars of “Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart.”

Text copyright 2016, by Scott Ross

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Personal Essay, Uncategorized

File this under No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

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By Scott Ross

This afternoon I had to make a trip to the CVS and the Food Lion adjacent to it, situated close together on a major thoroughfare in Raleigh. Parked in the CVS lot, got what I needed there and was walking to the grocery store when I was accosted by a large (and for “large,” read “wide”) man in a wheelchair, who asked me if I could help him make it up the Food Lion ramp, informing me (why?) that he’d just come from the big hospital across the road. I got him up the ramp, he thanked me, and we went our separate ways.

As I was leaving the Food Lion, I saw him ahead of me, stopped at the sidewalk close to my car, and experienced the sudden certainty that I was going to be asked to do something else. Figuring I could push him up that ramp as well if he wanted, I was instead treated to the entirely unnecessary intelligence that he had a terminal condition and was about to take his Percocet with wine. What this had to do with what he wanted, which was for me to pick him up a couple of packs of cigarettes, is best understood by him. Sure as hell I couldn’t figure it out. He also offered to hold my grocery bags while I went into the drug store. I was perfectly happy to place them in the car. (And anyway, what was his ten dollars next to my twenty-five’s worth of groceries?) He introduced himself as former Marine Captain Jack Blahdiblah, and said that Winstons were cheaper at CVS than at Food Lion, and gave me two fives, asserting that I seemed like an honest man. Had I known what was coming, I’d have thrown the bills into his lap and pushed his chair into traffic.

Naturally, as I stood at the CVS counter waiting my turn, I saw that Winstons were 2 packs for $10.48. Fortunately, the cashier was able to take the cash and let me use my debit card for the $1.19 extra. (Captain Jack had, I’d noticed, another ten and a twenty in his wad, but apparently I only seemed so honest, and no more.)

Now you should know that among the genetic advantages I inherited from my father is over-active sweat glands. I perspire profusely when it’s warm, especially when, as today, it is both warm and humid. I sweat from the head, and it’s miserable. I was now quite sweaty, somewhat annoyed, and wanted to end this episode as quickly as possible. As I gave Captain Jack his Winstons, he asked (in lieu of thanking me) whether I was heading south. I was, but I told him I was headed north. Enough is enough!

Before I could give him his smokes, move toward the car, and effect my escape, Captain Jack asked me if I spoke Spanish and would I do him another favor (Christ, what now?) Pointing to another vehicle, he asked me to tell those women (I saw two Latinas, and some children) “driving that big van that my taxes paid for, and getting all those social services my dollars paid for, and blahdiblahdifuckingblahblah…” Resisting the urge to ask him why he assumed, as so many people like him do, that my being Caucasian and male (and, he presumably supposed, heterosexual) automatically means I run my brains through the same narrow furrows of muck as he and, dropping the Winstons in his lap, I said, “You’ll have to work that one out for yourself.”

I got into the car as quickly as I could, my now angrily buzzing brain effectively blocking out whatever incantations he was sending my way. I caught the word, “liberal,” but, fortunately everything else was “buzzbuzzbuzz.” Because the Cutlass no longer has an operable A/C, I rolled down the window and, before backing out, said, “And you’re welcome!” (He did, at that point, say “Thank you,” but I need hardly add that I no longer cared one way or another.) As I was driving away, deliberately letting him see me heading south, not north, he yelled something else, who knows what. I like to think he looked at the receipt and noticed that I’d chipped in for his cigarettes, but surely that is asking too much of an already incredulous universe.

Some of us, I am fully persuaded after several similar encounters over the years, have “Sucker” written all over us, our more gracious impulses misconstrued as gullibility. Is it any wonder so many people demur when asked for assistance? After years of being ill-used by strangers I’ve attempted to aid, I begin to comprehend that the seemingly selfish brushing-off of others in need may be a form of self-preservation. If you suffer panic attacks, as I do, and know that the rage you feel, rapidly accelerating into the danger zone, is as troubling as it is debilitating, walking away may save you hours of rapid heartbeat, cold chills alternating with hot flashes, and no little chunk of your already limited supply of sang-froid.

To calm myself, I picture Captain Jack (Jesus Christ, can you imagine the hell of having been under that asshole’s command?) helplessly rolling straight down the middle lane of Wake Forest Road. Or perhaps sailing off the edge of the earth.

I’ll go either way.

Copyright 2016 by Scott Ross

 

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Personal Essay

Network for Sale. Integrity not included.

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By Scott Ross

The one fixed point in a changing world used, for this listener, to be Scott Simon. Despite the increasing conservatism and corporate viewpoint of his employer, Simon could be counted upon for his decency, thoughtfulness, intelligence, compassion and—when necessary—a dignified anger. All that changed for me this morning when, to discuss Trump, Scott Simon welcomed…

Glenn Beck.

And treated with him, moreover, as if he was a genuine political savant, like Gore Vidal or Katrina Vanden Heuvel, quietly and reverently lobbing softball questions and engaging with this wingnut as though he were some sage of the political arena and not a snake-oil-selling clown of minimal interest and even smaller consequence.

This, from the man who once reported, in four riveting, inexpressibly and almost unbearably moving 30-minute segments, on the poor of India. This, from the network that once had the respect even of its commercial rivals, for its innovation and its integrity.

First Wait, Wait… Don’t Tell Me invites Kim Kardashian on as its “celebrity” guest, and now this.

NPR has repeatedly broken faith with me—but this is altogether too much. The network is now as relevant as Fox News. Why does anyone still listen to these shills?

Copyright 2016 by Scott Ross

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Personal Essay

Pushing the button: Panic attacks

By Scott Ross

One of the lovelier aspects of chronic high anxiety are periodic panic attacks. I’ve been having these for years but, as they have always accompanied emotional unexpected trauma, it’s only comparatively recently that I’ve realized that is indeed the name for these episodes. In my case, it begins with being broadsided by another person. After the initial shock, my face becomes numb, my entire body begins to tremble violently and I experience a state very close to what I imagine disassociation must be like: My mind is sharply focused on the violation, but the world around me disappears—and with it, any possible rational verbal response. Later, when I’m calmer, I think this must be very close to the way people feel when they commit sudden, unplanned violence. If the prompting incident is a direct physical confrontation (as opposed, say, to a telephone conversation, e-mail or instant message) I will likely end up screaming at the source, and the only possible recourse for me is a hasty exit from the scene.

(Panic attacks are not necessarily the same as hyperventilation, although I’ve experienced that as well. The first time was when, in 1979, I saw Alien in a theatre during its opening weekend. I knew nothing about it. When that thing burst out of John Hurt’s chest, I hyperventilated for five minutes.)

The first panic-inducing event happened when I was 15. Thinking about it in later years, I used to believe I possessed a long use, and a very short one, and perhaps that is so. I now realize it’s not necessarily the case, but the long build-up to this particular explosion certainly lent itself to my making that assumption. I’ve written elsewhere that what we used to call junior high school was three years of howling pain for me. To be at all sensitive—or, as I also was, bookish, shy, introspective and un-athletic—in early adolescence is to wear a perpetual “Kick Me” sign on one’s back. Mine was pretty much permanently etched to my clothing. In the spring of my 9th grade year, one of the perennial bullies who dogged my existence chose a moment in gym class, during which we were to attempt making free shots, to ride me one time too often. My face went numb, my limbs shook, my head roared like a white-noise machine and I heard myself saying, “Eddie… Get. Off. My. Back!” My voice began low; by the end of my brief outburst, I was shouting.

The second such occurrence was a little over two years later. I had been working since 16, on a part-time basis, at a two-screen movie complex in Raleigh (how quaint that then-new concept seems now, in this era of googleplexes!) The owner was one of the meanest little men it has ever been my disagreeable misfortune to know, much less work for: Stingy, piggy-eyed, a petty martinet who smiled only at own, sour humor and who never looked anyone in the eye while speaking. His eyes moved either to the left, or the right, but were never focused on the other person. Ray Nance was almost a parody of the humorless, un-pleasable employer, so much so that we often said to each other that, had he been a character in a movie or a book, no one would accept him as anything but a caricature. His approach to Mr. Lynch, the kind, decent, gentle theatre manage was to belittle him consistently… and behind his back, naturally. (The assistant manager was Mr. Nance’s son, who, having learned well at his father’s knee, made it known to us all that Mr. Lynch was “an alkie.”) On one immemorial occasion, Mr. Nance had come to the theatre during a typically hectic opening-weekend Friday evening of a new and popular movie. The start-times for the movies we showed on either side of the complex were usually staggered only very modestly, and we often found ourselves coping with hordes of customers on both sides at the same time. Frantic but professional, a half-dozen of us had nonetheless performed behind the concession counter with our standard mix of politeness, good grace and humor—and it’s worth noting that we had no cash registers behind the concession stand; every order had to be remembered, the cost totaled up in our heads and the change given back to the customer without recourse to any accoutrement beyond that of our own nimble brains.

Mr. Nance’s usual practice was to arrive between screenings, when the lobby was deserted, leaving us all suddenly left scrambling to find some busy-work to do. The fastest ones made for the sanctuary of the theatre auditoriums. The rest had to improvise. Ashtray urns already clean? Sift them again. Carpet swept? Sweep it one more time. It was ludicrous, but such is the game these types play; Mr. Nance knew his own movies’ schedules. He knew his presence would inspire this sort of mild panic. On this particular evening, and faced with the evidence of how well we had performed, individually and together… with what a bright and resourceful bunch of kids we were… during the lull that followed this explosion of hectic activity, Mr. Nance’s only comment was to lecture us, with the immortal (and, for him, all too typical) words, “I don’t want to see you enjoying yourselves while you’re working.”

In late spring of that year I had been offered a position elsewhere and was on the verge of giving a week’s notice, as, if I recall correctly, my mother believed that was the very least a person should do when leaving one job for another. The manager, a man I liked and had respect for, had called the day before to ask me if I would come in an extra evening that week, and I had initially declined. After reconsideration, I called him back and said, sure, I’ll be there. After all, I thought, while I didn’t really want to be there, I could use the extra cash. When I called him back he said he’d already gotten someone, a new young employee (we were all either high-schoolers or college students) to take the shift, but that if I still wanted to come in., I would be welcome. After I’d been there perhaps half an hour that evening, the owner came into the lobby. He asked me why I was there. I told him. He ordered me to go, making a point of telling me how much more reasonable the new kid was. “You said you didn’t want to come in,” he smirked at me, “so leave.”

Despite enduring the unpleasantness and absurdities of this petty little gnat of a man for a year, I had shown him every respect and courtesy. An entire year of his absurd mean-spiritedness welled up in that moment. Again, my face was numb, I was trembling uncontrollably and, as I stormed to the big metal door off the lobby I shouted (something I almost never do) at him to shove his goddamn theatres up his ass! and slammed that door as hard as I have ever closed any portal, before or since. The manager later told me that everyone on the staff had to run off in a big, tearing hurry to some task or other. Anything would do, just so Mr. Nance would not see them all laughing. I suspect I said that night what all of them had at one time or another wanted to, and after the shock of it had abated, they were giddy with it. I should stress that I was not proud of this moment. I’d lost my cool, shouted at another human being, and suffered a debilitating state that, however brief, was deeply unsettling. I remember standing outside that door and leaning against it, shaking from head to foot, unable to believe what had just happened, or how I had responded. When I could collect myself I called my mother, gave her an abridged version of the confrontation, and after a walk and a cooling can of soda, somehow found the serenity to at least drive myself back home.

As I get older these attacks hit me, when they occur, with no less alacrity, and are generally spaced further apart. But getting over them takes considerably longer. After decades of chronic major depression and high anxiety, I suspect my resistance is far lower. (To panic attacks, and to so many other little goodies, thanks to years of unrelieved stress.) In the past few weeks, the wonder that is Facebook has been the staging ground for not one but two such attacks. The first I elide over to a large degree, as it’s too personal and painful to go into publicly, but the appalling nature of it, from a woman who, although we never spent a moment in the same room I considered a close friend, was dismaying. Her betrayal of my trust in her, and the way in which she went about flouting it, were as close to evil as a human being gets without actually being a serial killer. (I understand from a mutual friend that she now feels it was “the worst thing she’s ever done.” Well, yeah. I sincerely hope so. But that doesn’t mean I can forgive such deliberate malice.) And the panic attack I got from what she did was certainly real enough.

The most recent event occurred last a week ago. The work-day had been such that by Friday my nerves were stretched taut by the time I got home. A nap helped, dinner made it a little better. (My choice of a movie did not, but that’s my own lookout; I knew when I opted for it that Salvador would very likely upset the hell out of me. That’s why I’d put it off for so long.) Taking a cup of coffee into my home-office and logging on to Facebook, I immediately discovered an instant message from a former friend. This, if my memory is to be trusted at all, was a man with whom I had a mutual friend, and who had requested that I “friend” him. And although I found his obsessive attacks on a certain former television actress a bit dismaying (what the hell had Bonnie Franklin ever done to this guy to make him institute on his home-page a weekly flaying of her?) I had not voiced any opinion on the matter; as with a television’s channel-changer, the virtue of a social networking site is that one can simply scroll past that of which one has no interest. Somewhere along the way, however, began annoying him. I began receiving chiding notes from him in my instant-messaging in-box and ultimately decided (o being told how “hateful” I was) that, rather than continuing to argue with him, the better part of valor would be to remove my irritating presence from his life. So I “un-friended” and blocked him. End of story.

Or so I believed. Until I found this, unbidden and un-asked-for (and, initially, un-capitalized):

“after 3 years I unblocked you and you’re still an asshole. How the fuck did you hone in my friends? Go away.”

Face numb? Check. Limbs trembling uncontrollably? Check. Laser-like intensity of focus? Check. Complete loss of time and moment and external world? Check. Urges to scream and do physical violence? Check, check, check, check and check.

Naturally enough, his act of aggression was a hit-and-run: Even had I the desire to respond—which, despite the need to scream, I didn’t—he’d made sure to block me again after depositing his charming little time-bomb. When I was able to recover some of my faculties again, I availed myself of the sole means of redress Facebook provides, and reported him for harassment. This, in case you’re ever in need of knowing, involves forwarding the conversation (and which, in this case, presumably included all of his previous screeds against my apparently limitless capacity for hatefulness.) There is, or at least has not been in this instance, any follow-up. Whether he was warned, or his account suspended, I have no idea. No more than I can discover just what it was that set this craven coward off; I went through at several weeks worth of my posts and saw there nothing that I could pin down. And in any case, no matter what action Facebook takes, if any, I feel reasonably sure it will simply, to his disordered mind, reinforce what an asshole I am. (The man attacks me out of the blue, and for no reason I can discern, and I’m the asshole?)

What astonishes me about both these incidents is the sheer unfeeling nature of how they were perpetrated. They were done with what seems to me ungovernable fury, and with no little relish. And they bring screaming back to me my own insupportable optimism at the beginning of the Internet Age when I thought, with stunning naïveté, that the act of writing, requiring thought and rationality, might make for a more literate, and perhaps more thoughtful, set of users. That I was spectacularly incorrect is self-evident. Moreover, in both cases, the individuals involved knew full well how anxious and depressed a person I am, and how easily my equilibrium—never especially sturdy at the best of times—can be shattered. I make no claims for perfection of self. I am as flawed, and as prone to solipsism, as anyone else. I have made a conscious effort in the past few months to refrain from comment when that statement is negative, or critical, or is aimed at a friend of a Facebook friend. So, while I try to govern my conversation, including my on-line comments, with some sense of propriety, I know I occasionally err on the wrong side of caution. How could I not? It’s just so damn easy to dash off a riposte! Still. To knowingly inflict that sort of psychic anguish on another person, as these two did, is beyond my rational ken. And it’s no good saying the sickness is theirs and not mine, no matter how much of a truism that may be; the panic attacks they engender are not lessened one wit by that caveat.

I have often said that the gravest of all human sins is a lack of imagination. The ability to empathize with creatures who are not our kind is one of the nobler qualities of the human, and one that sets us apart from the other organisms with whom we share the planet. The inability to empathize, however much it indicates a misalliance of intellect and emotion that borders on sociopathy, seems to me far more prevalent than it ought to be, and is and has been the cause of so much needless suffering throughout the history of our vain and self-regarding dominion over the earth. And nothing promulgates it as much as instant media. Things most of us would never dream of saying, or doing, to another soul if we were in his or her presence, we say and do at will, hiding behind our words, or our ability to hit-and-block, or whatever it is that allows us to inflict torment on another human being and sleep untroubled.

A friend whose anxiety is far keener than even my own has said more than once that he wished he possessed the ability to touch certain people with two fingers and make them feel what it’s like to be him, for 24 hours. I don’t think I would wish my panic attacks on anyone, even for a day.

It would be a lovely thing indeed if others didn’t wish them on me.

panic-attack-causes

Text copyright 2014 by Scott Ross

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Personal Essay

Where depression begins (Or, Spikes!)

By Scott Ross

I’ve been ruminating on this subject as essay-fodder for some time. The recent “apparent” suicide, as they say in criminological circles, of Robin Williams is coincidental but not, I don’t think, incidental. The single most concise (and most heartbreakingly apt) description of chronic depression I’ve ever come across is Dick Cavett’s:

“[…] when you’re downed by this affliction, if there were a curative magic wand on the table eight feet away, it would be too much trouble to go over and pick it up.”

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/06/27/smiling-through/comment-page-21/?_php=true&_type=blogs&_r=0

The roots of depression are, of course, not yet firmly fixed. That its presence indicates a chemical imbalance seems assured, but is the condition genetic, or in any case, purely genetic? At this point in my life, I feel as certain that my own chronic major depression, which has blighted most of my adult life, and indeed much of my adolescence, is a function of my father’s DNA. His father, whom he loathed, was an angry, violent man and one, I believe, who bequeathed that genetic curse to at least two of his children. Dad’s sister, my Aunt Peg, committed suicide when I was very young, and I recognize many of the behavioral symptoms of depression in myself as reflections of Dad’s own persona. My mother always resisted any such conclusions on my part (“He’s not depressed.”) but at my worst I see far too many similarities between us. (The high anxiety I also contend with comes from her side of the family, or at least from her mother’s.) It was in fact my screaming—literally screaming—at other drivers on the road that finally convinced me to seek a diagnosis. That rage was not the sole manifestation of my depressive symptoms, but it was the decisive one.

Riding in a car with my father was a test of nerve. Every other drive was an idiot, and at fault, and he could also be vindictive. More than once I clung to the armrest, terror-stricken, expecting to die at any moment while he passed a driver in a no-passing zone or even, memorably, while crossing a two-lane bridge. Interestingly, to me, while Dad despised his father for his bullying, he was incapable of seeing the ways in which his own behavior often mirrored that of my grandfather. Like the man we referred to as Grant, Dad’s temper was quick, and never far from the surface. And while he at least attempted to govern his hands, he did not always succeed. At least, not with his son. A cousin recently reminded me of just such an incident, one I’d completely forgotten but which made her extremely leery of him. Like Grant, Dad had always to be right. He could not seem to locate the proper angle at which to view himself as others saw him—a common enough failing but one which, I believe, inhibits one’s making the changes to one’s own personality necessary for self-improvement. My ex shared that blind-spot and, if confronted, made the excuse that people had to take him as he was. Everyone has to adjust to the man who will not adjust himself.

My passivity in the face of brutality, psychic or physical, is, I suspect, a result of the dictum handed down to my father by his. More than once in my pubescence and adolescence I heard the “Fight your own battles. Don’t come crying to us” speech. As a result, and because I was unable to fight, I held my torments inside. I vividly remember one pleasant autumn evening at around 14 or 15, sitting with my mother on the front stoop, and her saying, The previous two years had been a waking nightmare, that screaming hell we once called junior high school. “You used to be such a happy-go-lucky kid,” Mom observed sadly. “I don’t understand whats happened. Why you’ve changed.” I was, as always, silent. How could I tell her, even if I’d had the words then, which I surely did not, that living in hell, and being told not to whine about it, can turn the happiest child into a diffident, interior-dwelling emotional recluse?

Depression becomes manifest, we’re told, following a trauma. It may be physical or emotional. In my own case, I date the onset of my depression from the age of six or seven, when I broke my wrist in a fall from a tree. (Well, from a tree limb, to be more precise; it was a dumb stunt, and a disaster waiting to happen. Had it not been me, it would have been my sister, or one of my cousins.) In any case, I can recall sitting in a dark Canton, Ohio hospital corridor after my near-compound fracture had been X-rayed, waiting to have it placed in a cast. Was my mother with me, or had she gone off to look for a nurse, or a doctor? I no longer recall anyone near me, only the dark pall, the body-size net that cocooned me with almost as rapid a descent as the fall from that tree branch. The ensuing days are shrouded by that caul. Each time it recurred as I grew older, it was always with that same, terrible, all-encompassing swiftness. The climb back up, as anyone who’s ever been depressed, let alone depressive, can tell you, is nowhere near as swift.

Far too many people, even well-meaning people, mistake “sadness” for depression. Everyone has known sadness. Almost everyone has experienced depression, even if only for a day. And “sad” is to chronic depression as “happy” is to acute mania. I liken my depression to walking under water, every moment of every day. I smile at times, I even laugh, on occasion. But what a friend describes as feeling like a weight that will not leave her, remains. I rise, although never easily, and never with the sensation of sleep having refreshed me. I go to work. I function. But if I gave in to impulse, I would not rise. I could not function. Those who refuse to “believe there’s such a thing as depression” (and there is a shocking number of such people, most of them, in my experience, highly educated and otherwise intelligent) should take up residence in my skin for an hour. If they did not instantly change their thinking (and I ennoble such purblind obtuseness with the positive noun) I should be amazed. A co-worker, whose anxieties and attendant neuroses make mine look like the proverbial walk in the woods, says that he wishes he could touch such doubters on the shoulder and transfer how he feels to them for 24 hours. Because, outwardly, we do not appear to be suffering, our illness is not generally perceived, even when we give every indication of it. We’re “difficult.” We’re “self-involved.” We’re “unpleasant.” “Unproductive.” More than one friend has told me I have “an edge,” never quite understanding that it might be because all of my interior edges have been ground to the nub.

For far too many of us, the combinations of therapy and medication simply do not work. When I was first diagnosed, in the mid 1990s, I was placed on Prozac, the “miracle” of the moment. within six weeks, I had regained that “happy-go-lucky kid.” I felt as I hadn’t since the age of 12. But one-third of Prozac users will cease to respond to the drug over time, and I, unhappily, was in that statistic. Within six months, the pall was back, and blacker than before. Because I knew then that it was possible for me to feel better. In this way, that experience is almost worse than the disease itself: I’ve been through a veritable pharmacopeia since then, and nothing I’ve taken since has had the slightest positive effect. Ketamine, if and when it is ever placed on the market, might be the answer. It has the virtue of taking effect, not in weeks, but in hours or even minutes. If all else fails, there is always electroconvulsive therapy, but that is extreme, and requires so lengthy a procedure I’m not sure my medical insurance even covers it, or even if I could take the necessary time away from the office to effect it.

Severe depressive episodes are known as “spikes.” I was trying to remember when my depression mutated from occasional spikes to a chronic condition. I’m not sure, but I suspect it was in my late 20s; before that, I endured the spikes but had the wherewithall to work both full-time and part-time jobs simultaneously, and (at an age very close to 25) to enroll myself in college, arrange for Pell Grants, and drive myself from North Carolina to Vermont. Further, after that particular disaster, to arrange for a transfer to a different school, come back home, work for a year and a half, take on the editorship of an Arts Council newsletter to pay for my matriculation, and somehow, get myself to Amherst, Massachusetts. The slowly accumulating exhaustion, the sense of someone constantly twisting a rubber band around my temples, the increasing incidents of emotional spikes… all of that came some time during my otherwise rather happy years at Hampshire College. So it was after my return, at 29, that the condition gradually became so debilitating it forced me to seek diagnosis, and therapy.

The spikes, however, remain.

Worse, they come with increasing frequency. And each subsequent plunge into the abyss takes longer to climb out of, requires a greater pull on my diminished—and diminishing—reserves. The recent death of my mother after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s, notwithstanding its being in a way a relief, for her and for her family, especially my sister, who cared for her the last three years of her life, still served to spike my depression in unexpected ways, and with astonishing swiftness; I could feel it wrapping me in its insidious embrace on the drive back from seeing Mom the last time, and only in the last few days has it retreated sufficiently to take me from deep slough of despond to what I am accustomed to: My usual, plodding, exhausting, “norm” of chronic depression.

Some know-nothings and professional reactionaries have, typically, taken the occasion of Williams’ suicide to bloviate upon the matter of courage versus cowardice. And while I hold suicide as a perfectly reasonable response to insupportable pain, and reserve the right myself to exit at a time of my choosing should my depression prove endless and intractable, I would also say this: No one who survives, day after weary day of this condition can remotely be called a coward. As Seneca noted, “Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.” So is reserving judgment, or at least, governing one’s tongue when one is an smug ignoramus.

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Text copyright 2014 by Scott Ross

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All Politics is Local, History

And then you destroy yourself: Nixon resigns, +40

By Scott Ross

I did not start out a Nixon-hater. But as familiarity breeds contempt, the more you know about Richard Milhous Nixon, the more there is to loathe.

Admittedly, I was too young to fully comprehend the man his growing legion of enemies were wont to call “Tricky Dick” (or, to save time, as Philip Roth discovered, just plain “Tricky”) during his Presidency, and certainly prior to it. As a politically naïve pre-adolescent I had even, in sixth grade, been tasked with presenting Nixon’s candidacy in the best possible light for our classroom debate. Diligent if not exactly percipient, I attacked the project with limited gusto, which largely meant committing to memory as much of the President’s numerous campaign brochures—including the flyer that, infamously, depicted him walking the beach at San Clemente in his suit and tie; I wish I’d saved that one—as I could cram into my head and regurgitating it during the event. I threw in some jowl-wagging and Tricky’s patented “Vee” sign for good measure, along with a direct steal from Dickie Goodman’s then-current, now-forgotten, comedy 45, “Convention ’72”: Asked what I thought of my opponent, I intoned, “Well, as the song says, I don’t know how to love him.” It brought down the house.

Interestingly, the opposing statement by the boy who had been assigned McGovern seems, in retrospect, unconsciously yet almost eerily to parallel the actual candidate’s entire run. He trotted out a few, largely negative, comments, refuting me, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it. And in our class, as indeed throughout the school itself, Nixon’s win in the eventual polling was predictive; it was a slaughter.

I did become aware, from late 1972 on, of a thing called Watergate. As 1973 began and the re-election landslide receded I, like the rest of the country, heard more and more about the scandal, even as I understood less and less. And as with so many Americans of the time, the thing began to pall; would it never end? The revelations, the testimony, the hearings, the court decisions… for a largely ignorant—or at least, politically uninformed—cccccccccadolescent, the weekly parade of Time magazines that littered my 7th grade social studies teacher’s back wall cabinets and whose covers were a seemingly limitless recitation of this or that aspect either of Watergate or of the President himself (those steely, unknowable eyes… that determined grimace… those unmistakable jowls) began to take on the aspect of a fad that had long since reached its zenith but that kept on going, replicating itself ad infinitum.

The headline in the Raleigh paper, which I now wish I'd saved.

The headline in the Raleigh paper, which I now wish I’d saved.

The end, when finally it did come, felt almost anti-climactic. Even intrusive, as Nixon’s resignation interrupted my family’s annual August trek to the coast that summer. I vividly recall watching the speech on the hotel room television, but the emotional component, for me, was nearly nil. Yet even I (later, whenever the subject came up) found myself parroting my parents’ cries of, “Why can’t they leave the poor man alone?” Archie Bunker was alive and well and living in suburbia. And then like so many Americans, I tried my damnedest to forget.

Nixon and HUAC investigator Robert Stripling pretend to pore intently over the contents of a rancid pumpkin.

Nixon and HUAC investigator Robert Stripling pretend to pore intently over the contents of a rancid pumpkin.

Only as I became more interested in recent history, around the age of 15 or 16, did I begin to put together Nixon’s personal and political biography, and to be appalled at the absolute shoddiness of it. Watergate was as nothing, I slowly recognized, when compared to the squalid, reeking “accomplishments” of this professional serial criminal. From his earliest campaigns onward, the rehearsal of sleazy lies about his opponents (“Even Helen Gahagan Douglas’ panties are Red!”), the hitching of his political wagon to the trains of the rankest anti-democracy fascists (J. Parnell Thomas, Joe McCarthy, Roy Cohn), the infamous “Checkers” speech (as Pat looks to the middle distance, fervently wishing she was anywhere else)… the petulant farewell (“You won’t have Nixon to kick around any more…”)

nixon_brays

Why, as Esquire used to ask, repeatedly, was this man laughing?

This was the True Nixon. The New Nixon was the Old Nixon, re-packaged, re-branded, but rotten to its core. (As a well-known American magazine used, repeatedly, to ask, “Why is this man laughing?”) And the rot would spread. My, how it would spread!

The uni-ndicted war criminal outlines the "Menu" for Cambodia.

The un-indicted war criminal outlines his “Menu” for Cambodia.

The self-described “Peacemaker” who would end the Viet Nam conflict, spouting his catch-phrase “Peace with honor… Peace with honor…” like a berserk mynah bird, on attaining the White House in 1968 instead deliberately ratcheted it up. Yet all of this, and most of what followed, was as nothing compared to what this man, aided—if not  indeed cattle-prodded—by his self-adoring, overweening NSA Advisor, Henry Kissinger, would unleash in the first Nixon Administration: Nothing less than the achievement of instigating the worst genocidal madness of the post-war era. Under the nauseating, and cynical, rubric “Operation Menu,” Nixon and his happy war-mongers (a brace of whom would resurface 20 years later to present the world with “Operation Iraqi Freedom,” the gift that keeps on taking) invaded, and bombed, a sovereign, neutral nation, with such ferocity that, ultimately, the mad Cambodian revolutionary Pol Pot would become completely un-hinged, brutally murdering fully one-quarter of his own countrymen and women. It is an atrocity that stands un-rivaled since the Holocaust, and one wholly, obscenely un-punished.

"John Filo's Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of Mary Ann Vecchio, a 14-year-old runaway kneeling over the body of Jeffrey Miller minutes after he was shot by the Ohio National Guard." (Wikipedia caption.)

“John Filo’s Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of Mary Ann Vecchio, a 14-year-old runaway kneeling over the body of Jeffrey Miller minutes after he was shot by the Ohio National Guard.” (Wikipedia caption.)

What many of us forget, or never understood, was that the massacre of four students at Kent State in May, 1970, was an equally direct result of the then-secret Cambodian bombings. And most of them were not even protesting that evil event, merely standing in a parking area where the Ohio National Guardsmen had just told them to assemble, when they were cold-bloodedly murdered, by trigger-happy paramilitary thugs, none of whom was ever convicted. (One of the nine wounded, Dean R. Kahle, was paralyzed from the chest down.) Tricky, of course, instantly sprang to what passed for life, inveighing against the kids and warming to his perennial theme of “Us” (the illogically-named “Silent Majority”) against “Them” (dirty, foul-mouthed, violent, privileged, ungrateful little snots who got what they asked for.) In this parade of related obscenities, Nixon’s response to Kent State, via his speechwriter Ray Price, locating sympathy only for the Guardsmen (“a bunch of scared kids with guns”), rises to the top of the stinking heap.

Rosemary Woods, demonstrating (at White House insistence) how she might have erased five minutes of a certain Oval Office tape. (cf Robert Klein's imagined interview in which the President's secretary admits to a circus family background as one of "The Flying Woods.")

Rosemary Woods, demonstrating (at White House insistence) how she might have erased five minutes of a certain Oval Office tape. (cf Robert Klein’s imagined interview in which the President’s secretary admits to a circus family background as one of “The Flying Woods.”

Nixon is recorded—in Woodward and Bernstein’s The Final Days, among other sources—as expressing complete dismay that what he deemed “a third-rate burglary” could take down a President. The break-in itself, whose locale (the Watergate Complex) inadvertently, and tiresomely, gave us a new suffix, instantly appended to all political (and even some religious) scandals, was indeed a paltry affair, engineered, with almost hilarious incompetence, by that functioning nut-case Gordon Liddy. But ’twasn’t Beauty killed the Beast this time; it was the President’s own paranoia, his form-fitted suit of impregnable personal armor and his pathological inability to tell the truth when a lie would serve. Another President, Harry S (for nothing, as Gore Vidal used, gleefully, to note) Truman, famously said of his successor, “Richard Nixon is a no good, lying bastard. He can lie out of both sides of his mouth at the same time, and if he ever caught himself telling the truth, he’d lie just to keep his hand in.” And, as Jonathan Schell observed in his staggeringly apt treatise on the Nixon years, The Time of Illusion, by the end the man’s infamous enemies list had grown to include the entirety of the American people. Even without the much-speculated-upon 18 and a half minute gap in those foolishly vouchsafed reel-to-reel wonders, the evidence was there, plain and unequivocal, if to everyone else except Richard (“When the President does it, that means it is not illegal”) Nixon.

The infamous "I am not a crook" press conference of November, 1973.

The infamous “I am not a crook” press conference of November, 1973.

Senator John Stennis, of the hilariously-conceived "Stennis Compromise."*

Senator John Stennis, of the hilariously-conceived “Stennis Compromise.”*

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Conrad’s brilliant cartoon sums up everything about Nixon and his self-destroying approach to Watergate.

And he nearly got away with all of it, this lawyer who precipitated the gravest Constitutional crisis since the Civil War (and before the election of 2000.) Thanks almost entirely to the instincts, courage and dogged perseverance of “Woodstein” and the Washington Post, even “Tricky Dick” could not escape, if not the criminal court, the judgment of his peers, and of history. Even as he labored without surcease throughout the remainder of his mean, petty, resolutely un-seeing life to re-position himself to the nation he betrayed so cynically, callously and, it would appear, reflexively, as a vaunted eminence gris, an elder statesman of incomparable worth, and even as those efforts began, against all odds and sanity, to bear fruit… Even as, now, many Americans seem willing to, on the one hand shrug and forgive and on the other cheer and encase in nostalgic amber… Despite the Fordian pardon… Despite the annual release of yet more (and more ugly, and incriminating) tapes and transcripts… Despite it all… History still accords Richard Milhous Nixon his most fitting legacy: The only sitting President in the history of the Republic to resign the office. The Nixon Library can perform its white-wash, right-wing bloviators near and far can proclaim his nobility, and his greatness. But the facts remain. In spite of all that effort on his behalf, and the complicity of an ever-shrinking national memory, that shameful, and wholly deserved, footnote, will remain, forever attached to the man, and to his Presidency. Nothing so became his office as the leaving of it.

Astonishingly, at his televised farewell to the White House staff, Richard Nixon did, in a jaw-dropping display of seemingly unconscious self-assessment, reveal more than he knew when he advised his loyalists. (This was above and beyond the tired invocation of his father’s lemon ranch and the singularly telling re-statement, “My mother was a saint.” Kissinger observed of Nixon, “Can you imagine what he could have been if he had ever been loved?” Can you further imagine what being that woman’s child did to the boy Nixon was?) His advice to the troops? “Always remember, others may hate you. But those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them. And then you destroy yourself.” Scant wonder, then, that some regard RMN as the most Shakespearean of Presidents: Richard III, invariably, telling us the truth about himself even as he obfuscates to everyone around him. But as Shakespeare, through the mouth of another political dissembler noted, the evil that men do live after them.

To evoke Santayana is by now both wearying, and a little suspect, particularly since so few ever heed his warning. Let’s say instead, Long live the memory of that evil.

Or should I, in deference to Nixon’s long and nearly peerless, putrid history, amend that to “those evils”?

All other text copyright 2013 by Scott Ross

*Robert Klein: “The Court can’t hear the tapes, the people can’t hear the tapes, the Congress can’t hear the tapes, the judge can’t hear the tapes… But John Stennis can hear the tapes! He’s got the perfect credentials; he’s a 73-year old Senator from Mississippi. He’s just spent six months in a hospital, a veritable Rip Van Winkle… He can’t hear the dinner bell!… The black servants in his house do bits: ‘Hey, Senator Stennis, you can’t hear shit!‘ Perfect man to hear the tapes… Why couldn’t the tapes record that, when President Nixon said to Alexander Haig, ‘Al, get me a deaf senator, I’ll do the rest!'” (From “Wallowing in Watergate” on the Mind Over Matter LP.)

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