My people have been here

Someone stenciled "Prison Is Slavery" on the back of this mailbox. I grinned when I saw it. Good job, comrade.

Had a wonderful conversation with Margie. She had been reading an interview with Viola Davis in the New York Times Magazine and was thinking about childhood trauma and one's sense of worth. Margie and I both had mothers who believed we were unworthy, disappointing, not good enough. Margie asked me, "As an actress, how do you feel about what she says here?" and then read me this paragraph:

The interviewer asks, "Which of your own pathologies has acting helped you understand?"

Davis answers, "It helps me explore what I live for. When you’re working on a character, the first thing you work on is what drives them. What drives me is a lot of what drives the characters in “Ma Rainey,” which is my worth. Feeling worthy with everything that I do. Lately my big thing is reconciling my past. Reconciling that little girl who was so traumatized and damaged. Growing up with a parent who was an alcoholic, severe poverty, what happens is, as you move through life, things catapult you back to the past. You’re there again. I’m trying to heal that. I’m learning how to forgive it. I feel like I’ve done a great job."

I said I wish I knew "feeling worthy with everything I do." My default is to feel inadequate, unworthy. Margie threw back her head and laughed with recognition. "Me too. And the fact that I'm 94 can melt away in a flash, and suddenly I'm 5 again, and I see that my mother wishes I'd never been born. And even though you reach forgiveness of your mother, which I think you and I both have, you still have a default of feeling unworthy."

Richard Robson wrote the following short short story based on this photograph, and he sent it to me via an email with the subject line, "Maybe this happened." I love it so much I am pasting it here to keep.

Wrapping and Napping
 
Something ballooned in her ribcage. Breathing became difficult, rapid and shallow. She leaned back against a shop window for support, took the hand which was holding the phone out of her pocket and tapped the screen. It was cold this late December afternoon despite the gleam of the low sun.

-       Gail, it’s me. Sorry, shouldn’t call you at work. I can’t breathe. Suddenly started remembering the smoke, you know.

She had been doing well until she saw the stubby shape of the fire hydrant. Having the dog with her had helped, in fact.

 - Yeah, tried that.

A couple were approaching now from the other side of the street. She cupped her hand to the phone.

 - Don’t know,  Irving, I think. Yeah, still got the dog.

 - Paper bag? Perhaps.  Breathe into it? OK, then what?

Robert heard the words I can’t breathe and a gasp, glanced over but the young person gave no sign of seeking help. There was a mailbox nearby with PRISON IS SLAVERY stencilled on its side. Janet pointed.

 - That’s the first I’ve seen on a mailbox. Every square foot of Portland is covered with slogans now.

More than a slogan, thought Robert, some guy’s been through that. Problem with slogans – not many see what’s beneath. Certainly not my sister. Why were they so different?

 - Well, anyway, we could start here, said Janet, look.

Robert turned back and saw a figure modelling casual clothes in a display. They stopped.

-       Not my style.  He saw the words Wrapping and Napping on the glass. What the hell did that mean?

-       But that’s the whole idea. You’re not coming to dinner in shorts.

-       Our Dad used to wear a kilt.

-       Once a year on Burns Night. Oh, I knew it was going to be difficult.

-       OK, focus on dog, turn round get home, the young woman was saying. Can you stay on the phone? All right, I know. Some fucking Christmas, eh?

-       I’m not difficult, said Robert. I like to help people. In the bike shop, people come to me for advice, how to fix their gears. You haven’t seen me at work.

-       All right, so what don’t you like there?  How to explain to his sister that once you’ve seen through the consumerist package you lose interest in fashion. A headless dummy to appeal to headless people.

-       It’s not me, he said.

-       Well perhaps for once couldn’t we just cover you up with something nice, even if it isn’t you?  Janet was always so brisk. And so successful, dammit.


-       OK, but maybe less – hip.  His mind was still running on the words he’d heard and the prison slogan. Underneath the cool Portland, people were fighting, choking, dying. The smoke in the air, the cops, the fascists, the virus. Unreal to be shopping for a pair of trousers. As if nothing etc. Why couldn’t people see it? Are they asleep?


-       Come on, said Janet, I know you.  Your mind’s working overtime, but your wardrobe’s on vacation. She steered him onto the main street.  My very problem, thought Robert. I see, but I do nothing about it.  I’m just an ordinary white guy wandering round Portland. That’s what she sees. Hey, but can I see her?

-       You know, Janet it is good of you to do this. His words surprised them both. Janet looked up sharply.

-       Peace and goodwill?

-       Call it that. How else to describe being lit up by this sudden shaft of the affection which was awakening inside him?