Woman Around Town’s Editor Charlene Giannetti and writers for the website talk with the women and men making news in New York, Washington, D.C., and other cities around the world. Thanks to Ian Herman for his wonderful piano introduction.
Last week while digging out from under the tsunami of paper that seems to be the “meany joke” of the computer era I found two old documents I’d like you to read. Let’s start with them and join me in finding where it took me and where I hope it may take you.
Pandora, the Power of Myth and the Road to Hope
Opening Pandora’s box is a phrase that means unleashing troubles. It came into the language from Greek mythology. This is the story:
Pandora was the first woman the gods placed on earth. Zeus directed that she be made and that she be given the best each of the goddesses had to offer (beauty from one, grace from another, etc. …. Her name means “all-giving”): When she came to earth, she brought with her a box that she was told not to open.
So she was really, a living gift from Zeus.
Meanwhile, on earth, Epimetheus was quite taken with her. So much so that he forgot the warning of his brother Prometheus never to take a gift from Zeus. Because Zeus remained really angry that Prometheus had stolen fire from the gods and given it to humans. So Epimetheus (whose name means hindsight) only realized after the fact that Pandora was going to mean trouble. In short order, she opened the box and out flew all the troubles of the world. The only thing left inside Pandora’s box was hope.
Mud Creek’s Mermaid and a new way of Seeing
THE LITTLE MERMAID OF MUD CREEK (Originally written as an account of a childhood memory).
When I was a little girl I lived in Illinois in a village a Sunday afternoon car ride away from an even tinier farming community where my Father had been born.Those rides often centered on the farm which Daddy had inherited, but never farmed, having fallen in love with the business of automobiles.
The land was flat and often dry, with great expanses of treeless spaces that were kinder to corn and soybeans than to people and dreams. But near the house there was a strand of trees and running near the house was a small creek which was crossed by a bridge of wooden boards which spoke out its name as the tires of my Father’s sea green Lincoln Zephyr drove over it, saying, “Parump, Parump, Parump.”
Sometimes I would go back to that bridge to look down at the water and let my dreams move with its gentle flow. There was never much water there, I suppose, and less when relentless Illinois summers took their toll.
One summer Sunday, I walked to the bridge, dressed in my Sunday best finery. I can’t remember what dress I wore that day, but I do remember the treasure I had at my wrist. It was a stretchy partial circlet of blue pearls with a blue enameled metal rosebud at its center. As little girls will, I moved the bracelet around on my wrist…uncoiling each end, in succession…tempting fate, until fate snapped the trap. With a splash, the beautiful pearl bracelet slipped off my wrist and splashed into the inelegant bed of Mud Creek. I’m sure I wailed and went back towards the house calling my parents away from their conversation with the young couple who were their tenants at the farm.
The details are dim, but the luminous point of it all will never stop shining as a beacon in my memory. When Momma and Daddy had returned with me and concluded that the bracelet was not to be found, she told me the wonderful and utterly comforting story of what had happened to my treasure.
It seemed, she said, that a little mermaid lived, out of sight, someplace near the banks of that little stream. She always kept herself hidden from view, but she was there nonetheless and she delighted in the stream and in the very special treasure she found in it this summer Sunday.
If only we could see, Mother made me understand as she soothed and carried me along with her story, we would observe a beautiful little mermaid, splashing in the water and occasionally coming to rest on a rock near its bank, revealing the wonderful blue pearl bracelet she wore on the shiny, left fin of her mermaid tail.
What I had learned at the end of reviewing those two resurrected documents included these facts:
Myths are not fantasies but as the great Joseph Campbell knew, they are accounts of a shared human experience so deep that it keeps making sense to people separated by geography and history and unites people who have every reason to be divided.
And as surely as myth is not just a fantasy, hope is not just wishful thinking. At its heart, hope is a way of imagining. A great Jewish sage told the story of two men sitting on benches in the relentless noonday sun. One looked hot and uncomfortable. The other cool and comfortable, because he had planted a shade tree and was imagining how pleasant it would one day make his bench.
The two documents I happened upon this week reminded me that the indispensable gift of hope is at its heart a way of seeing and a brave way of imagining.
In this season that includes both Easter and Passover, the last misunderstandings of hope can be swept away. And how? By the peaceful recognition that real bravery and daring and strength consist in imagining a better world and working to ensure that it will emerge.
Based on that, I started building an inventory of heroes of hope. Finding the documents was pure serendipity. So don’t be surprised if you find this first, provisional list generates responses ranging from, “Who?” to “Of Course!” to “Why in the World?” It includes robbers and saints; legislators and community organizers; doctors and documents, journalists; theologians, children, adults and whole families.
I hope you know many of them, will discover others and most of all begin to compile your own honor roll of hope.
Dismas, was alleged to be a robber who owned up to his own crimes, apologized to the victim to his left, threw in his lot with him and thereby won a promise of Paradise. Dr. Eben Alexander, who came back from days of flatlining with the conviction that he had to spend the rest of his rescued life recounting experiences of the unconditional love that moved Newsweek to headline a cover story “Heaven is Real.” Each child at a Seder who asks what makes the night different and believes the answer about rescue and renewal. Friends of Van Cortland Park, New York City’s third largest Park, and the Network for Peace Through Dialogue that honored them for turning an urban jewel into a safe and progressive place where 6000 children and adults enjoy educational and stewardship programs. Elizabeth A. Johnson, whose Ask the Beasts inspires hope that ecological care will be at the center of the moral life. Author/columnist David Brooks whose Road to Respect distinguishes the resume virtues from the eulogy virtues in a way that discourages the rise of demagogues and those addicted to celebrity. Lincoln as champion of the Emancipation Proclamation and Pope Francis and his Declaration of a Year of Mercy. The 900 Muslim members of the NYPD, The Amish families who forgave the poor, sad person who systematically murdered their girl children years ago in Pennsylvania. The family of Anne Frank, who were turned back when seeking refuge in the United States and protected their child from the prison of bitterness if not the camp where she met death. Mother Teresa who formed an alliance with the young American president of ORBIS, the airborne hospital of ophthalmology to seek treatment and healing for a child of the “poorest of the poor” and changed Pina Taormina’s life in the process and over years of advocacy. Jean Vanier, son of privilege who founded the unique and respectful L’Arche Communities made up of people with disabilities and those who come to share life with them.
The two documents I found this week told me of the value of story telling and really seeing. I was reminded that these are two sure signs that heroes of hope are at work in our world.
Nearly a year ago I was asked a poignant question for which I had no answer. A man whose homelessness was not evident approached a group of “villagers” with great courtesy and sincerity. Our sidewalk conversation must have given him confidence that he could expect to be included in its atmosphere of respect. He reported that he had secured an interview and wondered if any of us might suggest a place where he could have a shower in advance of that appointment. None of us had a definitive answer. Several had some plausible suggestions ranging from a local “Y” to a Parks Department Recreation Center. As we dispersed I was left with a vague sense that I should search for a better answer.
Fortunately, my neighbors and fellow parishioners of the Church of St. Vincent Ferrer (CSVF) Social Concerns Committee don’t stop with vague good will. Their commitment, dedication and consistent hard work were trained on finding solutions. Two weeks ago they marked a weekend of laser focus on the problem of homelessness by providing a spoken summary and printed information that illustrated the results months-long research and outreach to like-minded advocates had yielded. Taken together, their original report; a pocket sized reference card from the Neighborhood Coalition for Shelter;(NCS) and a quick guide to contact with the Coalition for the Homeless Crisis Intervention Program.
What I heard and saw that weekend told me that I now had my answer for the question that had haunted me for months. It told me that we can and should be inspired by the neighbors in our various urban villages to join in a spoken or unspoken agreement not to close our eyes or our minds and hearts to the reality of homelessness. This information and consciousness-raising exercise make it undeniable that there are things we all can do to address this issue.
The CSVF Committee summarized research drawn from a broad cross section of print and online media detailing the dimensions of the problem, and the efforts to address it. It also included original research showing that the surprisingly long history of homelessness in New York was evident as long ago as 1710 “when the arrival of destitute Palatine German immigrants in Manhattan created the city’s first homeless crisis, but the first almshouse was not opened until 1736.”
The Report, Entitled “Our Neighbors Living on the Street and Those We Don’t See Living in Shelters” follows the historical survey with a lexicon of terms to help de-mystify the kinds and types of needs and ways of addressing them used in the discussions of what the CSVF Committee calls “the inconceivable and unacceptable reality of homelessness in New York City.” Months of study and lifetimes of commitment are summarized in less than a dozen pages to stimulate an enlightened response to the challenge posed to all dwellers in our urban villages who aspire to being fully engaged human beings.
The problem is not one-dimensional and the presentation called attention to the enormous variety of shelters: dozens, from ones for families to others focused on exiles created by domestic violence and some for runaway children under 21 years of age. Eviction and domestic violence are major causes of homelessness. The variety of facilities is wide. But as the numbers and age-range of the homeless population are increasing there can be no sugarcoating of the deplorable conditions in all too many facilities in the city’s shelter system. The CSVF Committee encourages people to familiarize themselves with alternatives to the current system. They also suggest using the reference cards from the Coalition for the Homeless to provide help to people needing immediate assistance.
One of the members who found in this New York neighborhood an outlet to continue the work she did to assist Vietnamese refugees when living in Hong Kong and Singapore suggested that a fine way to maximize the benefits of the information folders from the NCS and Coalition for the Homeless would be to acquire and distribute a small supply of Metro Cards loaded with at least a round trip fare to enable a person in need to travel to the place where help may be available.
The connection that kept resurfacing as I studied the information was to the amazing “Flying Eye Hospital” ORBIS whose mission is summarized as the assault on preventable blindness in places where that may be of epidemic proportions. Taking a cue from these dedicated volunteers in our urban village I now have at least the beginning of an answer to the one question one man asked me long months ago. And I have renewed hope that at least some of the problems of homelessness are “preventable.” It all begins by refusing to close one’s eyes.
Annette Cunningham’s Street Seens appears every Sunday.
Here’s what I learned this week. Please help me try to understand it.
A giant of a jurist died, and before the ink was dry on the death certificate voices were raised to say what should happen as the result of his death.
What I learned in these tragic moments reflects rather unflatteringly on our love for the document that is the foundation stone of our precious democracy. (And in saying that I recall Winston Churchill’s magnificent insight: “Democracy is the worst form of government except for all the others.”) Those reminders sent me back to take a reverent look at the documents that have guided the growth of our country from brave idea to struggling realization of a dream: the Constitution, the Bill of Rights and at the very outset, the Declaration of Independence. What were the words? I had always thought that the Preamble to the Constitution that emerged from a grueling period of discussion and compromise; daring and disappointment had announced itself as being the expression of “We the People.” But now I was forced to wonder if I had misread the 18th Century penmanship. Did I remember it wrongly? Did it in fact begin with the words, “Me the People”?
So I checked. And came away reassured and somewhat saddened. The message was in fact from “We the People.” And with a certain gallows sense of humor the thought occurred to me that when the inevitable speculation about conspiracy in relation to the death of the honest originalist Antonin Scalia was raised (perhaps in a 140 character tweet) it would be easy enough to counter. It would only require suggesting that a premonition of what would occur in the aftermath of his death would alone have been enough to stop the heart of any dedicated originalist.
He believed that the founders had said what they said and meant what they said, quite literally.
Now admittedly “We the People” is a challenging and risky statement. It means that the individual members of our wildly diverse population must have enough trust in each other and their destiny as a nation to search for answers to their common challenges that combine or at least respect the diverse opinions of this marvelous mosaic of a democracy.
“We the People” when asked will have to search their souls to answer the question of how problems are to be solved. They will have to face up to the admittedly chilling and risky statement and humbly admit that they have to stretch their humanity, put aside any arrogant plan to substitute a personal agenda designed to thwart or block the will of the majority expressed at the ballot box. It means that a wildly diverse population must find within itself enough trust to discover a way to respond to common challenges. It means they will be expected to combine or at least show respect for the diverse opinions of all granted the status implied by the term, “We the People.”
When asked, they will have to search for ways to respect the implications of that lofty phrase. They will never be able to take solace in a claim that one group or individual is empowered to block the constitutionally granted rights of the others.
“We the People” is a proposition that is inconveniently risky, untidy; having the power to deliver at once both justice and discomfort.
“Me the People,” on the other hand, will simply be able to say,” I’ll come up with the perfect, amazing solutions, all without providing any detail on how those miracle will be effected.” The message is “I know how it’s meant to be done. Trust me, when the occasion arises you will see that I am right.”
The Constitution’s Preamble, it seems, is an equal opportunity challenger to potential demagogues and all the individual John and Jane Does who are called upon to resist the temptation to read it as “Me the People.” But whoever said that achieving grand ideas could be easy?
“We the People” will never be able to take solace in such tidy solutions. They will be forced to look into the deepest parts of their sprits to come up with that balance of respect and realism required to honor opinions that do not totally agree their own and to employ whatever powers of persuasion they may have to show their vision of the solutions as clearly and compellingly as possible.
If I am very blessed I will be able to look back on this week as a time when I summoned up the courage to take a stand on the side of “We the People.” For that I will need your help, each and all. And all I can offer in return is that you can count on mine in return.
Annette Cunningham’s Street Seens appears every Sunday.
One of the members who found in this New York neighborhood an outlet to continue the work she did to assist Vietnamese refugees when living in Hong Kong and Singapore suggested that a fine way to maximize the benefits of the information folders from the NCS and Coalition for the Homeless would be to acquire and distribute a small supply of Metro Cards loaded with at least a round trip fare to enable a person in need to travel to the place where help may be available.