Edna in the Snow

I had an experience the other day, snow falling heavily outside my window, reading the sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay. I was lying on my bed, rereading these incredible sonnets, sonnets that I’ve read before, but I was struck by them in a fresh, new way. And I thought to myself, why write anymore? In the presence of such greatness and mastery, why not put down my pen forever and just read? And just then something happened. I had the distinct sensation that Edna took my face in her hands and stroked my hair tenderly. And I had the impression of her looming face looking down at me from the window in my room, larger than life, in the swirling snow outside. And I knew then, absolutely knew, why I must continue to write, write, write. Creation is love and love has no bounds. So Edna must love me, though my written word is like a child’s, compared to hers. But just as I wouldn’t want my kids to stop growing linguistically, artistically, or creatively, because they feel they are not as “adult”, not as capable as me, so would Edna want me to continue to write. Because she loves my inner child's creativity and need to grow, she would want me to continue learning and growing. So now I know why I want to continue to write. Writing is my life raft, my sanctuary, where I experience freedom and huge expanses, where I can grow in a climate of love.

Then suddenly I remembered that this was not the first time Edna had communicated with me. When I was 19 and living in New York City with Ed Young, we took a walk one rainy, windy spring evening to the street and then to the house where Edna had lived in Greenwich Village. The wind was whirling madly about and the air was moist, cool and pleasant. The blossoms of magnolia trees were in full bloom, ripe, falling to the ground, beautiful petals, fresh and tender and full of life and promise. On the brick steps of her three feet wide home (the narrowest home in NYC), I found a new pencil, a beautiful pencil with a white horse’s head covering the eraser. It seemed to be made of felt and sequins, if I remember correctly. I kept that pencil for the longest time, years, because it was a special gift, I thought, a symbolic gift from Edna herself to me, a direct communication to write. Of course, some other admirer of hers had probably passed earlier that evening and laid the pencil there, and I happened to find it, but still, there is something magical about that, a connection, and I will never forget it.

Beauty in Winter

Disneyland: A Postwar American Utopia

To all who come to this happy place: Welcome.

Disneyland is your land. Here, age relives fond memories of the past, and here youth may savor the challenge and promise of the future. Disneyland is dedicated to the hard facts that have created America - with the hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world.

Disneyland Dedication Plaque, July 17, 1955.

The idea for Disneyland was both revolutionary and evolutionary. It was revolutionary because Walt Disney created a different kind of amusement park from the gaudy carnivals of the day, and it was evolutionary because its creator expanded upon themes in animation, establishing them first in a "land"(Disneyland) and later a ''world" (Disney World, Florida). Today, the products of a Disney " universe" are widely available throughout the American sphere of influence, in Third World countries, and even revolutionary socialist societies. Disneyland (over which Disney had the most personal control, and on which this paper will primarily focus) expresses the values of a culture that shaped its creator' s personality, and that of other Americans born of this century. As mass entertainment, the Disneyland tour is not value free. On the contrary, Disneyland customers are active participants in a mass-mediated morality play of utopian proportions. The Disneyland experience both transmits and reinforces the ideology of its creator and of its largely white, middle-class, suburban participants. Disneyland is,  in fact, a model of a postwar American utopia, with political, economic, and social implications.

A Synchronicity of Things Dear

Last Tuesday, in the wee hours of the morning, I woke up and heard my 25 year old son Cristiano having a heated conversation on the phone with his ex-girlfriend, Elyssa. It sounded torturous, at times angry, at times sad, emotions in conflict. The next day, Cris and I talked about his relationship with Elyssa. I told him he needed to move on and keep learning to take care of himself. I used the example of two drowning people. One tries to save the other and both end up drowning. I told him that while I understood how much he cared about Elyssa, he must cut the cord and move on. Doing so would be best for him and for her. He agreed, though I could feel his pain.

The next day, Wednesday around 6pm, I was driving home in the dark just a couple of blocks from my house when I was overcome with a sense of dread and the persistent feeling that a deer was going to run out in front of my car at any moment. You might even call it a panic attack. The dread wasn’t something unfounded. Once, not too long ago, I was driving home on a night very similar to this one, on this same stretch of road, when a stag galloped out from the woods, just a few yards in front of my car. It was quite surreal. If the stag had stopped I would have hit him.

But that night, on the road that I travel twice a day, I was hit hard with fear for all I could see in my mind’s eye, like a film loop, over and over, was that powerful stag running into the road, right in front of me. So I slowed to a crawl. I should add that I was returning home a little later than usual because I had stopped at a crafts store to look at wooden bird houses. I wanted to paint them in vibrant colors and hang them on the rare and prolific hydrangea tree in my garden, visible from my favorite cozy chair in the living room. In the darkness of winter, I delighted in the idea of colorful little houses inhabited by happy little birds outside my window and I was intent on beginning to make that a reality.

But now, my anxiety was at a pitch, and I was relieved to turn the corner and reach my house. Once inside, I had some dinner and looked forward to putting my feet up and shifting my thoughts to lighter fare. I was checking facebook, scrolling aimlessly past a video of a policeman preparing to shoot a deer. The caption was something like, “Look at this a—hole shooting an innocent deer for no reason…” One of the comments beneath defended the video, pointing out that the policeman was actually doing the right thing by putting the creature out of its misery. I read all this while scrolling past as quickly as possible as I did not want to see that video of the policeman shooting the deer!

I had just scrolled past the video when my cell phone rang. It was Cris. He sounded strange. “Hi, Mom. I think I’m in shock. I’ve already called the police. I’m in my car on the side of the road, right around the corner from our house. I’m in a snow bank. My car came to a stop in some trees. I was just coming home after dropping Elyssa’s stuff off to her. I think I hit a deer. I think it might be under my car. I didn’t mean to hit it. Two of them ran out into the road. I tried to avoid them.” Then sobs, choking panic. 

I drove over to the spot, right around the corner, on the main road, along the short strip flanked by woods in dense suburbia, a place where deer have no place to run to or from. A police car was already there with the lights flashing and I pulled up behind it. Cris’s car was further ahead, off to the right side of the road, in the snow bank, near the trees. I strained to see if there was a deer under his car but couldn’t see much except snow. I came out of my car and as the policeman came towards me I told him that was my son in the car and that he was pretty shook up. The policeman was quick to respond, "Ma'am, I have to ask you to get back into your car right now. I have to take the animal out, and most people don’t like that.”  In the moment, I didn’t quite understand what he was saying. It was only when I got back into my car that I realized the deer was not further ahead or under Cris’s car but just a few yards to my right. And that’s when I got a good look at the back of the little deer, curled up in the snow, looking away into the darkness. You would have thought it was simply choosing to rest in the snow, its sweet form quite still. It happened very quickly that the policeman took his gun out, aimed, and shot. I tried to be quick too, putting my hands up to my ears, screaming to drown out the sound of the gun. But it was all too fast and my eyes were not as quick to look away. I saw the deer’s struggle, put to a swift and violent end. I brought my hands down from my ears and pressed my palms together tightly, closed my eyes, prayed for the deer, and for us all, as its beautiful spirit floated away into the big tree that stood over us. I then checked on Cris who hadn’t moved from his car. He was okay and the car turned out to be okay. We were grateful for that.

On my way to work the next morning, I looked over to the spot under the big tree. The snow was red. By now the rain will have washed away any evidence of that little life lost just a few nights ago. I will return there soon with my silent prayer for the deer, my dear one, for the tree, and for all that we endure, survive, and wash away.