tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149730160565736142024-03-18T17:46:28.385-07:00Reachfar"Vulnerable and authoritative" - Osler's RazorRoger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.comBlogger351125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-78640646683563801262024-03-03T15:01:00.000-08:002024-03-05T07:12:18.928-08:00Where Everyone Knows Bear's Name<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXiiBPFoOn_yPgJZAvDsVI8N_4og9v9R9RLCo7lKPUtfx6rHgJLHg0FoNRkKOt5tNi4Cmuh2g-Gkl36druHSK7VjXZjigMccnW9FZfvaeSl6_VZWIxaRiTEe2G5FOD5CePGv-s3KRB2cC5P0GijdQluZO2yU99Tkt2THPbq67gr5gFUvOxRzpbzWiZYQ/s2513/IMG_4033%20copy.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2513" data-original-width="2230" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXiiBPFoOn_yPgJZAvDsVI8N_4og9v9R9RLCo7lKPUtfx6rHgJLHg0FoNRkKOt5tNi4Cmuh2g-Gkl36druHSK7VjXZjigMccnW9FZfvaeSl6_VZWIxaRiTEe2G5FOD5CePGv-s3KRB2cC5P0GijdQluZO2yU99Tkt2THPbq67gr5gFUvOxRzpbzWiZYQ/w178-h200/IMG_4033%20copy.HEIC" width="178" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqfCRSV8u9RmTCvGWXlF0mIh2rJYSlfxxsRhNRQTSHDgKx9KDGc55IrsBBrB41pRnA1yWrMr2vUvhAlSzMZuXMzGyD0iQkeGIGhIi42PoVTR2_jayWqhtS53xh2izFvceTxNfCFS-2g63SSfXZs157iliwN7UMbVVEaJ-pA3ka7Dzfte35Yej9XErbg/s3154/IMG_4094%20copy.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3154" data-original-width="2631" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqfCRSV8u9RmTCvGWXlF0mIh2rJYSlfxxsRhNRQTSHDgKx9KDGc55IrsBBrB41pRnA1yWrMr2vUvhAlSzMZuXMzGyD0iQkeGIGhIi42PoVTR2_jayWqhtS53xh2izFvceTxNfCFS-2g63SSfXZs157iliwN7UMbVVEaJ-pA3ka7Dzfte35Yej9XErbg/w167-h200/IMG_4094%20copy.HEIC" width="167" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>As my health improves and my legal cases wind down, I’ve begun applying for post-lawyer and law-adjacent jobs. Recently a friend suggested I reach out to a local bar leader to chat about his experiences. Although we have mutual friends, I wrote in my introductory email that we hadn’t met.</div><div><br /></div><div>He graciously invited me to lunch next week. But he disagreed with me:</div><div><br /></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">“By the way, we have already met in Fairhaven. Your dog Bear and my dog have met at least.”</div></div></div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDgJkEI5SOg89ts97ybZZqrU9SEpMhuChXVOUb0NRXjjqQN0r8pADOH2rGH2duBlat4apRAbnUWaXnOr9LaPnFUROkub3vYKE_-hcvR15I52AINl9Tlaji_JihD6a2wFSUOepTmPX4N7Je4sMQwHXF9hhhkE6EQpEAM5IC2djomhTNHxI359ek6t-Pg/s1866/Cheers.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1301" data-original-width="1866" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDgJkEI5SOg89ts97ybZZqrU9SEpMhuChXVOUb0NRXjjqQN0r8pADOH2rGH2duBlat4apRAbnUWaXnOr9LaPnFUROkub3vYKE_-hcvR15I52AINl9Tlaji_JihD6a2wFSUOepTmPX4N7Je4sMQwHXF9hhhkE6EQpEAM5IC2djomhTNHxI359ek6t-Pg/s320/Cheers.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everyone knows Bear. And Bear knows everyone – especially everyone who’s ever offered him a treat.</span></p></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bear’s ideal walk is a six mile “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2024/02/Grand Slam.html">Grand Slam</a>,” which involves three treats in Fairhaven, two along the Boardwalk, and four downtown. The newest addition to our route is the bank. Recently their security guard saw us in the parking lot and asked where we were going. I told him I was using the ATM after going across the street to the post office to get my mail and Bear’s treat. The guard told us our longtime Chase branch also has treats. Now Bear is a regular customer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When the tellers first met him last month, Bear was still wearing a tee shirt to protect his bite wound. I got to tell everyone the story of how an unleashed bulldog named “Bubbles” almost killed Bear at Christmas. On our next visit to the bank, the goofy bro teller was the one who brought out the dog treat. He asked if my wife had been in a couple of days ago with Bear. He remembered a lot of the details about Bear and Bubbles. But he didn’t remember me. </span></p></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2887" data-original-width="2919" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbzvdGGMoykptPaEcAdMYEs5bIE1MHlC6EBx9Q8Z-qW8bt8vYQT1UcVI4qnk_d4ybNQxaCRgaRsoHZToXoVZknPPSWuNoNhTKg5htbKx3jgd1nfJyzui5E-xMoxCgj5GacI0sCYe4w2IOHHmbacVlKKYaS1aexRWxHx1O0QDdeqNZPJ5RKnYDSkDUIrQ/w320-h316/IMG_1648.heic" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Most days our first stop is at Village Books in Fairhaven. As Bear lunged toward the front door, I heard a gentleman on the sidewalk with his golden retriever marvel “They let dogs into the bookstore?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not only are dogs welcome in Village Books, but there are treats waiting behind each counter. Bear knows our rule – only one treat per establishment per walk. But he’s allowed to say hi and get backrubs from his friends at any counter. So Bear will try to get me distracted enough for him to bum an extra biscuit off some weak-willed bookseller. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This week the Village Book staff newsletter announced Bear had a haircut. Everyone is startled by the contrast. Yesterday a clerk at the Paper Dreams counter leaned down to ask my dog if he wanted a treat. Then she saw me and realized it was a shorn Bear. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At least she recognized me. But she only knows Bear’s name.</span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UNS__UZ0HVzevpL3BgE1ih9nEBjq-Yemj_TcO7eo3dHk2R2EvYDxtNjDknSyRrufVSfabmq4J9F61X0rUhzLr5gBUGqICGd2ZZGTTlfGM44mGUUBSaH6cnLLLkmAQA37Gp6grqb21E_SNhXBh0nt6TnB7JGE0tnXZfplMACMNBdVrE6dZ7yujGkmNQ/s2000/Acme.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1622" data-original-width="2000" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UNS__UZ0HVzevpL3BgE1ih9nEBjq-Yemj_TcO7eo3dHk2R2EvYDxtNjDknSyRrufVSfabmq4J9F61X0rUhzLr5gBUGqICGd2ZZGTTlfGM44mGUUBSaH6cnLLLkmAQA37Gp6grqb21E_SNhXBh0nt6TnB7JGE0tnXZfplMACMNBdVrE6dZ7yujGkmNQ/s320/Acme.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The best treats are at Chrysalis Inn, the biggest treats are at Rumors, and the most treats are at Village Books. But Bear would say the best company is at Acme Ice Cream. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A sign on the door identifies Acme as “dog friendly.” The photo montage of canine regulars on the wall prominently features Bear. In addition to sharing waffle cone fragments and gourmet treats from Mud Bay, the ice cream scooping baristas have taught Bear to shake. On busy days, Bear charms new customers while patiently waiting in line. On quiet days, the ice cream scoopers and I socialize while Bear enjoys getting scratched. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When Bear and I started our long daily walks during covid, the manager Maddie asked me to introduce myself. Since then every Acme employee has always greeted both Bear and me by name.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxI0VUHKpY-3z8O_NhADjk3a7zRSy3CnHd5Nk_-tGFUx-ozPNfTNT9pASUiWa3rC7B-3kzwyd3KBap23EPiDR2gOpVYfBBa2VEZ3uBul2D6pvMjtdmtoX7IbV-tiBbV2bnhACgHWBeypCmzNYXKhw3DfF7Sx6MOORHfAA8fOCLhQkezQ6dEQN1gkCew/s421/America's%20cup%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="421" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxI0VUHKpY-3z8O_NhADjk3a7zRSy3CnHd5Nk_-tGFUx-ozPNfTNT9pASUiWa3rC7B-3kzwyd3KBap23EPiDR2gOpVYfBBa2VEZ3uBul2D6pvMjtdmtoX7IbV-tiBbV2bnhACgHWBeypCmzNYXKhw3DfF7Sx6MOORHfAA8fOCLhQkezQ6dEQN1gkCew/s320/America's%20cup%20copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When Eleanor and Lynn frequent braces appointments on the other side of downtown, Bear and I would often go on waterfront walks through Squalicum Harbor. There used to be a coffee shop in the marina with homemade dog treats. Whenever we’re in the neighborhood years later, Bear will drag me across acres of parking lots to see if this particular coffee shop has reopened.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The former coffee shop’s owner recently opened a pastry place downtown. Yesterday I went in to check out the wares, tying up Bear outside. The cashier looked out the window and exclaimed “I love Bear’s haircut!” She told me she knows Bear because she’s friends with one of the ice cream scoopers at Acme. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96-8bw22DSQjNJrJT_ECT41uXTXcAMTOJDcTjvGLZs70nuRbVHsJToiNxQiNid9dBk9Ofj3PcZskeooPxPQQVQXcLbV90JzbwbdqWwmFTmp6_JPu79nvEYGCCoK8CEVjjVWjO4Inutezmm6iQFx6YZkGvrNK7oCTrC9cw9iyZimHzyiJUyH2hq56YAg/s4032/IMG_3428.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96-8bw22DSQjNJrJT_ECT41uXTXcAMTOJDcTjvGLZs70nuRbVHsJToiNxQiNid9dBk9Ofj3PcZskeooPxPQQVQXcLbV90JzbwbdqWwmFTmp6_JPu79nvEYGCCoK8CEVjjVWjO4Inutezmm6iQFx6YZkGvrNK7oCTrC9cw9iyZimHzyiJUyH2hq56YAg/s320/IMG_3428.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The bank, post office, and gay bar are all closed on Saturday mornings, so Bear’s only treat option downtown is Avelino Coffeehouse. I go to Avelino for the exceptional baked goods and to show off Bear’s manners.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday a man with two canes ahead of us in line was invited to give Bear his treat at the counter. The man walked out beaming, and said “That made my day!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRA6atPvOkMIkL9k6nfD_-xwQHV0UtbjWn8rWXv5GQAmdt5DPuDnbHf6lFRtqImJt-niW2SWumBHOQ9bKJSYnrdEmm2leOf6qAfxxE-j5Wj5RdYEdmBM6-a7H2VINaDfQ5X9IsBo1jPbHI79ud_huBXhQYfuqmPpuU5m16IsYhWptQL5FeonygDm0SNQ/s768/Camber.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="768" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRA6atPvOkMIkL9k6nfD_-xwQHV0UtbjWn8rWXv5GQAmdt5DPuDnbHf6lFRtqImJt-niW2SWumBHOQ9bKJSYnrdEmm2leOf6qAfxxE-j5Wj5RdYEdmBM6-a7H2VINaDfQ5X9IsBo1jPbHI79ud_huBXhQYfuqmPpuU5m16IsYhWptQL5FeonygDm0SNQ/s320/Camber.webp" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I never tasted coffee until I was twenty-five. Now I’m a terrible coffee snob. In fact, <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2023/12/Fairhaven.html">since the Terminal Building burnt down in December</a>, there’s only one place in Bellingham where I’ll order coffee. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A couple of years ago Facebook kept sending me links to articles with headlines like “Best Coffee Shops in America!” that highlighted Bellingham’s Camber café. Eventually Bear and I passed Camber on one of our walks downtown. Here’s the sign next to the door:<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We love dogs, we love your dog, however: for health and safety reasons we must ask that you do not bring your dog past the front counter. The only exception is if they are a registered service animal with a vest.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Please wait outside with them and we will bring your drink out to you.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everyone is very welcoming to Bear as we wait to be served at the counter. Then Bear and I go outside on the patio where I give him water and a treat from my backpack. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m sure their treats would be delicious, but Camber doesn’t serve dogs. Instead, Camber has amazing coffee. The ambiance is elegant yet comfortable. And they remember my drink. Last month the barista came outside and said “the order said an Americano with walking room and three shots, but I assumed it was a mistake and you wanted four.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Although I only visit Camber a couple of times a month, I’m always greeted by name. The last time I stopped by alone, the woman at the counter called me “Roger” and asked how “your dog” was doing. I’m sure all the baristas at Camber know Bear’s name. But they know I don’t need to hear it with my coffee.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlnJC3QZN7AqF-PSqbEDHpMkIXHs8_pCNNLD0GEnFDb2LN-yLIVOv2h2kbLfqCibCnek8vQmkfCD3VMCbeq3_GNSOIURuIjZASrf7rh6Pn9JEzs1TsdcrKP6jof4QyYy4VnY3gl89O6g8aDTHqjA-2JE6JV_OpNtOOGji6j8RTIW-msFYGuP81ayC_A/s2048/Bear%20&%20me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlnJC3QZN7AqF-PSqbEDHpMkIXHs8_pCNNLD0GEnFDb2LN-yLIVOv2h2kbLfqCibCnek8vQmkfCD3VMCbeq3_GNSOIURuIjZASrf7rh6Pn9JEzs1TsdcrKP6jof4QyYy4VnY3gl89O6g8aDTHqjA-2JE6JV_OpNtOOGji6j8RTIW-msFYGuP81ayC_A/s320/Bear%20&%20me.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-4709512812743314322024-02-22T10:54:00.000-08:002024-02-27T06:46:30.504-08:00Kosher Dogs<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="382" data-original-width="382" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbcyQCWdqs3OBw_w6mEkenWpbs49nwd_mQIkSQa0Y6W581c__DPLS_1_fR79h6dKR1O4qBPEXkDniA9YrDKvlfie2j2ufVwFftgmOQmF61KL8R9B5-YIWW1BJQd_98uYyolswwtkde04cnZYuyjluayLBofE24cNHIiQGo1frvVLBrYAkeIcl8Bv-qgw/w200-h200/SaturdaysWarriorORIGINALCOVER.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-decoration: underline;" width="200" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was ten or eleven years old when I saw my first musical. It was a touring show at Vancouver’s Queen Elizabeth Theatre called <i>Saturday’s Warrior</i>. After the Broadway successes of <i>Godspell</i> and J<i>esus Christ Superstar</i>, a group of musicians from Brigham Young University attempted to translate Mormon culture into musical theater. <i>Saturday’s Warrior</i> is about a family resisting worldly temptation and trying to get back to heaven together.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">December 2023 found me back at the Queen E. This time I was onstage at the Vancouver Playhouse in front of sold-out crowds, singing carols together with a hundred of my gay brothers in Vancouver Men’s Chorus. And pretending to be Jewish.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYh3E-eksJtCnAEABr-5zkGC0qysRqSz23uOCVkTDULLMV6L7GlUUzopFP1f42yb8hjvn1HCdChYi1GJBZS0vQIYiduZUuIvfDvno5Xu0JrfFu9gVJsveCBjY0uRsnCMsSML3DB9GjWVbeve7adLOl89KIOJNJcBVaRWzE2ewSjA_N6893xSNVK_-XSg/s2048/Me%20Jewish.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1538" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYh3E-eksJtCnAEABr-5zkGC0qysRqSz23uOCVkTDULLMV6L7GlUUzopFP1f42yb8hjvn1HCdChYi1GJBZS0vQIYiduZUuIvfDvno5Xu0JrfFu9gVJsveCBjY0uRsnCMsSML3DB9GjWVbeve7adLOl89KIOJNJcBVaRWzE2ewSjA_N6893xSNVK_-XSg/s320/Me%20Jewish.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br style="text-align: left;" /><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Despite three decades in gay choruses, I’m still too much of an introvert to audition for an actual solo. But I have impeccable comic timing and a freakishly expressive face. Over the last few years I’ve confronted my anxieties by volunteering for micro-solos in VMC’s Christmas show. Each occasion involved a primarily dramatic rather than musical role. It turns out the contemporary choral repertoire includes a striking number of holiday songs where a lonely Jewish singer attempts to sing about dreidels before being shushed by Christian supremacists. Despite my <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/01/GVS.html">Scottish / Mormon heritage</a>, I keep getting faux typecast as the outnumbered Jewish guy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For example, the Midwestern a capella group Straight No Chaser has created a raucous polyphonic “Christmas Can-Can.” It’s a cheery race between the chorus, a small ensemble, the orchestra, and the conductor. I signed up to be part of the small group when VMC introduced the song a few years ago. At our first rehearsal we had to assign a handful of short solo lines. “Not gonna do the kick line” went to the Asian bass. Next we needed someone to tell the audience “It’s not fair if you’re Jewish!” Without thinking, I pointed out I can easily play Jewish, and got the part. Afterwards I remembered PTSD was still a whole new adventure for me. There was a significant chance I would freeze when the time came to sing or say my four nebbishy lines. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately, my fleeting solo came and went each night without any microphone glitches, wardrobe malfunctions, or PTSD episodes. Unfortunately, hundreds of blue-haired ladies and cute gay guys now labor/labour under the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>misapprehension that I’m Jewish. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In subsequent years I’ve been assigned similar roles in other holiday songs. After one performance I got a message from a charming stranger who said the concert was “lovely” and I was “cute.” I hope his mother won’t be disappointed to find out I</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">m not really Jewish. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><br style="text-align: left;" /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm0wpCVqlX3AIATDuPUxJPFVk2M7TSlUE3p09mzVSakFEOwzcVX474YE5momF8RUi6DYJjYXm7UncyvOh0QXGivPTq0M-SCLpRBO32OXFkWLw4VXzXT1Vf26ZVmHXoNOPYozfQVPbNnPzAeXLjx6Mfd9XsQoxQ54Xo6lmMQ671MFm1noxIogyQvFJCmg/s936/CanCanPoint.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="936" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm0wpCVqlX3AIATDuPUxJPFVk2M7TSlUE3p09mzVSakFEOwzcVX474YE5momF8RUi6DYJjYXm7UncyvOh0QXGivPTq0M-SCLpRBO32OXFkWLw4VXzXT1Vf26ZVmHXoNOPYozfQVPbNnPzAeXLjx6Mfd9XsQoxQ54Xo6lmMQ671MFm1noxIogyQvFJCmg/w400-h268/CanCanPoint.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mark Burnham Photography</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The theme of this year’s VMC holiday show was “Cheers,” which meant lots of drinking songs. One of our recycled numbers was the “Christmas Can-Can.” I signed up to be part of the small ensemble because I’m too lazy to learn the chorus part. I was ready to let someone else take their turn being Jewish. But at the first rehearsal both the conductor and guy directing our ensemble pointed out “Roger already knows the solo.” I took the hint, and enjoyed being part of a revival. One longtime chorus member told me “It feels like Christmas when I hear you being Jewish.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, current events made our repertoire fraught. The festive “Christmas Luau” was pulled after fires devastated Maui. Then war erupted between Israelis and Palestinians. Our perky “Boogie Woogie Hanukkah” number was replaced with a choral anthem in Hebrew. Nevertheless, our conductor chose to keep the “Christmas Can-Can.” He trusted the audience, and had faith in my experience and timing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Each of my beleaguered Jewish lines gets smiles and laughs if it lands just right. Normally a missed landing wouldn’t be a big deal – there are a lot of other things happening on stage, and twenty other songs in the concert. But with the Holy Land in turmoil, I was terrified I would create an offensive distraction.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Although it stressed me out every night, I safely landed each comic Jewish line. And then I enjoyed the rest of the show.</span></p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br style="text-align: left;" /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3kthEdBzYLJohdahYPKWXcerU4c3UC-ciLUEafjBW_fo8jOivmnrm1XYuuD7yPCQbifgNAugfydGZg-efyfUFEX8IygwM0LagblreJAKWfSBWKciAozBzvdKpjb23zI3sWBWRCAhQsdOAIKFJDciBcyIpoteNsFu55YngMe7f65dbgizF16VmjD7-Iw/s936/CanCanlean.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="936" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3kthEdBzYLJohdahYPKWXcerU4c3UC-ciLUEafjBW_fo8jOivmnrm1XYuuD7yPCQbifgNAugfydGZg-efyfUFEX8IygwM0LagblreJAKWfSBWKciAozBzvdKpjb23zI3sWBWRCAhQsdOAIKFJDciBcyIpoteNsFu55YngMe7f65dbgizF16VmjD7-Iw/w400-h265/CanCanlean.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mark Burnham Photography</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rehearsals have started for VMC’s next show, which has the theme “Icons.” Our concerts are in June, so we</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">re still learning new music. In the meantime we’ve been asked to sing three songs at a fundraising gig next month. Two of the songs were part of our set at the Canadian LGBT choral festival </span>in Halifax <span style="font-family: inherit;">last May.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I was pleased to discover I still have both songs memorized, including a surprising percentage of the choreography to “Don’t Rock the Boat.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The third number is an Irish drinking song from our concert in December. Unfortunately, when the conductor waved his baton I suddenly realized I don’t know “Nil Sen La.” </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><br /></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqzz0s8v_nImlZzRybqaI5tHXOAnu1btWSlXVLdtxOfUNMaq1P2uAQqtv5Gzjp07_fmBtVZK0Vqq55LsT6DBtJk17plTavKfGInD8hoGSq3yQWFs9AD8dGkj7HRoGMVZ66WdmrUon2pkWVG0CrGKAN24wyhlmlwGldIV024eXzEK_hWnjYv7-7pKYyA/s1080/cheers.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqzz0s8v_nImlZzRybqaI5tHXOAnu1btWSlXVLdtxOfUNMaq1P2uAQqtv5Gzjp07_fmBtVZK0Vqq55LsT6DBtJk17plTavKfGInD8hoGSq3yQWFs9AD8dGkj7HRoGMVZ66WdmrUon2pkWVG0CrGKAN24wyhlmlwGldIV024eXzEK_hWnjYv7-7pKYyA/s320/cheers.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of my favorite<span style="background: repeat white;"> psychology experiments tested the intelligence of farmers before and after harvest. The researchers found what they called a “scarcity mindset.” Before the harvest, while the farmers were still worrying their crop might fail, they tested an average of thirteen IQ points lower than their intelligence after a successful harvest. Chronic stress “</span><a href="https://www.inc.com/jessica-stillman/intelligence-abundance-mindset-oprah-winfrey-tony-robbins.html">makes you distracted, defensive, less rational, and effectively dumber</a>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have a lifetime of experience as a performer and public speaker. I can handle ordinary stage fright. At our June concert a couple of years ago, I kept my poise while </span>introducing<span style="font-family: inherit;"> the song “Chosen Family” with a </span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/06/TripleAxelFamily.html">tear-jerking</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/06/TripleAxelFamily.html"> speech about being both a PFLAG son and father</a>. But as a PTSD survivor I’ve learned to recognize the impact of extraordinary triggers and stressors. During our recent concerts, I thought I was phoning in “Nil Sen La” because it’s too high and I was saving my voice. In reality, I was so stressed about the four tiny solo lines coming up right afterwards that I couldn’t remember a word in Gaelic, or even the words “Dum Dee Dum.” Now I’m frantically memorizing “Nil Sen La” in preparation for our gig next month.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkDss4jF4aMcp6h2Ay0wsKmu4nE7rhNPmwf-G4q6PSGWYvwOW5PI6Z9ilYDyEiY2po6Wmtfhu9oe7B6xTuIHpHSI-Mj8swML0T-JiVM1dcqB3pmwHd6dq4hUdMUwi3nr5tJNmkKbm4H2k4_YyCYXL_b4d7w_TrNTuBVHwxjZUGCuBpHDYSPUk3MnFdg/s2048/Bear%20&%20me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkDss4jF4aMcp6h2Ay0wsKmu4nE7rhNPmwf-G4q6PSGWYvwOW5PI6Z9ilYDyEiY2po6Wmtfhu9oe7B6xTuIHpHSI-Mj8swML0T-JiVM1dcqB3pmwHd6dq4hUdMUwi3nr5tJNmkKbm4H2k4_YyCYXL_b4d7w_TrNTuBVHwxjZUGCuBpHDYSPUk3MnFdg/s320/Bear%20&%20me.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #050505;">Bear and I walk for miles every day along the waterfront. My dog has both an uncanny direction sense and a perfect memory for establishments that offer treats.</span> <span style="color: #050505;">As I observed in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2023/12/Fairhaven.html">Fairhaven</a>,” our local gay bar Rumors has the biggest treats, but the kitchen door at Chrysalis Inn has the best: huge chunks of roast chicken breast diverted from the<span class="apple-converted-space"> bourgeoisie’s<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span>Caesar salads. Bear will also drag us back to any place that has served him lamb or duck, long after the </span>café itself has been boarded up.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>When the Chrysalis Inn is out of chicken they usually substitute cheese. Which is fine – Bear loves dairy. The other day they had alderwood-smoked bacon instead, which look<span>ed delicious to me. <o:p></o:p></span></span><span><span>But Bear is <i>meh</i> about bacon and pork.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: start;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not Jewish. But Bear might be.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVcfOgYcY0QCAZJW-6MLUl4Miv5WQwxonrt3APG3DvggBhBqe8yf7VidlUQ10q-Vip0CvFyI5gL7uHPGayejFLvJBv6A-woX4Eqwqv_jpWnOGc2kJDjZRztkHtw3GrBWRf8grX4nMp8OIr_NoIcS2lxrEB1fj31XO-dSnPpwjtgzUaQdTkPMUCrxhHVQ/s960/Bear%20-%20jewish.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVcfOgYcY0QCAZJW-6MLUl4Miv5WQwxonrt3APG3DvggBhBqe8yf7VidlUQ10q-Vip0CvFyI5gL7uHPGayejFLvJBv6A-woX4Eqwqv_jpWnOGc2kJDjZRztkHtw3GrBWRf8grX4nMp8OIr_NoIcS2lxrEB1fj31XO-dSnPpwjtgzUaQdTkPMUCrxhHVQ/s320/Bear%20-%20jewish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-60951023252400209332024-02-08T18:58:00.000-08:002024-02-08T19:03:33.869-08:00Grand Slam<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xrCo51iqazieuL58yttxl_4uxTfByEBTpTMAogKHrk1JLr-AQkciBEn4USmoGqSCQn8x90zpYPKtVZDPCulczu8np7a4gqN4J16xu0NwtlTiAIbGciqyPws7h0AyKYnZovVxTNSO9lN6l5QuiziehkiLq1oOGm0H4pXixT2qWCfw6FRx47SJnzn3IA/s4032/IMG_3824.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xrCo51iqazieuL58yttxl_4uxTfByEBTpTMAogKHrk1JLr-AQkciBEn4USmoGqSCQn8x90zpYPKtVZDPCulczu8np7a4gqN4J16xu0NwtlTiAIbGciqyPws7h0AyKYnZovVxTNSO9lN6l5QuiziehkiLq1oOGm0H4pXixT2qWCfw6FRx47SJnzn3IA/s320/IMG_3824.HEIC" width="240" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Today Bear completed his first ever Grand Slam of Dog Treats. </span></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRks9CFooBWdks38WafXVf7LwR3juxsbZJfyRIVIA9LBfDOFwDN1HqyWIeqLHodlWSlW0D6_t3hFGGEv615XtrFKwiXb_G7nwD4_Gd4iR-_RRw9gtdlKXXGaAg2GWBG8JnIG7R1hxY2e0ieYVXJNoFcU6bWS5KZakLSS_3zdplKzGtvsD1MlUCbYzUZA/s3856/IMG_3805.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3856" data-original-width="2645" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRks9CFooBWdks38WafXVf7LwR3juxsbZJfyRIVIA9LBfDOFwDN1HqyWIeqLHodlWSlW0D6_t3hFGGEv615XtrFKwiXb_G7nwD4_Gd4iR-_RRw9gtdlKXXGaAg2GWBG8JnIG7R1hxY2e0ieYVXJNoFcU6bWS5KZakLSS_3zdplKzGtvsD1MlUCbYzUZA/s320/IMG_3805.heic" width="220" /></a></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: left;"></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bear has both an uncanny direction sense and a perfect memory for establishments that offer treats. Our walks usually start in Fairhaven with stops at Village Books, Acme Ice Cream, and Bay to Baker Trading Company. Then we walk to Boulevard Park, collecting treats at both ends of the Boardwalk from the kitchen door at the Chrysalis Inn and then the walk-up window at Woods Coffee.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today Bear led me along the rest of <a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a>the waterfront trail to downtown Bellingham. There Bear finds treats at a coffee shop, a bank, a post office, and a gay bar. The bank is Bear’s newest conquest. Last week the security guard asked where we were going after he saw us park in the bank lot. I told him I was using the ATM after going across the street to the post office to get my mail and Bear’s treat. The guard told us our longtime Chase branch also has treats – who knew? </span></div></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; text-align: center; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IfP6PlpJIi5GiS_KNBocZoGVFlehz_WTvaDh-AZFTzRnawY1LIYfclt1mMt90gFUFTVpi-6TuXXnxuwBopXfNc_iVNvdXZd8KYvZ1HUgCJnBlGsl31lPaF9ajxro-wD4BTTdr2J3P0LdYlmpKiIHh5n52Op_6PHVFBjFImxoV53bzaDlubR3OI01Xg/s4032/IMG_3809.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IfP6PlpJIi5GiS_KNBocZoGVFlehz_WTvaDh-AZFTzRnawY1LIYfclt1mMt90gFUFTVpi-6TuXXnxuwBopXfNc_iVNvdXZd8KYvZ1HUgCJnBlGsl31lPaF9ajxro-wD4BTTdr2J3P0LdYlmpKiIHh5n52Op_6PHVFBjFImxoV53bzaDlubR3OI01Xg/s320/IMG_3809.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div></span><p></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I observed in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2023/12/Fairhaven.html">Fairhaven</a>,” Rumors has the biggest treats, but the Chrysalis Inn has the best – huge chunks of roast chicken breast diverted from the</span> bourgeoisie’s <span style="font-family: inherit;">Caesar salads. Along the way, bookstore clerk Nathan gives the best scratches, and the baristas at Acme are Bear’s buddies.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Downtown schedules give the nine-element Grand Slam its high degree of difficulty. The bank and the post office are closed on weekends. The old post office is only open from 11 until 5, and Rumors doesn’t open until 4. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On the way home we walk off-leash through Western Washington University so Bear can kiss the boys and bum cigarettes off the girls. According to both Bear and my iPhone, today we took the shortest possible Grand Slam route: 6.6 miles, in two and a half hours. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBIxufgYKA5E0xTR1m80j4LyCwlrS8MJxiIxj2UQUUrjGqXT20eMFWBP7rXp2bRG7BmCKFLJYVKjqKhh3BeT16eGUysVUt2OIroIrJBfArhsHNUXu5RPjOzADjIBaFBW3MOX4lzZW9XzjO21jho8TIMb35C9qO4ESoyX7hiUr2kBE4W6bhY4opT04EQ/s4032/IMG_3832.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBIxufgYKA5E0xTR1m80j4LyCwlrS8MJxiIxj2UQUUrjGqXT20eMFWBP7rXp2bRG7BmCKFLJYVKjqKhh3BeT16eGUysVUt2OIroIrJBfArhsHNUXu5RPjOzADjIBaFBW3MOX4lzZW9XzjO21jho8TIMb35C9qO4ESoyX7hiUr2kBE4W6bhY4opT04EQ/s320/IMG_3832.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5);"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; text-align: center; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br /><p></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><br /></div></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-3464748617517740152023-12-21T06:13:00.000-08:002024-02-25T14:57:57.517-08:00Fairhaven<div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbP4JrwEMxWqVYCK_uFF1Yod2U4P5VAs2AeezR9GNRuQvDyH0F-TuzpihQ1OocQ6SphpYLTldkkwmSzZFcpDbS4CupQRbr38ephNO0ICc361phfdcS4RQRihlWIkqA_KrtOvZp47ZNH0UETA8KV_2q5RqD2isPpXbLR9tF1KU2gupmJygVpYvYcKP5LQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbP4JrwEMxWqVYCK_uFF1Yod2U4P5VAs2AeezR9GNRuQvDyH0F-TuzpihQ1OocQ6SphpYLTldkkwmSzZFcpDbS4CupQRbr38ephNO0ICc361phfdcS4RQRihlWIkqA_KrtOvZp47ZNH0UETA8KV_2q5RqD2isPpXbLR9tF1KU2gupmJygVpYvYcKP5LQ=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fairhaven Village is Bellingham’s historic neighborhood. This week the Fairhaven community grieves the loss of its oldest commercial building in a fire. The Terminal Building was home to the Harris Avenue Café and Tony’s Coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m part of the Fairhaven community because we share a dog. The last time I went into the coffee shop in the Terminal Building, Bear waited on the sidewalk while I ordered my usual: “Americano to go, four shots, black, 16 ounce cup with extra room because I’m walking my dog.” The barista looked outside and asked, “Is your dog Bear? I used to work across the street at Acme, and I miss him.”</span></p></div><div class="separator"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPacawlYFZ8OseR8YIsE0XX7qWc_majz0VG4LmhTzLt_e51F66QaSmI2dDcEfMMfEfNTiK91mxLlnnogh6ASzZCAOCFXuOfLNmcpPLqMoHUMOpH7M863vCYVJ-cTqm1TT9HW3o3Wop6fj0pvvrhhkOBeQnlsVCgdpv3E8JnA_J0JsZE0KF8uSxsmyV0Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3807" data-original-width="2855" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPacawlYFZ8OseR8YIsE0XX7qWc_majz0VG4LmhTzLt_e51F66QaSmI2dDcEfMMfEfNTiK91mxLlnnogh6ASzZCAOCFXuOfLNmcpPLqMoHUMOpH7M863vCYVJ-cTqm1TT9HW3o3Wop6fj0pvvrhhkOBeQnlsVCgdpv3E8JnA_J0JsZE0KF8uSxsmyV0Q=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bellingham is blessed with an amazing network of trails. If I got to choose the route, we would stick to the waterfront or go through the woods. I’m a writer, so I like to commune with nature while dictating to my watch. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: repeat white;">But Bear is a people person. In particular, Bear is a people-with-treats-and-hugs person. </span>Several welcoming businesses in Fairhaven keep dog treats behind the counter. <span style="background: repeat white;">Bear has calculated the shortest route to each such establishment.</span> (<span style="background: repeat white;">If they’re closed, Bear insists on being compensated with something from my backpack.) </span>Trading treats for hugs has become the highlight of many Fairhaven folks’ day. At Acme Ice Cream, the dyed-haired baristas have taught Bear to shake hands. At Village Books, Bear can count on Nathan for the best back scratches. On busy retail days, Bear’s contribution to the ambience can close a sale. On quiet days, there’s time for every lonely dog person to get a personal cuddle. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then Bear shakes his hair as if humans have cooties, and prepares to move on. As Heather at Acme said the other day, “I know you’ve got your other spots, Bear.”</span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2887" data-original-width="2919" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbzvdGGMoykptPaEcAdMYEs5bIE1MHlC6EBx9Q8Z-qW8bt8vYQT1UcVI4qnk_d4ybNQxaCRgaRsoHZToXoVZknPPSWuNoNhTKg5htbKx3jgd1nfJyzui5E-xMoxCgj5GacI0sCYe4w2IOHHmbacVlKKYaS1aexRWxHx1O0QDdeqNZPJ5RKnYDSkDUIrQ/w320-h316/IMG_1648.heic" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: repeat white;">This fall we expanded our treat-seeking itinerary. Bellingham residents who live in the neighborhoods around Fairhaven all receive copies of <i>Southside Living</i>, a glossy local real estate magazine. A recent article with the headline “Meet Skylar, a Fairhaven Regular” described one dog’s foraging route. Bear and I were already familiar with Village Books, Acme Ice Cream, and the Woods Coffee outpost in Boulevard Park. But we hadn’t heard about some of the other treat-offering businesses that Skylar regularly visits, including the toy store down the street. On our next walk through Fairhaven, Bear stopped by to introduce himself to the toy sellers. </span><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It turned out to be fake news – they politely directed us next door to Bay to Baker Trading Company. This made Bear think we’re supposed to stop at every shop on the block. But he quickly figured out which door had treats behind it. Now whenever we leave Acme, Bear drags me straight down the street to Bay to Baker. At each Fairhaven location, Bear offers all the loving craved by the various dog-starved baristas, bookstore clerks, and college students we encounter. But it’s the treats that bring him back. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="2204" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5whoTRaqjY-L8MBPuzoJh5YUR_LMym0KcCusKQobk_cWoAyhkldgPup3uIs9HHOXfzteABtlTwlnRxNb4Omo6cn2jYwQK0ARrHiN7XhK1vGHmNe_KZisQkWzfwu0G_xooTnWeTQdpJ-KBX2e3EcyL50DcxDPjF00K3G3eieTB7FUjdBYuK_6vyzizQ/s320/Chysalis%20Inn.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Long walks with Bear help me think clearly enough to get my work done. It’s been a challenging year. This summer we averaged over nine miles a day. During the darkest time of year we’re down to six miles a day. But this week we welcome Christmas, the solstice, and the return of light and hope. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In addition to walking along the seawall in Vancouver or on other trails in Bellingham, this year Bear and I have walked along the Boardwalk connecting Fairhaven and Boulevard Park </span>almost every day<span style="font-family: inherit;">. Bear thinks it’s because the Boardwalk links the supply of treats in Fairhaven to his friends at Woods Coffee. Bear is a dog. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Boulevard Park has always been my favorite spot in Bellingham, with its rocky beach and spectacular view of Canada, the Olympic Mountains, and the San Juan Islands. Nowadays our path takes us past the spot where the city has poured concrete for a bench donated in honor of <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2023/03/Henry.html">Henry King</a>, the genial homeless man who used to sit near there. Henry always saved food to share with Bear. He and my brother <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2023/05/FathersAndBrothers.html">Doug Leishman</a> both died this spring. Every day I walk along the waterfront with Bear and think of them fondly. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGsv9gFzV2G0lC7vr2cVF1vuCMaw9jEC9-pba2apYsuid8MSceo1idAZoon-AqxVLPX872nQX0CpW-nWwSQOzeNdKJqsImMEKG8zEedgCc7qSZ5AoX1thaTl62LgM3sfWjm2yZ6kg_Usp6oCtykQYM6ADZnULWiDHyznldYoGTNbUB8I-h0EWsbNY6g/s3270/IMG_1777.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3270" data-original-width="2801" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGsv9gFzV2G0lC7vr2cVF1vuCMaw9jEC9-pba2apYsuid8MSceo1idAZoon-AqxVLPX872nQX0CpW-nWwSQOzeNdKJqsImMEKG8zEedgCc7qSZ5AoX1thaTl62LgM3sfWjm2yZ6kg_Usp6oCtykQYM6ADZnULWiDHyznldYoGTNbUB8I-h0EWsbNY6g/s320/IMG_1777.heic" width="274" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bear’s favorite spot in Bellingham is nearby, at the south end of the Boardwalk. We learned about the kitchen door at the Chrysalis Inn from the <i>Southside Living </i>article revealing Skylar’s secret pirate treasure map. It’s already become Bear’s dream destination. Nevertheless, this stop on our Fairhaven pilgrimage is bittersweet because Bear can’t count on a treat every time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a trick of lighting. Behind the glass door a long hall leads to the kitchen. Although we can see everything happening inside, Bear’s friends usually can’t see him unless they happen to be on their way to grab something from the walk-in fridge next to the exit. Bear is patient. But some days we need to move on without a restaurant treat.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: repeat white;">Bear would say it’s worth the wait. Even the gourmet dog treats at Acme can’t compete, let along ordinary Milk-Bone</span><span style="background: repeat white;">®</span><span style="background: repeat white;"> biscuits. One time the busboy brought out a huge piece of applewood-smoked bacon. (I would have eaten it myself, but he insisted on cuddling with Bear until the bacon was all gone.) Most days Bear gets generous chunks of chicken breast that didn’t make it into someone’s Caesar salad. </span><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Usually one of the dog-friendly kitchen workers emerges from the walk-in refrigerator with a handful of tender chicken. Occasionally they’ll bring out the whole plastic tub from the fridge. The first time I saw the treat tub, it was labeled with an expiration date and the name “Skylar.” But Bear has been busy exerting his charm. Now the tub just says “Woof!”</span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background: repeat white;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Mvtyl8ZPNjtZf6LRmfasdHd42K216rlgV2hVh-PafUk_jMbiDs7TbNwaxUUKyD5aGiib_u-uftWSdwpyvyDi3B8_8wIQ2tSX7KluFhaoKVCYA3ZL_F3Qce2EGyNLI0EoKrt9OB9gzU4e8KMrxFMrQbUgpgemMkWX700n_zkm-3VmkXAil5R9Eo86Gw/s3278/IMG_1851.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3278" data-original-width="2368" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Mvtyl8ZPNjtZf6LRmfasdHd42K216rlgV2hVh-PafUk_jMbiDs7TbNwaxUUKyD5aGiib_u-uftWSdwpyvyDi3B8_8wIQ2tSX7KluFhaoKVCYA3ZL_F3Qce2EGyNLI0EoKrt9OB9gzU4e8KMrxFMrQbUgpgemMkWX700n_zkm-3VmkXAil5R9Eo86Gw/s320/IMG_1851.heic" width="231" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">Postscript</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat white; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This morning after I finished this essay and posted it to my blog, Bear and I walked to Fairhaven. Bear said hi to his friends at Village Books and Bay to Baker Trading Company. At Acme Ice Cream, Maddie’s farewell was similar to her co-worker Heather’s: “Go see your other friends, Bear!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat white; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat white; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bear’s next stop after Fairhaven, Chrysalis Inn, is near the top of the Taylor Dock, where the Boardwalk begins. Before Bear started getting chicken at the kitchen door, this little park used to be one of our regular water stops. (Now Bear prefers to wait until the shelter on the Boardwalk, so he can cleanse his palate after his </span>Caesar salad<span style="font-family: inherit;">.) Even before we learned about Skylar’s secret stash at the Inn, Bear was </span>already<span style="font-family: inherit;"> hanging out with the kitchen staff during their smoke break.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat white; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat white; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today a couple of busboys on break called Bear over to say hi. Just as I was saying “We should have texted the kitchen to let th<span style="font-family: inherit;">em know Bear was on his way,” one of Bear’s favorite treat-boys came out the </span>door – a piece of chicken breast in one hand, and an unlit cigarette in the other.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat white; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat white; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsUcB0JHiPO_Jg5H4aUKidt5VXjuaPKnV-nzwdbB-PoQpzD7Mm77Mz-79MnntbF5QRebvf6bMbM3IkK6WCzJc3Is1mkR6f8LadDMLB7DIT9p8eQ2Vws0cgmKrhHFTHuGcIcGWiYziTXh-cHUro78BRiWpZ4yJppLOlwpWFUewFjEjvIGIwYz4KLsBjg/s2634/IMG_2309%202.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2634" data-original-width="1986" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsUcB0JHiPO_Jg5H4aUKidt5VXjuaPKnV-nzwdbB-PoQpzD7Mm77Mz-79MnntbF5QRebvf6bMbM3IkK6WCzJc3Is1mkR6f8LadDMLB7DIT9p8eQ2Vws0cgmKrhHFTHuGcIcGWiYziTXh-cHUro78BRiWpZ4yJppLOlwpWFUewFjEjvIGIwYz4KLsBjg/s320/IMG_2309%202.heic" width="241" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat white; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: repeat white; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /><br /></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-34173702710602413752023-06-27T20:25:00.000-07:002023-06-27T20:25:08.702-07:00Hopefully<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg73PDp7Ek9Xy-Y-7j14iw47cS65JuPyF0eHmn8JxX7o_ODFJpsAv79rcxQ21fi_3HnogeJg4T0kOBmHU4kUXOMZvdGCnaLY-8goiFVy0FTQ27gdWEAxmT9HIWuC_TLFPnHqOB8cWhrhRgC2PmEkFHRz9a__QcNFIJ6J3Tpdefl31tslF8gn9shBt6bKw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="963" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg73PDp7Ek9Xy-Y-7j14iw47cS65JuPyF0eHmn8JxX7o_ODFJpsAv79rcxQ21fi_3HnogeJg4T0kOBmHU4kUXOMZvdGCnaLY-8goiFVy0FTQ27gdWEAxmT9HIWuC_TLFPnHqOB8cWhrhRgC2PmEkFHRz9a__QcNFIJ6J3Tpdefl31tslF8gn9shBt6bKw=w257-h400" width="257" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last year my one of my children told me they identified as nonbinary. I’m that kind of a father.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They also said “Rosalind” felt like “too girly” a name. So at school this year they went by the nickname “Lynn.” In the meantime, because they still haven’t picked a new permanent name, I have a free pass using “Rosalind” at home. (They said old people can only handle so much change.)</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhA6lDLlk-72dXKOIbFgbuZ9lxaca_fqq70qz9l5NK-EvbTn01-6cbBbgIM04y5UXcwPecFKVfz4HLTpbwVDDyLJSn6iuzzvYi4QAbSk7QQ9S77NBGmJAATbiFF1URDLvR9U8AdNexByFr-OzFXgTOpxtMoMOM33vvMw6F6S63w3iP04wJ36gJprgCEHg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhA6lDLlk-72dXKOIbFgbuZ9lxaca_fqq70qz9l5NK-EvbTn01-6cbBbgIM04y5UXcwPecFKVfz4HLTpbwVDDyLJSn6iuzzvYi4QAbSk7QQ9S77NBGmJAATbiFF1URDLvR9U8AdNexByFr-OzFXgTOpxtMoMOM33vvMw6F6S63w3iP04wJ36gJprgCEHg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was looking at baby names long ago, “Rosalind” seemed like a name that said “strong woman” – with shout outs to Shakespeare and Auntie Mame. But I remember how uncomfortable my child felt sitting in the audience at <i>As You Like It</i> five years ago when everyone kept referring to the main character with their name. Of course, Rosalind cross dresses for most of the play....</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgStbVL7KlZaSHuk6daCaDbUlelr-R3MMONuHaK7blHb2s8U5EeB-9_3YRxl-L1YtohptxIrPyNHFWBfiRNxSf3pTeHCRY_DPk-7YhsceHHdlvy3dEjYcaFPIjCxaM0T_HbUeqPaOT908e2_tuz0QylN2wwpHrMrW14OCAMYN2RF_oOwqlYxNRRIwj6uw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="815" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgStbVL7KlZaSHuk6daCaDbUlelr-R3MMONuHaK7blHb2s8U5EeB-9_3YRxl-L1YtohptxIrPyNHFWBfiRNxSf3pTeHCRY_DPk-7YhsceHHdlvy3dEjYcaFPIjCxaM0T_HbUeqPaOT908e2_tuz0QylN2wwpHrMrW14OCAMYN2RF_oOwqlYxNRRIwj6uw" width="194" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have seen anti-trans headlines many times before. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As Co-Chair of the <a href="https://www.equalityfederation.org">Federation</a> of statewide LGBT advocacy organizations during the 1990s, I was among the voices loudly insisting on full inclusion for trans voices and trans issues in our advocacy. There will aways be whispered (and often shouted) temptations to leave some folks behind. Instead, I’m proud to have been part of welcoming communities and organizations for the last thirty years. </span></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrd04UppMS-8yqetaH89TqsbaR-3CjuqOwDMdQ8Y01NtNN4Iv7xr5XmNcdr2tZuCVIjrPK4RBRAb_XiBC8WFXo_sZuVNFQZR3c8e3E1xzDdvoY6_ReHO2dNYy-FmAqMuOJTE_s77gVSY8aOG_8v-VQemLonUyFuq1wI-UUe0mIPnmsh3XQklOBDZ1LMQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="660" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrd04UppMS-8yqetaH89TqsbaR-3CjuqOwDMdQ8Y01NtNN4Iv7xr5XmNcdr2tZuCVIjrPK4RBRAb_XiBC8WFXo_sZuVNFQZR3c8e3E1xzDdvoY6_ReHO2dNYy-FmAqMuOJTE_s77gVSY8aOG_8v-VQemLonUyFuq1wI-UUe0mIPnmsh3XQklOBDZ1LMQ" width="319" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Trans journalist Evan Urquhart recently published a <a href="https://slate.com/human-interest/2023/06/trans-gay-laws-florida-texas-lgbtq-danger.html">chilling essay</a> in <i>Slate</i> under the headline “Many Queers Can’t Bring Themselves to Face the Emotion They’re Really Feeling Right Now. We Must.” According to Urquhart, “the word for what we’re feeling right now is ‘despair’: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">I first had the idea to write a piece about despair more than a year ago. Let me leave you with the knowledge that none of this was unexpected. For many in the queer community, we’ve moved well past the point of fearing something might happen, and on to figuring out how we’re going live through this. Our despair is grounded in grim acceptance and practicality. We are learning that life goes on after you accept the fact that no help is coming, and you’ve been left alone to defy or defend or escape, or just bear<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span class="slate-paragraph--tombstone"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block;">witness.</span></span></span><span style="color: #050505;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is 2023, and I weep to see children used as punching bags by evil politicians and the Republican Party. But I refuse to despair.</span></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwGU7iwfDNz6dJ3bvgVuzcVeI6y34TfikNxMcYxPcZe2F4Puj_E8MzBRy_o0M-dvofKjJxzQvZKwBikvvKra58IF76hhRlyZSxwAdw3aI5-AtfhKBR7B9iC5-g9OhgfNE1lciUo-6MUc6XRcY22N8SdzisISGaMzwG2wloVvoJjxsEM6jtp4Sxl9-8sw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="625" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwGU7iwfDNz6dJ3bvgVuzcVeI6y34TfikNxMcYxPcZe2F4Puj_E8MzBRy_o0M-dvofKjJxzQvZKwBikvvKra58IF76hhRlyZSxwAdw3aI5-AtfhKBR7B9iC5-g9OhgfNE1lciUo-6MUc6XRcY22N8SdzisISGaMzwG2wloVvoJjxsEM6jtp4Sxl9-8sw=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-56340067407092892932023-05-16T14:57:00.011-07:002023-05-18T14:56:35.195-07:00Fathers and Brothers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">My brother Doug Leishman died on April 25, 2023 after enduring spine cancer for the last six years. Doug asked that each of his brothers speak at his memorial. This is what I shared at the Mormon church in Bellingham on May 16, 2023.</span></i><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygIWWBZzMNS5lOENlgq-oUfd-rpbdgEDiblw_iU-hpgeJvu3Q5miN3mqjDBXv_nZU1ocvdPaJUcGVwcczSkKxAQyTj6dAY9KLb_jNs1NrTmoY77JVbGpyhGgesbcnJCVeMLV8J1Qvo-yoTfbJVdHi9laTZBEavJlufW9a_OkEI8yNxs-XvNIMhQY/s1024/IMG_5097.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygIWWBZzMNS5lOENlgq-oUfd-rpbdgEDiblw_iU-hpgeJvu3Q5miN3mqjDBXv_nZU1ocvdPaJUcGVwcczSkKxAQyTj6dAY9KLb_jNs1NrTmoY77JVbGpyhGgesbcnJCVeMLV8J1Qvo-yoTfbJVdHi9laTZBEavJlufW9a_OkEI8yNxs-XvNIMhQY/s320/IMG_5097.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m grateful for this opportunity to meet together as Doug’s family and friends. Gatherings of our extended family always have one very obvious impact on me and many other Leishmans, including Doug. After listening to everyone’s stories, I forget how to pronounce my own last name.<i> </i>It will take several days to switch back from <i>Lishman </i>to <i>Leashman.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Leishman is an ancient Scottish surname. It’s been pronounced the same way for hundreds of years, since before Shakespeare and the King James Bible. But our branch of the family met the Mormon missionaries in Scotland during the 1850s. They sailed across the ocean and walked across the prairie. When they reached Utah, Brigham Young sent them north to settle Wellsville, in Cache Valley. They became a peculiar people, and developed a peculiar dialect. “Roof” became “ruff.” “Creek” became “crick.” And “Leishman” became “Lishman.” That’s how my brothers and I grew up pronouncing our last name.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I began my professional career, I made a conscious choice to introduce myself as “Roger Leishman.” Just like I don’t say “crick.” But we don’t make a big deal about pronunciation, and respond politely to anyone regardless of how they say our name. Except for “Leischman,” of course.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like Doug, on days like today we are all “Lishmans.”</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZiOIgVkSFsKSSYD5mxSqvmoaoJ7TuDF2waroukes7VjKXlrAD56vE-DEIe_SRRzDSWjVznFjSxYNrb1eNG6CbZtRMuI4Hvfcwa3xdyAD_FRw_M-N7v5Ux1wgxAunlrh7OEtIg6bgDdbYv1fIbdd9uwQIF1hUxsoeBQ_N7-F0qIx_sRgvGrsbPxsk/s2048/IMG_5100%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1367" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZiOIgVkSFsKSSYD5mxSqvmoaoJ7TuDF2waroukes7VjKXlrAD56vE-DEIe_SRRzDSWjVznFjSxYNrb1eNG6CbZtRMuI4Hvfcwa3xdyAD_FRw_M-N7v5Ux1wgxAunlrh7OEtIg6bgDdbYv1fIbdd9uwQIF1hUxsoeBQ_N7-F0qIx_sRgvGrsbPxsk/s320/IMG_5100%20(1).jpg" width="214" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When Kyla posted the announcement on Facebook letting folks know Doug had died, I was moved by the outpouring of comments. Three or four repeated words stood out: “Nerd.” “Smart.” And “funny.” I realized that’s what the comments would say for all four Leishman brothers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Folks often remark on how much we resemble each other and both our parents, but they struggle to put their finger on the specific similarity. Folks would say we are even more similar in our personalities. Especially my sisters-in-law, and our children.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are differences. Yes, we’re all nerds, but Doug is the Dungeons & Dragons nerd. We’re all funny – but Doug is the master of sarcasm.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ70cK4rBS5LHKg3IdHL9hIS6oXUsmYMVzoR5Ga-VS7gmgI0cVwPwOYJtRzzpPT2ocQmsL8uOn6_FBGuhXy1GBN74gfzpSl6V7FJPiPCgOwpgif-osp8-r7dAHYvSE3CGdEKw6reQf-_i6MQMi9fbBsufmfPhCHKEDplMPWRatx_YAwaVSK-qit2g/s2048/IMG_5103%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ70cK4rBS5LHKg3IdHL9hIS6oXUsmYMVzoR5Ga-VS7gmgI0cVwPwOYJtRzzpPT2ocQmsL8uOn6_FBGuhXy1GBN74gfzpSl6V7FJPiPCgOwpgif-osp8-r7dAHYvSE3CGdEKw6reQf-_i6MQMi9fbBsufmfPhCHKEDplMPWRatx_YAwaVSK-qit2g/s320/IMG_5103%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On the wall at my parent’s house there is a framed series of pictures of the four Leishman Brothers. The same series of photos hangs on the wall in my living room. They were taken a few years ago near Lake Whatcom. It was the only time when the brothers, parents, and grandchildren were all in the same place at the same time. So we hired a photographer. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are four pictures in this series. In the first picture Roger, Doug, Brian, and Warren are all smiling appropriately for the camera.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the second picture, Doug has a quiet grin. He is sticking his finger into Warren’s ear.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the third picture, Warren has his finger in my ear, and everyone is grinning.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the fourth picture, the brothers have all burst into laughter. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you look close, you can see differences between the Leishman Brothers. Warren went bald early. I’ll always be the oldest, and the gay one. And as Brian is quick to point out, he is the tallest brother.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A couple of months ago, I had the opportunity to drive to Kamloops with my parents. Doug looked about the same as the last time I’d visited: lying in a hospital bed on his stomach in the corner of the living room, surrounded by his children and grandchildren. Before we drove back to Bellingham, I reached in for a goodbye hug. I was struck by how thick and curly Doug’s hair had gotten. And still so dark. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Technically, I am now the least bald Leishman brother, and Warren is the least grey. But I think we should retire the hair titles with Doug as champion.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMzTENinyV-dhYEyll762a9A7eMjuNe_1TMtm0xoiHl-I64Mn_D6MDNlTRbM3gMZaiMVVhEZxtGQCn6hAhjayfVBEn30rbEDcB7G5W2XLW0qk6Jq2TM_vIJzo76iKU_h0MgqzX0AA4KkQy6tLzuTyGvpkJYxlYtCcJ4JJ_uA9HdZJQEXcXdiDaPlY/s2048/IMG_5102%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMzTENinyV-dhYEyll762a9A7eMjuNe_1TMtm0xoiHl-I64Mn_D6MDNlTRbM3gMZaiMVVhEZxtGQCn6hAhjayfVBEn30rbEDcB7G5W2XLW0qk6Jq2TM_vIJzo76iKU_h0MgqzX0AA4KkQy6tLzuTyGvpkJYxlYtCcJ4JJ_uA9HdZJQEXcXdiDaPlY/s320/IMG_5102%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gatherings like this are important because we can help each other remember the real Doug.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I often find it a challenge to recall stories from the past without a picture or something to remind me. Faces are especially hard. Last month when my parents called to let me know Doug had died, I lay in bed weeping because I couldn’t remember what Doug looked like before cancer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doug spent the last few years of his life being seen from a strange angle. Spine cancer prevented him from walking or lying on his back, so we only saw him lying on his stomach. That’s how I noticed his dark curly hair.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I knew if I got out of bed and walk into the living room, the pictures on the wall would help me remember laughing together with Doug. But I wanted to conjure the memories on my own. Eventually I was blessed to remember two images of the real Doug.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJ9V7G94aIB3hk0JTSFL1nR0McVo_PKlQa2vix1pKi7tiRDeesnTEBxPfC8MYDDb7EiwIOB56uV0GVz2-tdL-QV35A46VzsJcJMuG6c1NT0QRQEuVQI-taLe4YY3Fc5kMWX3vlxEmZMwdNuQrFknwdLgsZRv3kOo5LB6H4ldMTg7a7CB0Skgbtlw/s2048/IMG_5104%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJ9V7G94aIB3hk0JTSFL1nR0McVo_PKlQa2vix1pKi7tiRDeesnTEBxPfC8MYDDb7EiwIOB56uV0GVz2-tdL-QV35A46VzsJcJMuG6c1NT0QRQEuVQI-taLe4YY3Fc5kMWX3vlxEmZMwdNuQrFknwdLgsZRv3kOo5LB6H4ldMTg7a7CB0Skgbtlw/s320/IMG_5104%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The first memory was from the spine floor at Vancouver General Hospital. A year and a half ago, Doug was paralyzed by a new tumor in his neck. He was airlifted from Kamloops to Vancouver, where two separate teams of surgeons worked from both front and back, removing the cancer and reconstructing his vertebrae. Doug spent the next hundred days at VGH.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I sing in Vancouver Men’s Chorus, which rehearses on Wednesday evenings. Each week I would drive up early and spend time in Doug’s room. He was propped up on his back in a hospital bed. It’s the only time in the last few years when I got to look Doug in the face. It also gave me the opportunity to sit down and spend hours talking with my brother, sometimes with other family and sometimes just the two of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We discussed our challenges living with cancer and with PTSD. But mostly I remember sitting together face to face with Doug, and talking about what it means to be a father.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtwWwdyLrnzxYMKstPCZDIgq5Arz-iZaGjer1sTMSi88uoO7Xr6AuzCBt_iMJIRA8PPZ3Uh2J_iKl7ciJPqIxtyCMQpNK8lzBf6MaJESXw7I_klbBFoJaO4cR1ixQKk0sMSdNtoqtsXdCES0vTbHIhkIujmUCZWF57yaxnsYNrQPvTBbB6tt7HEY/s960/Family%20smiling%202013.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtwWwdyLrnzxYMKstPCZDIgq5Arz-iZaGjer1sTMSi88uoO7Xr6AuzCBt_iMJIRA8PPZ3Uh2J_iKl7ciJPqIxtyCMQpNK8lzBf6MaJESXw7I_klbBFoJaO4cR1ixQKk0sMSdNtoqtsXdCES0vTbHIhkIujmUCZWF57yaxnsYNrQPvTBbB6tt7HEY/s320/Family%20smiling%202013.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Spine cancer targets the parts of the body that signal pain. In addition to dealing with Doug’s underlying symptoms, his healthcare team always focused on making him comfortable. Greedy pharmaceutical companies and irresponsible doctors have created the terrible opioid epidemic that is ravaging our communities. But modern opioids are also miracle drugs that make it possible to endure to the end.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While Doug was at Vancouver General, three separate teams were responsible for the opioids in his IV drip, his pillbox, and the little pump installed in his chest. I happened to be visiting the hospital when the pain management teams realized not only were they not communicating clearly with each other, but they were using three incompatible measurements to track dosages. One team would give Doug enough medicine for him to sit up all the way for a meal. After a few minutes they would have to crank the bed back down for him to rest, which would react with the medicine from the other teams. Sometimes Doug would overdose. And then they would start over.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While visiting the hospital, I also observed the laborious process of putting Doug in a wheelchair. I listened to presentations about grueling rehabilitation programs at inconveniently located facilities. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After more than three months at VGH, Doug was finally stable enough to leave the spine floor and return home. When I visited Kamloops with my parents a few months later, there was no sign of the elaborate rehabilitation programs we’d heard about at the hospital. Instead, Doug used every ounce of his energy to spend as much time as possible with his family. His world was tiny: a bed in a corner of a living room. But Doug’s world was as large as eternity because he was at the center of his family.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQrgZPPo-c8rjBMczpJjcukiDXq4ObktN3lOVgIBGTJqtlRPtzreEyP5y0DY13fDa3hnaB4orMmdyN2u7KGZnm64VozAY2D-R9XHHuJqvQL4tCqW-0SK2pEc7BBaYQoL_jK45caQCLM4ZsCpHfa3sL2IP2JKxIr5Rlktz6oSISOYq3aIegisr0zA/s1024/IMG_5088.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQrgZPPo-c8rjBMczpJjcukiDXq4ObktN3lOVgIBGTJqtlRPtzreEyP5y0DY13fDa3hnaB4orMmdyN2u7KGZnm64VozAY2D-R9XHHuJqvQL4tCqW-0SK2pEc7BBaYQoL_jK45caQCLM4ZsCpHfa3sL2IP2JKxIr5Rlktz6oSISOYq3aIegisr0zA/s320/IMG_5088.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I lay in bed last month grieving, I remembered a second image of Doug, from a couple of summers ago. It was the height of the pandemic. Nothing was harder for our family than the Canadian border being closed for the first time since the War of 1812. Doug was stuck in a bed in Kamloops, and my parents and I were stuck in the States. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like everything else, the Mormon temples closed. But by a miraculous convergence of circumstances, Katie and Christian were able to get married in my parents’ backyard in the strangest Mormon wedding ever. I will always remember the last time I ever saw Doug walking: he staggered down the aisle, holding on to his daughter, the happiest man and the proudest father in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Besides “nerd,” “smart,” and “funny,” the other words Doug’s friends repeatedly used to describe him on Facebook were “family” and “father.” Fatherhood is at the center of all my brother’s lives. That is the great gift our parents and now Doug and Kyla have given to each of the “Lishmans.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Church policies and meeting schedules come and go, but the fundamentals are eternal, like the familiar slogan “Families are forever.” I recognize “forever” is way too long for some families. But not for us. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was young, the president of the church was David O. McKay. He delivered a similar message, but with more words in it: “No other success can compensate for failure in the home.” (It was the <i>Mad Man</i> era – our ad slogans were longer than my kids’ generation, just like our attention spans.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My brother Doug lived a successful life when it comes to what really matters. I hope we can all remember and be inspired by Doug’s example.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijeKzDRibQ3-2gz4plNrUFbINbSy4UU7zvzevzVlXHvjKGm2qqllG1izhfWe7t9g_fxFitiyAP2KeVVQwprXMT-P_811IxQ-UBdIgV2Qom_fLgi1XxQDGbbFSN7_bjeEYFXrcjqz8fu1YFYN01_uyD6TTgboxOZG4wzWc37uu14W89fQBW6gzeAd8/s1396/FourBrothers1974.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1396" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijeKzDRibQ3-2gz4plNrUFbINbSy4UU7zvzevzVlXHvjKGm2qqllG1izhfWe7t9g_fxFitiyAP2KeVVQwprXMT-P_811IxQ-UBdIgV2Qom_fLgi1XxQDGbbFSN7_bjeEYFXrcjqz8fu1YFYN01_uyD6TTgboxOZG4wzWc37uu14W89fQBW6gzeAd8/s320/FourBrothers1974.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Douglas Todd Leishman</div><div>1967-2023</div><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJFNO8_sr_XIgcKzKw3gcEU0PpsQfu0V9f42lW24QkxCKuRQyPDJPZAI4SjXuwe-hAEXKNoLu8a5ljUEIdHiZE11AXmI0HMS7kFIfRrgYEdqdJuOTB6Ck8MxTjkgzK49jKaILP0pNW3vXyhHSpFQcoKE2CtBxoVbIHPF4e61g4cof3VWZ91OFGkw/s1024/Sarcasm%20T2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJFNO8_sr_XIgcKzKw3gcEU0PpsQfu0V9f42lW24QkxCKuRQyPDJPZAI4SjXuwe-hAEXKNoLu8a5ljUEIdHiZE11AXmI0HMS7kFIfRrgYEdqdJuOTB6Ck8MxTjkgzK49jKaILP0pNW3vXyhHSpFQcoKE2CtBxoVbIHPF4e61g4cof3VWZ91OFGkw/s320/Sarcasm%20T2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></div><p></p></div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-40603440475592566292023-03-16T14:48:00.001-07:002023-04-04T14:51:02.027-07:00Henry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1QLEPsnSLsObyfiyWVpD-Y_FjyH1TyqM4H8Cg3FVVxkbHIt6SK3mtWAEv4F1FtbKsv0AigEhwPzqZk0H3kr4urg6sEiADZRHnV5uv_8wUkMkL3VudMtw40tmkOdmHrUBu86THQ3wgReiZeXp8j6dr1cKemjyko-9hBYBn95WK-7Yf8kaAsA9cJc/s434/Henry%20on%20bench.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="434" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1QLEPsnSLsObyfiyWVpD-Y_FjyH1TyqM4H8Cg3FVVxkbHIt6SK3mtWAEv4F1FtbKsv0AigEhwPzqZk0H3kr4urg6sEiADZRHnV5uv_8wUkMkL3VudMtw40tmkOdmHrUBu86THQ3wgReiZeXp8j6dr1cKemjyko-9hBYBn95WK-7Yf8kaAsA9cJc/s320/Henry%20on%20bench.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Last month the kids came home from walking the dogs and told me “Your homeless friend says hi.”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For the last few years Bear and I have walked along the waterfront Boardwalk almost every day. Usually we’d run into Henry, sitting on his bench with his backpack and sleeping bag. In mild weather he’d put out baseball cards next to his donation cup. He’d offer bread or chips to the birds, and always save some for Bear. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I probably spoke with Henry more often than anyone other than my family, particularly during the pandemic. On Friday he patted Bear and gave him a Fig Newton before sending us off to get the next treat at Village Books, with his usual “Go get ’em, Bear!”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Sunday we saw news reports that the body of a man in his 40s with four gunshot wounds had washed ashore near the Boardwalk. Eleanor and I both worried it was Henry. Last night the police identified him as the victim.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Homelessness is an intractable social problem that seldom has a human face. Henry King was a real person – kind, friendly, and generous. <i>Lux perpetua ei</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5un5GgY9mVl47695VKh-omSshfs6J40oMbYDUbbLcFy67Qbo_w5IisOO_9P1QHvHFxTCeMyfHF6xGfxYIHAv9jfm9RlTNYq6j3GPYgVGmXoFXxgc4K6Ro7sViRjStipKEdZioykajtDxLYvLEzQFrtk1VXZ9d8d2hm3M7EGmypbMbSFM4l62tMRE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5un5GgY9mVl47695VKh-omSshfs6J40oMbYDUbbLcFy67Qbo_w5IisOO_9P1QHvHFxTCeMyfHF6xGfxYIHAv9jfm9RlTNYq6j3GPYgVGmXoFXxgc4K6Ro7sViRjStipKEdZioykajtDxLYvLEzQFrtk1VXZ9d8d2hm3M7EGmypbMbSFM4l62tMRE=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div></div></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-21237701248136478062023-01-09T08:31:00.012-08:002023-05-09T09:48:01.927-07:00Starting Over<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_TsmdZU99TsQWJWJ-RTHkbqt2PROllmnCj2JKTPlFiCJMbDf1LAsrLUmVOM3JphExZpJ6NKWbVNdsYKC-Ig1IVMIsKfVU8qcG8pk0klXLf8qOXPb3zrZRkPhGao4xoXBAPPfjkTxwa9eipx0SueD7HM6bR6I7ta4IVKIPsgT9x2TNanQJvljBea8/s3729/IMG_3815.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3729" data-original-width="2797" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_TsmdZU99TsQWJWJ-RTHkbqt2PROllmnCj2JKTPlFiCJMbDf1LAsrLUmVOM3JphExZpJ6NKWbVNdsYKC-Ig1IVMIsKfVU8qcG8pk0klXLf8qOXPb3zrZRkPhGao4xoXBAPPfjkTxwa9eipx0SueD7HM6bR6I7ta4IVKIPsgT9x2TNanQJvljBea8/w150-h200/IMG_3815.heic" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kLm0fwl0wram-PJzS-r2dBfogEXPNhzmQHSEMoCPCZ9GSA-4tQnT97RmaQUCVkrepv5fED0_AA-4JBTBNTR2ACbu0_GzKxEMIAnz9y8KjMtFNY7k0XJsABnAlNfaiNb9UL5tgkx5GNocLvuSCYnSG3tVclMNrAfSD-bDBrfFsZbGtcKOl-RBnvk/s4032/IMG_3891.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kLm0fwl0wram-PJzS-r2dBfogEXPNhzmQHSEMoCPCZ9GSA-4tQnT97RmaQUCVkrepv5fED0_AA-4JBTBNTR2ACbu0_GzKxEMIAnz9y8KjMtFNY7k0XJsABnAlNfaiNb9UL5tgkx5GNocLvuSCYnSG3tVclMNrAfSD-bDBrfFsZbGtcKOl-RBnvk/w150-h200/IMG_3891.HEIC" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For New Year’s, we had the highest tides I’ve ever seen in Bellingham. For Christmas, we were snowed in by a freak ice storm. For solstice, I was trapped at home with covid. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After a long hard year, Bear and I found ourselves surrounded by gloom and doom. But the end is finally in sight.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismty7og82DMon6r_YgK6rD-PZ1EwVniJ47CxLu4SxUZigtpWfIkLuPKYb7sCGGeoGqxT4nQ3F4OCVvLZAPi3MiWNC4KAIscGFgyYzybvZol_iALLmsXWj5VaJ2E7N4BCv75N5HFbw45Gy8rGWlPR4mEmzchAowYG47kEYMA3CdqgbaQVfOOi-qDQ/s4032/IMG_3860.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismty7og82DMon6r_YgK6rD-PZ1EwVniJ47CxLu4SxUZigtpWfIkLuPKYb7sCGGeoGqxT4nQ3F4OCVvLZAPi3MiWNC4KAIscGFgyYzybvZol_iALLmsXWj5VaJ2E7N4BCv75N5HFbw45Gy8rGWlPR4mEmzchAowYG47kEYMA3CdqgbaQVfOOi-qDQ/w200-h150/IMG_3860.HEIC" width="200" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKUVXNB-AaJSbgGYUhiN7Du8RAoq0qt2unZmJw1ncObJe4SqmJtmwBOtJP69xqNHFJp2vVRWnVlLmTWn2VrQEXrcFmvoRaXVodzUqEWCW692PC5kNbs58MKjXQJ9sZSsxt9UPHYew8dyCRRA-v7bKqijGXiW5MMaGXg0UxXC1tJuoB9Yz5cNMC3V0/s4032/IMG_3914.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKUVXNB-AaJSbgGYUhiN7Du8RAoq0qt2unZmJw1ncObJe4SqmJtmwBOtJP69xqNHFJp2vVRWnVlLmTWn2VrQEXrcFmvoRaXVodzUqEWCW692PC5kNbs58MKjXQJ9sZSsxt9UPHYew8dyCRRA-v7bKqijGXiW5MMaGXg0UxXC1tJuoB9Yz5cNMC3V0/w200-h150/IMG_3914.HEIC" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hope comes more easily in springtime. Five and a half years ago, in May 2017, I emerged from the fog of PTSD and embarked on a couple of hopeful adventures. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>First</i></b>, I filed a lawsuit against Ogden Murphy Wallace, PLLC. They’re the supposedly “independent” private investigators the State’s lawyers used to justify firing me from my position as general counsel to Western Washington University. Despite the impact of living with PTSD, I thought</span> the Ogden Murphy Wallace lawsuit would let me<span style="font-family: inherit;"> use my legal skills to clear my professional reputation and protect my family.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Second</i></b>, I started publishing essays on this blog. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">In Phase I of blogging, covering posts in 2017 and 2018, I took advantage of my newfound freedom from thirty years of writer’s block by exploring a variety of topics and styles. My favorite essays about family were “</span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/01/GoodPeople.html" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;" target="_blank">I Come From Good People</a><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">” and “</span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/10/Sureofyou.html" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;" target="_blank">Sure of You</a><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">.” My favorite essay about brains was “</span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/11/InsideOut.html" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;" target="_blank">Inside Out</a><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">.” My favourite essay about Showtune Night in Canada was “</span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/10/Kristin.html" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;" target="_blank">Six Degrees of Kristin Chenowith</a><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">.” Thanks to the mysteries of Google’s algorithm, the three most viewed blog posts were “</span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/09/BrettKavanaugh.html" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;" target="_blank">About My Yale Classmate Brett Kavanaugh</a><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">,” “</span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/12/thing1.html" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;" target="_blank">Thing 1 and Thing 2</a><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">,” and “</span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/03/GreenGables.html" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;" target="_blank">Fifty Shades of Green Gables</a><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">.”</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Phase II covered posts in 2019 and 2020. I got more ambitious about extended storytelling and the craft of writing. I published a week of “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/03/RogerHouse.html" target="_blank">Rock Bottom Stories</a>,” as well as other connected essays about topics like <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/03/Better-ish.html" target="_blank">my dramatically improved mental health</a>, various <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/04/FrogPlague.html" target="_blank">besetting plagues</a>, and <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/04/ComfortAnimals.html" target="_blank">the comforts of dog ownership</a>. For the first time I confronted my experiences as a gay man <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/01/OkBoomer.html" target="_blank">coming out of the closet at the height of the AIDS epidemic</a>. And I wrote about the traumas and triggers I’d experienced while trying to shine a spotlight on dishonest government lawyers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Frankly I got carried away with that </span>last<span> topic. Sleazy lawyer stories were taking over the blog, like an oversized moon whose gravitational pull turns ordinary tides into tsunamis. When I looked at the statistics for 2020 I was aghast. I vowed I wouldn</span>’<span>t start Phase III until I freed myself from the power of the Lawyer dark side. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">Over the last couple of years, most of my writing ended up in other places besides this blog. But I’m proud of the essays I published here as well, including deeper explorations of <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/06/TripleAxelFamily.html">community</a>, <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/08/IdRatherBeSailing.html">family</a>, <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/09/blog-post.htm">memory</a>, and <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/08/Relabeling.html">mental illness</a>. By joining <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/10/Mus.html">The Narrative Project</a>, I learned about the craft of writing, story-telling through trauma, and finding a writer’s life and community. I assigned myself a <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/11hv66ox8490fcw/Neuroscience%20Reading%20List.pdf?dl=0">graduate reading list</a> in psychology and neuroscience. And I observed my thoughts and feelings through hours of mindfulness and loving kindness meditation. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">Along the way, I slowly learned to clear my head. I’m still oblivious to lots of important things, starting with everything social, particularly with the gays. But eventually I learned to think clearly by thinking like a writer, not a lawyer – at least, not like the kind of lawyer Attorney General Bob Ferguson would hire.<o:p></o:p></p></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7-bwu4jAFRRVQ5Blp7a5NXf_ahXgBCP18XS3lBSLTDB5D8QUR8bCY86__Ab7LocxL6m9p_Oz8lhN5kJ3XBWaFAJpy_E5-AF-_NVj_VXIA0TDmNA6IFPxHcxq3pv8pJqWkmpqUAzleBX9E6gx-YTHLtY3J1Oucof7eRVzxOe9MUiVn1J5kNJe7oY/s2757/IMG_4063.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2757" data-original-width="2711" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7-bwu4jAFRRVQ5Blp7a5NXf_ahXgBCP18XS3lBSLTDB5D8QUR8bCY86__Ab7LocxL6m9p_Oz8lhN5kJ3XBWaFAJpy_E5-AF-_NVj_VXIA0TDmNA6IFPxHcxq3pv8pJqWkmpqUAzleBX9E6gx-YTHLtY3J1Oucof7eRVzxOe9MUiVn1J5kNJe7oY/w394-h400/IMG_4063.heic" width="394" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In November 2017, King County Superior Court Judge John Ruhl dismissed my claim against Ogden Murphy Wallace on a legal technicality.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was important technicality. Washington law immunizes whistleblowers from liability for claims based on their communications to government agencies. One of the questions before the court in my case was whether whistleblower immunity applies to paid communications by government contractors, like Ogden Murphy Wallace’s supposedly “independent” investigation report attacking my character and competence. In August 2021, the Washington Supreme Court ruled that government contractors can’t be sued for injuries that are “directly based” on communications like the Ogden Murphy investigation report. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our busy trial judge was so focused on the whistleblower statute that he overlooked my other claims against Ogden Murphy Wallace – the ones that weren’t based on any protected whistleblower communication, such as the investigators’ repeated lies about their contractual assignment. Unfortunately, everyone else in the legal process was also distracted by the shiny statutory construction bauble. I spent the next few years trapped in a Kafka-esque struggle to find a state tribunal that was interested in hearing how the State’s lawyers and investigators colluded in government contract procurement fraud, civil rights violations, and ongoing acts of concealment and obstruction. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After losing my state court claim against the OMW Defendants in the trial court, then winning, then losing, then winning, then losing, I lost my original lawsuit for good in June 2022 when the Washington Supreme Court declined further review.</span></p></div><p></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxUEJmv89Tj5fmX831mMsA7bpfDg5zZ7HdLux0Hd2Bxj_hUR5lWyDjBBQ-yHnxnIAlvcxtuBSR2FDRNyrq26qyl4SvRxpWDkcbhI1vcPrZ9tCPbaPHgd-0vUCA00IJKuUAfsHEzeFydQ/s2048/happy+pace.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxUEJmv89Tj5fmX831mMsA7bpfDg5zZ7HdLux0Hd2Bxj_hUR5lWyDjBBQ-yHnxnIAlvcxtuBSR2FDRNyrq26qyl4SvRxpWDkcbhI1vcPrZ9tCPbaPHgd-0vUCA00IJKuUAfsHEzeFydQ/s320/happy+pace.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The most interesting event in my state court lawsuit occurred on October 20, 2017. The day before my response was due to Ogden Murphy Wallace’s whistleblower immunity motion, the defendants produced a suspicious document related to their investigation: the only surviving copy of the 3/16/16 “<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/n686l3s1c8oxxsb/16-3-16%20Investigation%20Scope%20Email.pdf?dl=0" style="color: #954f72;">Investigation Scope Email</a>” from Ogden Murphy investigator Patrick Pearce to the State’s employment attorneys. This smoking gun email revealed I was the victim of a wrongful termination cover-up scheme involving senior lawyers at the AGO, including some of Bob Ferguson’s top lieutenants.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While my original lawsuit against Ogden Murphy wound its way through its doomed appeal, I began tracking down additional incriminating evidence through Public Records Act requests and administrative complaints. Unlike Ogden Murphy, I’m an actual whistleblower. Meanwhile, the State and its co-conspirators continued to execute their strategy of stonewalling, gaslighting, and spoliation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in -0.25in 0in 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The State refused to respond to my notice of claim and mediation invitation, and threated to sue me instead. So in April 2020, I filed another lawsuit in state court, this one against the Attorney General’s Office, the Governor’s Office, Western Washington University, and their corrupt employees.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I was shocked when the State Defendants chose to remove all of my damage claims to federal court. I felt like Br’er Rabbit being thrown into the briar patch. Before I tried to repackage myself as an appellate lawyer and judicial candidate a few years ago, I spent two decades managing complex federal litigation at Bogle & Gates, the ACLU, and Davis Wright Tremaine. I’m much more comfortable litigating in federal rather than in state court.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, it turned out removal was just another short-sighted stall tactic by the State’s lawyers. I didn’t realize cases in the Western District of Washington were paralyzed because our court had the </span><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/17/nyregion/federal-court-nj-judges.html?searchResultPosition=1" style="color: #954f72; font-family: inherit;">most vacancies of any federal court in the country</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">. After the rest of the baby boomer judges all retired, Judge Richard Jones and Judge Ricardo Martinez held down the fort alone </span>for several<span style="font-family: inherit;"> years. Our Washington senators and the local legal community succeeding in preventing Donald Trump from making any </span>judicial<span style="font-family: inherit;"> appointments to fill the vacancies. M</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">y lawsuit against the State slowed to a crawl </span><span>as </span>unfortunate<span> collateral damage</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">. We didn’t even have a trial date or a case schedule.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once several Biden judges were confirmed, however, the federal court finally returned to a normal litigation schedule. The two-year delay gave me enough time to improve my mental health and to gather a mountain of incriminating evidence. On September 23, 2021, Judge Jones denied the State Defendants’ long-delayed motion to dismiss my claims. Instead, the judge granted my motion to file a detailed <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/d38vehwogyz5snb/Dkt 156 OMW Reply.pdf?dl=0">amended complaint</a> that includes new damage claims against Ogden Murphy Wallace as well as against the Attorney General’s Office, the Governor’s Office, WWU, and their employees. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s as if all the frustrations of my original state court lawsuit never happened. Now we’re on a regular federal court litigation schedule. This month </span>we’re<span style="font-family: inherit;"> waiting for Judge Jones</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;"> rulings on the State Defendants’ frivolous <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/eyg07j5claqa5fw/Dkt 146 - Third MTD .pdf?dl=0">Third Motion to Dismiss</a> (here’s my <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/t7qievohukuzuqp/Dkt 152 - Response to Third MTD.pdf?dl=0">response</a> and their <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/mj7hy1q5k76vuc5/Dkt 153 - State Reply.pdf?dl=0">reply</a>) and the Ogden Murphy Wallace Defendants’ <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/sebb3gd9wf92x79/Dkt 148 - OMW MTD.pdf?dl=0">motion</a> to dismiss some of my new claims (</span>here’s my <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/jj3li6f643c3b2k/Dkt 154 Response to OMW MTD.pdf?dl=0">response</a> and their <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/d38vehwogyz5snb/Dkt 156 OMW Reply.pdf?dl=0">reply</a>)<span style="font-family: inherit;">. Depositions in the Federal Lawsuit are scheduled to begin in February, with a jury trial set for January 2024 in Seattle.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6A1R9_iPrZPMfUEAlXxRaJcOWphx_eKQ2S_6FOpxk3aphiukeBJUdIIVUqtBIYWzrYSGRnwOgBpKnd0L3bGAVkwOZQoEjrfHbiH4QyNmsw9orAx8cM5PML30hiu4HAnR4bs25r6JAjCIArZfmWX3YHrxKVlDFZR1pDQrIAwvDqbYJdR4QEdZ8r2o/s3654/IMG_2948%204.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3654" data-original-width="2740" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6A1R9_iPrZPMfUEAlXxRaJcOWphx_eKQ2S_6FOpxk3aphiukeBJUdIIVUqtBIYWzrYSGRnwOgBpKnd0L3bGAVkwOZQoEjrfHbiH4QyNmsw9orAx8cM5PML30hiu4HAnR4bs25r6JAjCIArZfmWX3YHrxKVlDFZR1pDQrIAwvDqbYJdR4QEdZ8r2o/s320/IMG_2948%204.heic" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I billed more hours of legal work in 2022 than any year since I was a young litigation associate – plus walking at least six miles a day with Bear to keep my head clear. I also had oral arguments in at least ten court hearings in 2022, which sets a personal record. The hearings were all in my Public Records Act case in state court, which is set for a bench trial before Judge Mary Sue Wilson on February 6-7, 2023, in Thurston County Superior Court. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 1972, Washington voters enacted the most transparent government accountability law in the nation. I’ve submitted dozens of requests to state and local agencies under the Public Records Act. With the sole exception of the Office of the Governor, each agency acknowledged my PRA requests within five days as required by the statute. In October 2020, I emailed the three public record requests to the Office of the Governor as directed by its webpage. The State’s email servers diverted my emails as “junk.” About the same time, the same thing happened with my emails to addressees at several other government agencies – apparently someone put my name and website on some kind of internet “no-fly” list. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sadly for the Governor’s Office, the Assistant Attorney General assigned to communicate with me on behalf of the State has a bad habit of ignoring my emails, regardless of whether they end up in his inbox or his junk folder. By the time his clients and his supervisors realized their lawyer dropped the ball, they’d already incurred millions of dollars in potential statutory penalties by delaying the Governor’s response to my public records requests <b><i>for over a year</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once again, the State and its lawyers refused to take responsibility, instead blaming me for their communication errors. So I filed a separate Public Records Act lawsuit against the Governor’s Office. We’re scheduled for a two-day bench trial in Olympia in February. Here’s my lawyer</span>’s <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/d64pp3kzvod0q60/Corrected%20trial%20brief%20-%20with%20Appendix%20numbers.pdf?dl=0">Opening Trial Brief</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHnJzuw5O7Lt7SGwnnl3hupvuuIAGmFiIFq-DXp4zgR2Hra-5apgjWPWmwu2k8zhQ1zhz4LLxPTmiRxUYWOPoPO-1qdKaH5rHHqV38ZddgeeXhbSAdq3-mXbgNGRNWRHOszF4CUGYs2CmYKuEWJmlA4MgGLvKKQ-S1XicQXIQ71XFmSJIM-mnQieI/s4032/IMG_2983.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHnJzuw5O7Lt7SGwnnl3hupvuuIAGmFiIFq-DXp4zgR2Hra-5apgjWPWmwu2k8zhQ1zhz4LLxPTmiRxUYWOPoPO-1qdKaH5rHHqV38ZddgeeXhbSAdq3-mXbgNGRNWRHOszF4CUGYs2CmYKuEWJmlA4MgGLvKKQ-S1XicQXIQ71XFmSJIM-mnQieI/s320/IMG_2983.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In August 2021, the world seemed to be approaching the end of the covid pandemic. The Canadian border finally reopened, at least to visitors who uploaded their vaccination status and recent negative test results to an app. Vancouver Men’s Chorus began rehearsing, but only masked and in limited numbers. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We also seemed to be approaching the end of my lawsuits against the State and Ogden Murphy Wallace. In the federal lawsuit, Judge Jones recognized my disability and granted the reasonable accommodation I requested. In my original state lawsuit, the Washington Supreme Court rejected Ogden Murphy Wallace’s claim that lawyers are above the law. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, we were actually far from the end – both with the coronavirus pandemic and with my efforts to hold the State and its lawyers accountable. It wasn’t even the beginning of the end. But as Winston Churchill would say, we finally reached the end of the beginning.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJYbJTzm6PNwW8tND1TukUHK2KG5o7jyx7utkNvwwxjJCYkigAOZERrGuYn2IszNge1ppQYUXcbpei8G22FQyAxj9W8JWha6K4NOeGe5GUrRjKohj1gb8rddluOhoMDvrJiDAeX_MsLxBjINlw3pFmlosTvbjz5YPs8DFdSo16x9SYupj_iQwhTQ/s4032/IMG_3204.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJYbJTzm6PNwW8tND1TukUHK2KG5o7jyx7utkNvwwxjJCYkigAOZERrGuYn2IszNge1ppQYUXcbpei8G22FQyAxj9W8JWha6K4NOeGe5GUrRjKohj1gb8rddluOhoMDvrJiDAeX_MsLxBjINlw3pFmlosTvbjz5YPs8DFdSo16x9SYupj_iQwhTQ/s320/IMG_3204.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 2021, two longtime members of Vancouver Men’s Chorus commissioned a new work by our resident accompanist and composer Dr. Stephen Smith. They wanted a song that would express the hope and joy the choir felt when we were finally able to sing together again after eighteen months of pandemic isolation and silence. Stephen chose to set to music an 1899 poem by Thomas Hardy. Hardy was one of those gloomy Victorian who looked at the bleak modern world and sighed, yet somehow managed to find hope. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The original title of “The Darkling Thrush” was “The Century’s End.” Stephen arranged the four stanzas as a unison chant, then a two-part duet, then a trio, then with all four sections of the chorus in full harmony. Hardy’s poem begins in desolate twilight, with a storm approaching as “every spirt upon earth seemed fervourless as I.” Suddenly “a voice arose among the bleak twigs.” An ancient song thrush “chose to fling his soul upon the growing gloom.” In Stephen’s arrangement, the thrush’s song is a fiddler’s reel. In the wild, the male thrush uses his <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G53oH-MI9qU">distinctive song</a> to attract a mate in the dark.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the folklore of the English countryside, the thrush is known as the bird who sings in the darkest hour. At the conclusion of Hardy’s poem, the narrator recognizes “there trembled through his happy good-night air / Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew / And I was unaware.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even when the days get shorter and the nights get darker, we know the light will return. Let us begin the new year in <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/12/LetTheWorldBeKind.html">kindness</a> and hope.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZauf9tAL_PELcsC70LZe9-EfaJq1Vc9TWDCL7dSzt1UlTjzVMUStU_BeF6uag5fBCJ1Ed07dcEUzU78tJymCqZBE6OtRFsSde7H6_GvcVlJeK6GB-y_2r2EpNepNtZAKz_aB4Nyr9stqDfhJaT4tWwODe8LFiP5Y7VK-RE9JpAR8Z3xKZNq6R4k/s1908/Singing%20thrush.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1146" data-original-width="1908" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZauf9tAL_PELcsC70LZe9-EfaJq1Vc9TWDCL7dSzt1UlTjzVMUStU_BeF6uag5fBCJ1Ed07dcEUzU78tJymCqZBE6OtRFsSde7H6_GvcVlJeK6GB-y_2r2EpNepNtZAKz_aB4Nyr9stqDfhJaT4tWwODe8LFiP5Y7VK-RE9JpAR8Z3xKZNq6R4k/s320/Singing%20thrush.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhDAfWCn5WLdjCN-C2z8kU_skmPqYGiszArD9xKAxDfym9n-Znmiua95eKFZtx9qKZOIAZy3DJlYqp0Or-gRSRV9Q2EAYreVp5ozuo_0EP62Tdt6pHA9bvrRP0mrJvsupPeG0DI4aqmU9g88yeHQcKLCYrZW2mPRczufAWOBQe81hCl4zw2EokSo/s2078/Poem.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2078" data-original-width="1168" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhDAfWCn5WLdjCN-C2z8kU_skmPqYGiszArD9xKAxDfym9n-Znmiua95eKFZtx9qKZOIAZy3DJlYqp0Or-gRSRV9Q2EAYreVp5ozuo_0EP62Tdt6pHA9bvrRP0mrJvsupPeG0DI4aqmU9g88yeHQcKLCYrZW2mPRczufAWOBQe81hCl4zw2EokSo/w360-h640/Poem.png" width="360" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">March 2023 litigation update:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">My lawsuit asserting claims against the Office of the Governor under the Public Records Act was set for trial on Monday, February 2, 2023. However, on the Friday before trial we learned we'd lost our slot to a three-week jury trial involving bull-goring injuries and cattle prod experts. Instead, we held our two-day bench trial on <b>May 1-2, 2023</b>. Closing arguments are scheduled for <b>May 25, 2023</b>.</p><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 4.5pt 3pt 0in;"><br /></p></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-45336682073914241022022-12-25T10:10:00.017-08:002022-12-26T10:58:55.301-08:00Let the World be Kind<div class="separator"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJ9TRlHTmbqqyICRdyYIsUvKukV_5iptj256t_HMz1J4NN6gNRydHrUAEpm7-TQi8Oo4tZlzeK9SDk9Fr2EhormSjaJW-bmQQNgCIuMrBI5_kT6GpwqbAmZJey2OGRD0N0N8q4rRrcMAgpGjowc_bjVvlA-xC2K9JfSzpVHHt700ag_FtCE3lOYE/w246-h328/IMG_0219.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;" width="246" /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The annual Sehome High School yearbook displays free “advertisements” where parents salute their graduating seniors with embarrassing baby pictures and a short message. My daughter Eleanor is on the yearbook staff. She chose our photos, nagged me about submitting my advertisements before the deadline, and lent me a couple of old yearbooks to see examples of </span>previous<span style="font-family: inherit;"> contributions from parents.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“We are so proud of you” and “We love you” were the most common messages. Quotations came from Maya Angelou, Shel Silverstein, Led Zeppelin, John Quincy Adams, and the Old Testament. Several parents loved their children to the moon and back, while others chose to signal their affection with a dense forest of exclamation marks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As a parent and a writer, I had two favorites. The first example was exquisitely succinct: “Well done – the whole world awaits!” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The second parental advertisement sent a different message: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You came into our lives, and you’ve almost been a son to us. While you may not be our number one child, you at least rate in the top three. When you return home from receiving your diploma, your stuff will be packed up for you to take away to be someone else’s problem. Please don’t try to find us. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 3pt 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Love, Mom and Dad</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_h36sUCaTWhdViMaHbvX0W-f-G8wwOLoLB-he-ZsxyPAus9ktbE7Fg-9wrQ-25UjgIyftS8FeDh5tNELlQiJcZvT0BVTJTQ0HGOcA3AWddzhhguM75a_udQFxCdcJuHi3Wr90O-gMjy9cjNrqlh_fKHqEIYR_RigoZ1-saxzIg9f0KOlQDnxw7w/s960/FB%20xmas%20tree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_h36sUCaTWhdViMaHbvX0W-f-G8wwOLoLB-he-ZsxyPAus9ktbE7Fg-9wrQ-25UjgIyftS8FeDh5tNELlQiJcZvT0BVTJTQ0HGOcA3AWddzhhguM75a_udQFxCdcJuHi3Wr90O-gMjy9cjNrqlh_fKHqEIYR_RigoZ1-saxzIg9f0KOlQDnxw7w/s320/FB%20xmas%20tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here’s what I wrote to Eleanor in the Sehome High School yearbook:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You are messy, passionate, determined, curious, sensitive, creative, and kind – all mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie. You’ll be gone, but you’ll always be mine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 3pt 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Love Papa<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And my message to Rosalind:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You are completely yourself: brave, loyal, artistic, and kind, with a unique sense of style. Raising you has been the greatest accomplishment of my life. I will always be proud to be your father.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 3pt 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Love Papa</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjh74eojbNqV8r0irR0muHEdOnKwhGpcdgszUKVd7g8_LKcYTFJRTnfm_ALBcX-bEGBEKeDe4YGd9uvAP3KCGHX0iaGoiPhPVNC3xYojvgASZNPsWsgngIpKwqj6Kcg244dMsZH_OwvALaYKwbd1OeeHjpEs8i7T2LZ1_FVYLw_2lQzs7py1G1tk/s960/Wenatchee.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjh74eojbNqV8r0irR0muHEdOnKwhGpcdgszUKVd7g8_LKcYTFJRTnfm_ALBcX-bEGBEKeDe4YGd9uvAP3KCGHX0iaGoiPhPVNC3xYojvgASZNPsWsgngIpKwqj6Kcg244dMsZH_OwvALaYKwbd1OeeHjpEs8i7T2LZ1_FVYLw_2lQzs7py1G1tk/s320/Wenatchee.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wrote Eleanor’s yearbook message first. It’s a shout out to <i>Waitress</i>, her favorite musical. Before covid, I took Eleanor to a performance of </span><i>Waitress</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre in Vancouver. In</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> “She Used to Be Mine,”</span><span> our</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> inconveniently pregnant waitress lets go of the person she hoped she would become. Like many of the parental advertisements in the yearbook, the song involves a series of revealing adjectives baked together. In </span><i>Waitress</i>, the <span style="font-family: inherit;">list opens with “She is messy” </span>– <span style="font-family: inherit;">which happens to fit my daughter.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Songwriter Sara Bareilles told the New York Times “<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/04/theater/sara-bareilles-she-used-to-be-mine-waitress.html ">the chasm between </a><span style="color: #202122;"><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/04/theater/sara-bareilles-she-used-to-be-mine-waitress.html ">who we are, and who we thought we would be, is always something we’re negotiating</a>.” </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202122;">New York Magazine offers its “<a href="https://www.vulture.com/2020/03/she-used-to-be-mine-waitress-covers.html">definitive ranking</a>” of </span></span><span style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 34); color: #202122;">YouTube v</span><span style="color: #202122; font-family: inherit;">ersions of the song. (Bareilles herself only reached Number 6.) For her high school performance competitions, Eleanor </span><span style="color: #202122;">chose the</span> <span style="color: #202122;">accompanying monologue </span><span style="color: #202122;">the waitress</span><span> speaks to her</span><span style="color: #202122;"> unborn baby. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202122;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 34); color: #202122;">Other than my decision to describe Eleanor as “creative” and Rosalind as “artistic,” </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 34); color: #202122;">by the time I finished writing my message to Rosalind </span><span style="color: #202122; font-family: inherit;">I</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 34); color: #202122;">’d</span><span style="color: #202122; font-family: inherit;"> forgotten which adjectives I used for Eleanor besides “messy” (which Rosalind emphatically is not). After forwarding my messages to the yearbook editors, I was struck to see the repeated adjective in both descriptions</span><span style="color: #202122; font-family: inherit;">: “kind.”</span><span style="color: #202122; font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202122;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202122;">When </span></span><span style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 34); color: #202122;">Bareilles</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202122;"> composed “She Used to be Mine,” “kind” provided a convenient near-rhyme for “mine.” In my yearbook messages, the unconscious repetition is a reminder that my s</span>econd greatest accomplishment may be raising children who aren’t lawyers.</span></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYy81U5ce8DNVFywUGQbwd5OyV0nPBPFwGs0hnIYn0Zpw7Zgx3gwCrL2yVrqM3pOTiicrgw3MshuFQugeY5qB0JDqViu16IduN7wLUPtIrcEn72QTdeZOsJcc051pdLap44YRpvgYtmjD_hqZ4d5WDitSbW9LAOGcUi-AlRO2M1J8aKFZHlyrtEoE/s3264/IMG_0690%20-%20Version%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYy81U5ce8DNVFywUGQbwd5OyV0nPBPFwGs0hnIYn0Zpw7Zgx3gwCrL2yVrqM3pOTiicrgw3MshuFQugeY5qB0JDqViu16IduN7wLUPtIrcEn72QTdeZOsJcc051pdLap44YRpvgYtmjD_hqZ4d5WDitSbW9LAOGcUi-AlRO2M1J8aKFZHlyrtEoE/s320/IMG_0690%20-%20Version%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">First year law students are taught to “think like a lawyer.” Legal scholar Anne-Marie Slaughter provides an excellent summary of the concept in “<a href="https://scholar.princeton.edu/sites/default/files/slaughter/files/onthinkinglikealawyer.pdf">On Thinking Like a Lawyer</a>,” a short essay addressed to new law students. The phrase means, “in the first instance, thinking with care and precision.” </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But “thinking like a lawyer also means that you can make arguments on any side of any question”: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Many of you resist that teaching, thinking that we are stripping you of your personal principles and convictions, transforming you into a hired gun. On the contrary, learning how to <i><b>make</b></i> arguments on different sides of a question is learning that there<b> <i>are</i> </b>arguments on both sides, and learning how to <i><b>hear</b></i> them. That is the core of the liberal value of tolerance, but also the precondition for order in a society that chooses to engage in conflict with words rather than guns. It is our best hope for rational deliberation, for solving problems together not based on eradicating conflict, but for channeling it productively and cooperating where possible. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Professor Slaughter ends her essay with optimism about the contribution that lawyers and legal thinking can make to society: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of my colleagues at Chicago ends her first year civil procedure class by saying: “Sometimes in the first year of law school, people learn to think like lawyers, but to be a little less like people. You’ve learned the first of those things. You shouldn’t let us teach you the second.” I disagree. There is no dichotomy here. Thinking like a lawyer is thinking like a human being, a human being who is tolerant, sophisticated, pragmatic, critical, and engaged. It means combining passion and principle, reason and judgment. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I absorbed a similar idealism about the legal profession when I was at Yale Law School. For me, thinking like a Lawyer <i><b>or</b> </i>like a Writer means using words to explore and share ideas with other people, including your future self. It turns out that’s the only way I can think clearly. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, in the last few years I’ve discovered that “thinking like a lawyer” is corrosive when an attorney’s duty to vigorously advocate</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">for the client becomes an excuse to selfishly </span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/03/Lilies.html" style="font-family: inherit;">twist the truth beyond recognition</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since my PTSD diagnosis, I’ve completed an extensive <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/8w7140cbk6mjbti/Neuroscience%20Reading%20List.pdf?dl=0">reading list</a> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">in psychology and neuroscience. In the field of evolutionary biology, “thinking like a lawyer” has a much darker meaning than the ideal celebrated in Professor Slaughter’s essay. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Humans are profoundly social animals. In particular, we’re deeply concerned about social status within our tribe. Evolutionary psychologist Robert Wright argues consciousness arose in human brains not to promote effective decision making but rather for “image management” – the “hoarding of credit and sharing of blame.” Like Trump University, evolution taught us “shady accounting,” resulting in “a deep sense of justice slightly slanted toward the self.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As Wright puts it, the “human brain is, in large part, a machine for winning arguments.” Evolution could have designed us to prioritize finding the right answer. Instead, “like a lawyer, the human brain wants victory, not truth.”</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmun2TGxeitrfk3LWmjWgxigAwcTzFlafmZj3DNaBY64JpXIwvmb5bTimxo2Zyv3SS1Q_8K4D9EjTRTjQZNZKUVDfSpzJlD85sK25a4ZwLcls4mlJLSC0psC5JIzMoC4Nu-oUB8h7dDXbqG2TpZ_-WYt8-EEIFdwJ72S1NVVO05vlW5pONKzl9bo8/s320/Xmas%20dresses.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-decoration: underline;" width="240" /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is selfishness a bug or a feature of humanity? Is kindness?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Many atypical traits persist in the gene pool despite their lack of any obvious benefit to survival and reproduction, such as homosexuality, left-handedness, introversion, blue eyes, schizophrenia, and country music. In his recent book <i>Good Reasons for Bad Feelings: Insights from the Frontier of Evolutionary Psychiatry</i>, neuroscientist and clinician Randolph Nesse examines how </span>evolutionary processes can explain <span style="font-family: inherit;">various quirks of the human brain, including the persistence and power of altruism: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For most species, close social partners other than relatives are either nonexistent or nearly interchangeable. That was probably the case for our human ancestors until some tipping point in the past hundred thousand years, when selecting especially capable, generous partners began to give advantages. The benefits of having relationships with the best possible partners shaped tendencies to generosity and loyalty.... The resulting prosocial traits are as expensive and dramatic as a peacock</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s tail.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Common decency makes civilization possible. But no community can be healthy when it reaches the opposite tipping point, with too many individuals defaulting to lawyerly selfishness. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbd2v3y_aDLuN8sXciOVDCwfFS5AjCT3fPQgp20DNp7A5ZpLJSoVx5KQUUTALgnR-yD7flAB_u0i30L_BIIms5xKgFGFpzDCv6X1LeZicRUolOv0ka74q-C6hqKgutkTgljBZt2ELCSfKcJJxfK73qh4Ck2wK98Ua3sG0ZihK5tZ2Hb9MrSc9-1w/s604/afterbath.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="604" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbd2v3y_aDLuN8sXciOVDCwfFS5AjCT3fPQgp20DNp7A5ZpLJSoVx5KQUUTALgnR-yD7flAB_u0i30L_BIIms5xKgFGFpzDCv6X1LeZicRUolOv0ka74q-C6hqKgutkTgljBZt2ELCSfKcJJxfK73qh4Ck2wK98Ua3sG0ZihK5tZ2Hb9MrSc9-1w/s320/afterbath.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">David Browning, one of the second tenors in Vancouver Men’s Chorus, is a talented singer-songwriter. (In real life he’s just a doctor.) This year David set himself the personal challenge of writing a Christmas song. As any musician besides Mariah Carey will attest, composing a catchy holiday pop song presents a daunting assignment. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">David did an excellent job, and VMC was proud to premiere “Merry Christmas” at our recent concerts. The song’s bridge ends with the lyric “Let the anger and the tension unwind – let the world be kind.”</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOPskJQT46I2AhaVrkmUwUvIp0SddxUf8905nIYfWtQAd8m4-BofaurzR6Q9dWgUVWtMNDkWMFcfW2udRkx2Y36SGGz3Zal8Yy9cPAVcxpfmCJXscjwOeSjl54cmM-T4-MNcRhV3pSSPUnIl62nt6YHZw-onbD4_MU6MZDJ1GuMLMOZK468-tPV4/s4032/IMG_1649.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOPskJQT46I2AhaVrkmUwUvIp0SddxUf8905nIYfWtQAd8m4-BofaurzR6Q9dWgUVWtMNDkWMFcfW2udRkx2Y36SGGz3Zal8Yy9cPAVcxpfmCJXscjwOeSjl54cmM-T4-MNcRhV3pSSPUnIl62nt6YHZw-onbD4_MU6MZDJ1GuMLMOZK468-tPV4/s320/IMG_1649.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As Bear and I were walking through Boulevard Park last month, we met a young woman who was making a documentary for a college class. She asked if she could film me with Bear as I answered a few questions. After pointing her iPhone at us, the student asked “Are you happy?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Life has been extra frustrating lately. My family and I are beset with mounting health, personal, financial, and legal challenges. The road ahead is uncertain and confusing. Nevertheless, I am enjoying the best mental health of my life, and The Kids Are Alright. I found myself answering “yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After I responded to a few more questions, the student filmmaker asked if I had any concluding message. I said “Be kind. And you’ll be happy.” </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-JIH9rkhjppmRV2NtPtF1TrfWPusdMg8cTjb9fxApFce1Ac6_mLXX1JR4yPp9XA_zWFQt3jH9YN7nIQa-WImk8StJKLApErrIhliqpXexUxigfGOU2Q9lH0AVuiUKiGRwq_rwa5NuoVSt4u9Lu9wFTOGUF067-rODBOL7k_n5IczLbetouKc7yZo/s1008/Wenatchee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="945" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-JIH9rkhjppmRV2NtPtF1TrfWPusdMg8cTjb9fxApFce1Ac6_mLXX1JR4yPp9XA_zWFQt3jH9YN7nIQa-WImk8StJKLApErrIhliqpXexUxigfGOU2Q9lH0AVuiUKiGRwq_rwa5NuoVSt4u9Lu9wFTOGUF067-rODBOL7k_n5IczLbetouKc7yZo/s320/Wenatchee.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Merry Christmas</span></b></div><p><br /></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-87195822633869016522022-12-18T16:27:00.004-08:002022-12-19T19:29:12.388-08:00Typhoid Merry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR7rH0XjWy4nZH8JrCv2yzaeB4gNsMqSVMeJnx2sA_lCOk00rY6VzzJgLOQ-dh5S9OBaG-ZatGpi2bXcyCE0qR0lQaX6x8lUU9wrC63GORqwSscwht5h5zrmBGICQApt0r61V6YsRKAjoTxLD0llL4MWGcT-Di0Uk6ZAwr4ISr649Q_KtqAe2EWrk/s900/Mary's%20drag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR7rH0XjWy4nZH8JrCv2yzaeB4gNsMqSVMeJnx2sA_lCOk00rY6VzzJgLOQ-dh5S9OBaG-ZatGpi2bXcyCE0qR0lQaX6x8lUU9wrC63GORqwSscwht5h5zrmBGICQApt0r61V6YsRKAjoTxLD0llL4MWGcT-Di0Uk6ZAwr4ISr649Q_KtqAe2EWrk/s320/Mary's%20drag.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I almost got to be a super-spreader. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Instead, I’m isolating in my room with Bear – the first in our family to test positive for covid despite all the social distancing, masks, vaccinations, and dodged bullets. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="1920" height="89" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb67xwsJgc-3qoYZlqG1DwoECBMLBKVZIh2HYAhi86rzNyI9PcvFVe8A8l7HIRCUFO6Ajgm5jC1U2r-6ozCVoH1pbNH0NeUUlAeawZPxNNDFUMY8YZt6TLdHQ4KoPFA52z1e5uvtxolEN9x-eo5bBK3ZZYSV1_EAP3mB0LjzicYg6GNY_fLyU6UdA/s320/%20Santa.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I got covid without even noticing it. When Bear and I got home from our usual long walk Wednesday afternoon, I had an email from someone who attended the same festive gathering in Vancouver on Sunday. After feeling a little under weather for a couple of days, he failed a home covid test. He suggested we all check our coronavirus status. Most attendees promptly reported negative results </span>– <span style="font-family: inherit;">other than an unlucky few. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’d taken so many covid tests before. This time I squeezed four drops into the plastic well, then watched the bright red line instantly light up. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2CFuDTUF3uGJscuncaWofFX3gGUcSgJRiKKUvjjrGeG7vGXxpmmKH1D2VLMeA-aWIfWPlVZ3tVLS8ydb--5WVqn7IrPyKb66yhzoTleWJFu7IEy6fkgZpE8xtNrd0tZ33XLD6rqvLg7U8DF0bKjp3qr1SQK0pojVbf_64OUHlZje9_ld9qoL4_s/s4032/IMG_3418.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2CFuDTUF3uGJscuncaWofFX3gGUcSgJRiKKUvjjrGeG7vGXxpmmKH1D2VLMeA-aWIfWPlVZ3tVLS8ydb--5WVqn7IrPyKb66yhzoTleWJFu7IEy6fkgZpE8xtNrd0tZ33XLD6rqvLg7U8DF0bKjp3qr1SQK0pojVbf_64OUHlZje9_ld9qoL4_s/s320/IMG_3418.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After observing so much suffering during the pandemic, my own experience with covid has been blessedly anticlimactic. I</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">ve had no symptoms. The kids all stayed virus-free as we finished the last week of school. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, the December schedule is a mess</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">. And I’m still trapped in “isolation”: staying at home except for long walks in the woods with Bear; letting the kids feed themselves as the dishes pile up; and either wearing a mask as I try to get work done at my desk, or hiding in my bedroom while Christmas music plays on an infinite loop. </span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia60fc3CcLSx-9yiC1GKjM6rZkCpGrs6rrvvOedZ55jGIdpCXv9oiA30KMO05QN79ai6KcUuXNIidgOLMR8Ap2Uy63LjHdoSXpt5g4HcwVA0UVN0qmH8kAs8CdHMKj8vsx7S7G88CDBqGxLN6-mqNseaJC_obDfW47rWDnf9OiMeGcr2fFwqY-dxs/s380/IMG_3407.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="285" data-original-width="380" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia60fc3CcLSx-9yiC1GKjM6rZkCpGrs6rrvvOedZ55jGIdpCXv9oiA30KMO05QN79ai6KcUuXNIidgOLMR8Ap2Uy63LjHdoSXpt5g4HcwVA0UVN0qmH8kAs8CdHMKj8vsx7S7G88CDBqGxLN6-mqNseaJC_obDfW47rWDnf9OiMeGcr2fFwqY-dxs/s320/IMG_3407.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Before the covid surprise, I was planning to drive back up to Vancouver on Wednesday night to attend a holiday sing-along event hosted by friends at a club downtown. According to the <a href="https://www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/your-health/isolation.html">CDC chatbot’s calculations</a>, Wednesday was my most infectious day. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ironically, I’d already decided to skip the Xmas sing-along and save myself for a New Year</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s trip. Instead, I told the kids I was loopy on Theraflu. I hadn</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t actually taken any. I just wanted to cover up my decision to take the day off, stay home, and do edibles while pretending to be sick. Still, I’m glad I checked my email before I changed my mind about heading to the piano bar. My boisterous caroling would have contaminated numerous unsuspecting revelers with aerosolized coronavirus.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Instead I’m in isolation for ten days. Blame Canada.</span></p></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjudXXtWZ9T-FQZIBB-GkAx1pAnjdO9pNZ9w6wzQNM8XhU9XSlldkUaK-ANzJFYzFNS82WYNqeJdT0MTT0rjshAnI6URoFrdQxatFTC_T9q08fF_xE-1rVzA2DfPVqdRqAlrfoweR5EM4oc_fLgo59MsJEuWSbGq6z7afWqTKEM1aALEftzLccbOfY/s2863/IMG_3330.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2863" data-original-width="1988" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjudXXtWZ9T-FQZIBB-GkAx1pAnjdO9pNZ9w6wzQNM8XhU9XSlldkUaK-ANzJFYzFNS82WYNqeJdT0MTT0rjshAnI6URoFrdQxatFTC_T9q08fF_xE-1rVzA2DfPVqdRqAlrfoweR5EM4oc_fLgo59MsJEuWSbGq6z7afWqTKEM1aALEftzLccbOfY/s320/IMG_3330.heic" width="222" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is what covid looks like (Xmas 2022)<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-50223385453221938232022-12-01T16:11:00.020-08:002023-03-14T21:31:28.273-07:00Anesthesia<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsojNJa5LBZenoqoMdZRS1DO4eA2wGWQEqeVmdHCJNu4F1Z8UguBRqx6xdkxYdXLwLgSf4bRAzPtmBP_ZHOjTDpRzUVyiKIVd8JYFTe9tZW9gvBricB6B-r07FppT5gVDwGCAlvkQD3cfVUuwXzxrqiTdQTJqyOd7k1LkeNzqUAy-tYXevnSI-os/s2048/IMG_2393.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsojNJa5LBZenoqoMdZRS1DO4eA2wGWQEqeVmdHCJNu4F1Z8UguBRqx6xdkxYdXLwLgSf4bRAzPtmBP_ZHOjTDpRzUVyiKIVd8JYFTe9tZW9gvBricB6B-r07FppT5gVDwGCAlvkQD3cfVUuwXzxrqiTdQTJqyOd7k1LkeNzqUAy-tYXevnSI-os/s320/IMG_2393.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eleanor at Whidbey General Hospital with bacterial pneumonia<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(pre-helicopter ride to Seattle Children’s Hospital)</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Facebook can be horrifying. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Several years ago, a friend posted a cheery selfie from his sunny hospital bed after a surprise appendectomy. A day later, someone else posted the report to Facebook that our friend had died from complications after surgery.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2SfBeA_mZGImSt2Z-vQenJMe-ZYoa6OrrHA2ZehyjPmrVtZMdfTrjvD8YpUVwlxZqIAVywcA_shmTykRWmDBkhTW0sR7gXT-IooSEvgM8PTWHfEpMebjvOhEDyj2UZPcfkIq0advPR3utyZ7bzhMVyewh0t7h__51oHLcEcVjWgDetImbWi2fpM/s4032/IMG_2006%204.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2SfBeA_mZGImSt2Z-vQenJMe-ZYoa6OrrHA2ZehyjPmrVtZMdfTrjvD8YpUVwlxZqIAVywcA_shmTykRWmDBkhTW0sR7gXT-IooSEvgM8PTWHfEpMebjvOhEDyj2UZPcfkIq0advPR3utyZ7bzhMVyewh0t7h__51oHLcEcVjWgDetImbWi2fpM/s320/IMG_2006%204.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eleanor after hip surgery</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In February, Eleanor had a sports injury that didn’t heal. In October, she had arthroscopic surgery to repair a labral tear in her hip. I sat in the waiting room, trying to read or write while my daughter was under general anesthesia. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am not a superstitious person. But I didn’t post a picture to Facebook until after it was all over.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQUkYFQiZi0OpJPezXNogf-xb2nzuvvO5zzagA4gi7nfqU86wUxDKUElKLHogfzhYWx6BcU_AkpqtfuQvghM_CLZ5a3rX-INdjN7SobjfYikkMLSa98SawnCSTQx3BgrBUygUxpiIa9TXZcij25ajfOawCm949D1J6oivmF0ZF1W-wuXyqLi1zlQ/s320/spitting.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQUkYFQiZi0OpJPezXNogf-xb2nzuvvO5zzagA4gi7nfqU86wUxDKUElKLHogfzhYWx6BcU_AkpqtfuQvghM_CLZ5a3rX-INdjN7SobjfYikkMLSa98SawnCSTQx3BgrBUygUxpiIa9TXZcij25ajfOawCm949D1J6oivmF0ZF1W-wuXyqLi1zlQ/s1600/spitting.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleanor spitting up</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My first paternal vigil was at Seattle Children’s Hospital in 2005. When Eleanor was a month old, her infant gastric reflux spiked. Whole bottles of formula ended up on her fathers, and she stopped being her happy self. Our pediatrician assured us this was perfectly normal. But it kept getting worse. Eventually we took her to the walk-in clinic. They immediately sent us across town to the emergency room at Seattle Children’s Hospital, where Eleanor was diagnosed with pyloric stenosis.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The pylorus muscle connects your stomach to your intestines. It’s the valve at the opposite end of the stomach from the esophagus. In something like one in a thousand babies, the pylorus closes completely a few weeks after birth. Anything you try to put into the stomach just comes back up. In the old days, infants with pyloric stenosis soon died. Fortunately, a century ago surgeons figured out how snip the pylorus and get things flowing again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It took three days in the hospital before Eleanor was hydrated enough for surgery. When she was finally ready, the surgeon explained to us what was about to happen. Then he and Eleanor disappeared behind the ominous doors, and the rest of us went around to wait on the other side.</span></p></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-HYsFrFujLLt7N9cfysDuwRNnDRkbTTatENZJPusN_940-ehJar36qN0sqvQv7C5dnILJFAgKkF2I4LRQUFHTwVueBe6nNcyZE-2oyg7i7zD3T0VtzBc_6TLaXnP5rKG5QVulwbwtxw/s1600/IMGP2283.jpg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-size-adjust: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-HYsFrFujLLt7N9cfysDuwRNnDRkbTTatENZJPusN_940-ehJar36qN0sqvQv7C5dnILJFAgKkF2I4LRQUFHTwVueBe6nNcyZE-2oyg7i7zD3T0VtzBc_6TLaXnP5rKG5QVulwbwtxw/s320/IMGP2283.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eleanor before stomach surgery</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My friend Michael is a distinguished anesthesiologist. I met him when we served together on the Seattle Men’s Chorus board. Although Michael isn’t a singer, he traveled with the chorus on our successful Rocky Mountain tour. So did one-year-old Eleanor. Over the years, Michael has given his Facebook thumbs-up to countless pictures of my daughter as she’s grown into a graceful and confident young woman.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Michael is an avid traveler with long legs and an aversion to flying coach. Although I’ve been immobilized by parenthood and disability, I’ve traveled vicariously as Michael and his husband Ron voyaged across the globe. Michael regularly posts pictures to Facebook showing his legs happily extended in First Class, or begrudgingly squeezed into an economy row. Last month we saw a picture of Michael’s legs comfortably resting on a British Airways flight to Barcelona. He and Ron were on their way to board a cruise ship for a trip around the world in celebration of their 42nd anniversary.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next day, Facebook reported that Ron suddenly collapsed and couldn’t be revived. As Michael himself reported, “<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;">The sad news has already been mentioned, but I’m devastated to say that with no warning, the Husband suddenly collapsed and couldn’t be revived by the valiant efforts of the Spanish paramedics. I’m now dealing with the local medical examiner, the US consulate and at least one funeral home. A million thanks to those who have reached out already.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Michael is a social creature with countless friends. Ron was quieter. I mostly knew him from references to “the Husband” in Michael’s Facebook posts. However, I know anyone living and traveling together with Michael for decades will see wondrous things. Ron had a wonderful life, then a sudden death in Barcelona.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Michael managed affairs in Spain then returned to Seattle – terribly alone, yet surrounded by friends. Michael’s next Facebook post said “<span style="background-color: white;">I’m absolutely gobsmacked by the outpouring of support and affection from hundreds of friends and family.” </span></span></p></div><div align="center"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEbt7XmfGmahsCnBSNEYI93jo6HFWx3I_2XpLYwPgRVtJBwvKztsJyQfT4Q-0sCUsFQuaonyK7vHr8XF3Dzj09tUB6oyQ619NCyKKWwtf76BpRNyuNJR-JqX4XaEGAeVwJ5FQayBhtqA/s1600/IMGP2343.jpg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-size-adjust: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEbt7XmfGmahsCnBSNEYI93jo6HFWx3I_2XpLYwPgRVtJBwvKztsJyQfT4Q-0sCUsFQuaonyK7vHr8XF3Dzj09tUB6oyQ619NCyKKWwtf76BpRNyuNJR-JqX4XaEGAeVwJ5FQayBhtqA/s320/IMGP2343.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleanor after stomach surgery</td></tr></tbody></table><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last fall I sat in another waiting room while our next-door neighbor operated on Eleanor’s nose to correct a deviated septum. (Another sports injury, don't ask.) Afterwards I came back to sit with her as she emerged from anesthesia. I had to sit for a while – they wouldn’t let her leave the building until her blood pressure came down. The nurse spiked her IV drip with a couple of different hypertension medications<span style="color: #202124;">, to no avail. So she gave Eleanor a hit of fentanyl. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;">It was eye-opening. For me, not Eleanor – I watched as her eyeballs rolled back and her blood pressure immediately dropped. In the car afterwards, Eleanor said she hated how the fentanyl made her feel, and she never wants to try anything like it again. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;">As a parent, I found nose surgery provides a wonderful “Just Say No” moment.</span></p></div><div align="center"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQusWFlqhHRi22F5EvNKkf3WKSeDG_5xbXeaAlwDzeLLi_pYiCfjUm0ypzweGzFip4OWeOw0MZQWKvkKT_hOTUcyTRCbS9xeAUcPNICpMBDkzB6c8FGtVfi0-wvFEYYZa2490Slr66eRIvXmI9JjafFOLLmTuHRJxN8_NR1EQprj-Y2KIJew0f_8/s960/pre-nose%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQusWFlqhHRi22F5EvNKkf3WKSeDG_5xbXeaAlwDzeLLi_pYiCfjUm0ypzweGzFip4OWeOw0MZQWKvkKT_hOTUcyTRCbS9xeAUcPNICpMBDkzB6c8FGtVfi0-wvFEYYZa2490Slr66eRIvXmI9JjafFOLLmTuHRJxN8_NR1EQprj-Y2KIJew0f_8/s320/pre-nose%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eleanor before last year’s nose surgery </span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At Eleanor’s recent hip surgery, I was invited to the pre-op area as the nurses got her ready. Her handsome surgeon stopped by, too focused on business for the kind of charming chit-chat we enjoyed during our introductory meeting a few weeks before. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Before returning to the waiting room for another paternal vigil, I also met the anesthesiologist. His spiel was soothing, but a little too polished. He told us the odds of complications were one in 250,000, and said Eleanor was at less risk during surgery than during her car ride to the hospital.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Never tell me the odds. As I observe Michael grieve the sudden loss of The Husband after forty-two years together, I think of my sister-in-law in Canada, who sleeps on the couch across the living room from the hospital bed where my younger brother is confined by Stage IV spine cancer. And I watch my parents across town growing old together as they celebrate their 60th anniversary next year. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve been a failure with romance myself. By most measures I’ve been <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/02/IfLoveWereAll.html">a failure with everything else</a>. Instead, I’ve poured my heart into fatherhood. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wherever we find love, probability is not destiny. Life is fragile and precious, with no guarantees. And no day but today.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZ-OsCDUCJUdiAd1hkWdelV92QyGLRLtcRNGyYStxB8mGvIADTUFhmZ61d3JaSTvj29d11sZ0qMUhnv_xe1EqUtR2HpKpYr4FaX9MBdYUj0oOjM14nLC8WixrdL0DE4bkiopdCbKkbC1KPWiFo1uffZIrgsJ8KDAZRm3Qey2g3mPgmDs_SZvxH50/s4032/IMG_1994.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZ-OsCDUCJUdiAd1hkWdelV92QyGLRLtcRNGyYStxB8mGvIADTUFhmZ61d3JaSTvj29d11sZ0qMUhnv_xe1EqUtR2HpKpYr4FaX9MBdYUj0oOjM14nLC8WixrdL0DE4bkiopdCbKkbC1KPWiFo1uffZIrgsJ8KDAZRm3Qey2g3mPgmDs_SZvxH50/s320/IMG_1994.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eleanor before this year’s hip surgery<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I recently read <i>Pathological: The True Story of Six Misdiagnoses</i> by Sarah Fay. The New York Times Book Review described the book as a “fiery manifesto of a memoir.” Like other critics of what has been called the “Mental Health Industrial Complex,” Fay challenges two dangerous aspects of modern psychological treatment. <i>First</i>, too much weight is given to the Diagnostic & Statistical Manual’s taxonomy of specific mental disorders. The DSM began as a helpful resource for practitioners. Unfortunately, its rigid categorizations can take on a life of their own, usually without the support of valid data. Rather than being seen as individuals, patients are reduced to <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/08/Relabeling.html">labels</a> and insurance codes. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Second</i>, market forces and Big Pharma have corrupted medicine. Pharmaceuticals became the default answer to every mental health question, causing numerous disasters including the opioid epidemic. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">In Fay’s case, her fifth psychiatrist prescribed Zoloft along with a new diagnosis. No one knows what powerful drugs like Zoloft and Prozac actually do to the human brain. For many individuals – including Fay and me – Zoloft offers magical relief to various debilitating symptoms. For other individuals in similar circumstances, the same drug may have no effect.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was lucky. As I wrote in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/03/BreakingGlass.html">Breaking the Glass</a>,” I like to compare Zoloft to cartoon dynamite. The most alarming effect of amped-up stress had been on my temper around the kids. Every little mess was making me uncharacteristically angry. On medication, my fuse feels a few inches longer. Just enough to avoid explosions.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When Fay’s next psychiatrist gave her a new diagnosis, he insisted she end her reliance on Zoloft, because the drug was no longer indicated as part of standard treatment. Fay gradually tried reducing her dosage. But every time she approached zero she was wracked with horrifying withdrawal symptoms. She needed to stay on Zoloft to avoid side effects she never experienced before someone prescribed Zoloft for one of the six serious DSM diagnoses she received (none of which involved traumas or triggers). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually Fay took control of her own treatment: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I found the right combination and dosage of medications, which is like finding the slimmest of needles in the largest of haystacks at the end of a rainbow after winning the lottery.”</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhBf3wy-vb2-mzED0Y_Sb0JWf7TBYsAX95HkD420oMlpGo21nAIRilBzgkCQTwayB3fFVxpDWKXbFJC43nhZQ8bjXt_Jj3X6ASjk_AtBWd4sU9ik8ZwzLOOD2hn2F6I2infIkQn6K5cpHiZIlvRsabxaNVhXYSCQx7wBUBGIiwhYJHHTPQEz8nEs/s2048/pneumonia.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhBf3wy-vb2-mzED0Y_Sb0JWf7TBYsAX95HkD420oMlpGo21nAIRilBzgkCQTwayB3fFVxpDWKXbFJC43nhZQ8bjXt_Jj3X6ASjk_AtBWd4sU9ik8ZwzLOOD2hn2F6I2infIkQn6K5cpHiZIlvRsabxaNVhXYSCQx7wBUBGIiwhYJHHTPQEz8nEs/s320/pneumonia.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleanor after being airlifted to Seattle Children's Hospital</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For years, I relied on the maximum dosage of 200 milligrams of Zoloft daily. A couple of years ago my amazing Bellingham physician <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/09/FootWhisperer.html">Dr. Heuristic</a> and I agreed it was time to taper down. I plateaued at 100 milligrams for a few months. Then I made it down to 25 milligrams. However, every time I considered letting go completely, some new life crisis erupted, and I would lose my nerve. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This year began with the usual stress at home and in the world, plus crises and/or disasters in several of my ongoing legal matters. Nevertheless, I decided it was time to let go of Zoloft. Fortunately, unlike Fay, I didn’t experience withdrawal or side effects. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In his classic treatise on trauma and its effects, <i>The Body Keeps the Score</i>, psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk levels some of same criticisms at his profession that Fay addresses in <i>Pathological</i>. Dr. van der Kolk observes “people have always used drugs to deal with traumatic stress,” and recognizes pharmaceuticals are an essential treatment tool. Nevertheless, in the particular context of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/08/Relabeling.html">Complex PTSD</a>,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Drugs cannot “cure” trauma: they can only dampen the expressions of a disturbed physiology. And they do not teach the lasting lessons of self-regulation. They can help to control feelings and behaviour, but always at a price – because they work by blocking the chemical systems that regulate engagement, motivation, pain, and pleasure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0in 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since my PTSD diagnosis, I’ve spent thousands of hours meditating. Through writing I’ve learned to think clearly. I’ve finished a broader and more substantial <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/11hv66ox8490fcw/Neuroscience%20Reading%20List.pdf?dl=0">psychology and neurology reading list</a> than most grad students. Bear and I walk six or seven miles every day. I had a 3.7 Wordle average in November. I spend as much time as possible in Vancouver with my chorus brothers or walking on the Stanley Park seawall. I’ve placed my family at the center of everything. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0in 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0in 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After letting go of Zoloft, I was able to open myself up to tears of joy and sorrow. Of course, this also means that my emotions are more vulnerable to stress and triggers. I’m an unemployed disabled gay single dad who lives <a href="ttps://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/04/UnCanadienErrant.html">across the border from home</a>. Every day I deal with triggering conduct by abusive lawyers. It should come as no surprise that even with the benefit of my shiny set of mental tools, my family has observed some fuse-shortened emotions lately.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't want to go back on Zoloft. So Bear and I are going for another walk.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs9-jMfJhWappnZndcILvS81QhxuS_zlPgt2f2F39eGMcbynbYpgAveIMyqfNWmx1uXS0fg0HXuk5O_gZ1Su6-5LIH44DceFEWfhyTXg5VpdD4mrtpXmoA9k66VrrOrrJQCFdn-BL-CGRrbfdpQV2cYBb20dd3b-lWeUdMJwJLG2qtqi5mNXRgvwg/s430/kiss.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="322" data-original-width="430" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs9-jMfJhWappnZndcILvS81QhxuS_zlPgt2f2F39eGMcbynbYpgAveIMyqfNWmx1uXS0fg0HXuk5O_gZ1Su6-5LIH44DceFEWfhyTXg5VpdD4mrtpXmoA9k66VrrOrrJQCFdn-BL-CGRrbfdpQV2cYBb20dd3b-lWeUdMJwJLG2qtqi5mNXRgvwg/s320/kiss.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-17459326322075095782022-09-18T12:16:00.009-07:002023-07-18T15:16:37.704-07:00Something Rotten<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBe0V4K40b0plOqqn46IMxRIddZfwThLUnqIMYTPg814akNUOuhjsF5Kr-IQzVFmrXieqJkmTjisFhjR0y7SMSd3Ngqx5ZW1s123hqSuzEmWWDTeC0J4wywN21oDmHidXgenJWyStrINv8ZYLhB2hPjtmSo86o6yNXLE6UHNzcr0vm1D45h36RGqw/s2765/IMG_0808%20copy.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2765" data-original-width="2544" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBe0V4K40b0plOqqn46IMxRIddZfwThLUnqIMYTPg814akNUOuhjsF5Kr-IQzVFmrXieqJkmTjisFhjR0y7SMSd3Ngqx5ZW1s123hqSuzEmWWDTeC0J4wywN21oDmHidXgenJWyStrINv8ZYLhB2hPjtmSo86o6yNXLE6UHNzcr0vm1D45h36RGqw/w368-h400/IMG_0808%20copy.HEIC" width="368" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the end of July each year, my mother and her friend Carolyn spend a girls’ week at a condo in Vancouver’s West End. They watch the fireworks, shop on Granville Island, and walk along the seawall. They also attend the summer musicals at Malkin Bowl in Stanley Park, where the nonprofit Theatre Under the Stars has been producing shows since 1940. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This year TUTS presented two shows in repertory. The first, <i>We Will Rock You</i>, is a British jukebox musical featuring the music of Queen, with a thin plot about a dystopia where music is forbidden. The second show, <i>Something Rotten!</i>, opened on Broadway in 2015. Brothers Nick and Nigel Bottom struggle to find success in an Elizabethan theatre scene dominated by William Shakespeare’s rock star status. Christian Borle won the Best Supporting Actor Tony for his portrayal of Shakespeare as a preening but insecure narcissist. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhDKAxjdD2-83vJYSTDoy8CSLoQ0hEkGs8xo_FbsHvwg6KLQYTue3T3PqUnaAdSnP_4qxbzVuYi2swJkhWyz-_5IWd42oWJug88-Yox7yzJM25WbqLjQj98rsiy6GJoGcT8APfxRkDjhLxFAsr4LNLbrTuxy0U_DDmxn8V8J4gd8h1SwbXdjqaLQ/s1280/SMC%20.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhDKAxjdD2-83vJYSTDoy8CSLoQ0hEkGs8xo_FbsHvwg6KLQYTue3T3PqUnaAdSnP_4qxbzVuYi2swJkhWyz-_5IWd42oWJug88-Yox7yzJM25WbqLjQj98rsiy6GJoGcT8APfxRkDjhLxFAsr4LNLbrTuxy0U_DDmxn8V8J4gd8h1SwbXdjqaLQ/w400-h225/SMC%20.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Seattle Men<span style="text-align: left;">’</span>s Chorus</span> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9oGd4A5HYuw">singing “A Musical”</a> (2016)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Desperate to get an edge over his rival Shakespeare, Nick Bottom offers his life savings to a soothsayer in return for learning what kind of theatrical production is guaranteed to succeed in the future. The only oracle Nick can afford is Thomas Nostradamus, an undistinguished nephew of the famous French seer. </span>Thomas’s predictions turn out to be accurate but slightly garbled. <span style="font-family: inherit;">In </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Something Rotten</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>!</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">’s show-stopping production number, Thomas convinces Nick he can succeed by introducing the world’s first musical. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 2016, Seattle Men’s Chorus</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> conductor Dennis Coleman retired after thirty-five years with the baton. That was also my first year in Vancouver Men’s Chorus. Instead of singing with SMC, I drove to Seattle with my daughter Eleanor to see the “Everything Broadway” show. Both of us were </span>riveted by<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9oGd4A5HYuw" style="font-family: inherit;">SMC’s performance of “A Musical</a>.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This summer when my mother mentioned she had tickets to </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Something Rotten!</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">, Eleanor and I immediately played her the </span>original<span style="font-family: inherit;"> cast recording of “A Musical,” including this classic excerpt:</span></p></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 4pt 81pt; text-indent: -63pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">THOMAS: Some musicals have no talking at all....<br />All of the dialogue is sung<br />In a very dramatic fashion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 4pt 81pt; text-indent: -63pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">NICK: Um, really?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 4pt 81.35pt; text-indent: -63.35pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">THOMAS: Yes, really.<br />And they often stay on one note for a very long time<br />So when they change to a different note, [finally changing pitch] you notice.<br />And it<span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 0px;">’</span>s supposed to create a dramatic effect<br />But mostly you just sit there asking yourself<br />“Why aren</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0px;">’</span><span style="text-indent: 0px;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">t they talking?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 4pt 81.35pt; text-indent: -63.35pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">NICK: That sounds miserable.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 81pt; text-indent: -63pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">THOMAS: I believe it’s pronounced Misérable.</span></p></div><div><div class="auw0zb" style="color: #70757a; font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 13px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Songwriters: Wayne Kirkpatrick / Karey Kirkpatrick <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://genius.com/Wayne-kirkpatrick-a-musical-lyrics">A Musical lyrics</a> © WB Music Corp., Mad Mother Music</span><o:p></o:p></p></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Sure enough, my mother and Carolyn loved <i>Something Rotten</i>. (Mom’s review of <i>We Will Rock You</i>: “It was loud.”) I got a ticket to <i>Something Rotten</i> for the last Wednesday of the summer. As I reported on Facebook, the show was delightful.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi02yMG00kimyjBN6OsS2QJuVVlvFWBUkJXtgaELqd6P-CBI7ctTS_5AoqYagyNBf2Fkbv4mAD8lhHynei9ZT4ECbg-deuTmeTjL2w3E6F9yZSbYXR8A9nEH4qn7PikaHL_SKvX1ox0FT1EtGSKETP5OPpr74nUkjzvBbGOrLLsZdbIGki0jm0qcwg/s1102/TUTS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1102" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi02yMG00kimyjBN6OsS2QJuVVlvFWBUkJXtgaELqd6P-CBI7ctTS_5AoqYagyNBf2Fkbv4mAD8lhHynei9ZT4ECbg-deuTmeTjL2w3E6F9yZSbYXR8A9nEH4qn7PikaHL_SKvX1ox0FT1EtGSKETP5OPpr74nUkjzvBbGOrLLsZdbIGki0jm0qcwg/w400-h265/TUTS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The key to surviving Facebook is to remember you’re not<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>the target <b><i>audience</i></b> in Facebook’s business model – you’re the company’s <b><i>product</i></b><i>. </i>Facebook’s actual customers are paying advertisers. In a popular and apt metaphor, the rest of us are merely a herd of cattle on display. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve run the numbers, and I’m </span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/06/HappyCows.html">pretty happy with our bovine arrangement</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">. As far as I can tell, the algorithm has never lured me into buying anything. Instead, Facebook serves as a convenient communication platform and auxiliary memory bank. After posting pictures of children, dogs, and travel for fourteen years, I can now rely on Facebook for daily reminders of happy times.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For example, according to Facebook I was at the Saint James Theatre seven years ago waiting to watch the original Broadway cast of <i>Something Rotten!</i>. As I wrote at the time, “Shakespeare has always been my idol.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m lucky I have Facebook to remind me – because I don’t have any memory of being at the theatre in New York. In fact, other than the songs I heard on the original cast album, I didn’t remember anything about the show before I saw it again in Vancouver last month.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Iiwo5T1GnfDgUrh07L0cxSgfhMEAtzdXV8_Uxg99MKmwmPIbCD6gHDydqx8goNTn4YYYou1hNdv1v2T0O0jPmL_O4cDADoyvRLEk2ruVLaBfMn13NBJfhApUa0gfWcSqZuTMnZGzfKkxQciLe45r9bm8SkxXsDVIcynl84iMWLmv9AroAn8rzOc/s1296/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-29%20at%207.46.34%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="1296" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Iiwo5T1GnfDgUrh07L0cxSgfhMEAtzdXV8_Uxg99MKmwmPIbCD6gHDydqx8goNTn4YYYou1hNdv1v2T0O0jPmL_O4cDADoyvRLEk2ruVLaBfMn13NBJfhApUa0gfWcSqZuTMnZGzfKkxQciLe45r9bm8SkxXsDVIcynl84iMWLmv9AroAn8rzOc/w400-h358/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-29%20at%207.46.34%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The last time I was in New York I was on my way to New Haven for my 25th year law school reunion. This was just a few weeks before my new Bellingham physician told me my weird recent symptoms added up to <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/08/Relabeling.html">Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and serious codependency</a>. My disability diagnosis changed my life – but not as much as the abusive behaviour of my employers. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">PTSD is a disease of memory. As Bessel van der Kolk observes in <i>The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma</i>, “traumatized people simultaneously remember too little and too much.” Sometimes trauma results in disassociation or repression, leaving no accessible memories at all. More often, trauma prevents key brain modules like the thalamus and hippocampus from integrating our experiences into “normal” memories. According to Dr. van der Kolk, “the imprints of traumatic experiences are organized not as coherent logical narratives but in fragmented sensory and emotional traces: images, sounds, and physical sensations.”</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></span><p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKszLfPJVy0gThSin8uUzGZb-IeCNaLIyfB3CMEs5ugRhllUdjMjJbvm80TP39sfkFMMRbhAb3mbYJMujIAiwt7r3SzcQvx8b8AoLWMfJ9bRTXunLEbXjTa8pVx2ld-o3jrBh7nnSrFdGTKvlDg13PGBS7l4PCxPLUC1hacwS7zkyqx6Hom_zyz0/s2979/IMG_1298.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2979" data-original-width="2962" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKszLfPJVy0gThSin8uUzGZb-IeCNaLIyfB3CMEs5ugRhllUdjMjJbvm80TP39sfkFMMRbhAb3mbYJMujIAiwt7r3SzcQvx8b8AoLWMfJ9bRTXunLEbXjTa8pVx2ld-o3jrBh7nnSrFdGTKvlDg13PGBS7l4PCxPLUC1hacwS7zkyqx6Hom_zyz0/s320/IMG_1298.HEIC" width="318" /></a></div><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I realized I had no memory of seeing <i>Something Rotten!</i> on Broadway in October 2015 – even Christian Borle’s Tony-winning portrayal of my idol Will Shakespeare – I went back to my collection of Playbills to figure what else was missing. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The only other show I saw on that trip was <i>Fun Home</i>, a musical based on lesbian cartoonist Alison Bechdel’s memoir about growing up in a repressed and dysfunctional environment (she was raised in her family</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s funeral home). While Bechdel was away at college, her father killed himself rather than come out of the closet. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In contrast with <i>Something Rotten</i>, I remember seeing <i>Fun Home</i> on Broadway. I’ve also read Bechdel’s graphic memoir. But my memories of both are fragmentary.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlVsztL2dRQn95yZGk9ymDpaPFK9AUvEVCiUSSXuQGZvSB2ly0sGMWEICV4w_QRX9gBuIS2jOYrB6vsfVacqcHmjmBiSO8DhYM2Z8pQnnDzopMM6MqHW1TtK-wl71FYdekOBMso683xW-wdxgicBl6Vkca6xkucn20DYp8damJPlORe0Sw-fahDk/s4032/IMG_0817.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlVsztL2dRQn95yZGk9ymDpaPFK9AUvEVCiUSSXuQGZvSB2ly0sGMWEICV4w_QRX9gBuIS2jOYrB6vsfVacqcHmjmBiSO8DhYM2Z8pQnnDzopMM6MqHW1TtK-wl71FYdekOBMso683xW-wdxgicBl6Vkca6xkucn20DYp8damJPlORe0Sw-fahDk/w400-h300/IMG_0817.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Theatre Under the Stars</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Early in his career, Sigmund Freud successfully treated hysteria patients who had PTSD-like symptoms. Freud reported his patients could not access traumatic memories because of the “severely paralyzing” effect of strong emotions like fright and shame. Freud concluded “the ultimate cause of hysteria is always the seduction of the child by an adult.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, as Bessel van der Kolk observes, when “faced with his own evidence of an epidemic of abuse in the best families of Vienna – one, he noted, that would implicate his own father – he quickly began to retreat.” Freud shifted his emphasis from real-world childhood trauma to “unconscious wishes and fantasies” like Oedipus complexes and penis envy. A century later, the leading psychiatry textbook in 1974 stated that “incest is extremely rare,” while opining it probably “allows for a better adjustment to the external world,” leaving “the vast majority” of underaged victims “none the worse for wear.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since then, we’ve learned PTSD is very real, and that it</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">’</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">s not just a soldier’s disease. Here is Dr. van der Kolk’s call to action in </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">The Body Keeps the Score </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">after four decades treating trauma victims: “Child abuse and neglect is the single most preventable cause of mental illness, the single most common cause of drug and alcohol abuse, and a significant contributor to leading causes of death such as diabetes, heart disease, cancer, stroke, and suicide.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My childhood <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/06/Paul.html">best friend Paul </a>killed himself a few months after he was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>In a pioneering study by Dr. van der Kolk and his Harvard colleague Dr. Judith Herman, 81 percent of patients diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder also had histories of severe child abuse. On my way to see <i>Something Rotten!</i>, sitting in line at the Peace Arch border crossing, I read more details about the study in <i>The Body Keeps the Score</i>. And I remembered various odd things Paul said or did over the years. Suddenly I made the horrifying connection </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">–</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">my friend Paul likely endured abuse while we were in elementary school together.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPO8_gZYwYi5Zw1-iLxdQzg6u0EkbQfLI6SpNfV3xvZ7dt3xWmTUITdiHm884FfAD2uZgvL96vPLv5CsWxnndWjTtasnxIS16VxPYXE9PfiC1sCobfucz_o-mlGJWrWgB1qLo1ksyYVjxZRZM5AUAw1Cg4pkBUXk_9yJZM4OI4QBpdkCV3HDxJx0/s900/Will.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPO8_gZYwYi5Zw1-iLxdQzg6u0EkbQfLI6SpNfV3xvZ7dt3xWmTUITdiHm884FfAD2uZgvL96vPLv5CsWxnndWjTtasnxIS16VxPYXE9PfiC1sCobfucz_o-mlGJWrWgB1qLo1ksyYVjxZRZM5AUAw1Cg4pkBUXk_9yJZM4OI4QBpdkCV3HDxJx0/w266-h400/Will.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christian Borle and "Will Power" on Broadway</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I visited New York in October 2015, my PTSD diagnosis was still a few weeks away. But I was well on the way to rock bottom. Even after Theatre Under the Stars refreshed my recollection, I still can’t remember seeing <i>Something Rotten!</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can think of several explanations for the memory gap. The first is the general effect of my disability. As a wrote in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/03/Better-ish.html">Better-ish</a>,” although many of my fuzzy memories from that period finally snapped into place, others never did. Instead my brain concluded the simplest way to adjust my internal clock was to delete two years from the timeline. It was like switching to Daylight Savings Time. Or like when England converted from the Julian Calendar to the Gregorian Calendar, and eleven days were dropped from September 1752. Nevertheless, there’s a silver lining: I remember half as much Donald Trump presidency as everyone else.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Another possible explanation for erasing <i>Something Rotten!</i> is my obsessive relationship with Shakespeare. For example, the best class I took at Yale Law School was <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/03/BeyondBardolotry.html">Hal Bloom’s graduate Shakespeare seminar</a>. My bardolatry goes beyond ordinary English Major fervor. I was born exactly four hundred years after William Shakespeare. (To the day, after adjusting for the switch to Gregorian calendar). All my life, or at least from 1964 to 2015, I could easily compare myself to where Will was at a particular age: having his three kids in Stratford during the ’80s, writing classics like Hamlet in the ’90s, retiring to the country in the aughts, and dealing with poor health in the teens. Shakespeare died in 1616, on what would have been his 52nd birthday. <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/05/May3.html">On that date four hundred years later</a>, senior managing lawyers at the Attorney General’s Office realized the State’s employment lawyers and their investigator had broken the law and discriminated against me. Rather than correct their errors, they hastily terminated my employment and embarked on the triggering coverup that continues today. </span>My life stalled at age 51. <span style="font-family: inherit;">As my health and career unraveled in 2015-16, I felt more doomed that Will Shakespeare. Now it feels like the clock has started again.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But there’s a third explanation for my memory blocking out <i>Something Rotten!</i>. As I sat in Malkin Bowl last month, I recognized some of the characters and plot developments from listening to the original cast album. For example, during Act I, Will Shakespeare’s rock-star narcissism was predictably charming. I was also prepared to see Nick Bottom weave his soothsayer’s misleading fragments of prophecy into the fiasco of <i>Omelette: The Musical</i>. (It’s no <i><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/08/RogerRoger.html">Springtime for Hitler</a></i>, but it’s no <i>Hamlet</i>, either.) What surprised me was Shakespeare’s pathetic efforts during Act II to re-ignite own creative fire. Eventually Will is so desperate he steals Nigel Bottom’s brilliant draft script of <i>Hamlet</i>. After <i>Omelette: The Musical</i> bombs, Shakespeare conspires with the authorities to banish Nick, Nigel, their wives, and the soothsayer to America in order to cover up his own plagiarism.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why did my memory block out the entire show, including the fact I saw it on Broadway? Because <i>Something Rotten!</i> centers on writer’s block. And finding your own voice. Which turns out to be how I finally worked my way through complex PTSD over the last few years. I still don</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t remember anything from the first time I saw <i>Something Rotten!</i>. But I’m happy so many of the other rotten things from that time in my life are finally beginning to heal.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1277" data-original-width="2500" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhzAqRN61L53qEa41vz7jaA-_qEKs5Np5zn1_8l64FZn1RazM5OVTAGhUWJZn6XnbCsyJm8WujbCbhZfVzl0OWtB2CacA5-8bQZgJzeGrxwlydGBWsC_y8vpBgpS6h4sGzmw0WhvV9xrPaAc5zSZvtcPrbXLkD9DljZAUNqj_DA-BZ3vZDW0M43BE/w400-h204/Will%20power.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: underline;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel Curalli as Will at Theatre Under The Stars</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-64762124491601587242022-09-08T12:16:00.016-07:002022-12-24T09:13:48.893-08:00I'd Rather Be Sailing<div class="separator"><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><div class="separator"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4031" data-original-width="3023" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie1KENshWyIzN1rQTllFQzFx_2Y2yNbCw0HyxdGL-BX0yjv3pDVZqnvir5QgKbMBv-jaAQt0nkTumcW-BWNbp9hoA40DFQzzQWXVSgStk_kfspLGLmAYruiFOUFZ9VhHpPTtrOGQ53EALa8Yq3_6CpvZ2f893Fp3lBN6d4jm0At6dIzvI3GEqugUw/s320/IMG_1195.HEIC" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: underline;" width="240" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">S/V Stella Maris, Deception Pass - 2000<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The last time I was at showtunes night in Canada, here</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s how our piano player Kerry O’Donovan introduced the song “I’d Rather Be Sailing”:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0in 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“This is one of Roger’s favourite songs. And in the show the song comes from, it’s sung by a character named Roger.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixg4LoH8t0WZeVYB-aB5oBm38dJw_frDxnuIwH8pnFDFgkQah_lMbjlzrYyjDC567Lrb-C2k8X-HyNSdS0hXzHCB4UPVwqw-vtuDj_jllko5V14XBwW9evA-hPmigwj23wOCo9XLs3m8V_w914ON14LOh9jCEspTzxLI9-rfuuTFP5M9Sj1MY1Q-Q/s320/IMGP1696.JPG" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; cursor: move; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">S/V Reachfar, Elliott Bay - 2007</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My recent blog essay “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/08/RogerRoger.html">Roger, Roger</a>” described two of the three characters from Broadway musicals who are named “Roger”: (1) Roger Davis, the rocker bro half of <i>Rent</i>’s straight tragic couple; </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">and (2) Roger DeBris, the fabulous gay auteur who directs and stars in the terrible musical at the center of Mel Brooks’ <i>The Producers</i>, </span>“Springtime for Hitler.”<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The third Broadway “Roger” is another gay supporting character. Roger Delli-Bovi is the romantic partner of the protagonist in <i><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/05/NewBrain.html">A New Brain</a></i>, the 1998 musical William Finn wrote with James Lapine. The show is loosely based on Finn’s own experience at age forty when he was rushed to the hospital for emergency brain surgery, almost died, and slowly recovered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">William Finn’s surrogate in <i>A New Brain</i>, Gordon Schwinn, is a frustrated songwriter. Gordon composes songs for children’s television host “Mr. Bungee,” but he’s blocked in his efforts to finish both Mr. Bungee’s frog songs and his own creative projects. Gordon’s long-suffering boyfriend Roger is the one who loves sailing more than anything else in the world. Roger arrives late to the hospital because he had to wait for wind on Long Island Sound.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gordon hates sailing. Roger still loves Gordon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the most recent revival of <i>A New Brain</i>, Jonathan Groff played Gordon, not Roger. But here is a link to Groff singing “I’d Rather Be Sailing” <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQc6t8r1RjA">on YouTube</a>. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkN09QtJjiOrEciViyIdWjLR3uXkw2XpIwwGfjymGJYjBs9NLlGIUBDMEQQeIti7eQKBzNNlKumWiwSr4qD4g0oX4QKapFUyBKplapvoQNRvNd7KjFMw2vaWoBDuQSEM9sba_dCqQ63bi7O3F39HThckTCF7h8Thx7fisl-HrbsHOzfSY34JKKd4/s2592/IMGP1551.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkN09QtJjiOrEciViyIdWjLR3uXkw2XpIwwGfjymGJYjBs9NLlGIUBDMEQQeIti7eQKBzNNlKumWiwSr4qD4g0oX4QKapFUyBKplapvoQNRvNd7KjFMw2vaWoBDuQSEM9sba_dCqQ63bi7O3F39HThckTCF7h8Thx7fisl-HrbsHOzfSY34JKKd4/s320/IMGP1551.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">S/V Reachfar, Admiralty Inlet - 2005</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once upon a time I had a sailboat, a convertible, and a beach house. Seventeen years later, I’m an unemployed disabled </span>gay <span style="font-family: inherit;">single dad with three teenagers, two dogs, and an ancient minivan.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As Bear and I walk along the Boardwalk, we admire the boats out on Bellingham Bay. I miss my sailboat. It was a beautiful thirty-seven-foot Jeanneau, which I named “Reachfar.” What gets lost in the telling is that I actually bought my boat while we were pregnant with Eleanor.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJdEDoCiMkblPia0Hjdu6DFz25g0_6-f0FsTz2UiQzjwke-g41ks40rTOFuykhpAK-356RHOeoK6x5FKWm9bo_5GF9M6ppXHPl6qedxDlUYlTjGqKEQPJw3qtf-1oZ9bqGx9C9se2GPIdrRbeuYSV8_RayNJ__66_ZV-WMY6ZgrgKt9al3j59tNI/s201/shirtless.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="136" data-original-width="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJdEDoCiMkblPia0Hjdu6DFz25g0_6-f0FsTz2UiQzjwke-g41ks40rTOFuykhpAK-356RHOeoK6x5FKWm9bo_5GF9M6ppXHPl6qedxDlUYlTjGqKEQPJw3qtf-1oZ9bqGx9C9se2GPIdrRbeuYSV8_RayNJ__66_ZV-WMY6ZgrgKt9al3j59tNI/s16000/shirtless.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">S/V Stella Maris, Sidney Spit BC - 1995</td></tr></tbody></table><br style="text-align: left;" /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">During the 1990s, one of my gay lawyer friends lived on his sailboat at Shilshole Marina in Seattle. Many of my happiest memories involved the times I spent with friends on S/V Stella Maris. We explored Manzanilla Bay, Lake Union, and the Hiram Chittenden locks. We introduced my roommate Geoff to his husband Mike at a party on Jim’s boat. Even after I moved to Chicago to be a gay rights lawyer with the ACLU, I would regularly return to Seattle and the water, like a homesick salmon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For several years I joined Jim on his annual spring sailing trip from Seattle north to the San Juan and Gulf Islands. We would arrive in Victoria’s Inner Harbour in time to watch our more intense sailor buddies compete in the annual<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Swiftsure Yacht Race. After a fun weekend in Victoria fraternizing with friendly Canadians, our group would sail off to explore otherwise inaccessible gems like <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/01/WalkingAroundSidneySpit.html">Sidney Spit</a> and Wallace, Prevost, Sucia, and Patos Islands, before returning home to the drudgery of legal practice.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOWiQxVtKtEi4lOrc8awtGjqdUUgoeLxWJpYs4d-mKsYcCw2y8frzK-L2IldZrMpiyv1Q7cIjOE41s49CXWyX7G1Y2BRK32iakB1JR1SlEa9Bfdo4cRbXNzEY_Q-l5j6_NF4kR7mgFKUSJZdMWqgrz_F6MhD6MB4BXdAJUtboYrLEj0TzHEBifMME/s320/boatblackandwhite.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">S/V Reachfar - Puget Sound, 2007</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: left;">Sailing is naturally mellowing.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span> </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For decades, I found every aspect of being a lawyer crushingly stressful, even before I was diagnosed with </span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/08/Relabeling.html" style="font-family: inherit;">complex PTSD and codependency</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">. Nevertheless, I could always escape my miserable life by surrounding myself with waves and forests. </span>Sailing offered instant relief. Although<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I found a similar Zen on chartered sailboats in Belize, California, and Tahiti, I always felt</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> particularly at home on the waters of the Pacific Northwest. </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually I became convinced I needed a boat of my own </span>to sustain the magic<span style="font-family: inherit;">. So in 2005, I bought a used sailboat. I</span>n a rare twist, the economics of boat ownership made sense for me. When I moved back from Chicago, I<span style="background-color: white;">’</span>d chosen to buy a weekend cabin on Whidbey Island rather than an overpriced condo in the city. Mooring a sailboat at Elliott Bay Marina as a crashpad turned out to be cheaper than renting an apartment in Seattle.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">As the cliché goes, the two happiest days of a boat owner’s life are t</span>he day they buy the boat, and the day they sell it<span style="background-color: white;">. By 2008, I recognized sailing </span>was not going to be my priority for the foreseeable future. I was happy to find a willing buyer for S/V Reachfar, for two reasons. <b><i>First</i></b>, I discovered being in charge of my own boat diminished sailing’s relaxing effects. Being the captain was a buzz kill. <b><i>Second</i></b>, I needed a place in the city that would fit my growing family, rather than a lonely pied-à-mer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1Kfv96IoYbI-E1di0zN95OHfs-HQ-m8XLWuLP5utCU5hqTi-cYca-gMrpatMWgKqqpaQ3BUJ5YouYPWDgusMLy-Eg31oHIi7kcLDOvj-N3wQBkKwjI8NQqT-RtdeLh6GcH64DwlPGqCp9rIwwSanX7P8XOJpCVjxhrNbXCsgcM7HSrhIUEzGCR8/s869/George%20Gray.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="687" data-original-width="869" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1Kfv96IoYbI-E1di0zN95OHfs-HQ-m8XLWuLP5utCU5hqTi-cYca-gMrpatMWgKqqpaQ3BUJ5YouYPWDgusMLy-Eg31oHIi7kcLDOvj-N3wQBkKwjI8NQqT-RtdeLh6GcH64DwlPGqCp9rIwwSanX7P8XOJpCVjxhrNbXCsgcM7HSrhIUEzGCR8/w400-h316/George%20Gray.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the poetic epitaphs in <i>Spoon River Anthology </i>by Edgar Lee Masters (1915)</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We started the laborious adoption process in Fall 2004 by signing up with an agency and taking thirty hours of parenting classes. A few weeks later, I got a telephone call out of the blue and learned the cousin of a friend of a friend was pregnant. They were looking for a gay couple to adopt the baby, and chose us. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I bought my sailboat at the beginning of May 2005. All those years of sailing, research, and trips to the Boat Show intersected with the miraculous surprise of parenthood. In hindsight, I think I grasped at the familiar comfort of sailing rather than face the terror of desiring something completely beyond my control. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">After the ultrasound, I realized our birthmother was just as terrified about us walking away from the adoption as I was worried about her </span>changing her mind<span style="font-family: inherit;">. Fortunately, my partner and her boyfriend were able to calm both of us down. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At home on Whidbey Island </span>late one night in June, <span style="font-family: inherit;">I got the call saying our birth mother had gone into labor. We caught the last ferry to the mainland and raced to the hospital in Puyallup. Everyone spent the night watching movies in the lovely birthing suite. Shortly before 9 am, the doctor and the baby arrived. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I watched Eleanor being born. Then we walked out of the room with our daughter, and the world has never been the same.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3761" data-original-width="2821" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-tJiaTWc-hhUj-mXsYkzk_FterV4QSm02H_Wf1Kx9aS0x-Pr86xmOs_QFGLF_X73xY8K7q3p5_GvIJ--yCYUCkX6O9oQc4fWQfGaKJCq8uCN_bMRvVCTpgCzm1GgWIVnqUOQE3Q2qKoZc-ebo5K0Ts45oBuxtRY81GUN-eO_P1ihRpuiBpYuhLo/s320/IMG_1209%20copy.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;" width="240" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bear, Buster, and <a href="https://schoonerzodiac.com">Schooner Zodiac</a><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’d Rather Be Sailing” is the simplest of songs. Gordon’s lover Roger celebrates the joy of sun, wind, and waves. Then he lists some of the things that aren’t as good as sailing, like food, sex, and other people. However, as Roger sings to Gordon, what he loves best about going out sailing is afterwards he can “come home to you.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Near the end of <i>A New Brain</i>, Gordon and Roger reprise “I’d Rather Be Sailing” as a duet. Gordon will never be a sailor. Instead, he sings “I feel like I’m sailing – holding on for life.” With the right craft and crew, sailing offers the exhilaration of the second-greatest roller coaster in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><span style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sailing [Vancouver, chorus, writing, Bear, whatever] could be the one thing in the world I love almost as much as my children. But the point is I love my children even more. That’s the kind of Roger I am.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGB4Dlvu8B9zNbBfXJZ7Psg5RI3CeatnGRoFXZ0knoUn4Mic8dm108b0iWd9B9U3JXkfKE91HuveJZuiK8SCMReIaBXOub56jyas0enestF0efCN0bq9IHKyRARAuYUraTLfYwa_aBfA/s1600/e+sailing.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGB4Dlvu8B9zNbBfXJZ7Psg5RI3CeatnGRoFXZ0knoUn4Mic8dm108b0iWd9B9U3JXkfKE91HuveJZuiK8SCMReIaBXOub56jyas0enestF0efCN0bq9IHKyRARAuYUraTLfYwa_aBfA/w400-h300/e+sailing.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">S/V Reachfar, Port Townsend - 2006</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-57715705329366576642022-09-06T06:41:00.001-07:002022-09-06T06:41:26.139-07:00Seasons of Bear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidIU6e2jHz3X4I46TQYBS_IkEtsPNqqwN-VX5n03jNOxOpHYVMF_GkBeGBe1vRR6z2zyjFS88IqOmrdV6xc2PoF6Fv_UUhWqFOko6014zBpKu_XHlxeogfSugJewK0_hC-b5A2iLPSN1do1aSIIybImLpVyC1KEGDcfap05z6e1nh8xtFOSh5Cho/s2965/IMG_0631.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2570" data-original-width="2965" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidIU6e2jHz3X4I46TQYBS_IkEtsPNqqwN-VX5n03jNOxOpHYVMF_GkBeGBe1vRR6z2zyjFS88IqOmrdV6xc2PoF6Fv_UUhWqFOko6014zBpKu_XHlxeogfSugJewK0_hC-b5A2iLPSN1do1aSIIybImLpVyC1KEGDcfap05z6e1nh8xtFOSh5Cho/w400-h346/IMG_0631.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bear is approaching peak foliage. I can tell from the sudden spike in gushing compliments as we walk along the trail. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Although Bear’s glorious autumnal pelt will be on display for the next few weeks, we didn’t purposely aim to accent the fall leaves with his hairdo. As with every other necessity of life during these trying times, dog grooming appointments are hard to find. Bear and Buster are scheduled for haircuts in October. Until then an increasing proportion of enchanted strangers will swoon on the Boardwalk, and say things like “Your dog is so cute!” and “Aw, fluffy!”</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhma4VJSGurcwe5WJY2R8LNuT1uYlmON65C0xRuROJdEOhr7jFjf4WM6PHs9YXwhcVE-rZ3RIOHzVktjByKbvMnd8FLTe5j9er8JrLaIDJtxlQI-Gk78oaU2ESTnrTeX2po_CMyNjhmExAFQJ43mojtZABfOtJLsJTy6cp6MoXCEajhYMSZX-ZOa2I/s2719/IMG_6163.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2719" data-original-width="2375" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhma4VJSGurcwe5WJY2R8LNuT1uYlmON65C0xRuROJdEOhr7jFjf4WM6PHs9YXwhcVE-rZ3RIOHzVktjByKbvMnd8FLTe5j9er8JrLaIDJtxlQI-Gk78oaU2ESTnrTeX2po_CMyNjhmExAFQJ43mojtZABfOtJLsJTy6cp6MoXCEajhYMSZX-ZOa2I/s320/IMG_6163.HEIC" width="280" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I prefer Bear’s “little rascal” look in the weeks after his haircut. With short curls he looks and feels like a <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/09/PiedBeauty.html">pied</a> plush toy. He doesn</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t overheat on walks, or smell too much between baths. And without the wild bangs, it</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s easier to see Bear’s charming face and his expressive one-blue-and-one-brown eyes. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8XEvA6ZE01J9vq8qv8GZwt27_ML4453FMVo5n4YQ6VSDYSlJtCgLabYuuQmkHatCVks7FI_c2qqziewbpSw23oFkIbVHiK4j4A77ajBMs4om-FktHAUqkgi-yfoQxJPFO2GjTSgFAmaHzhCCoZeUu9Xh2bikVpEyCJGaJE1LHlAuvE-luFZ9LEQ/s4032/IMG_0011.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8XEvA6ZE01J9vq8qv8GZwt27_ML4453FMVo5n4YQ6VSDYSlJtCgLabYuuQmkHatCVks7FI_c2qqziewbpSw23oFkIbVHiK4j4A77ajBMs4om-FktHAUqkgi-yfoQxJPFO2GjTSgFAmaHzhCCoZeUu9Xh2bikVpEyCJGaJE1LHlAuvE-luFZ9LEQ/s320/IMG_0011.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Before I was in charge, everyone just let the dogs’ hair grow. Eventually the tangles and mats get so bad there’s no alternative to getting a buzz cut. My son says when Bear is shaved he looks like a blotchy weasel.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAM82coB6YaPEUSpx6OUa-pJEvaCYEN0SyxWro4ZE6WYMlQJkQMhX4ScxHW-3a8idd5ufTtF_K8pFQbQZLkxubr0MSWL-ovyJZZ907VEwgru6C2BmztBLBbIGagwNvLIIkRFRjh4QufA/s1600/Bear+tribble.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAM82coB6YaPEUSpx6OUa-pJEvaCYEN0SyxWro4ZE6WYMlQJkQMhX4ScxHW-3a8idd5ufTtF_K8pFQbQZLkxubr0MSWL-ovyJZZ907VEwgru6C2BmztBLBbIGagwNvLIIkRFRjh4QufA/s320/Bear+tribble.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="color: #2c3346;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you wait long enough, Bear’s hair gets so long he looks like a Tina Turner wig. Or a tribble. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4hl2d6F8uZ_NYJPlqW7nVhiFG32h9TyUPPDYT3xLBIVm3yLEI3Bhku6_IsBSpZcXxtQnNxKqSpeZopfrSG4X-p29ImtWXuk1ifkSYHq-izKHbr9_Ldp69nseGEaCejFWAyCSMNZfBMhJM-8wIZmq9ntDf8cehghc4fcgLeKWGGih82WL-hkpcatM/s4032/IMG_9267.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4hl2d6F8uZ_NYJPlqW7nVhiFG32h9TyUPPDYT3xLBIVm3yLEI3Bhku6_IsBSpZcXxtQnNxKqSpeZopfrSG4X-p29ImtWXuk1ifkSYHq-izKHbr9_Ldp69nseGEaCejFWAyCSMNZfBMhJM-8wIZmq9ntDf8cehghc4fcgLeKWGGih82WL-hkpcatM/s320/IMG_9267.heic" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Other than during his blotchy buzzcut phase, Bear is a handsome and well-proportioned canine specimen. (In contrast, Buster has stubby legs and the dead eyes of a serial killer.) Bear is more attractive than anyone I’ve ever dated, and <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/10/RescueMe.html">obviously way out of <i>my </i>league</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bear is also blessed with smarts and a charming personality. If a merchant offers him a treat once, we can never walk past that store again without trading cuddles for snacks. (In contrast, Buster is skittish and has zero recall – each treat at Village Books is an awkward surprise.) Bear has become the favorite of every barista, book clerk, and ice cream scooper in Fairhaven.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrjL2vsUyB8SkDnB317vVR9innIUq3OzwWMgLNbHXk1bo9iqD2D1ft1YuSFLZgCQOuxmV1UKt6TVtiUTCGh9HRXTqI8on7pNoY3AFuXzN6h2jCZvpRiJvX3OJbihUsNi6wOiukfaj8g/s2048/IMG_4435.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrjL2vsUyB8SkDnB317vVR9innIUq3OzwWMgLNbHXk1bo9iqD2D1ft1YuSFLZgCQOuxmV1UKt6TVtiUTCGh9HRXTqI8on7pNoY3AFuXzN6h2jCZvpRiJvX3OJbihUsNi6wOiukfaj8g/s320/IMG_4435.HEIC" /></a></div><div><br /></div><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I know it’s time to schedule a haircut when folks start referring to Bear as “fluffy.” (Personally, I prefer the word “shaggy”; “fluffy” feels like poodle shaming.) </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But I recognize Bear is more universally attractive when his hair gets a little longer. He’s like the ideal dog produced by an algorithm – not too big for people who like small dogs, not too yappy for people who like big dogs, and with perfect hair for everyone. If Jennifer Aniston were a dog, she would look just like Bear.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So for the next few weeks I will overhear a lot of “oohs” and “ahs.” I will answer questions about Aussiedoodles. I will explain “heterochromia” is the word for having two different colored eyes. I will thank </span>smiling<span style="font-family: inherit;"> strangers for their compliments, and let them cuddle with Bear. </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I won’t tell them I’m not a dog person myself. I’m a Bear person. Bear</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s person.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUC3zrTbKCn4_TXoCr2-D9XWyQfWAi11Cx12eT2EFBWvP7r-Oe26dj9xzcMIwI2YMy2BS9v5bCFIaXgwvx2T0m1_bHpKjDEQnwj6bCsEOkPx6xVKymYEdLcxItUquKudmtPQg-pqUwQg/s2048/Papa+Bear+bed+copy.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2027" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUC3zrTbKCn4_TXoCr2-D9XWyQfWAi11Cx12eT2EFBWvP7r-Oe26dj9xzcMIwI2YMy2BS9v5bCFIaXgwvx2T0m1_bHpKjDEQnwj6bCsEOkPx6xVKymYEdLcxItUquKudmtPQg-pqUwQg/s320/Papa+Bear+bed+copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br style="font-family: Times; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;" /></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-31805189844367587372022-09-01T06:28:00.007-07:002022-09-09T09:09:04.906-07:00Relabeling<div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKx3_731cbzl-IdHKIBcCMHVTcogC2dmvJ-IHumUxq3fuJDUqNUwvNfZBlnsGqxAEOSFIHQXX2a6Nmzd2mSqPLJ6IScYL92sqcrSqmSLxJ3o7I4B60QKdqf22ohtb4i_NaHVNZWpumbIRiE5PNkyGYc2PdUdLDwngzjvm3_JKik-OP93rfKaOyFe4/s334/R%20grade%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="314" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKx3_731cbzl-IdHKIBcCMHVTcogC2dmvJ-IHumUxq3fuJDUqNUwvNfZBlnsGqxAEOSFIHQXX2a6Nmzd2mSqPLJ6IScYL92sqcrSqmSLxJ3o7I4B60QKdqf22ohtb4i_NaHVNZWpumbIRiE5PNkyGYc2PdUdLDwngzjvm3_JKik-OP93rfKaOyFe4/w188-h200/R%20grade%201.jpg" width="188" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9XvKM38DyB4jLjYl8x4Z4sWUKJyD1MMiKOpSDYxE-hmpyPkVBh6Fy8Tv9uxdkO0zo10Fj6r7lq_qOz1nt4Nytim3xaMmVwCSAnuB3A_PYFZTdseVu-sFrjBBWFWY7E_M0TKG820YyepYnQ5NBI8mDygnOt0YEPZtb6dHY_J-oiUlTKDspSHptjLU/s340/Paul.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="298" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9XvKM38DyB4jLjYl8x4Z4sWUKJyD1MMiKOpSDYxE-hmpyPkVBh6Fy8Tv9uxdkO0zo10Fj6r7lq_qOz1nt4Nytim3xaMmVwCSAnuB3A_PYFZTdseVu-sFrjBBWFWY7E_M0TKG820YyepYnQ5NBI8mDygnOt0YEPZtb6dHY_J-oiUlTKDspSHptjLU/w175-h200/Paul.jpg" width="175" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I met <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/06/Paul.html">my best friend Paul</a> in 1970 on the first day of Grade 1. Like my best friends in high school, college, and law school, Paul turned out to be gay. (Apparently I’m contagious.) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Paul also turned out to be mentally ill. After struggling with depression, anxiety, and other challenges, Paul killed himself twenty years ago.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgarIrtP-7NQQaYOMMDw0cpl8QGaGtv4yE_eKMiS2wK3cD3z20SlpEuxhxIpdvl7AHMBHr4Atr5RKxcbCoCsrZI9l-Kd2QAcMBocZxiH56qV2wGjI6Fq5_sFJ9VYG2x8YBvvmpjxwBANAqb9ixKpUXPNYkyBGIPH1vjj2cHb9VQKVV7aYoRqUUEM/s3058/IMG_9781.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3058" data-original-width="2644" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgarIrtP-7NQQaYOMMDw0cpl8QGaGtv4yE_eKMiS2wK3cD3z20SlpEuxhxIpdvl7AHMBHr4Atr5RKxcbCoCsrZI9l-Kd2QAcMBocZxiH56qV2wGjI6Fq5_sFJ9VYG2x8YBvvmpjxwBANAqb9ixKpUXPNYkyBGIPH1vjj2cHb9VQKVV7aYoRqUUEM/s320/IMG_9781.heic" width="277" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought of my friend Paul while reading the first chapter of Stephanie Foo’s recent memoir. A few months before he died, Paul told me he felt betrayed by his healthcare providers. While peeking at his medical charts, he discovered he had Borderline Personality Disorder, a bleak diagnosis that was even bleaker two decades ago. No one bothered to tell Paul, which made it even worse.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In <i>What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma</i>, Foo writes about growing up in San Jose with dysfunctional immigrant parents who subjected her to relentless physical and emotional abuse before abandoning her as a teenager. Foo escaped to college, found an effective therapist, and went on to a successful career in Bay Area public radio. Eventually Foo moved to New York to work as a producer at This American Life, the granddaddy of podcasts. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nevertheless, Foo found herself increasingly frustrated with challenges at work and in her relationships. </span>At age thirty she was still seeing the same therapist, now via Zoom. <span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually she asked “Do you think I</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">m bipolar?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 6pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Samantha actually laughs. “You are not bipolar. I am sure of it.” she says. And that’s when she asks, “Do you want to know your diagnosis?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 6pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t yell, “Lady, I've been seeing you for a fucking decade, yes I want to know my goddamn diagnosis,” because Samantha taught me about appropriate communication. Thanks, Samantha. Instead, I say, “Yes. Of course.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 6pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Something in her jaw becomes determined, and her gaze is direct. “You have complex PTSD from your childhood, and it manifests as persistent depression and anxiety. There’s no way someone with your background couldn’t have it,” she says.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 6pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh. Yeah, PTSD.” Post-traumatic stress disorder. I had a crappy childhood, so I kinda figured that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 6pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Not just PTSD. Complex PTSD. The difference between regular PTSD and complex PTSD is that traditional PTSD is often associated with a moment of trauma. Sufferers of complex PTSD have undergone continual abuse-trauma that has occurred over a long period of time, over the course of years. Child abuse is a common cause of complex PTSD,” she says. Then her eyes drift to the corner of the screen. “Oh—we're out of time! Let’s continue this next week.”</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRgvP5FS1lNBAhYqnwK80EfNiKAOdJ-PCD_dCuU3tGpuNDABZfpV6kon3Ef-WiOl1FXB8sLsFvNw8iDiF6YfJrAC0CTek-Oy8xNEy4Ry6COE-zhQtkkH9JKVtsa-Nrpmk0xqwkjHsFDN2ih_GqaLO1h51lEjHFtbZ7X7cfz8FYdm7cEgh-u_dWbM/s720/PTSD%20causes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="720" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRgvP5FS1lNBAhYqnwK80EfNiKAOdJ-PCD_dCuU3tGpuNDABZfpV6kon3Ef-WiOl1FXB8sLsFvNw8iDiF6YfJrAC0CTek-Oy8xNEy4Ry6COE-zhQtkkH9JKVtsa-Nrpmk0xqwkjHsFDN2ih_GqaLO1h51lEjHFtbZ7X7cfz8FYdm7cEgh-u_dWbM/s320/PTSD%20causes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We’ve recognized for millennia that wartime trauma causes a predictable constellation of </span>physical<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and mental symptoms. In the 4000-year old <i>Epic of Gilgamesh</i>, the warrior-hero experiences intrusive memories and nightmares after witnessing the death of his best friend. Greek historian Herodotus described an Athenian soldier who was stricken with blindness in 490 B.C. when he observed the death of a comrade at the battle of Marathon. After the Civil War, veterans developed “soldier’s heart.” The term “shell shock” first appeared in <i>The Lancet</i> in February 1915, six months after World War I began. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Seven years ago I moved to Bellingham to accept a position with the Washington Attorney General’s Office as general counsel to Western Washington University. My dream job became a nightmare when I began exhibiting strange new symptoms, including bizarre</span> anxiety tics and skewed personal interactions<span style="font-family: inherit;">. I was shocked when my new Bellingham physician, <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/03/DrHeuristic.html">Dr. Heuristic</a>, diagnosed me with PTSD and serious codependency.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I told a friend who developed PTSD after serving as an Army Ranger medic in Afghanistan, I was sheepish about sharing the same DSM-5 category with someone like him. He told me not to be concerned, and that soldiers feel lucky they get so many folks’ respect. They worry instead about the many women and children who are scarred by the impact of earlier domestic abuse and do not have access to the help they need.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Or as Stephanie Foo writes:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is a great, sexist irony that in our society, PTSD is generally considered a male condition. It is the warrior's disease, a blight of the mind that must be earned by time in battle, in some dangerous overseas desert or jungle. But the real statistics suggest the opposite: Women are more than twice as likely to have PTSD than men. Ten percent of women are expected to suffer from PTSD in their lifetimes, as opposed to just 4 percent of men. But even after #Me Too, a global movement to recognize the legitimacy of women's trauma, treatment for this trauma remains a half-assed endeavor, an afterthought in the shadow of the glory of war. And it has always been this way.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3986" data-original-width="2902" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip_4zHeCs9trP_sCDaNPL9AFwzBGqfieX_NUAXiMPNG9R7xpEeJRidjG318v5imFgQviJNvX9j7pdMkCyrBSeZLQPrkwoInqyUrPm7EboKGvu27QrBChNvyn4n1jsnEWeXf6xbCF2AAXiRjN4sFdzh744icgXocYqknZcDNDeaIHqvjpMsIbQxan0/s320/IMG_1071%202.HEIC" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;" width="233" /></div></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Actually, it usually has been even worse. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bessel van der Kolk is one of the world’s leading experts in trauma and its treatment. In his classic book <i>The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma</i>, Dr. van der Kolk describes how both sides in World War I mistreated their traumatized soldiers. Depending on the whims of individual doctors, British servicemen originally would either get a diagnosis of “shell shock,” which entitled them to treatment and a disability pension, or “neurasthenia,” which got them nothing. Then in June 1917, the British General Staff issued an order stating “In no circumstances whatever will the expression ‘shell shock’ be used verbally or recorded in any regimental or other casualty report, or any hospital or other medical document.” According to Dr. van der Kolk, “The Germans were even more punitive and treated shell shock as a character defect, which they managed with a variety of painful treatments, including electroshock.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">During World War II, my grandfather’s generation benefited from more humane leadership and more effective psychiatric treatments. They also had the benefit of fighting and winning a “good war,” followed by the GI Bill and fifty years of peace and prosperity. Meanwhile, individuals and society mostly repressed the lingering impact of wartime trauma. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In contrast, Vietnam was a “bad” war in every way, which likely amplified its traumatic impact on American veterans. When Dr. van der Kolk began his medical career with the Veterans Administration during the 1970s, he was struck by the fact that all his psychiatric patients were “young, recently discharged Vietnam veterans,” even though the VA hospital was filled with aging WWII vets who were all being treated for purely “medical” complaints: “My sense was that neither the doctors nor their patients wanted to revisit the war.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In a sign of the times, the term “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder” was coined in 1978. The diagnosis was added to the DSM-III in 1980, with criteria that continue to reflect its status as an event-based disorder.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCt7q7pVyygsjfszm8Uf8yCg04kDvhvyPH-OqdlgfiLUVkCEG7jPTcwlgCM0iw4QxuiDWJ4hzEMdluq695d4lsTlp8XIi7KP2K4WZ4g0GagkbTgypp4MX9hkjAj05W_NhM0kNdJRLdZJd_MrojFL32ueEyZ8k6u8rQ001Ui6ABgamkXkhcVL1zBtw/s3002/Criteria-for-Complex-PTSD-ICD-11-.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="3002" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCt7q7pVyygsjfszm8Uf8yCg04kDvhvyPH-OqdlgfiLUVkCEG7jPTcwlgCM0iw4QxuiDWJ4hzEMdluq695d4lsTlp8XIi7KP2K4WZ4g0GagkbTgypp4MX9hkjAj05W_NhM0kNdJRLdZJd_MrojFL32ueEyZ8k6u8rQ001Ui6ABgamkXkhcVL1zBtw/s320/Criteria-for-Complex-PTSD-ICD-11-.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dr. van der Kolk is the founder of the Trauma Research Foundation and the National Child Traumatic Stress Network. Although his work began with Vietnam veterans, he quickly recognized trauma also affects other vulnerable populations. In particular, “child abuse and neglect is the single most preventable cause of mental illness, the single most common cause of drug and alcohol abuse, and a significant contributor to leading causes of death such as diabetes, heart disease, cancer, stroke, and suicide.”<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/03/DrHeuristic.html">the Department of Veteran’s Affairs recognizes</a>, “<span style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e;">Many traumatic events (e.g., car accidents, natural disasters, etc.) are of time-limited duration. However, in some cases people experience chronic trauma that continues or repeats for months or years at a time.” In 1988, Dr. Judith Herman </span>proposed <span style="color: #2e2e2e;">a new diagnosis of “complex PTSD.” In addition to the symptoms associated with classic PTSD, complex PTSD includes: </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Behavioral difficulties (e.g. impulsivity, aggressiveness, sexual acting out, alcohol/drug misuse and self-destructive behavior) </span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Emotional difficulties (e.g. affect lability, rage, depression and panic) </span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cognitive difficulties (e.g. dissociation and pathological changes in personal identity) </span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Interpersonal difficulties (e.g. chaotic personal relationships) </span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Somatization (resulting in many visits to medical practitioners)</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></li></ul><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rather than a single traumatic event, complex PTSD is a consequence of ongoing trauma that occurs over an extended period, such as childhood abuse and neglect, domestic violence, and religious trauma. Because these types of experiences tend to involve betrayals by an individual’s most trusted authority figures, the resulting symptoms focus on impaired interpersonal relationships. Although the DSM-5 does not include diagnoses for complex PTSD or codependency, complex PTSD is already recognized by the Department of Veterans’ Affairs, the <a href="https://neuroaffectivetouch.com/natouch-blog/the-world-health-organization-introduces-complex-ptsd/?doing_wp_cron=1659364372.3702619075775146484375">World Health Organization</a>, and the <a href="https://www.nhs.uk/mental-health/conditions/post-traumatic-stress-disorder-ptsd/complex/">British National Health Service</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here is Stephanie Foo's reaction when she ended the Zoom call with her therapist and found the VA webpage after googling <span style="color: #2e2e2e;">“</span>complex PTSD”:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 1.5in; text-align: start; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is not so much a medical document as it is a biography of my life: The difficulty regulating my emotions. The tendency to overshare and trust the wrong people. The dismal self-loathing. The trouble I have maintaining relationships. The unhealthy relationship with my abuser. The tendency to be aggressive but unable to tolerate aggression from others. It’s all true. It’s all me. The more I read, the more every aspect of my personhood is reduced to deep diagnostic flaws. I hadn’t understood how far the disease had spread. How complete its takeover of my identity was. The things I want. The things I love. The way I speak. My passions, my fears, my zits, my eating habits, the amount of whiskey I drink, the way I listen, and the things I see. Everything—everything, all of it—is infected. My trauma is literally pumping through my blood, driving every decision in my brain.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is this totality that leaves me frantic with grief. For years I’ve labored to build myself a new life, something very different from how I was raised. But now, all of a sudden, every conflict I’ve encountered, every loss, every failure and foible in my life, can be traced back to its root: me. I am far from normal. I am the common denominator in the tragedies of my life. I am a textbook case of mental illness. Well, this explains it all, I think. Of course I’ve been having trouble concentrating on my work. Of course so many people I've loved have left. Of course I was wrong to think I could walk into fancy institutions full of well-bred, well-educated people and succeed. Because the person with C-PTSD, the person who is painted here on the internet, is broken. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlI5eIs1_gtwAANCflaAJVhc0sMpjGHUQ-EwHBH4G_IfXTt2A1c31ZzqF8QMOoggWOylz5oq2xWBVwTH3bJLlJ3Sjf0I2CO6tof_8TpEpmcCzNABNlAtPOV-qm_GKQgPGgbnbWXYbv9b5wh3uovrnOmcd6JOZfbvQT0DV-La1kcmxc-3T1vFF23Dw/s1600/Church%20Trauma%20tree.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-decoration: underline;" width="194" /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Stephanie Foo’s bleak epiphany comes near the beginning of her story, which is subtitled “A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma.” Eventually she recognized her disability had clouded her vision, and learned that healing is “the opposite of the ambiguous dread: fullness.<o:p></o:p></span>”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am full of anger, pain, peace, love, of horrible shards and exquisite beauty, and the lifelong challenge will be to balance all of those things, while keeping them in the circle. Healing is never final. It is never perfection. But along with the losses are the triumphs. I accept the lifelong battle and its limitations now. Even though I must always carry the weight of grief on my back, I have become strong.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Foo’s “inner narrative” finally changed “from a hateful whip-bearing tyrant to a chill(er) surfer dude. Like love and bankruptcy, it happened slowly, then all at once.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In many ways my journey through complex trauma and PTSD parallels Foo’s. Both of us escaped from our abusive origins by joining demanding professions – journalism and law – that turned out to be toxic. Yet we both found healing through writing, with the support of true friends and expert healthcare providers. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nevertheless, my experience with complex PTSD differs from Foo’s in important respects. Like so many other trauma victims, Foo’s symptoms are rooted in the pattern of abuse she suffered at the hands of her own family. I am an outlier because I was betrayed by <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/07/UnrighteousDominion.html">a different kind of trusted authority figure</a> – the Mormon priesthood leaders who told me homosexuality was a spiritual disease that could be “cured,” and who <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/08/MoveOn.html">continue to deny the humanity and existence of LGBT individuals today</a>. Fortunately, in contrast with most people who struggle with complex PTSD symptoms, I had and have the support of the <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/01/GoodPeople.html">best family in the world</a>. But I also had the traumatic overlay of coming out of the closet <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/01/AIDSpicnic.html">at the height of the AIDS epidemic</a>, when silence and rage both equaled death.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In contrast with Stephanie Foo, no one ever told me “There's no way someone could come from your background and not have complex PTSD.” Who can predict something like that? As every personal or global disaster demonstrates, individual responses to trauma will vary. What I do know is there’s no way someone could come through all this and not be a trauma survivor. If they weren’t survivors, they wouldn't have made it through – as so many of my tribe can attest. Those of us who remain.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA6x8EBYFIp5lCJ0wIVEZLv9YI3T_QIf7F2jkGtXYhvC3HiHJ0uvD4r0HUg_P7shkbnyHK66WdxbDGVdAHOkJPLVSyya2wb6KQk9ju8iIHgBnPmFEg9Gjtw8NxV9B1VUOERG0PczQQxQ/s1600/Saints.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="259" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA6x8EBYFIp5lCJ0wIVEZLv9YI3T_QIf7F2jkGtXYhvC3HiHJ0uvD4r0HUg_P7shkbnyHK66WdxbDGVdAHOkJPLVSyya2wb6KQk9ju8iIHgBnPmFEg9Gjtw8NxV9B1VUOERG0PczQQxQ/s320/Saints.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div>The panel that made me weep <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/01/OkBoomer.html">the first time I saw the AIDS Memorial Quilt</a></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My friend Paul’s anger at his healthcare providers probably contributed to his suicidal distress. Stephanie Foo reacted to her belatedly revealed diagnosis not only with rage, but also with resolve:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After I started realizing the magnitude of what having C-PTSD meant, I was livid at Samantha for not telling me about it sooner. This should not have been a secret, I thought. My diagnosis should have been a critical part of the conversation about my mental health this entire time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So Foo fired her longtime therapist and began treatment with a New York psychiatrist who is one of the world’s experts in complex PTSD.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why don’t I complain about my doctor’s original label for my disability seven years ago? Because he got it right. As I’ve reported from the beginning, after hearing about my symptoms and my background, Dr. Heuristic diagnosed me with “PTSD and serious codependency.” In addition to referring me to a therapist who specialized in treating PTSD, he also directed me to read <i>Facing Codependency </i>by Pia Mellody, and to attend weekly meetings sponsored by Codependents Anonymous (“CODA”). Because of my doctor’s experience with the recovery community, he recognized I would benefit from CODA’s group therapy model.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As the term is used by CODA, “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/07/ClassicCODA.html">codependency</a>” refers to a pattern of deeply rooted compulsive behaviors that interfere with individuals’ ability to sustain healthy relationships, maintain functional boundaries, and express their reality appropriately. These are the same symptoms that distinguish complex PTSD from the “classic” PTSD diagnosis in the DSM. At the beginning of each CODA meeting, everyone recites the words “Many of us were raised in families where addictions existed - some of us were not.” I’m one of the “some of us.” It turns out being gay among the Mormons can be more harmful than growing up in a saloon.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgz0GlCyg1HLhdzZtmiRUzpt1sv0d7xSaaWNbF-V7Y1WvXvzM0pUCk1c58gjAOoXlfHLjduISrnkZYdaXIIr4GR8BXkC8NyueoWmO2nfaLoIua26JOr6zyQBffJWYvsec6RJmcRdMD8-or04SzUBKqHTtM90Yr7_snZ35Ut6-Df7242JiOpK2z2V0/s320/IMG_1733.JPG" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: underline;" width="240" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paul and Roger in Grade 4</td></tr></tbody></table><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Labels are not the patient. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This year I’ve been reading through all of Oliver Sacks’ books. Dr. Sacks, a distinguished neurologist who died in 2015, was an extraordinary observer of the great diversity in human thinking. Most recently I finished his classic <i>The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat</i>, a fascinating collection of case studies. In the introduction, Dr. Sacks writes that when he was a young medical student <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">it was the patients I saw, their predicaments and their stories, that gripped my imagination, and these experiences imprinted themselves upon me indelibly. Lectures and textbooks, abstracted from living experience, left almost no impression. I was, however, strongly drawn to the case histories that abounded in the nineteenth-century medical literature-rich, detailed descriptions of patients with neurological or psychiatric problems. It is only by accumulating case histories of people with similar syndromes, comparing and contrasting them, that one can more fully understand the mechanisms involved and their resonances for an individual life…. With the rise of neuroscience and all its wonders, it is even more important now to preserve the personal narrative, to see every patient as a unique being with his own history and strategies for adapting and surviving. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since moving to Bellingham, my family has been blessed with exceptional caregivers. In particular, my physician has guided my recovery with insight and compassion. He immediately figured out my weird symptoms added up to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and codependency. He correctly diagnosed my<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/11/TennisElbow.html">tennis elbow</a> and <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/09/FootWhisperer.html">plantar fasciitis</a>. He’s much nicer than Dr. House, the abrasive but insightful head of TV’s fictional “Department of Diagnostic Medicine.”<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He doesn’t laugh at my jokes about suing people for malpractice, but doctors never do.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I originally gave my doctor his nickname because a “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/12/heuristics.html">heuristic</a>” is a simple procedure that our brains use to find quick answers to difficult questions.<span class="apple-converted-space"> An expert’s various heuristics add up to an effective algorithm. </span>Eventually I figured out<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>my doctor’s heuristic<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>for me. Whenever I show up with some new complaint, he will generally select from a repertoire of three standard responses:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's just another typical PTSD symptom.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a common side effect of my medications.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s what happens when we get older. (He calls these “barnacles.”)</span></li></ol><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nevertheless, Dr. Heuristic isn’t trapped by diagnostic categories. He sees each patient as an individual. He’s the opposite of the lawyers that surround me, who are blinded by confirmation bias, and so in love with the sound of their own voices that they cannot hear my scratchy lament. Because my doctor pays attention, he can help his patients find the answers they need. Rather than “Dr. Heuristic,” perhaps a better label for my insightful physician would be “Dr. Epiphany.”</span></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1PIFiTLJY6Aabp7pfcS7xQsKHEt_jI6FUj_1-u56f-Cc0jPm1Ilvy_jHfM4zXZAaXbKa04oOH8j9jerqQw1xS_kTLfES9S0rr_00Rc7IgTfc-HwmOB3TR8C3C-aYxY8bkiUUT9eSaQ/s400/epiphany+gif.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="400" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1PIFiTLJY6Aabp7pfcS7xQsKHEt_jI6FUj_1-u56f-Cc0jPm1Ilvy_jHfM4zXZAaXbKa04oOH8j9jerqQw1xS_kTLfES9S0rr_00Rc7IgTfc-HwmOB3TR8C3C-aYxY8bkiUUT9eSaQ/w400-h284/epiphany+gif.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-78020519620539442602022-08-09T07:15:00.003-07:002022-09-08T14:22:23.979-07:00Roger, Roger<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPq_Tci9xiR9ux4w8XHP31rTRcBz4nTkGmGekjtAfaH9iI5Cs_ZGAkYkT5u7wCdsp6HtjilXbAg7EYHUGS3VpLL7fS86qqRwV7ZwTeRJqd79x5CHCHUsTISjMNJyeOdqeZiNO2NAcJ0CqlDy5s4iAU5-slAK-BMpqeO-emE8g_tLe1vT-zcdBTls/s800/markrogerphone.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPq_Tci9xiR9ux4w8XHP31rTRcBz4nTkGmGekjtAfaH9iI5Cs_ZGAkYkT5u7wCdsp6HtjilXbAg7EYHUGS3VpLL7fS86qqRwV7ZwTeRJqd79x5CHCHUsTISjMNJyeOdqeZiNO2NAcJ0CqlDy5s4iAU5-slAK-BMpqeO-emE8g_tLe1vT-zcdBTls/w400-h266/markrogerphone.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bohemian roommates Mark (Anthony Rapp) and Roger (Adam Pascal)</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Only three major characters in Broadway musicals are named “Roger.” Two of them are gay.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The most famous Roger is my least favourite of the three roles: Roger Davis, the heterosexual romantic lead in </span>1996’s<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <i>Rent</i>.</span> Jonathan Larson moved <span style="font-family: inherit;">Puccini’s 1896 opera <i>La </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><i>Bohème</i></span> from the garrets of Paris to the lofts of New York’s East Village. <span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><i>Bohème</i></span>’s earnest poet Rodolfo is now Roger, an uninspired rocker who meets a neighbour carrying a candle. Rodolfo’s roommate Marcello, formerly a starving painter, becomes Mark Cohen, a neurotic videographer. M</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">imi remains Mimi – but as the parodist says in <i>Forbidden Broadway Strikes Back</i>, “in <span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><i>Bohème</i></span>, she</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s a sweet, shy seamstress. Now, she</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s a CRACK-HEAD, NYMPHOMANIAC PROSTITUTE! YEAH!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In his Act I </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">solo “One Song Glory,” Roger describes himself as a “pretty boy front man who wasted opportunity.” That pretty much captures the role. Not what folks look for in a Roger.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My ACLU colleague Lauren and I saw the original cast of <i>Rent</i> on Broadway, with Adam Pascal as Roger. But I’ve always related more to his roommate Mark, the observant loner. Openly gay actor Anthony Rapp originated the role. Nowadays Rapp plays an openly gay Star Fleet officer on <i>Star Trek Discovery</i>, except when he’s busy in court speaking out as an early victim of Kevin Spacey’s lechery.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whenever I’m introduced to other Generation X showtune fanatics, they invariably chant </span>“<span style="background-color: white;">RoGER, this is your moTHER.</span>”<span style="font-family: inherit;"> They</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">re mimicking the message Roger</span>’s <span style="font-family: inherit;">mom leaves on </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">the Boho Boys’ answering machine in </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Rent</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. I<span style="font-family: inherit;">t</span></span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">s </span>the scene transition labeled “Lyric #5” o</span><span>n the original cast recording</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">[MARK/ROGER VOICEMAIL]</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Speak...</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;">[ROGER</span></span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">S MOTHER]</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Roger, this is your mother</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Roger, honey, I don</span></span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">t get these postcards – </span><br /></span>“<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Moving to Santa Fe</span></span>”<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>“<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Back in New York</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Starting a rock band</span></span>”<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Roger, where are you?</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Please call</span><span style="background-color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last week the online humour magazine <i>McSweeney’s</i> published an article titled “</span><a href="https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/financial-lessons-from-the-musical-rent " style="font-family: inherit;">Financial Lessons from the Musical <i>Rent</i></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">.” It reminded me I’m not the </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Rent </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">kind of Roger. Not because I’m gay </span>– <span style="font-family: inherit;">I just don’t live in his privileged world of self-absorbed magical thinking: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Opening a restaurant in Santa Fe is a lucrative business venture requiring absolutely no hard work. Just overcharge the wealthy clientele.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">A used car is comparable in price to a used guitar.</span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Supporting oneself and one’s artist friends by renting condos at the top of a building is a monstrous idea that could be hatched only by a sellout asshole, whereas having no jobs, ambitions, or means of paying for one’s life in the East Village is heroic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">Paying rent is optional.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XYapPjyYyiWA22hmnhQa172B5zfBiOoMnMdw0nCl4pSXGVDZXM9u2cnVK5ziAbg7qesCHXRimm5y3Y_4yKTGVqnOSAogvwF2DibSVY-Qb8q-7F2FTVHfuaTvF8n3FN-ubKxSOOwHTEbpKDCtJJJNSKGPj1wwy78BNq9foCIiOAO5dAUG97BRJHY/s540/2%20rogers.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="540" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XYapPjyYyiWA22hmnhQa172B5zfBiOoMnMdw0nCl4pSXGVDZXM9u2cnVK5ziAbg7qesCHXRimm5y3Y_4yKTGVqnOSAogvwF2DibSVY-Qb8q-7F2FTVHfuaTvF8n3FN-ubKxSOOwHTEbpKDCtJJJNSKGPj1wwy78BNq9foCIiOAO5dAUG97BRJHY/s320/2%20rogers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carmen Ghia (Roger Bart) and Roger DeBris (Gary Beach)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Five years after <i>Rent</i> opened, Mel Brook’s <i>The Producers</i> won twelve Tony awards </span>–<span style="font-family: inherit;"> the most ever, even more than <i>Hamilton</i>. Openly gay Broadway veteran Gary Beach won the 2001 best supporting actor Tony for his portrayal of flamboyant auteur Roger DeBris. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In <i>The Producers</i>, Max and Leo scheme to open a musical that’s guaranteed to immediately bomb, allowing them to keep their investors’ money. So they seek out the worst director in New York. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Roger DeBris initially declines the invitation to direct the doomed “Springtime for Hitler” because of its downbeat subject matter:</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="color: #202124;">ROGER: The theatre</span></span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #202124;">s so obsessed<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With dramas so depressed<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It</span></span>’<span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">s hard to sell a ticket on Broadway<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Shows should be more pretty<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Shows should be more witty<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Shows should be more...<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What</span></span>’<span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">s the word?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 6pt 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">LEO: Gay?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 6pt 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">ROGER: Exactly!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No matter what you do on the stage<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Keep it light, keep it bright, keep it gay!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whether it</span></span>’<span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">s murder, mayhem or rage<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't complain, it's a pain<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Keep it gay!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But Roger agrees to direct once the </span>producers tell him he’s destined to win a Tony for transforming World War II into a musical “just as gay as anyone could possibly want.” <span style="font-family: inherit;">When the actor playing Hitler breaks a leg (after Leo unluckily wishes him “Good Luck!” rather than </span>“Break a leg!”<span style="font-family: inherit;">), Roger must step into the role. According to New York Times critic Ben Brantley, Beach’s performance was “<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/07/18/obituaries/gary-beach-dead-broadway-actor.html">an unqualified treat</a>”: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="css-at9mc1" style="margin: 0in 0.5in; text-align: start; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the show’s high point, the “Springtime for Hitler” sequence of the musical-within-the-musical, Mr. Beach proves himself fluent in every idiom of vintage musical comedy, variously bringing to mind Al Jolson, Judy Garland, Robert Preston, Van Johnson and Eddie Cantor.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="css-at9mc1" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="css-at9mc1" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A Roger for the ages.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhIfbiEE-kPuXi1qI_TPq-XQ0a4JipmlsRQ4_QYT80QdZC4hUL2M9k-oBhHMQuAYMFke-d_-HCtPa0Y4cRcWKpIBYZfo0ywAiiyc1tFaHkQDrZzO1dO_SvQgtP88u-AtarsuHIzDhz5URWbuTtOBy4eGD9beiqVryEcWPXLhtswS6QeBS8VMg-I4/s921/carmen.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="921" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhIfbiEE-kPuXi1qI_TPq-XQ0a4JipmlsRQ4_QYT80QdZC4hUL2M9k-oBhHMQuAYMFke-d_-HCtPa0Y4cRcWKpIBYZfo0ywAiiyc1tFaHkQDrZzO1dO_SvQgtP88u-AtarsuHIzDhz5URWbuTtOBy4eGD9beiqVryEcWPXLhtswS6QeBS8VMg-I4/s320/carmen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carmen Ghia (Roger Bart)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In <i>The Producers</i>, Roger shares his apartment with the equally flamboyant Carmen Ghia – who is technically not a Broadway character named Roger, merely Roger DeBris’s “common-law assistant” played by the implausibly straight actor Roger Bart. Both Gary Beach and Roger Bart reprised their roles in the movie.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn’t see <i>The Producers</i> on Broadway. But I saw Roger Bart play Snoopy in the 1999 revival of <i>You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown</i>. Anthony Rapp played Charlie Brown, the same role I played <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/11/dramatherapy.html">in Bellingham community theatre</a> forty years ago. </span>Roger Bart won his Tony award for Best Supporting Actor.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <a href=" Post settings Labels Canada, Theater, Chorus, Music, Brains, Logomania, LGBT, Jewish Published on 10/31/18 9:05 AM Permalink https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/10/Kristin.html">Kristin Chenoweth</a> won her Tony award originating the role of </span>Charlie Brown’s little sister <span style="font-family: inherit;">Sally. This year my mother and I saw Kristin sing in Bellingham at the Mount Baker Theatre</span>’s 95th birthday celebration. </p></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFo3CY1MZcO7j8yl-bpfDWGSUyV5Kwb2HlVGcCQuIEWMxtverqwLtTDQe9GwoScB3LFBQAGZCP-KidE0gZsr4MGlejRngcVFyuUtJ7aIx4AEK_hOWrZBJjhAoFLIaCKdKpOeMcOpeD4gBViKLmosvgqehuk2awS9LbWIqEZFZMOT2BoRNiuvwACI/s970/BartKristen.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="970" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFo3CY1MZcO7j8yl-bpfDWGSUyV5Kwb2HlVGcCQuIEWMxtverqwLtTDQe9GwoScB3LFBQAGZCP-KidE0gZsr4MGlejRngcVFyuUtJ7aIx4AEK_hOWrZBJjhAoFLIaCKdKpOeMcOpeD4gBViKLmosvgqehuk2awS9LbWIqEZFZMOT2BoRNiuvwACI/s320/BartKristen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snoopy (Roger Bart) and Sally (Kristin Chenoweth)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everything is connected. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When Jonathan Larson wrote the musical that became <i>Rent</i>, the role corresponding to Rodolfo in </span><i>La </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><i>Bohème </i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">was <a href="https://broadway.fandom.com/wiki/Rent">originally named <span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; text-decoration: none;">“</span>Ralph</a>.” Larson renamed the character “Roger,” after <a href="https://www.playbill.com/article/stage-to-screens-roger-bart-discusses-producers-and-housewives-com-126799">a struggling actor/waiter friend</a> who helped record some of the original </span><i>Rent </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">demo tapes: Roger Bart.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doesn’t Adam Pascal look more like a Ralph anyway?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaIg1bAgtzk-SnZYmUtWaqJxt-Vyf7866gHrm8XdVlDPOCAU9biR2ab7G72Pfo4oxPFAmNLQo5N5WAWdG0TvdZR9E1yPl3a_5Rn3uyuImf1PpsGeOhTq3hgKFoxx-nCawSDc3Chyg1Z3AWxRynH8QTkNBN9Pv5Rpg3uCOBZUG7mZBQCAWxOFxm4j8/s702/Pascal.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="702" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaIg1bAgtzk-SnZYmUtWaqJxt-Vyf7866gHrm8XdVlDPOCAU9biR2ab7G72Pfo4oxPFAmNLQo5N5WAWdG0TvdZR9E1yPl3a_5Rn3uyuImf1PpsGeOhTq3hgKFoxx-nCawSDc3Chyg1Z3AWxRynH8QTkNBN9Pv5Rpg3uCOBZUG7mZBQCAWxOFxm4j8/s320/Pascal.jpg" width="205" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">Next Roger: “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/08/IdRatherBeSailing.html">I’d Rather Be Sailing</a>”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">“This is one of Roger’s favourite songs. And in the show the song comes from, it’s sung by a character named Roger.” -<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/05/NewBrain.html">Kerry O'Donovan</a> </span></div></div></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSr1pW3WIFsCm4b3JrEuktfBpCn4jcyUWkm7YXAOikYVlj_jc6Sqv86T2rV1BeTEl-ipS1KKEWo4CFj3tV5IcEmlfgyW-1IkLYDU8U1tVK8e9Xg86p19RDZwiXWbF1WIzpobR1hnWWsqrMxygz1ocnExP8-8ZWTZGTjxIgjXMCwbjexbtx2RWwgeg/s2048/new%20brain.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="2048" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSr1pW3WIFsCm4b3JrEuktfBpCn4jcyUWkm7YXAOikYVlj_jc6Sqv86T2rV1BeTEl-ipS1KKEWo4CFj3tV5IcEmlfgyW-1IkLYDU8U1tVK8e9Xg86p19RDZwiXWbF1WIzpobR1hnWWsqrMxygz1ocnExP8-8ZWTZGTjxIgjXMCwbjexbtx2RWwgeg/s320/new%20brain.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gordon (Jonathan Groff) and Roger (Aaron Lazar)</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-65824189213228612262022-06-23T22:00:00.010-07:002022-07-02T08:48:24.640-07:00My Triple Axel Family<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ViaMH9zEVAjx9HSK0qIQ6JBf-p_CvnJ7LugSoSPAazIKxaf1Uyi3ndbCpwxxXikJz7FAn3DeXLWh4dFzaLvqAZjYLo7PytqBuMYCzEC1njP9Ejy4PcPO2R4RzHb-1aA5l63zHlz37G8VOpYtRF2lm2-mU5R_18UADauESVYJXQ7iQNfkDHzdnsg/s4032/IMG_8115.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrSlFwv2kbOnjo1PZI9j9_CkpRCqLcuSA8CdAxp5I9tQRq3NBoX7J5WJJz3Mw2sFTop3F3n8wl8fXCt75HlJoS2enjjk8--A7KNJfW99xZ5SlgxY6LR77KhF4y3krjDhCsqGeXDLXhwa6TosCszjBB-mdqK69fLKyixqopVJEGZTS2aczZw6VUwc/s720/VMC1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrSlFwv2kbOnjo1PZI9j9_CkpRCqLcuSA8CdAxp5I9tQRq3NBoX7J5WJJz3Mw2sFTop3F3n8wl8fXCt75HlJoS2enjjk8--A7KNJfW99xZ5SlgxY6LR77KhF4y3krjDhCsqGeXDLXhwa6TosCszjBB-mdqK69fLKyixqopVJEGZTS2aczZw6VUwc/w400-h300/VMC1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Vancouver Men’s Chorus recently finished a successful series of concerts titled “R-E-S-P-E-C-T: Celebrating Women’s Music.” It was the chorus’ first return to our cozy cabaret space on Granville Island since coronavirus silenced every choir. VMC and our audience were overjoyed to be together again. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8389UyiE0RIm3n_oe6dQo2t1OuGDuansYEw9gNChpYudTsVJX-VcK1BJV88xDOA6LmKgar75RAD1fvdUvl2AkiivZDmiZ80K3NTASljcBA6jb2HhIS18Q379jjakZXmtE3zVe4Pwb0jt6Cse8zYbHNWu0F3BXthccgxFIimZMVmaYVXfG2no-FY/s1200/gusadam.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8389UyiE0RIm3n_oe6dQo2t1OuGDuansYEw9gNChpYudTsVJX-VcK1BJV88xDOA6LmKgar75RAD1fvdUvl2AkiivZDmiZ80K3NTASljcBA6jb2HhIS18Q379jjakZXmtE3zVe4Pwb0jt6Cse8zYbHNWu0F3BXthccgxFIimZMVmaYVXfG2no-FY/s320/gusadam.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gay Olympians Gus Kenworthy and Adam Rippon</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like selecting a team of Olympic athletes, VMC chooses our repertoire through a labouriously competitive yet collaborative process. Under the direction of our elected Board of Directors, the “Concert Planning Committee” confirms the performance schedule and selects each concert’s overall theme. The “Music Selection Committee” generates an exhaustive list of potential songs, artists, and sub-themes. Then the Section Representatives and other volunteers on the Music Selection Committee gather for a series of wine-infused meetings where they haggle over their favourites. Lucky songs on the bubble end up in one of VMC’s celebrated medleys.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our incomparable conductor Willi Zwozdesky founded VMC forty-one years ago. Willi quietly nudges the entire music selection process forward, then works with our stable of arrangers to create a program of mostly bespoke songs, each written for VMC’s voices. Talented choreographers and dancers from the chorus add pizzazz. Ultimately Willi shapes all this material into an entertaining and powerful concert. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ7HGYr4OfVTmD6elmEQvqcmts3-vgiz1zQAqp2doXXzHq6w6RJ1yH3YeS_aE0XYULGl1b-Y0TwU3quO2fKXOxH7WivJoBmGKl0bxyM3Lu87dBI53DIxqI7c4ZN8h1lrA0tAtzlqaxvnAmrHLw7pGR7NxPBNOVwmbQSNGRlRim5efYuaE6mrpQ5x4"><img alt="" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ7HGYr4OfVTmD6elmEQvqcmts3-vgiz1zQAqp2doXXzHq6w6RJ1yH3YeS_aE0XYULGl1b-Y0TwU3quO2fKXOxH7WivJoBmGKl0bxyM3Lu87dBI53DIxqI7c4ZN8h1lrA0tAtzlqaxvnAmrHLw7pGR7NxPBNOVwmbQSNGRlRim5efYuaE6mrpQ5x4=w320-h320" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Willi has always endeavoured to include women’s voices as part of VMC’s mission. Nevertheless, an entire concert with the theme of “Celebrating Women’s Music” presented unique challenges for a bunch of gay men. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The original music selection process for “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” occurred more than three years ago, just before I became a fulltime single parent. As it happened, this was the only time during my tenure with VMC when my complicated personal schedule permitted me to attend meetings of the Music Selection Committee. Even though none of my suggestions made it into the show, I was fascinated by the collaborative process. (Because we were in Canada, the process was pronounced “PRO-sess,” not “PRAH-sess.”)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We barely began rehearsing the music the Music Selection Committee chose for “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” before Covid arrived in March 2020. During the pandemic we gathered remotely on Zoom, and created a couple of one-off video concerts. It wasn’t the same and it wasn’t enough.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meanwhile, delaying performances of “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” until 2022 gave our arrangers extra time to finish medleys with titles like “Girl Groups,” “He Had It Coming,” “Great Shoes,” and “The Empowerment Medley.” During the pandemic, VMC President Yogi Omar discovered Rina Sawayama’s song “Chosen Family” and championed its inclusion in </span>“R-E-S-P-E-C-T.”<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Chosen Family” became the emotional heart of the concert.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">An evening of gay men singing songs by and about women requires a little extra context. Willi therefore asked for volunteers to introduce several of the numbers with personal stories about their connection to the songs. I was one of three singers who introduced “Chosen Families” at our performances over the first two weeks in June.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Paul told about how he and his husband Gerry moved to Vancouver from the U.K. and found a home with the chorus. Two years ago, Gerry died of cancer in Paul’s arms, surrounded by friends from VMC. Yogi’s story is about how he came from Indonesia to Vancouver at age 18 knowing only two words in English. His biological family had given him two months to choose between “stop being gay” and leaving the country. Now Yogi is a pillar of the arts and queer communities, and President of VMC.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2m8HPY19QV04Aa5MqNnKFUEn96HCTGVk62URE8Af3z6Rb7VSqde0l_vr-gIK56iDzT7jtuHEDl0e9HSyNFv27sglCzVH3AmGwyN_i72yO03bDV_kkjlcZi23FyLcU29PKdpHHFcFT6yOFRUpcOt42k4ENZzMCllUDx1NWt71AOHN7M--Cb9I-rjE/s2048/IMG_9718%20copy%20-%20landscape.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1463" data-original-width="2048" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2m8HPY19QV04Aa5MqNnKFUEn96HCTGVk62URE8Af3z6Rb7VSqde0l_vr-gIK56iDzT7jtuHEDl0e9HSyNFv27sglCzVH3AmGwyN_i72yO03bDV_kkjlcZi23FyLcU29PKdpHHFcFT6yOFRUpcOt42k4ENZzMCllUDx1NWt71AOHN7M--Cb9I-rjE/s320/IMG_9718%20copy%20-%20landscape.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I introduced “Chosen Family” at three of VMC’s performances of “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.” Rather than use notes, I spoke directly to the audience as if it were a stand-up set. At our first Saturday matinee, I told the story of becoming an adoptive father, then a single father, then a PFLAG father. My speech was a success by the most important measures: I made it to the end without a PTSD meltdown, and numerous people said “I never knew you were so funny, but I hate you for making me cry.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the soloists complimented me after my presentation at the matinee. “But could you make it a little longer at the show tonight?” He explained that his partner is one of the dancers, and they needed a little more time for his costume change before they sang “Chosen Family.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While preparing for the evening performance, I wondered what else to say. I jealously admired Paul’s remarks on opening night, because in addition to telling the story of Gerry’s death and the loss of their “romantic” family, Paul also drew an elegant parallel between the support of his “chosen” and “biological” families. I was already covering “chosen” and “adoptive.” Wouldn’t it be cool if I added “biological” too – like landing a triple axel? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I wrote in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/06/TrueStories.html">True Story</a>,” I looked down and saw my rainbow “PFLAG LOVES YOU” wristband. I’m not just a PFLAG father, I’m a PFLAG son, too. So I decided to acknowledge my mother by telling the story of how I got my wristband. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgnjpvKEp7Z98nmgeIw6XSPcbPqjD1ckHlgSwinne6UZpefdpT_Vp9bxahoEVb1VKfDT15323UZ_U-2HGhFYy34Ed92Bqf1gJnwwuxEKMEwEuPZwdu-IgCL9xlppgq5v0vvanSLeAMtBvzob0mPTTI7vwY35M_ODhxDPuzy0kduviuWjTWexQdX8M/s3024/IMG_8351.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2377" data-original-width="3024" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgnjpvKEp7Z98nmgeIw6XSPcbPqjD1ckHlgSwinne6UZpefdpT_Vp9bxahoEVb1VKfDT15323UZ_U-2HGhFYy34Ed92Bqf1gJnwwuxEKMEwEuPZwdu-IgCL9xlppgq5v0vvanSLeAMtBvzob0mPTTI7vwY35M_ODhxDPuzy0kduviuWjTWexQdX8M/s320/IMG_8351.HEIC" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I added a few sentences about my PFLAG mother to my original stand-up script, the evening audience saw me losing my balance. We all paused for a moment. But I wasn’t scared, because I felt the support of everyone around me. I made it to the end with only a bit of a stammer. It was like pulling off a triple axel but with a little too much spin, and not quite sticking the landing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Before it was my turn to speak again the following week, I had time to revise the story of being blessed with the best <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/03/BestThing.html">chosen/adopted/biological family</a> ever. Here’s the final version, which the VMC audience heard the third and last time I introduced “Chosen Family”:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was a kid, one of my friends was teased about being adopted. I remember her telling the bully “Your parents had to take you, but my parents chose me.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thirty years later, my partner and I had the opportunity to adopt a baby girl, who we named Eleanor. Next we adopted Rosalind and then Oliver from the foster system. My daughters are now 17, and my son is 13. Several years ago my ex disappeared from the picture. So I’m a single parent raising three kids alone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My children are the best thing that ever happened to me. But as the saying goes, It Gets Better.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">During middle school, my daughter Rosalind came out to me in a text. Actually two texts. The first said “Papa, just letting you know I've been going to the Queer Student Alliance after school.” Her second text said “Don't make a big deal about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This month is Pride. One morning last week my daughters and I went into Starbucks on the way to school. Rosalind slipped this rainbow wristband on me. It says “PFLAG LOVES YOU.” “PFLAG” stands for “Parents & Friends of Lesbians and Gays.” They’d left a bunch of these wristbands at Starbucks in a rainbow-trimmed basket for Pride. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In contrast with my daughter Rosalind, I was a late bloomer in every possible way. I was twenty-three before I kissed a girl, twenty-six before I kissed a boy, and thirty-one before I came out to my parents, rather than 13 like Rosalind. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Actually I attempted to come out when I was thirty, and my first boyfriend moved in with me. The next time my parents visited the apartment in Seattle, they saw that I’d moved my bed to the larger bedroom where my roommate used to be. When we got to my old bedroom there was just a desk. My father asked, “Where does Josh sleep?” I swear I started to say, “With me, of course,” but my mother interrupted me to say “Look, the futon folds down.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A year later, we finally had “the talk.” I drove up to see my parents in Bellingham, where they’ve lived in the same house for the last 40 years. I told them I was gay, that Josh was my boyfriend, and I’d quit my miserable corporate lawyer job in Seattle so I could move to Chicago and be professional homosexual. I became a gay rights lawyer with the American Civil Liberties Union. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had five amazing years in Chicago with the ACLU (and a couple of okay years with my first boyfriend). Meanwhile, back in Bellingham, my mother joined the board of our local PFLAG chapter. She served for the next twenty-five years. She sewed the fifty-foot rainbow flag they carry in the Pride Parade. As I told Rosalind at Starbucks last week, my mother made the rainbow basket where my daughter found my PFLAG wristband. Even before I adopted my children, I was already blessed with the best family anyone could have chosen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last weekend was the high school’s first Prom since Covid. Both of my daughters went. Eleanor looked radiant in a sequined Marilyn Monroe dress next her to cute nerdy boyfriend. Rosalind looked awkward but completely herself in one of my tux jackets. Rosalind and her goth girlfriend rode to the Prom in a lesbian classmate’s car, together with my daughter's gay boi best friend – a classic skinny twink, with Timothée Chalamet hair. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The morning after Prom, I went into Rosalind’s room and found the four of them asleep on her king-sized bed – three lesbians and a twinkie, half naked and all intertwined. It looked like the dancers’ dressing room backstage. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our next song is by Rina Sawayama. She’s a young queer singer-songwriter who was born in Japan and raised in Britain. You may have seen the video of her singing a duet with Elton John of this song, which is called “Chosen Family.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had to wait and grow up and join a gay chorus before I found my chosen family. As a PFLAG son and father, I’m thrilled my daughter is already finding hers. Please enjoy hearing our chosen family share Rina Sawayama’s message.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"> </p></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="apple-converted-space" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRC-kFp8UFNI9OgWB0B5hf3s8rUJ2GRPvSjJsB_CMdjLDlmEFXKt2GcpVJg7wUDt4SP6LAckHGcAu-zVV9YkkhyfD2_x9MYMQvRjh6Y41BWOu3PB1ND7fKkdJzUPD1fAu9-sMWmO0jGjfGDnnfwnH4orxH4xLRjTjScBb7AEAE_ec4uXCcmK9EeI/s320/IMG_5097.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After the evening show, fellow tenor Xavi congratulated me on landing the triple axel. Xavi knew I was going for it because he saw me practicing the night before at PumpJack. (The cute couple on a date at PumpJack also saw me talking to myself, and moved further away from the table with the crazy person.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When my mother read the final script she complained about my recycling the <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/08/Futon.html">futon joke</a>. She’s embarrassed she didn’t realize I was gay for so long. I told her I didn’t realize I was gay, either. My father sees people more clearly than the two of us. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our incomparable accompanist Stephen Smith reported that he didn’t tear up the third time he heard the story. I confessed I didn’t weep this time either. Adding an extra anecdote provided more of a safety net for my tight wire act. It also sacrificed some of the shared immediacy the audience, chorus, and I felt the first two times I spoke. Every live performance is a unique communal moment. Even with a little more emotional safety net, I could tell the audience was moved.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next day one of the baritones said my speech made him cry. Hugh hadn’t heard me speak before because he was out of town at a wedding. I told him he would probably have cried even more if he’d been there the week before. Hugh said it was probably for the best – because he had to sing the “Chosen Family” solo right after I spoke. I was so relieved to be finished I didn’t notice it was him singing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="1210" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQVBWJmQeJHxk2Ocvx45aKFX_vtDEGCiK3wd2fs6lj9ubjZ9-ZYR85IG0VjWxJWPpvtD1JmEn39Xk9GpApxGotoYC261GKoo8XdwFcStEDyroLCyV6fvYq_-pWZwMI7Unuga3xVNjut-wqfsOWQfF8Hl_L_sLy596gky9-rBXPoKISyVBNiLmIHk/s320/R3.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Elton & Rina singing "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTDRg5G77x4">Chosen Family</a>"</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I'm all ears, take your time, we got all night<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Show me the rivers crossed, the mountains scaled<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Show me who made you walk all the way here</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Chosen Family,” by Rina Sawayama<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the cast party, Willi saluted everyone who contributed to making “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” a smashing post-covid success. He thanked all of us who introduced songs, but told folks we shouldn’t expect another concert with forty minutes of spoken word any time soon. This year, however, our stories were essential. In addition to placing the examples of “women’s music” chosen by the Music Selection Committee in a respectful context, these stories also helped VMC’s fragmented community reconnect after two years of isolation. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">VMC President Yogi underscored what everyone already recognized: the theme of the concert turned out to be our chosen family. The song “Chosen Family” itself came as a powerful quiet moment before our extravagant finale, which was a Lady Gaga/Madonna mashup that involved everyone dancing, even me. “Chosen Family</span>”<span style="font-family: inherit;"> was proceeded by a Girl Group medley that started with the Andrews Sisters. We ended the medley with the dancers strutting to “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge, before segueing to “Wings” by Little Mix:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We don’t let nobody bring us down<br style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36);" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36);">No matter what you say, it won’t hurt me</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36);" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36);">Don’t matter if I fall from the sky</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36);" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36);">These wings are made to fly</span>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The audience leapt up for an early standing ovation as they recognized the message of “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”: Empowerment and Sisterhood.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtKXfbWciJn8su4KCis8KHJaFkX3Be3eb7rGLsaEQGvbfdyIbUIIo2YEU2ki8GDGOWUHT7gI7TQEejwMdIqdvslne_2iLBcZSbIDuaNTPh3Neb5bJbbewVr3mMujCcFu-5T-7p3H6Msm7IXfOsk_WNqlnzt9GstGDOSw9fM1d438hDalCYBYTClU/s320/rehearsal.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></p><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In our differing introductions to “Chosen Family,” Paul and I added the twists of our “romantic,” “biological,” and “adoptive” families. In contrast, Yogi focused entirely on how his chosen family gave him an <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/06/InfiniteJoy.html">incandescent smile</a> – like a figure skater with one amazing move. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As gay men, it’s not enough to come out of the closet and find our tribe. I hear it’s not even enough to find romantic love. Whether we’ve been out (or married) for months, years, or decades, we also need to find, create, and sustain our chosen families. I was personally blessed with an amazing biological and adoptive family. But I would not have made it safely here without the chosen family I found in Windy City Gay Chorus, Seattle Men’s Chorus, and now Vancouver Men’s Chorus. </span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMXyijvUxM9mKPWKv28akrRyvqh8OslbJSVeQ6MTeLNDXCGDJis1BKh-5O8B9pi9ZAL6mV21dAHmXxlyuj3hAeA8QlZnIOpoQJU07k-NlJyxb2U0UptkzI75ip1opGBSdnZQuRYnC79ya3ICHyvZqewWrI2dU3jZ6-UxX-W83lakC4hrE5u_6nRYY/s2048/GusChorus.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMXyijvUxM9mKPWKv28akrRyvqh8OslbJSVeQ6MTeLNDXCGDJis1BKh-5O8B9pi9ZAL6mV21dAHmXxlyuj3hAeA8QlZnIOpoQJU07k-NlJyxb2U0UptkzI75ip1opGBSdnZQuRYnC79ya3ICHyvZqewWrI2dU3jZ6-UxX-W83lakC4hrE5u_6nRYY/s320/GusChorus.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Behind Yogi’s smile: gay Olympian Gus Kenworthy </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">joining VMC from across the bar at our cast party<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The cast party gave me a rare opportunity for casual socializing. A group of new tenors asked if I planned to move back to Vancouver fulltime after the girls graduate from high school next year. I told them the story of when my children decided they also want to move to Vancouver eventually.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in; text-align: start; text-indent: -1in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in; text-align: start; text-indent: -1in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">PAPA: Because I don’t have dual citizenship like my younger brothers, we’ll probably need to find me either a job or a husband in Canada.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in; text-align: start; text-indent: -1in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in; text-align: start; text-indent: -1in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">ELEANOR: Hmm. You’d better work on your resume. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The tenors helpfully began pointing out single guys across the room, and asking whether I think they’re cute. I reminded them I’m still recovering from PTSD and social anxiety, and </span>barely<span style="font-family: inherit;"> over face blindness. I sheepishly confessed that after six years in VMC, I’ve still never been on a date or kissed anyone I met at chorus, and only seen any of them naked during bawdy skits at Retreat. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My VMC brothers are so Canadian and nice. They offered to help me finally find my “romantic” family. But you’ll have to wait a while for me to live, then write, “Quadruple Axel.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTD-tvod66DQVYe-Zw0j2Z6PrFNtOLTWK43fcNI8Tcm-HFGE_sVUPGGzPZFivoh9ueh7Ifv0VCSoKfDmG2IFEGA8zzBCKoPERBLrZ-CeDXxT8kSTZ8NSWBH5n5K02ZwIw57yI4C7EACVATYoHVYvHpPxpJ1KcITUal2AmP7L9JCJEdr6pnEkVYf6w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTD-tvod66DQVYe-Zw0j2Z6PrFNtOLTWK43fcNI8Tcm-HFGE_sVUPGGzPZFivoh9ueh7Ifv0VCSoKfDmG2IFEGA8zzBCKoPERBLrZ-CeDXxT8kSTZ8NSWBH5n5K02ZwIw57yI4C7EACVATYoHVYvHpPxpJ1KcITUal2AmP7L9JCJEdr6pnEkVYf6w" width="278" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-15063463702944225312022-06-19T15:50:00.030-07:002022-06-24T10:55:43.880-07:00Infinite Joy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjajFmcw_6IQTcXk-sp6oQAmjAt9q1qsuwLrTZ3p__odhUKFQZ-r2yVzRqy8xy7wrie6j1Rc0YXHw09Ob7ZXYU34NBeXFKgBMU8InJu9t-8ryuLw4n1hgzLkjhq1UV5ZbUMyxOx58pxVkRbenSKyHDoP2CJ68O_9TJVgj69acam8sxKNLfQdHYuikY/s3088/RBG%20RAL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjajFmcw_6IQTcXk-sp6oQAmjAt9q1qsuwLrTZ3p__odhUKFQZ-r2yVzRqy8xy7wrie6j1Rc0YXHw09Ob7ZXYU34NBeXFKgBMU8InJu9t-8ryuLw4n1hgzLkjhq1UV5ZbUMyxOx58pxVkRbenSKyHDoP2CJ68O_9TJVgj69acam8sxKNLfQdHYuikY/s320/RBG%20RAL.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday I received the nicest compliment ever. </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was closing night of a successful series of Vancouver Men’s Chorus concerts entitled "R-E-S-P-E-C-T: Celebrating Women's Music." Afterwards a woman came up to me in the parking lot on Granville Island to say how much she enjoyed watching my face during the performance. She said, “Years ago in high school, my choir conductor kept telling us to smile. Now I know what he meant.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I said thank you, and told her they were a great audience. Then we discussed how the first tenor next to me had the second-brightest smile in the chorus – so maybe our conductor Willi should consider spreading the joy and separate us a little. (Not coincidentally, when an elderly couple came up to compliment my smile after an earlier performance, they said the nearby “Asian guy” and I seemed to be enjoying ourselves more than anyone else on stage.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The reason our gushing patrons noticed my smile was because despite many challenges these days I’m happy, the kids are alright, and I’m enjoying the best mental health of my life. It shows.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">More importantly, they were able to observe my freakishly expressive face because I stood in the front row. Previously the combination of anxiety issues and terrible dancing would have protected me from being placed in such a vulnerable and exposed position. In fact, after twenty-five years singing in gay choruses, Willi was the first person to put me in the front row of anything. </span></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrSlFwv2kbOnjo1PZI9j9_CkpRCqLcuSA8CdAxp5I9tQRq3NBoX7J5WJJz3Mw2sFTop3F3n8wl8fXCt75HlJoS2enjjk8--A7KNJfW99xZ5SlgxY6LR77KhF4y3krjDhCsqGeXDLXhwa6TosCszjBB-mdqK69fLKyixqopVJEGZTS2aczZw6VUwc/s720/VMC1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrSlFwv2kbOnjo1PZI9j9_CkpRCqLcuSA8CdAxp5I9tQRq3NBoX7J5WJJz3Mw2sFTop3F3n8wl8fXCt75HlJoS2enjjk8--A7KNJfW99xZ5SlgxY6LR77KhF4y3krjDhCsqGeXDLXhwa6TosCszjBB-mdqK69fLKyixqopVJEGZTS2aczZw6VUwc/w400-h300/VMC1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I joined Vancouver Men’s Chorus in January 2016, just two months after the shock of being diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Abusive workplace dynamics at my new job in Bellingham had triggered a host of strange new anxiety symptoms. A few months later, they fired me based on my disability. This further exacerbated my injuries, and exposed long-avoided psychological fault lines. Rock bottom occurred during my first year in VMC. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I spent the last six years slowly rebuilding my mental health, while simultaneously dealing with distractions like raising three kids </span>during a pandemic <span style="font-family: inherit;">and suing my former employer. At this point I accept that many of my tics and twitches will never go away. Fortunately, I’ve learned to recognize triggering situations, identify reasonable acc</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ommodations, and mitigate the impact of trauma. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meanwhile, I’ve finally begun making progress on the social aspects of my disability. Before getting the correct trauma-based diagnosis, I used to think I was just a typical introvert who struggled with social anxiety. Now I recognize that even without the effect of trauma I would still be neurodiverse. I could have grown up to be the gay English Major version of Sheldon from <i>Big Bang Theory</i>. Trauma merely bumped me a few notches further along the autism spectrum. As a result I’ve lost much of my already dubious ability to read ordinary social cues. Paradoxically, despite having an exceptionally expressive face myself, other people's emotions remain a mystery. I can’t tell if someone is hitting on me, or challenging me to a duel. So I mostly stay quiet. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I faced various challenges over the last few years, Vancouver Men’s Chorus provided my greatest lifeline other than my family and my writing. In particular, VMC allowed me slowly crawl out of my shell in the safest possible corner of humanity: a gay Canadian choir. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ironically, however, my disability disproportionately affects my relationships with other gay men. When I began singing with VMC, I was practically catatonic – barely able to engage in any social interactions, and completely unable to speak to strangers. I was also essentially face blind. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually my brain started adapting. But it still played weird tricks, like <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/02/EmotionalAI.html">remembering guys only as cartoon characters</a>. Then covid closed the border and silenced choirs for a couple of years.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately, by the time the border reopened and we began rehearsing again last fall, I was thinking much more clearly. I could finally tell guys apart. But I still have problems with basic things like eye contact, and knowing when to start or stop talking. So I seldom initiate conversations with anyone other than the handful of other tenors I’ve known for years. Socially I’m like a vampire – someone else has to be the one to open the door and invite me in.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXp0HhtCOYmLBxZm20xMxH11iZJOWYpm5WoxKAoab44un6ILe3io12g81pw-GonkgXvMYKNqNtoI_iFz5ccckG8M3e2DaZwdC6HB8lghL00tu5oPJgvEaux3VbTIGUS_kty5bW7belQ/s1600/IMG_3820.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXp0HhtCOYmLBxZm20xMxH11iZJOWYpm5WoxKAoab44un6ILe3io12g81pw-GonkgXvMYKNqNtoI_iFz5ccckG8M3e2DaZwdC6HB8lghL00tu5oPJgvEaux3VbTIGUS_kty5bW7belQ/s320/IMG_3820.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One way to measure mental health progress is to compare the story of my smile. Five years ago, I published “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/07/Smile.html">If You Just Smile</a>” after my very first VMC concert. The opening anecdote was eerily similar to this year</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s essay:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 31.5pt 0.0001pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Vancouver Men’s Chorus recently finished a successful run of concerts on Granville Island. After one of our final performances, a middle-aged straight couple came up to me in the lobby. They both loved our show, and gushed about the marvelous singing and entertaining dancing. They sought me out afterwards to say “You had the best smile! Only a few of you up there looked like you were having fun the whole time, but you definitely did!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 31.5pt 0.0001pt 0.5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 31.5pt 0.0001pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I get that a lot. I have a mime-ishly expressive face, often without realizing it. (Sometimes your eyes just roll.) After forty years of performing, I’ve embraced numerous directors’ and conductors’ admonition to let the audience see you are enjoying yourself. But I smile almost all the time offstage as well. Everyone says my smile is my best feature. Seriously – eHarmony has statistical data proving this. … <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 31.5pt 0.0001pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If that straight couple had come to opening night of the recent Vancouver Men’s Chorus concert, I know they would have loved the fun but less polished show. They might have not noticed me fiddling with fuzzy green things offstage to distract myself from pulling my hair out. But unless they are both legally blind, they would have seen the smile of an anxious second tenor overwhelmed by the scrum of gay men backstage, and remembering such a low percentage of his choralography he should not be placed in the front row. Ever again. Hint, hint.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“If You Just Smile” told the story the story of how my personal traumas began. When I was a teenager, my family moved from Vancouver to a repressive Mormon small town in Utah. I got the nickname “Smiley” from my bullying classmates. I began compulsively clenching my teeth and smiling because I knew if I started to cry instead I would lose it all. I spent the next thirty years blinding people with that same smile, regardless of whether it was real.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At my first VMC concerts my smile was just as bright before and after I learned the choreography. But Willi sensed my discomfort, and never put me in the front row again until this year. </span></p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="1210" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQVBWJmQeJHxk2Ocvx45aKFX_vtDEGCiK3wd2fs6lj9ubjZ9-ZYR85IG0VjWxJWPpvtD1JmEn39Xk9GpApxGotoYC261GKoo8XdwFcStEDyroLCyV6fvYq_-pWZwMI7Unuga3xVNjut-wqfsOWQfF8Hl_L_sLy596gky9-rBXPoKISyVBNiLmIHk/s320/R3.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elton & Rina singing "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTDRg5G77x4">Chosen Family</a>"</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I wrote last week in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/06/TrueStories.html">True Stories</a>,” an evening of gay men singing songs by and about women requires a little extra context. Willi therefore asked for volunteers to introduce several of the numbers with personal stories about their connection to the songs. I was one of three singers who introduced the song “Chosen Families.” It wasn’t a diva solo or flashy dance number. But it came at the emotional climax of the concert. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Willi is an expert at guiding audiences on an entertaining and cathartic journey. Sure enough, each of our three very diverse stories about chosen families left the audience and chorus in tears. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Paul told about how he and his husband Gerry moved to Vancouver from the U.K. and found a home with the chorus. Two years ago, Gerry died of cancer in Paul’s arms, surrounded by friends from VMC. I spoke about being both a PFLAG son and a PFLAG father. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yogi’s story is about how he came from Indonesia to Vancouver at 18 knowing only two words in English. His biological family had given him two months to choose between “stop being gay” and leaving the country. Now Yogi is a pillar of the arts and queer communities, and President of VMC</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsA2rM_tEb72sBNzqfHxoQU_jOWyoaVTwPghPzmvPmwP1JEFMfwPxEyGpZXtQzlY04L_h960DuuM5LOWl4cEtkb8VjzSh1aSJnX8XNmk24Vn3GFwUt2HAi_AOWt21P7YBq7TalspI5WnG6UvJhuCJLm6VByd96VewcXcNyBVqAWPKU2ibA2CRlUHs/s600/yogi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="600" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsA2rM_tEb72sBNzqfHxoQU_jOWyoaVTwPghPzmvPmwP1JEFMfwPxEyGpZXtQzlY04L_h960DuuM5LOWl4cEtkb8VjzSh1aSJnX8XNmk24Vn3GFwUt2HAi_AOWt21P7YBq7TalspI5WnG6UvJhuCJLm6VByd96VewcXcNyBVqAWPKU2ibA2CRlUHs/s320/yogi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So how did I end up smiling at the audience from the front row?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday between shows, Willi asked me whether I enjoyed my experience standing in the front row. I explained that my “Executive Function” had been challenged by the cumulative effect of multiple stressors, including kids, legal work, commuting from another country, foreign language memorization, and – my traditional nemesis – choreography. But I survived. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I also told Willi about the audience members who had complimented me on both my speech and my smile. Willi was pleased. He said he was confident I would have said something to him if I thought I couldn’t handle the pressure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As a writer and a lawyer who has cross-examined numerous witnesses, I have an acute built-in bullshit detector. This set it off. Willi is a brilliant conductor and programmer. He is also one of the most Canadian people I know other than myself. This means he’s preposterously kind and nice, but also passive-aggressively manipulative and ruthlessly efficient. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Over drinks at PumpJack last month, I <i>already</i> told Willi about my first-row struggles. He said he would change the configuration at the next rehearsal. Then he “forgot.” It wasn’t merely his glass of wine. During that conversation, alarm bells also went off when Willi explained I belonged in the front row because of my “height.” I sing in a gay choir filled with Asian tenors. Lots of guys who are just as tall or shorter than me spent the concert safely hidden on the second row. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But I forgive Willi for pushing me a little, and thank him for the opportunity to share my story and my smile. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uaDVWRijIgu-X-Gnskcv6KxNBZILLuYhCD6PoyP51nsxzwnFPZKElVylzRy5QM1EG2Zy9lXkCvr-V4ikOUbOa-mBkEuwLF5BC5AyPsjGwJuw37oDNFZsfQY7Z0yh5DZxGsHuG1XcD3RwCUidxEiAz_FcCBcw3EPqe-ZVH2YLTtFVqf0li1or7S4/s1280/willi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="988" data-original-width="1280" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uaDVWRijIgu-X-Gnskcv6KxNBZILLuYhCD6PoyP51nsxzwnFPZKElVylzRy5QM1EG2Zy9lXkCvr-V4ikOUbOa-mBkEuwLF5BC5AyPsjGwJuw37oDNFZsfQY7Z0yh5DZxGsHuG1XcD3RwCUidxEiAz_FcCBcw3EPqe-ZVH2YLTtFVqf0li1or7S4/s320/willi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here’s how Yogi began his speech:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“People ask why I’m always smiling. I guess it’s because I’m so happy.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yogi’s and my blinding smiles each began in trauma. But now they’re real. And according to the woman who complimented me after the last</span><span style="text-indent: 48px;"> concert, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">she could feel our joy.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtKXfbWciJn8su4KCis8KHJaFkX3Be3eb7rGLsaEQGvbfdyIbUIIo2YEU2ki8GDGOWUHT7gI7TQEejwMdIqdvslne_2iLBcZSbIDuaNTPh3Neb5bJbbewVr3mMujCcFu-5T-7p3H6Msm7IXfOsk_WNqlnzt9GstGDOSw9fM1d438hDalCYBYTClU/s1440/rehearsal.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtKXfbWciJn8su4KCis8KHJaFkX3Be3eb7rGLsaEQGvbfdyIbUIIo2YEU2ki8GDGOWUHT7gI7TQEejwMdIqdvslne_2iLBcZSbIDuaNTPh3Neb5bJbbewVr3mMujCcFu-5T-7p3H6Msm7IXfOsk_WNqlnzt9GstGDOSw9fM1d438hDalCYBYTClU/s320/rehearsal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-27747901751160224992022-06-15T11:59:00.014-07:002022-06-19T14:23:27.187-07:00True Stories<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ7HGYr4OfVTmD6elmEQvqcmts3-vgiz1zQAqp2doXXzHq6w6RJ1yH3YeS_aE0XYULGl1b-Y0TwU3quO2fKXOxH7WivJoBmGKl0bxyM3Lu87dBI53DIxqI7c4ZN8h1lrA0tAtzlqaxvnAmrHLw7pGR7NxPBNOVwmbQSNGRlRim5efYuaE6mrpQ5x4" style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ7HGYr4OfVTmD6elmEQvqcmts3-vgiz1zQAqp2doXXzHq6w6RJ1yH3YeS_aE0XYULGl1b-Y0TwU3quO2fKXOxH7WivJoBmGKl0bxyM3Lu87dBI53DIxqI7c4ZN8h1lrA0tAtzlqaxvnAmrHLw7pGR7NxPBNOVwmbQSNGRlRim5efYuaE6mrpQ5x4=w320-h320" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #202124;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I'm all ears, take your time, we got all night<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Show me the rivers crossed, the mountains scaled<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Show me who made you walk all the way here</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Chosen Family,” by Rina Sawayama<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This week Vancouver Men’s Chorus performed our first post-covid concerts at Performance Works on Granville Island. Our theme this year is “R-E-S-P-E-C-T: Celebrating Women’s Music.” VMC’s intrepid Music Selection Committee and our stable of skilled vocal arrangers curated a marvelous collection of songs, mashups, and medleys. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">An evening of gay men singing songs by and about women requires a little extra context. Our conductor Willi asked for volunteers to introduce several of the numbers with personal stories about their connection to particular songs. For example, Lenny explained how his generation made “Secret Love” a gay anthem, sharing how he grew up going to Doris Day movies with his mother and recognizing he had a crush on Rock Hudson. Basil, who immigrated to Canada as a child from Yemen speaking neither English nor French, introduced the “Empowerment Medley” with the story of aboriginal Australian singer Thelma Plum, who wrote “Better in Blak” about her experiences with people “trying to take the colour from the conversation.” And Mark closed the first act by convincing the audience – as he had convinced the Music Selection Committee – that a medley called “Great Shoes” would work. (It does, spectacularly.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="1210" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQVBWJmQeJHxk2Ocvx45aKFX_vtDEGCiK3wd2fs6lj9ubjZ9-ZYR85IG0VjWxJWPpvtD1JmEn39Xk9GpApxGotoYC261GKoo8XdwFcStEDyroLCyV6fvYq_-pWZwMI7Unuga3xVNjut-wqfsOWQfF8Hl_L_sLy596gky9-rBXPoKISyVBNiLmIHk/s320/R3.jpg" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238); color: #0000ee; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elton & Rina singing "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTDRg5G77x4">Chosen Family</a>"</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rina Sawayama is a young queer singer-songwriter who was born in Japan and raised in Britain. Last year MTV News described her song “Chosen Family” as “<a href="http://www.mtv.com/news/3178341/rina-sawayama-chosen-family-queer-anthem/">the budding queer anthem uniting global fans</a>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">At one of the last rehearsals for “R-E-S-P-E-C-T,” the conductor announced that no one had volunteered to introduce “Chosen Family.” Willi asked if anyone had a story to share about their connection to the song. Three of us came forward. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yogi’s story is about how he came from Indonesia to Vancouver at 18 knowing only two words in English. Now he’s a pillar of the arts and queer communities, and President of VMC. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Paul's </span></span>story is about how he and his husband Gerry moved to Vancouver from the U.K. and found a home with the chorus. Two years ago, Gerry died of cancer in Paul’s arms, surrounded by friends from VMC.</p></span></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvbssjutOIt_haROSqKLZhDopF26iTU8p_iOd9uylS3Ay2i9Gq7oaFs13MBjjRd3Hm1qOeRGk4yRUhgsqhJm1LfzruXfmJY_XrsWOnEehwFmuq2rIpdJsEhBEDNqikVPOvJ2S_XLCENnS87FP_77Bf9WiNSj5i7_y0ib5-hs13RNz-ZD3GHBUWY0/s600/Eleanor.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvbssjutOIt_haROSqKLZhDopF26iTU8p_iOd9uylS3Ay2i9Gq7oaFs13MBjjRd3Hm1qOeRGk4yRUhgsqhJm1LfzruXfmJY_XrsWOnEehwFmuq2rIpdJsEhBEDNqikVPOvJ2S_XLCENnS87FP_77Bf9WiNSj5i7_y0ib5-hs13RNz-ZD3GHBUWY0/w150-h200/Eleanor.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwKSI04dMIKadG5NYco6WBthu09JI1z2yuUJxJzpVECuaFT8HEw6U0WAr5EfFHmxvqu6w233W_VxXJzlMv_GnLT7MBSlud5ZHfvj75HvrVy1twDbeN5A3_ultuG7jVWhTead7l3j4bmkFfSxLcKN_GpUlK4CnpEDZyktH0x745vGdarnDtXbY6mU/s600/Rosalind.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwKSI04dMIKadG5NYco6WBthu09JI1z2yuUJxJzpVECuaFT8HEw6U0WAr5EfFHmxvqu6w233W_VxXJzlMv_GnLT7MBSlud5ZHfvj75HvrVy1twDbeN5A3_ultuG7jVWhTead7l3j4bmkFfSxLcKN_GpUlK4CnpEDZyktH0x745vGdarnDtXbY6mU/w150-h200/Rosalind.jpg" width="150" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here’s my story:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was a kid, one of my friends was teased about being adopted. I remember her telling the bully “Your parents <i>had</i> to take you, but my parents <i>chose</i> me.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thirty years later, my partner and I had the opportunity to adopt a baby girl, who we named Eleanor. Next we adopted Rosalind and then Oliver from the foster system. My daughters are now 16, and my son is 13. Several years ago my ex disappeared from the picture. So I’m a single parent raising three kids alone – an amazing job that typically is seen as “women’s work.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">During middle school, my daughter Rosalind came out to me in a text. Actually two texts. The first said “Papa, just letting you know I've been going to the Queer Student Alliance after school.” Her second text said “Don't make a big deal about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last weekend was the high school’s first Prom since Covid. My daughter Eleanor went with her cute nerdy boyfriend. She looked radiant in a sequined Marilyn Monroe dress. Rosalind looked awkward but completely herself in one of my tux jackets. Her goth girlfriend wore a black dress. Rosalind and her goth girlfriend rode to the Prom in a lesbian classmate’s car, together with my daughter's gay boi best friend – a classic skinny twink, with Timothée Chalamet hair. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The morning after Prom, I went into Rosalind’s room and found the four of them asleep on her king-sized bed – three lesbians and a twinkie, half naked and all intertwined. It looked like the dancers’ dressing room backstage. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our next song is by Rina Sawayama. She’s a young queer singer-songwriter who was born in Japan and raised in Britain. You may have seen the video of her singing a duet with Elton John of this song, which is called “Chosen Family.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had to wait and grow up and join a gay chorus before I found my chosen family. As a PFLAG father, I’m thrilled my daughter is already finding hers. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 28pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_c-_-iJIeeYKl0mtko6o0WVNqEYbbxl-SJRKsD2vSqlUDgWhNDCuajZQDsDhRShp42dod2hO80cmozQrkYR4N_nwzKk8nkHEigtWvweZkzeuu2NbI5FW9V84QvjfdXLX2Zql6Ofdg4kR-TwnaCckz7_PHtSh9BErV7PNSeqC7XJUcKtRVVBfvsOY/s2526/Screen%20Shot%202022-06-14%20at%209.14.01%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1470" data-original-width="2526" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_c-_-iJIeeYKl0mtko6o0WVNqEYbbxl-SJRKsD2vSqlUDgWhNDCuajZQDsDhRShp42dod2hO80cmozQrkYR4N_nwzKk8nkHEigtWvweZkzeuu2NbI5FW9V84QvjfdXLX2Zql6Ofdg4kR-TwnaCckz7_PHtSh9BErV7PNSeqC7XJUcKtRVVBfvsOY/w400-h233/Screen%20Shot%202022-06-14%20at%209.14.01%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Paul introduced “Chosen Family” at our opening night </span>performance<span style="font-family: inherit;"> on </span>Friday<span style="font-family: inherit;">, which meant he also gave his speech at the dress rehearsal </span>in front of the guys <span style="font-family: inherit;">the day before. I drew both the matinee and evening shows on Saturday. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After the concert Friday, I stayed overnight in Vancouver at a friend’s place. On Saturday morning I walked along the seawall around Stanley Park practicing my remarks. I wanted to be able to speak directly to the audience without notes. I choked up every time I said “As a PFLAG father, I’m overjoyed my daughter is already finding her chosen family.” I tried repeating it 20 times in a monotone, without any decongestion. Fortunately it’s the last sentence. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Back at the theatre on Saturday, there wasn’t time for me to do a run through. Backstage between acts, Willi asked if I was ready. I told him I expected to make people laugh and cry, including myself.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vb2PV7RzA9EhXyVsCTlUpKbIS6hkpJ_Oh1O7XGg0EcZoqx60H-P11UXllu-WIL_oRKdR7M7XORnn6mXRbeKYXLM-J95tZN6eDHpvhzmZsQCfZP2zj2-jC7A4RMw_y9yXNkJXxkVPd1QdjPtS5vrFrfEM5e14J7qRwJU4MbhOTUMC3nWvsx5fS9o/s1996/VMC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1996" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vb2PV7RzA9EhXyVsCTlUpKbIS6hkpJ_Oh1O7XGg0EcZoqx60H-P11UXllu-WIL_oRKdR7M7XORnn6mXRbeKYXLM-J95tZN6eDHpvhzmZsQCfZP2zj2-jC7A4RMw_y9yXNkJXxkVPd1QdjPtS5vrFrfEM5e14J7qRwJU4MbhOTUMC3nWvsx5fS9o/w400-h193/VMC.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My speech at the matinee Saturday was a success by the most important measures: I made it to the end without a PTSD meltdown, and numerous people said “I never knew you were so funny, but I hate you for making me cry.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As with the speeches, chorus members share some of the solos, including the duet in “Chosen Family.” Dan and David, a recently married couple, were scheduled to sing the duet Saturday evening. During the break between shows, Dan complimented me on my presentation at the matinee. “But could you make it a little longer?” He explained that David is one of the dancers, and needed a little more time for his costume change before singing “Chosen Family.” </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLrEzLyS5dT-vNM0DQU8IN-3l2etCz108TQHI6L7can2u5eabi9TE07W00SAwzHBYtpxjoEdy-u0YHC5010bznakn8DFC8QMG_gFWGW80gsuiHiRZmlVzHmY8NMa8CRc5OrFrkzTPnw/s1814/VMC+tag.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1814" data-original-width="1352" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLrEzLyS5dT-vNM0DQU8IN-3l2etCz108TQHI6L7can2u5eabi9TE07W00SAwzHBYtpxjoEdy-u0YHC5010bznakn8DFC8QMG_gFWGW80gsuiHiRZmlVzHmY8NMa8CRc5OrFrkzTPnw/w149-h200/VMC+tag.png" width="149" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Chosen Family” comes at the end of the second act, right before the finale. So I had time to ponder. Where could I add a couple of extra jokes? Did I have anything else I wanted to say? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was jealous of Paul’s remarks because he drew an elegant parallel between “chosen” and “biological” families. I already had covered “chosen” and “adoptive.” Wouldn’t it be even cooler if I added “biological” too – like landing a triple axel? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I was seeking inspiration, I looked down and saw my rainbow “PFLAG LOVES YOU” wristband. I’m not just a PFLAG father, I’m a PFLAG son, too. So I decided to acknowledge my parents by telling the story of how I got my wristband. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This turned out to be a mistake.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXp0HhtCOYmLBxZm20xMxH11iZJOWYpm5WoxKAoab44un6ILe3io12g81pw-GonkgXvMYKNqNtoI_iFz5ccckG8M3e2DaZwdC6HB8lghL00tu5oPJgvEaux3VbTIGUS_kty5bW7belQ/s1600/IMG_3820.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXp0HhtCOYmLBxZm20xMxH11iZJOWYpm5WoxKAoab44un6ILe3io12g81pw-GonkgXvMYKNqNtoI_iFz5ccckG8M3e2DaZwdC6HB8lghL00tu5oPJgvEaux3VbTIGUS_kty5bW7belQ/s320/IMG_3820.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Performance Works is a cabaret space, which underscores the difference between matinee and evening audiences. As usual, the afternoon crowd was smaller and quieter, with a higher proportion of blue hair. In contrast, the evening show was sold out, and the raucous audience took advantage of the bar both before the show and during intermission. The vibe resembled a combined bachelorette party and tea dance. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Public speaking with a hot crowd is always more fun for everyone, but it can be unpredictable. I didn’t expect “I’m a single parent raising three kids alone” to be a big applause line, which threw off my timing. When I reached the new story about my PFLAG wristband, I choked up. The audience was totally with me, but I could tell they were worried I wouldn’t be able to finish. So was I. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Stand-up is like walking a tightrope – losing your balance can be perilous. As lesbian Australian comic <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/06/HannahGadsby.html">Hannah Gadsby</a> wrote in her recent memoir <i>Ten Step to Nannette,</i> when a stand-up confronts trauma, the process can also resemble therapy. The speaker’s job is to guide both herself and the audience safely through the punchlines to catharsis. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately, with the support of my family and the chorus, I’ve made immense progress with both PTSD and social anxiety. Although my speech </span>Saturday evening<span style="font-family: inherit;"> triggered more of my stammer than at the matinee, we arrived home.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ViaMH9zEVAjx9HSK0qIQ6JBf-p_CvnJ7LugSoSPAazIKxaf1Uyi3ndbCpwxxXikJz7FAn3DeXLWh4dFzaLvqAZjYLo7PytqBuMYCzEC1njP9Ejy4PcPO2R4RzHb-1aA5l63zHlz37G8VOpYtRF2lm2-mU5R_18UADauESVYJXQ7iQNfkDHzdnsg/s4032/IMG_8115.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ViaMH9zEVAjx9HSK0qIQ6JBf-p_CvnJ7LugSoSPAazIKxaf1Uyi3ndbCpwxxXikJz7FAn3DeXLWh4dFzaLvqAZjYLo7PytqBuMYCzEC1njP9Ejy4PcPO2R4RzHb-1aA5l63zHlz37G8VOpYtRF2lm2-mU5R_18UADauESVYJXQ7iQNfkDHzdnsg/w150-h200/IMG_8115.HEIC" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here’s a smooth version of what I was I was attempting to say when I lost my composure at the Saturday night performance. I can’t even type the words without tears in my eyes:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s Pride month. Last week I was at the Starbucks near the high school with my daughters. Rosalind slipped this “PFLAG LOVES YOU” wristband on me. “PFLAG” stands for “Parents & Friends of Lesbians and Gays.” Someone had left a bunch of wristbands at Starbucks in a rainbow-trimmed basket. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I told Rosalind my mother probably made the basket.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was thirty before I <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/08/Futon.html">came out to my parents</a>. My mother spent the next twenty-five years tirelessly serving on the board of our local PFLAG chapter. She sewed the fifty-foot rainbow flag they carry in the Pride Parade </span>– <span style="font-family: inherit;">and made all those baskets full of PFLAG wristbands. Even before I adopted my children, I was already blessed with the best family anyone could have chosen.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRC-kFp8UFNI9OgWB0B5hf3s8rUJ2GRPvSjJsB_CMdjLDlmEFXKt2GcpVJg7wUDt4SP6LAckHGcAu-zVV9YkkhyfD2_x9MYMQvRjh6Y41BWOu3PB1ND7fKkdJzUPD1fAu9-sMWmO0jGjfGDnnfwnH4orxH4xLRjTjScBb7AEAE_ec4uXCcmK9EeI/s1024/IMG_5097.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRC-kFp8UFNI9OgWB0B5hf3s8rUJ2GRPvSjJsB_CMdjLDlmEFXKt2GcpVJg7wUDt4SP6LAckHGcAu-zVV9YkkhyfD2_x9MYMQvRjh6Y41BWOu3PB1ND7fKkdJzUPD1fAu9-sMWmO0jGjfGDnnfwnH4orxH4xLRjTjScBb7AEAE_ec4uXCcmK9EeI/s320/IMG_5097.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought I wasn’t ready to tell the story behind these stories publicly yet. But after the matinee Saturday, I posted a copy of my remarks to the VMC group page on Facebook, together with a bunch of Prom pictures. When I logged back on to Facebook after the evening show, I discovered that dozens of friends had already “liked”my post. Because I was using my phone instead of the computer, I’d accidentally posted it to my own Facebook feed instead of the private VMC page. By the end of the weekend it was my most popular Facebook post of the year.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’d already shared my speech with Eleanor, Rosalind, and her queer Prom posse when I got their permission to tell our story to the concert audiences. But now that my remarks were out there in writing, I realized I needed to make sure my daughters were cool with the final product.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>When I got back to the States, I showed Eleanor and Rosalind the published text. Rosalind said “You took out the word ‘goth’ before ‘girlfriend’ </span>– <span>that was my favourite part.” So I put “goth” back in. Eleanor read the speech to her “cute nerdy boyfriend.” He said “I’m not nerdy! I have abs!” </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">True story.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixYb3KWHoCjMWzcl9r6zI8OPsRp5qwIZgz91ClbzpTNGeFMSdmNw7yjkn90sRV08qCI3Aoo1qVhbu1KRHFJ283-nU_kVF6F4TNzhd4FA-ftN29GcJCtC5fP3u8HS5aPWBsDwI-Sc3-LIYNKKgr_x50PGfoit16w4vmkvtt58FpHD5kJGYxCg6t5cE" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixYb3KWHoCjMWzcl9r6zI8OPsRp5qwIZgz91ClbzpTNGeFMSdmNw7yjkn90sRV08qCI3Aoo1qVhbu1KRHFJ283-nU_kVF6F4TNzhd4FA-ftN29GcJCtC5fP3u8HS5aPWBsDwI-Sc3-LIYNKKgr_x50PGfoit16w4vmkvtt58FpHD5kJGYxCg6t5cE=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read “For Good,” a story about how I become attached to my first dog, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">in the recent anthology <i><a href="https://www.sidekickpress.com/product/true-stories-iv/">True Stories Vol. IV</a></i></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div><br />Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-57232254665823109102022-03-08T22:00:00.025-08:002022-03-12T16:29:56.824-08:00The Best Things That Ever Happened To Me<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUz5qQGpws04Ht5Drknaws0qxLmlkUmZLC8F3ACNwFY7W6lNcRsUQd7EvGn9rexXEn-N6zY6hn1ejCtCelQZPw7PRIYEgOlNyTIc5a-NOi038ltDZqvOlDdghahw3GyoavG02nqQRKhv-5IC8HZ6PNFxBzYMQ7iaqRR16SyGKEapASO03REGORLT0" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUz5qQGpws04Ht5Drknaws0qxLmlkUmZLC8F3ACNwFY7W6lNcRsUQd7EvGn9rexXEn-N6zY6hn1ejCtCelQZPw7PRIYEgOlNyTIc5a-NOi038ltDZqvOlDdghahw3GyoavG02nqQRKhv-5IC8HZ6PNFxBzYMQ7iaqRR16SyGKEapASO03REGORLT0" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbara Cook singing "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z31o1I4-60g">Anyone Can Whistle</a>" on YouTube</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every musical theatre nerd mourns the loss of Stephen Sondheim, our adoptive </span>artistic <span style="font-family: inherit;">father, who died in November 2021 at age 91. I heard the incomparable composer speak a few years ago when I was still a lawyer in Seattle. Frank Rich interviewed Sondheim on the stage at Benaroya Hall in an event presented by Seattle Arts & Lectures. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The year my mother turned sixty, I bought us tickets to see Barbara Cook perform at Benaroya. She was touring with a concert consisting of music by Sondheim, plus a few other showtunes he told Barbara he “wished he had written.” For her encore, Barbara sang an unadorned arrangement of “Anyone Can Whistle,” accompanied at the piano by her longtime musical director Wally Harper.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyone who gets to share Barbara Cook singing “Mostly Sondheim” with his mother is a pretty lucky fella.</span></p></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaMH_xyyUkrlAI3FD5WvDE7MGeGlKZXoOYX_RyrLJoN6wDqLlJpFXsqGhzYttw_30yxpgqsoRnuAEZRxMEWkw-OqDWPRZtU2fFfiJtF6X1GXRYoUpX_LLS5FvL2oYJt5aI1kwaeNGXSvdQzhVbfngzsMdNB-ogR32NcmrDvr7_9ocohSlmIkUI1-A=s1693" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1693" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaMH_xyyUkrlAI3FD5WvDE7MGeGlKZXoOYX_RyrLJoN6wDqLlJpFXsqGhzYttw_30yxpgqsoRnuAEZRxMEWkw-OqDWPRZtU2fFfiJtF6X1GXRYoUpX_LLS5FvL2oYJt5aI1kwaeNGXSvdQzhVbfngzsMdNB-ogR32NcmrDvr7_9ocohSlmIkUI1-A=s320" width="189" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This week’s “Must See” list in <i>New York</i> magazine highlights Thursday’s extraordinary musical event:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">In a big Carnegie Hall celebration, MasterVoices honors one of Stephen Sondheim’s earlier, odder cult favorites, a 1964 satire written with Arthur Laurents about fake miracles, asylum patients who take over a town, and a corrupt (or playful?) solution for public health. Revivals of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><em style="line-height: inherit;">Whistle</em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">don’t come along often, but concert productions have kept its weird flame flickering. Vanessa Williams plays Cora, the crooked mayor. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A young Angela Lansbury was destined for musical theatre immortality after originating the role of the mayoress, even though the original production closed after just nine performances. I’ve never seen <i>Anyone Can Whistle</i>. No one has. But in addition to tackling mental illness, the show introduced Sondheim standards like “There Won’t Be Trumpets,” “I’ve Got You to Lean On,” and “Everybody Says Don’t.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Obviously I know the original cast album by heart</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">, as well as the recording of the famous AIDS benefit at Carnegie Hall in 1995. Madeleine Kahn played the mayor, Angela Lansbury narrated, and Scott Bakula was mysterious stranger J. Bowden Hapgood. Bernadette Peters played </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nurse Fay, who sings the title song.</span></p></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixYb3KWHoCjMWzcl9r6zI8OPsRp5qwIZgz91ClbzpTNGeFMSdmNw7yjkn90sRV08qCI3Aoo1qVhbu1KRHFJ283-nU_kVF6F4TNzhd4FA-ftN29GcJCtC5fP3u8HS5aPWBsDwI-Sc3-LIYNKKgr_x50PGfoit16w4vmkvtt58FpHD5kJGYxCg6t5cE" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixYb3KWHoCjMWzcl9r6zI8OPsRp5qwIZgz91ClbzpTNGeFMSdmNw7yjkn90sRV08qCI3Aoo1qVhbu1KRHFJ283-nU_kVF6F4TNzhd4FA-ftN29GcJCtC5fP3u8HS5aPWBsDwI-Sc3-LIYNKKgr_x50PGfoit16w4vmkvtt58FpHD5kJGYxCg6t5cE=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read “For Good,” my story about the dogs, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">in the recently published anthology <a href="https://www.sidekickpress.com/product/true-stories-iv/"><i>True Stories Vol. IV</i><o:p></o:p></a></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m almost to the end of my first book manuscript, entitled <i>Anyone Can Whistle: A Memoir of Religion, Showtunes, and Mental Illness</i>. I’ll finish writing the memoir as soon as I finish living through this part of my story – hopefully later this year.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A couple of years ago, I went through The Narrative Project’s flagship “Finish Your Book!” writing program. Under <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/10/Mus.html">Cami Ostman</a>’s expert guidance, I found a writer’s community where I learned to write through and about trauma. The nine-month program offered the perfect opportunity to practice my craft with the support and encouragement of other writers – even as I endured gaslighting lawyers and stonewalling bureaucrats, and single parented three teenagers through a pandemic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought I would finish writing my memoir during the formal The Narrative Project program. Instead, I made immeasurable progress toward mental health and happiness. Meanwhile, after over half a million words of public blog essays and an even greater volume of legal filings and private journaling, <i>Anyone Can Whistle</i> needed to find its own voice and structure as a book. And to lose weight.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So I ruthlessly edited out all the tedious lawyer stuff, exiling it to a future sequel. The title will be <i>Too Many Lawyers,</i> an homage to my favourite mystery novelist Rex Stout, who published “Too Many Witnesses,” “Too Many Cooks,” “Too Many Clients,” and “Too Many Women.” <i>Everything Is Connected</i> became the working title for my research and writing about neuroscience and psychology. It would be<span style="font-family: inherit;"> my dissertation, if they awarded graduate degrees for reading a lot of interesting books while recovering your mental health. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I sit at my desk each morning, I ask myself whether today’s best story will be about a Father, a Writer, or a Lawyer. Readers vote overwhelmingly for “Father.” So as soon as I’m done with my tedious lawsuits and can finish telling my gay Mormon PTSD story in <i>Anyone Can Whistle</i>, I’ll focus on writing about <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/01/GaySitcomDad.html">Gay Sitcom Dad</a>.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #0000ee;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3WoMMwQLuPw-42PQa8iOhCzbostKW835v9ri8cuAhCqJtIqi8SK-A1U6lg1UEu_4yr6EKV7aJHUuV14Hj6UUNqt15ZYCH_ryS9BE74RlGQdQzaP9y7bmjfSWakRi3nao0-kYJ5CWn2_wQffv1OCgcwi-EedpcQGOHDIW9kTpExSlGFBoJWsBzdnw=s457" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="457" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3WoMMwQLuPw-42PQa8iOhCzbostKW835v9ri8cuAhCqJtIqi8SK-A1U6lg1UEu_4yr6EKV7aJHUuV14Hj6UUNqt15ZYCH_ryS9BE74RlGQdQzaP9y7bmjfSWakRi3nao0-kYJ5CWn2_wQffv1OCgcwi-EedpcQGOHDIW9kTpExSlGFBoJWsBzdnw=s320" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: start;"></span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span><span>As I wrote in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/02/Buster.html">Buster</a>,” last month I was one of the writers reading from our recent work at the launch of a new anthology. </span>My contribution to <i>True Stories</i>, </span></span>“<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span>For Good,</span></span>” <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span>comes from the chapter of my memoir where I explain that I</span></span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span>m not really a dog person.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bear and Buster are purebred Aussiedoodles – one of the most popular of the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>trendy class<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>of “doodles.” My ex and his husband were friends with a local breeder. I never wanted a dog myself – to the contrary, I was comfortable in my role as the dogs’ fabulous<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/03/GuncleAgain.html" style="color: #954f72;" target="_blank">gay uncle</a>. Besides, if I’d chosen a dog, I would have picked what in my day we called a “mutt.”<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When my ex and his husband divorced a couple of years later and I ended up with three kids and two dogs fulltime, Bear turned out to be the <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/04/ComfortAnimals.html">comfort animal</a> I never knew I needed. Although many of the dogs Bear and I encounter on our walks look like mutts, their owners always refer to them as “rescue dogs.” I feel like a “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/10/RescueMe.html">rescue human</a>.” A rescued human.<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Each of the chapter titles in my memoir is the name of a showtune, such as “If You Were Gay,” “Turn It Off,” and “I’d Rather be Sailing.” The title for my dog chapter is from <i>Wicked</i>. I’ve seen <i>Wicked</i> three times: (1) the original production on Broadway with Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel; (2) with my mother for her 70th birthday at a lavish benefit for marriage equality at the Paramount Theater in Seattle; and (3) at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre in Vancouver with my daughter Eleanor for her ninth birthday. It’s hard to pick a favourite performance.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span>For Good</span></span>” comes near the end of <i>Wicked.</i> Elphaba and Glinda sing “I don’t know if I’ve been changed for better, but because I knew you, I have been changed for good.”</span></p></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRhj-N24XsfiVGbb6q3Dg-8PDr4z_UeSxcZBnAvkBQ7HEj8729zdTFvRNIxVH2No8a1s2uNpmHsUIib0YOiqFq770EZCmvF-BQnXB4qU1jRq299icUXchNLMu6c0X6vsOp23le8K-XMgUuC90kInk-4MuIfMynPGVafusReXYApfyOFddeRG1DF70=s1325" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1325" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRhj-N24XsfiVGbb6q3Dg-8PDr4z_UeSxcZBnAvkBQ7HEj8729zdTFvRNIxVH2No8a1s2uNpmHsUIib0YOiqFq770EZCmvF-BQnXB4qU1jRq299icUXchNLMu6c0X6vsOp23le8K-XMgUuC90kInk-4MuIfMynPGVafusReXYApfyOFddeRG1DF70=s320" width="247" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Stephen Sondheim won his Pulitzer Prize for <i>Sunday in the Park with George</i>, which is a musical about Children and Art. In addition to his artistic genius, Sondheim was a born teacher who often said his greatest regret was never having children. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I came to fatherhood unexpectedly and late in life. The President of the Mormon Church when I was born was David O. McKay. President McKay’s famous motto was “No amount of success can compensate for failure in the home.” Growing up as a closeted gay Mormon during that era, I was taught that fatherhood was essential to human happiness – yet impossible for me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It Gets Better. I was forty-one years old when I watched my daughter Eleanor being born. We adopted Rosalind three and a half years later, and Oliver the following year. Having children transformed my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every science fiction fan knows there are <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/07/Flashpoint.html">fixed points</a> that connect the multiverse. The most important moment on my own timeline occurred in Spring 2011, when we salvaged Oliver’s adoption.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Since 2011, I have made numerous mistakes I would reverse if I could. I have been beset by plagues I would have avoided with the benefit of Doctor Who</span>’s<span style="font-family: inherit;"> or the Flash’s time traveling abilities. I would love a do-over of the last few years.</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I also made a lot of mistakes<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>before</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>2011. I suffered trauma that still haunts me. But I would not change a single moment that led me to my daughters and son.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7DjBvM3azcA5mMqv_gRw1xU8peiepzRJ19jyB7S1JYIqE0JrI8BToZTU-f0wgi8B1Lm8QqoTJz1e8EK3vbu9lUsDM4e4lOfTYZ0jGMvYOS-NIa7tCac4Cs0lyw_EUj-yR1ogbaCESQ/s320/IMG_5123.jpg" style="color: #0000ee;" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The first Sondheim show I saw on Broadway was <i>Into the Woods</i> with Bernadette Peters. I also saw his next two Broadway openings, <i>Assassins</i> with Neil Patrick Harris and <i>Passion </i>with Donna Murphy. Sondheim and others describe <i>Passion</i> as his most personal work, because he wrote it after falling in love for the first time in his life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If I had a favourite song it would be “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/02/IfLoveWereAll.html">If Love Were All</a>,” from a forgotten 1928 musical </span>by Noel Coward<span style="font-family: inherit;">. <i>Bitter Sweet</i> is about an English maiden who must choose between her stuffy nobleman fiancé and her dashing Austrian music tutor. (Spoiler alert: she runs off with the musician.) The song is actually sung by the musician</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s plucky ex-girlfriend – sorta like Eponine pining after Marius in <i>Les Miserables</i>. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In her classic cabaret album <i>It’s Better with a Band</i>, Barbara Cook sings a lovely version of </span>“If Love Were All.” <span style="font-family: inherit;">But the definitive performance is from </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Judy Garland’s legendary Carnegie Hall concert on April 23, 1963.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> You can listen to Judy for yourself</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3z7C_TWXdGY" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">on YouTube</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If wealth were all, I would be a failure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If professional success were all, I would be bitter.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If art were all, I would be grateful for my own talent to amuse, and the mental health to finally use it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If social justice were all, I would be proud of what I’ve accomplished so far.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If romantic love were all, I would be as lonely as Judy Garland sounds on her Carnegie Hall concert album.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But if love is all, then I consider myself to be the luckiest man on the face of this earth.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQ0-smOK4gG9C1zl85d1wQTvcj28DjKTiqZ3CQDC4b_gp1EztBZH4A_EtIOG1yqCw7bs18KBu9lGdCTtIk000LG6_5G4Ep3ZfDxI2fSW9fLCOD3fHVBUJWR5hqCLPW1Jfo_XGOUYCd4OawO2VIZBRbtqD4O0fKXvQ6eAJHwydNF9Jb3LeiHjNNl60" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="906" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQ0-smOK4gG9C1zl85d1wQTvcj28DjKTiqZ3CQDC4b_gp1EztBZH4A_EtIOG1yqCw7bs18KBu9lGdCTtIk000LG6_5G4Ep3ZfDxI2fSW9fLCOD3fHVBUJWR5hqCLPW1Jfo_XGOUYCd4OawO2VIZBRbtqD4O0fKXvQ6eAJHwydNF9Jb3LeiHjNNl60" width="227" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The chapter of my memoir where I write about gay choruses in general and Vancouver Men’s Chorus in particular is called “The Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me.” Windy City Gay Chorus, Seattle Men’s Chorus, and Vancouver Men’s Chorus represent my tribe at its best. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“The Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me” is the title of a song from Sondheim’s final Broadway musical. <i>Road Show</i> tells the story of colourful brothers Addison Mizner and Wilson Mizner from the Klondike gold rush through the Florida real estate scams of the 1920s. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Addison Mizner and Stephen Sondheim both were gay. Sondheim came from a generation that survived homophobic psychoanalysis, yet continued to take comfort from the closet for decades. The composer worked on this particular show for years as it evolved from </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Gold!</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> to </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Wise Guys</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> to </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Bounce</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> before finally opening as </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Road Show</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> in 2008. “The Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me” started out being sung by Wilson Mizner and his wife Nellie in </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Bounce</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">, but ended up as a comic love duet in </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Road Show</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> between Addison Mizner and his lover Hollis Bessemer. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After the Omicron covid variant temporarily shut down choirs once again, Vancouver Men’s Chorus gathered online for Zoom rehearsals and weekly fellowship. In January we watched the video of our 2018 concert “Gays of Our Lives,” which showcased songs from our communal history of activism and anger, pride marches and prejudice, loss and love. Sondheim was represented by “The Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You can find a recording of the song on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQp8Ri-0yAk">YouTube</a> by the actors who played Addison and Hollis in <i>Road Show</i> on Broadway. But my favourite version of “The Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me” will always be the duet between tenor David Browning and baritone Alex Burns, backed up by the rest of Vancouver Men’s Chorus.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSK7zfY9JoSdfEXswuejBxpNesF4KhjZ4ra36dSx3oic5UjeAJfNQwd0S91FruBoKz1OeAZOPjjcHfWsMEUilPT2_-1-O_lLVfdjRyDalwTy7wjw20lN0J4ql6HbfIdR7VDBNULOE2DdXCy2--z9NSH2bV2GN0022aAujn8hX2zNSxvoZ1jebjmig" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="997" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSK7zfY9JoSdfEXswuejBxpNesF4KhjZ4ra36dSx3oic5UjeAJfNQwd0S91FruBoKz1OeAZOPjjcHfWsMEUilPT2_-1-O_lLVfdjRyDalwTy7wjw20lN0J4ql6HbfIdR7VDBNULOE2DdXCy2--z9NSH2bV2GN0022aAujn8hX2zNSxvoZ1jebjmig" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I spent last Wednesday evening with my two favourite Ukrainian-Canadians: my sister-in-law Kyla Moojalwsky Leishman and VMC founder/conductor Willi Zwozdesky. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I saw Kyla while visiting my brother Doug on the spine floor at Vancouver General Hospital. Then I went to VMC rehearsal, where Willi conducted the entire chorus together in one room and off Zoom for the first time in two years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Willi grew up singing Ukrainian folk songs among immigrants on the Prairies before founding Canada’s first LGBT choir in 1981. At rehearsal on Wednesday, Willi handed out the sheet music for “Mnohiji Ljita,” which means “Many Years” in Ukrainian. It’s the celebration song Ukrainians sing at birthdays. Willi picked “Mnohiji Ljita” because we only had to learn two words repeated over and over. You sing the song twice at normal speed, then a third time very slowly and dramatically.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like every other Ukrainian folk song, “Mnohiji Ljita” usually sounds either like Rachmaninov’s Vespers sung by the Yale Slavic Chorus as a soundtrack to the classic Soviet-era silent movie<i> Battleship Potemkin</i>, or like a vodka-infused group of soldiers linking arms in a Kyiv pub. Sung in four-part harmony by 100 voices from a chorus that survived one plague as a band of brothers only to be silenced temporarily by a new pandemic, “Mnohiji Ljita” sounds like Hope.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJRJzdf3DYnLJI-q7ioC77o9sZSm60Ku3YiseDF0IwO0sTTgUpNzyKfWPxW7LnC5jep3EyeX9WQ3P9Drv_HXsT7RPQBn1RwRN01WXIx4ubF29agyKvOfGyRIOhktDeY4pxcEG8ecM88Bh4ni-X9OantW02yE-m4v0ZpGvQYFE5bYmNDUtRLnzCCt8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJRJzdf3DYnLJI-q7ioC77o9sZSm60Ku3YiseDF0IwO0sTTgUpNzyKfWPxW7LnC5jep3EyeX9WQ3P9Drv_HXsT7RPQBn1RwRN01WXIx4ubF29agyKvOfGyRIOhktDeY4pxcEG8ecM88Bh4ni-X9OantW02yE-m4v0ZpGvQYFE5bYmNDUtRLnzCCt8" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In addition to our first real VMC rehearsal in two years, the recent liberalization of BC’s covid restrictions also meant that after rehearsal a group of us were able to gather for drinks at our longstanding watering hole <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/03/MinivanDad.html">PumpJack</a>. (Sadly, <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/09/TooMuchShowtuneLove.html">showtune singalong night</a> remains homeless and on indefinite hiatus.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While at PumpJack I chatted with Xavi, a fellow Second Tenor who also happens to be a regular reader of my blog. When I asked him which kinds of anecdotes he prefers, Xavi voted for Gay Sitcom Dad. So over a couple of ginger-infused cidres I regaled him with unprintable stories from my less than fabulous life. Before heading for the border, I thanked Xavi and told him I couldn’t remember the last time I had the opportunity to talk to someone who wasn’t named “Leishman” or “Bear.” (Xavi realizes Bear is the name of my dog, not my porn fantasy.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At rehearsal last week we got copies of the new songs for our June concert that VMC’s stable of arrangers completed during the pandemic. “Chosen Family” is by Rina Sawayama, a Japanese woman who lives in Britain. (Here’s a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTDRg5G77x4">YouTube link</a> to her singing it as a duet with Elton John.) The lyrics include “We don’t need to be related to relate, we don’t need to share genes or a surname – you are my chosen family.” The best things that ever happened to me are my biological, adoptive, and chosen families. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhF2n1BMvvpQoezlRkYYLYORNu3iR1hyVjFDptJdchJ5AFL3ul5m7wQnf5YUYnTTgH8if5o2QLXryrnffrL0dFqjS2fFjV5Q5zni9dzBKfP7YfEDwopUv-1ePbsMzXqJTyRjBO6jqDlQoq73eL7XIxK241Fd-eXeOQyzAA-4wLLNlDxBkHy5AhKzNo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhF2n1BMvvpQoezlRkYYLYORNu3iR1hyVjFDptJdchJ5AFL3ul5m7wQnf5YUYnTTgH8if5o2QLXryrnffrL0dFqjS2fFjV5Q5zni9dzBKfP7YfEDwopUv-1ePbsMzXqJTyRjBO6jqDlQoq73eL7XIxK241Fd-eXeOQyzAA-4wLLNlDxBkHy5AhKzNo" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-size-adjust: auto;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1EBVHtJj_j05R6i5-xBt4Xcfxz5uIJ7lKuijhRlXCrfcLhSK5XXFjLZBSWwq0EDHZZHIo9yWegxWiP8zSJFaVpuZQb5r-wSNvPHYsRE6l97DtiYdgMwtqz6EdRWjflSrWNW-zfP_0OHKgyoZUixCXBk0-Z6RGupaFnvzR5LG9fo7ARrC_2NDDp_c" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1EBVHtJj_j05R6i5-xBt4Xcfxz5uIJ7lKuijhRlXCrfcLhSK5XXFjLZBSWwq0EDHZZHIo9yWegxWiP8zSJFaVpuZQb5r-wSNvPHYsRE6l97DtiYdgMwtqz6EdRWjflSrWNW-zfP_0OHKgyoZUixCXBk0-Z6RGupaFnvzR5LG9fo7ARrC_2NDDp_c" width="180" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="-webkit-standard" style="color: #0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /></div>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-6122730291680652712022-02-27T07:03:00.016-08:002022-02-27T18:01:01.523-08:00Nurses are Fiercer than Drag Queens<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPYZjLBS4OujI5xZBaAjulSSomqFJ528aF_tj41ok5kM2qBC2ZInY1kT4HIJEh6sqzFTkzk6HXz5F0-pM9wCtCC7uJln7X9fn-F03x2vXwzFjpPotiXW5pHmbCmiOU3moiMcO-BBS2f6noDe2leaQI2DYUWAqAhWIuLxVvxKpoIiBnJnYgptGUQZY=s3000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2387" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPYZjLBS4OujI5xZBaAjulSSomqFJ528aF_tj41ok5kM2qBC2ZInY1kT4HIJEh6sqzFTkzk6HXz5F0-pM9wCtCC7uJln7X9fn-F03x2vXwzFjpPotiXW5pHmbCmiOU3moiMcO-BBS2f6noDe2leaQI2DYUWAqAhWIuLxVvxKpoIiBnJnYgptGUQZY=s320" width="255" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As we inch towards a post-pandemic New Normal, the entire Vancouver Men’s Chorus is finally gathering to rehearse together again on Wednesday evenings. Our June show on Granville Island, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T,” will be a salute to women’s music. We started learning the same songs two years ago, before the coronavirus pandemic silenced choirs and closed the Canadian border for the first time since the War of 1812.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>The week before the border closure, I was in Vancouver for VMC’s annual fundraiser “Singing Can Be a Drag.” I’ve never done drag myself. Instead, </span>I was a volunteer usher.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>In addition to avoiding high heels, prior to February 2020 I </span>also<span> had never lost consciousness. The last thing I remember about the drag show is the lights dimming at the beginning of the queens’ performance. I’m told I fainted and fell down the stairs backstage soon afterwards. A</span>s I wrote in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/03/FallingDrag.html">Falling Can be a Drag</a>,” <span>I still can't remember anything from the rest of the night, including the hot fireman who arrived to minister to me after someone called 9-1-1. (Inevitably, VMC President and uberextrovert Yogi Omar ended up with the medic</span>’<span>s telephone number.)</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Back home in Bellingham the next day, I woke up feeling sore all over without knowing why. When I returned Yogi’s frantic “how are you feeling???” text, I discovered what happened the night before. So I drove across town to the walk-in clinic. After the nurses heard my story, they made me walk across the parking lot to the Emergency Room at Saint Joseph’s Hospital for an ECG and CT scan. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>None of the tests revealed anything abnormal. My excellent physician <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/09/FootWhisperer.html">Dr. Heuristic</a> eventually concluded the episode was a stress-related manifestation of my disability, triggered by particularly intense emotional experiences. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p></div><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDIx3vDf-h9pN_wrF-X7aL3SJumhHzFCFQiYb1MjVKbYXsOQGkAkKroepaDBK0lno-U-P86mj1IBpNFpceGtYzQqXTM8fGgMHp9p8M3RKlovtuoEZ-msYiggcm8MHC-7O9mKxV0nmkQ/s1600/Hedda+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="647" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDIx3vDf-h9pN_wrF-X7aL3SJumhHzFCFQiYb1MjVKbYXsOQGkAkKroepaDBK0lno-U-P86mj1IBpNFpceGtYzQqXTM8fGgMHp9p8M3RKlovtuoEZ-msYiggcm8MHC-7O9mKxV0nmkQ/s320/Hedda+copy.jpg" width="294" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A random convergence of legal, medical, family, and financial crises made the last few days my most stressful and triggering week ever. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>On Wednesday I was in Vancouver on my way to chorus rehearsal when </span>I lost consciousness for the second time in my life<span>. However, instead of drag queens, this time I had the good or bad luck of fainting in front of a couple of nurses while visiting my brother on the spine floor at Vancouver General Hospital. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeql8uOFNota5FqzwRWggc_BN1ROj4RDwRwEbMylEjo3Lh-NlPG9xbOz6P4k4qqQCLdWsgZK8Z8BnRB2CRFoXJ5JZQ6FERdXcuD2M0LPYPBmS4oayvu2VRp47CUajrLma5UckA3y_XlN8RDhoK9fFUPEUHu6dAweNd0VQ7nsxiDHOEypJBoMUg6rM=s2048" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeql8uOFNota5FqzwRWggc_BN1ROj4RDwRwEbMylEjo3Lh-NlPG9xbOz6P4k4qqQCLdWsgZK8Z8BnRB2CRFoXJ5JZQ6FERdXcuD2M0LPYPBmS4oayvu2VRp47CUajrLma5UckA3y_XlN8RDhoK9fFUPEUHu6dAweNd0VQ7nsxiDHOEypJBoMUg6rM=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Leishman Brothers: Brian (lung cancer survivor); Roger (PTSD); Warren (bald); Doug (spine cancer)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My next younger brother Doug was diagnosed with spine cancer five years ago after back pain revealed an inoperable tumor. As the heaviest Leishman brother, Doug was defensive about failing to notice a grapefruit-sized lump in his pelvis: “They’re big bones!” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Despite many challenges, Doug is blessed with the best family in the world, marvelous medical providers, and Canada’s sane healthcare system. He was able to walk my eldest niece down the aisle at her wedding two summers ago. Since then, Doug has spent most of his time bed-ridden at home in British Columbia. This month he was airlifted to VGH for nine hours of emergency surgery after a growing neck tumor paralyzed his upper body. The surgery went well, and Doug is learning how live with a wheelchair. </span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPaOny0BnSjLnbsymh6L1HRkpJyMXNXRJcvXrbKCfhYMA1xyQF0r90Y73WibPLbAd6zAtdiP02LXq3brPsvbnmTM4ev2ei7K_XU694wBeYX5lV18gvCcuM4UEXBg7nznlOx9z-HDn4dJXnXAvOInR9O8nyxaG-kVD7_3gCCHyeyJ-hfPB-6J8TmZc=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPaOny0BnSjLnbsymh6L1HRkpJyMXNXRJcvXrbKCfhYMA1xyQF0r90Y73WibPLbAd6zAtdiP02LXq3brPsvbnmTM4ev2ei7K_XU694wBeYX5lV18gvCcuM4UEXBg7nznlOx9z-HDn4dJXnXAvOInR9O8nyxaG-kVD7_3gCCHyeyJ-hfPB-6J8TmZc=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our family has observed numerous parallels and contrasts as my brother faced cancer at the same time as I was learning to live with mental illness on the other side of the border. Last Wednesday, I arrived late to visit Doug in the hospital after spending my morning writing a particularly stressful letter to the State’s lawyers in response to their continuing refusal to acknowledge that I have a disability. My stress was further exacerbated by the fact that the judge in my lawsuit against the Governor’s Office had scheduled an inevitably triggering hearing for Friday morning. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While visiting my brother’s hospital room and listening to a discussion of pain management, I became lightheaded and collapsed to the floor in front of two nurses. I thought it was just a low blood sugar moment. The nurses quickly placed me in a wheelchair and gave me apple juice. I was pale and clammy, with a slow heart rate, but still alert. Until yesterday, I’d never had an even slightly elevated blood pressure reading – I inherited my father’s high cholesterol, not my mother’s hypertension. However, one of the VGH staff said she had never before seen a blood pressure reading where both the numbers had three digits. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Other than losing consciousness in the wheelchair after they checked my vital signs, this time I remember the rest of the experience. Despite the melodramatic interruption, Doug said it was educational to watch me pass out. My sister-in-law told us I looked just like my brother when he overdoses on morphine. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpwVvZw7wfD_hSoUJKotPZcVg9Q4TobvxgYE-c48XXm5YebBaZpm8_5qUembYEYPtvs6lYm0h_21O5CVn3n5pafnFarU4hfb5QeRDVxsjZDjnxA3s6f9gIF_bGVKxwZel30mFzHxJ4kQiTQaOJ_ulUxSvY8hGhO11QLQB-FqlMSqPkA-2qvQDrREs=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpwVvZw7wfD_hSoUJKotPZcVg9Q4TobvxgYE-c48XXm5YebBaZpm8_5qUembYEYPtvs6lYm0h_21O5CVn3n5pafnFarU4hfb5QeRDVxsjZDjnxA3s6f9gIF_bGVKxwZel30mFzHxJ4kQiTQaOJ_ulUxSvY8hGhO11QLQB-FqlMSqPkA-2qvQDrREs=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are both advantages and disadvantages to passing out in a hospital. Rather than attend chorus rehearsal, I spent Wednesday evening at Vancouver General being tested and observed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once I regained consciousness, one of my brother’s nurses insisted on wheeling me through a backstage maze to the ER waiting room. By the time she handed me over to the triage nurse my vital signs had all returned to normal. A technician wired me up for a quick ECG and assured me my heart looked fine. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At this point they took away my wheelchair and sent me back to the ER waiting room, where I found my efficient sister-in-law on the phone finding me a place to stay overnight. Then the nice Canadian nurses tricked us. They led me down a hall to finally get my insurance information, something that happens much earlier in the process in the States. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It could have been another triggering situation – trying to communicate about a stressful topic through a plexiglass screen while wearing masks. Fortunately, although English was not her first language, this was hardly the first time she had filled out the paperwork for an unfortunate American finding himself trapped in the province’s largest hospital. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Trapped” is the right word. After I signed a bunch of forms without reading them, she led me alone through a new set of doors to the secret inner waiting room.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQANsMvbN6Snr2nQE42VpwSUMvCUiq5Hby5gS2jCkPpjBT30nCjShtQ9i0e_vvMR8DLuD49omkOLd9GvtUvgqmnXnpqxiysvoWEP7Lc4wFSmtBlUzggIuvYHA6yZ3ZwpnpnWD6GMCFaQP0_A2SrWRmDvUPoe8fQ0Gu318Y3raZ1v-Wf7obkmfPivo=s2228" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2228" data-original-width="2153" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQANsMvbN6Snr2nQE42VpwSUMvCUiq5Hby5gS2jCkPpjBT30nCjShtQ9i0e_vvMR8DLuD49omkOLd9GvtUvgqmnXnpqxiysvoWEP7Lc4wFSmtBlUzggIuvYHA6yZ3ZwpnpnWD6GMCFaQP0_A2SrWRmDvUPoe8fQ0Gu318Y3raZ1v-Wf7obkmfPivo=w193-h200" width="193" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Someone politely drew a few vials of blood. I texted my sister-in-law and told her I’d been kidnapped. Then I found a chair in a waiting room filled with sniffling children, Asian grandmas, and moaning hockey players. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I looked at my new surroundings, I took a picture of the sign above the chair directly across from me. It asked: “Do you struggle with opioid use?” Ironically, this is what the nurses were talking about in my brother’s hospital room when I fainted. As Doug says, the best thing about having cancer is that even in the middle of a fentanyl public health crisis you get as much morphine as you need. Too much, in fact.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8DwBKto0zoQXxasAqiUs2H65owdLoYeeYFXgOR8dFgvKnF3c_pt3-2ySRTs7BxNSG6SC2Y4RjF5JWFgxRiiJ5AicmhzVR0CMSn6-G1gSYrbzCiJKFO0jrHS4NLkvPw7R2UWSYC4GBOgwbmzZIg7paz9QIGJOHX9E0D9mmHfLxvmZIrUD5BfLNYzg=s3132" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3132" data-original-width="2981" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8DwBKto0zoQXxasAqiUs2H65owdLoYeeYFXgOR8dFgvKnF3c_pt3-2ySRTs7BxNSG6SC2Y4RjF5JWFgxRiiJ5AicmhzVR0CMSn6-G1gSYrbzCiJKFO0jrHS4NLkvPw7R2UWSYC4GBOgwbmzZIg7paz9QIGJOHX9E0D9mmHfLxvmZIrUD5BfLNYzg=s320" width="305" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually I got a text back from my sister-in-law saying “Wrong number.” Apparently her contact information in my iPhone was out of date. Unfortunately, this was also the only phone number I’d given to the hospital staff.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately, I was finally able to reach my parents. They hadn’t answered my previous calls because they were busy driving my college freshman nephew to the ER in Bellingham. (He had a concussion. I still haven</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t heard that story.) I tried to obtain my sister-in-law’s actual phone number from my mother without sounding too alarming.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As a single parent, I’ve already spent too many hours in waiting rooms with a dying iPhone battery and nothing to do, eat, </span>write, <span style="font-family: inherit;">or read. Eventually I got bored and blew up the photo I’d taken of the “Welcome to the VGH Emergency Department” poster: </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFN9b6NCaAAMkV9RMWSdXQZiZi9z1wsMpxaBLrEKoAN_bzR7wjVoXrz3UgEBnTxfGkiuUWBbTqcFUIixcUWfL_KU0HrqyoKcjzC05fhNoFMzLekNGvuB4PNsxDAVHvowYkfd9iUXeP2_tw0fIS1lCFDEgl9qqxgNeqgMBOktiPcn4iXYuDvBq7kFs=s1260" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="892" data-original-width="1260" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFN9b6NCaAAMkV9RMWSdXQZiZi9z1wsMpxaBLrEKoAN_bzR7wjVoXrz3UgEBnTxfGkiuUWBbTqcFUIixcUWfL_KU0HrqyoKcjzC05fhNoFMzLekNGvuB4PNsxDAVHvowYkfd9iUXeP2_tw0fIS1lCFDEgl9qqxgNeqgMBOktiPcn4iXYuDvBq7kFs=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Modern technology is amazing. As directed by the poster on the wall, I clicked on the link “edwaittimes.ca” and discovered the current wait time for each emergency room in British Columbia. Unsurprisingly, Vancouver General Hospital has the largest and slowest casualty department in the province:</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhYL7m2szezJj0ZYpyMmC5LUYq8QupBIfSfZSaksYCYHSq0JIEpNJJPXaKTn_pdvIeMeT08yPQx-EX2k2YwYtwXzpJ6cRrjMVLhlNkrp9CJ8cCk-IYorhGl7RDrBbw_TjQjfHu_oyluZLYOmZNSte7tj3_dzRa8cnRJivGO6C1R37kWAP-zhjUkz4=s2242" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2242" data-original-width="1272" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhYL7m2szezJj0ZYpyMmC5LUYq8QupBIfSfZSaksYCYHSq0JIEpNJJPXaKTn_pdvIeMeT08yPQx-EX2k2YwYtwXzpJ6cRrjMVLhlNkrp9CJ8cCk-IYorhGl7RDrBbw_TjQjfHu_oyluZLYOmZNSte7tj3_dzRa8cnRJivGO6C1R37kWAP-zhjUkz4=w228-h400" width="228" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">According to the website, I could expect to wait four hours and thirty-two minutes before getting my lab results and seeing a doctor. Perhaps coincidentally, I could expect to wait four hours and thirty-two minutes before escaping from VGH. I was almost halfway there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meanwhile, I hadn’t eaten for six hours. I could sense actual hypoglycemia on the horizon. VMC rehearsal was about to start without me. I was crabby. I’d left my library book, laptop, and phone charger in the car, which by now was illegally parked. My sister-in-law texted with an offer to bring me a snack from the hospital vending machines. I told her I’d been through enough triggering experiences for one Wednesday. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><br /></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaIWrx42rUyD_JSQiPkMIbxeqN2nMOybD7_eGT2PI6dzILeZSjsZeRF_AY-X9kEyfmDrffHHOvQbzwp5MqPtqB3CYdcKz3SVbHiLuta2UdGOm14zJz0YpcSe9b4ovb03syMk5aRg3flg/s1600/IMG_4070.JPG" style="font-family: Times; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1430" data-original-width="1600" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaIWrx42rUyD_JSQiPkMIbxeqN2nMOybD7_eGT2PI6dzILeZSjsZeRF_AY-X9kEyfmDrffHHOvQbzwp5MqPtqB3CYdcKz3SVbHiLuta2UdGOm14zJz0YpcSe9b4ovb03syMk5aRg3flg/s320/IMG_4070.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was tricked into walking across the parking lot </span>from<span style="font-family: inherit;"> the </span>Bellingham walk-in clinic <span style="font-family: inherit;">to the Emergency Room two years ago, the American nurses promptly put me into a hideous hospital gown and hooked me up to a heart monitor. Armed guards surrounding the hospital campus prevented any thought of escape.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everything is better in Canada. Despite my sister-in-law’s maternal sighs, I went AWOL. I used the last of my colorful foreign money to buy an invigorating milkshake and fries at Johnny Rocket’s. Then I moved my car to a nearby parking spot, grabbed my backpack, and snuck back into the ER treatment waiting room. No one noticed I was gone.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLULNH1BnzsoIa3wgjK3DFf-XN_7UL7Q9ob7QKrVcHfHzik2B_Iynd7nRrvMF5qSShypuY5V2GtLMksC2IYntL3BjRPtck5EJpRWswMKlDeYKyhog9IlA455oQRmDq9LXUL-I5sJhgnnjdQnMRQ7MKG2bfYqSNmlCVP9oKQhc6UGXl5wbm2GPCFOo=s2476" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2476" data-original-width="2153" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLULNH1BnzsoIa3wgjK3DFf-XN_7UL7Q9ob7QKrVcHfHzik2B_Iynd7nRrvMF5qSShypuY5V2GtLMksC2IYntL3BjRPtck5EJpRWswMKlDeYKyhog9IlA455oQRmDq9LXUL-I5sJhgnnjdQnMRQ7MKG2bfYqSNmlCVP9oKQhc6UGXl5wbm2GPCFOo=s320" width="278" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Drunk on chocolate milkshake and library books but completely sane and sober, </span>eventually<span> I decided it was time to drive home to my children. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After more than five hours had passed, I went to the nurses’ station </span>to tell them<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I was invoking the Geneva Convention and returning to the States. They pulled up my chart and pointed out I hadn’t seen a doctor yet. I promised to turn myself in to my physician in Bellingham. I asked if my bloodwork had come back. The nurse said it looked fine. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>After I self-helped myself to discharge from the ER, I found my way through the hospital maze back to the spine floor. My brother and sister-in-law were on the phone with my oldest niece and her wholesome BYU husband. Their baby is due this week. Last month her brother and his </span>wholesome<span> BYU wife passed them by producing the first great-grandchildren</span> <span>– identical twin boys. </span><span>Despite the tragicomic plagues that beset us, my family is eternally blessed.</span><span> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAdCwmctcVYZlOtwjAQkvWHEwb23t9WXmL71IKxl4FgXxaiTkqrXdOAVj_CxedufOlR2pe6m4Z535-1hzRWlybjrXEzY6-mdp1lJSyWKZ9yI7bRvL8ZlzYIG2xJDyW9Ku0HBud3gqlhA/s1600/IMG_3802.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAdCwmctcVYZlOtwjAQkvWHEwb23t9WXmL71IKxl4FgXxaiTkqrXdOAVj_CxedufOlR2pe6m4Z535-1hzRWlybjrXEzY6-mdp1lJSyWKZ9yI7bRvL8ZlzYIG2xJDyW9Ku0HBud3gqlhA/s320/IMG_3802.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So far I’ve been to five Canadian province (British Columbia, Alberta, Quebec, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia). How many states have I visited?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Business travel and multiple cross-country moves got me to the low forties. Then a decade ago I represented the Gay Softball World Series in a First Amendment case that involved deposing LGBT athletes across the nation. On just one trip I crossed off Arkansas, Mississippi, and Georgia. I also changed planes in Birmingham, but never left the airport. After my law school twenty-five year reunion in 2015, I rented a car and finally road tripped to Vermont, which brought me to forty-nine states. Fifty if you count Alabama.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In my first blog essay about our family’s devotion to the PeaceHealth walk-in clinic, “<a href="So far I’ve been to five Canadian province (British Columbia, Alberta, Quebec, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia). How many states have I visited? Business travel and multiple cross-country moves got me to the low forties long ago. Then a decade ago I represented the Gay Softball World Series in a First Amendment case that involved deposing LGBT athletes across the nation. On one trip I crossed off Arkansas, Mississippi, and Georgia. I also changed planes in Birmingham, but never left the airport. After my law school twenty-five year reunion in 2015, I rented a car and finally road tripped to Vermont, which brought me to forty-nine states. Fifty if you count Alabama. In my first blog essay about our family’s devotion to the PeaceHealth walk-in clinic, “Dr. Practical,” this is what I presciently wrote: I've managed to avoid hospitals for fifty-five years. In particular, as long as I retain any voluntary muscle function, I’m never going to be sick enough to go to an emergency room. Fortunately, being surrounding by loving family means that if really needed medical assistance, someone will take me to the ER as soon as I lose consciousness. Then the ER stops being an indefensibly profligate expense. Six months later, a gaggle of Canadian drag queens pushed me down the stairs. The next morning the nurses at the walk-in clinic tricked me into walking across the parking lot to the Emergency Room to get my heart and brain examined. At the American ER they stripped me and tied me to a hospital bed. This week the Canadian nurses were much nicer. Still, they were the ones who wheeled me to the ER. If that counts as “going to an emergency room,” then I think I’ve also visited all 50 states.">Dr. Practical</a>,” this is what I presciently wrote:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've managed to avoid hospitals for fifty-five years. In particular, as long as I retain any voluntary muscle function, I’m never going to be sick enough to go to an emergency room. Fortunately, being surrounding by loving family means that if I really needed medical assistance, someone will take me to the ER as soon as I lose consciousness. Then the ER stops being an indefensibly profligate expense. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Six months later, a gaggle of Canadian drag queens pushed me down the stairs. The next morning the nurses at the walk-in clinic tricked me into walking across the parking lot to the Emergency Room to get my heart and brain examined. At the American ER, they stripped me and tied me to a hospital bed. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This week the Canadian nurses were much nicer. Still, they were the ones who wheeled me to the ER after I lost consciousness, with my brother and sister-in-law egging them on. If that counts as “going to an emergency room,” then I’ve also been to Alabama and get to cross off all 50 states.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzufV3dt5KYgzlQtqh7Sw0kA2FMRS4qoJcRuOjUdz8xNxIQhVsQkhiOF_ZUr0-weYpLYrK438tAdpML8za-lcqpCHk6qUnwrQWXXm2RR1q17CXTeXdET7zN5YOm6tMS1PD6sjl5M9WubC1BGZ4P04YPildnPt6WF-a9ZL_6kclUFn69_SYf_XGWOM=s606" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="606" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzufV3dt5KYgzlQtqh7Sw0kA2FMRS4qoJcRuOjUdz8xNxIQhVsQkhiOF_ZUr0-weYpLYrK438tAdpML8za-lcqpCHk6qUnwrQWXXm2RR1q17CXTeXdET7zN5YOm6tMS1PD6sjl5M9WubC1BGZ4P04YPildnPt6WF-a9ZL_6kclUFn69_SYf_XGWOM=s320" width="173" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-75369804465708951452022-02-20T11:19:00.008-08:002022-02-20T20:21:02.449-08:00SEEKING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikZJmuvYfaoX8DI0x3RLU9SlDFiXQJyY4EdvnXKGxexPbcds1hKQVZKi_p__eYTfoLUEcHh-n4g_R7h7akW8v4Ri4v9H1Sz53qYr89xYxbXuAkkMlwPABVyIKL04sC6XImhZrtr-KFVj7LlJ6mbHLvgwhOwqYLqgnQmpKw4mlEAVFGenToCAt3N-w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1655" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikZJmuvYfaoX8DI0x3RLU9SlDFiXQJyY4EdvnXKGxexPbcds1hKQVZKi_p__eYTfoLUEcHh-n4g_R7h7akW8v4Ri4v9H1Sz53qYr89xYxbXuAkkMlwPABVyIKL04sC6XImhZrtr-KFVj7LlJ6mbHLvgwhOwqYLqgnQmpKw4mlEAVFGenToCAt3N-w" width="243" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We live next door to Washington’s third largest university. Unsurprisingly, on our walks Bear and I frequently encounter nerds.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The other day we ran into a young man on campus in obvious need of a dog fix. As he gave Bear a glorious tummy rub, the student exclaimed “He has heterochromia!” That’s an impressive nerd word – Bear was indeed born with two different colored eyes. My kids picked Bear out of the litter because of his soulful blue eye and his earnest brown eye.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After the Western student finally tore himself away from his canine cuddle, he asked whether Bear is an Aussiedoodle. Another remarkable nerd display. When I ask how he guessed the correct breed, he said it was because he observed Bear exploring the world. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7MI1MfMXuT6Xt6PvlRoTMU9uB1BZE0ed7tSD5d0t_yfHiIY2rbYgWtutpGZBSTTsNIuPVJkxKPVMRwm2VvatZzWbc5bOZYw6gQFXswAwOHTen8Gbx-AtMdu4VtU4yOG76UlZzq_DH4Cp5SDqxz3_1MjnuRrdHr7dgVAe1miMY9JPyiXrgfFrQW1g" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7MI1MfMXuT6Xt6PvlRoTMU9uB1BZE0ed7tSD5d0t_yfHiIY2rbYgWtutpGZBSTTsNIuPVJkxKPVMRwm2VvatZzWbc5bOZYw6gQFXswAwOHTen8Gbx-AtMdu4VtU4yOG76UlZzq_DH4Cp5SDqxz3_1MjnuRrdHr7dgVAe1miMY9JPyiXrgfFrQW1g" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">Heterochromia is less noticeable with Tina Turner bangs</span><span style="text-align: start;"></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In her book <i>Animals Make Us Human</i>, autistic animal husbandry expert Temple Grandin reminds us humans are animals too, with brains that evolved over millions of years. Grandin uses the model of brain function described by neuroscientist Jaak Panksepp four decades ago in his research on the neural bases of emotion. Panksepp identified seven primal emotions. Grandin follows Panksepp’s custom of labeling each in allcaps: CARE, FEAR, LUST, PANIC, PLAY, RAGE, and SEEKING.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">CARE is the emotion underlying parental love. LUST fuels sex and sexual desire. PANIC (or GRIEF) signals distress to an animal’s “social attachment system,” and “probably evolved from physical pain.” The separate emotion of RAGE evolved from animals’ experience of being captured and held immobile by a predator. According to Grandin, “frustration is a mild form of RAGE that is sparked by mental restraint when you can’t do something you’re trying to do.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In contrast with PANIC and RAGE, the core emotion PLAY “produces feelings of joy.” As I wrote in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/05/PLAYOn.html">PLAY On!</a>,” the same neural pathways that inspire Bear and Buster to boisterously frolic at the off-leash park became the foundation for quintessentially human urges like art and music. All seven of Panksepp’s categories represent very human emotions whose effects can also be observed in other animals. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfR9KKhFFPeJgo0c2CLqEarq0MF4Idj5z5SfMxe0AqE6q5zuekbbtHTuoSoxlaVe9ERmHdszXcC00YIaX9ZIaaO0x-NyQDjz3SSahD_X1p1xDi2HjHTv-2dI2jtS7n91HSZ9w9UrB9EjO7wOt66o-77ZGRR2y9Rn_3Fzs7j4CIgUv1lhDyLT8lJV8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1921" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfR9KKhFFPeJgo0c2CLqEarq0MF4Idj5z5SfMxe0AqE6q5zuekbbtHTuoSoxlaVe9ERmHdszXcC00YIaX9ZIaaO0x-NyQDjz3SSahD_X1p1xDi2HjHTv-2dI2jtS7n91HSZ9w9UrB9EjO7wOt66o-77ZGRR2y9Rn_3Fzs7j4CIgUv1lhDyLT8lJV8" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In Panksepp’s model of animal brain evolution, SEEKING is the core emotion associated with curiosity and novelty. It’s the aspect of Bear’s Australian shepherd heritage that drives him to explore the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">An animal’s SEEKING impulse may be in tension with FEAR, another primal emotion that is necessary for survival in a dangerous and mysterious world. According to Grandin, “at least a portion of the healthy amygdala acts as if it has an anxiety disorder – searching for threat in response to uncertainty…. The single most important factor determining whether a new thing is more interesting than scary is whether the animal has control over whether to approach the subject.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Grandin suggests FEAR and SEEKING “may operate like different-sized weights put on the opposite ends of a balance scale.” I agree that personality statistics for human or animal populations would probably show an inverse correlation between curiosity and dread. Nevertheless, FEAR and SEEKING represent separate emotional drives. For example, Buster is much too dim-witted for sophisticated FEAR or SEEKING behavior. (Instead, Buster is a bundle of the <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/02/Buster.html">tics and awkwardness</a> associated with PANIC disorders.) Buster invariably leaps out of the car into traffic, yet seldom strays far from his human monitor.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In contrast, Bear is smart enough to balance both caution and curiosity.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYwXg7S_rmDxIQhEaurg8jw3dUjMd02U6FmR-KWjmPIEnr15kjn_qKjj6dvy7G_llIUaQEv8lxKBgXrjleETgKDQV8_pyxjyO5cK5Z0fLAzF94Mhw8PjRXbuxnsQtLo9-Oi13F0lkYqQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYwXg7S_rmDxIQhEaurg8jw3dUjMd02U6FmR-KWjmPIEnr15kjn_qKjj6dvy7G_llIUaQEv8lxKBgXrjleETgKDQV8_pyxjyO5cK5Z0fLAzF94Mhw8PjRXbuxnsQtLo9-Oi13F0lkYqQ/" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last year I read several excellent books about how our brains process probabilities, choices, disappointment, and uncertainty. My upcoming blog essay “How Lucky Can You Get?” dives into these topics, including some of the insights from my favourite book of 2021,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>What are the Chances? Why We Believe in Luck</i>, by neuroscientist and statistician Barbara Blatchley. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">According to Blatchley</span><i style="font-family: inherit;">,</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Luck is the way you face the randomness in the world. If we are open to it, accepting, not anxious or afraid, willing to learn from mistakes and to change a losing game, we can benefit from randomness. We can gain a modicum of control over this aspect of life, even if we can't control the universe on a large scale. Randomness will happen no matter what we do—chaos theory rules in our universe. Knowing how to roll with the punches; now that's lucky.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blatchley analyzes <a href="https://www.wealest.com/articles/four-kinds-of-luck">four kinds of luck</a> originally identified by Zen Buddhist neurologist James Austin in his 1978 book <i>Chase, Chance, and Creativity: The Lucky Art of Novelty</i>. Dr. Austin’s first type of luck occurs by pure chance. Type I or blind luck is “random and accidental; it occurs through no effort of our own and against all odds.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In contrast with Type I luck, Dr. Austin’s second type of chance, “luck in motion,” is exemplified by Bear’s SEEKING attitude. According to Dr. Austin, Type II luck “favors those who have a persistent curiosity about many things coupled with an energetic willingness to experiment and explore.”</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjLi5QHABqp20pMawIJl9b2el_vDAucofc-xK5DHp66S8oRTD_Un7dBpj9QdsDPovRSEcv77V8Z-FgWC3ku3CQ1F3vskSsxcJoQb-838gR3Sg5B-JTPDrkDqaqETvhpdnKQAt2KftAEhf2xvWnIjHbMTt_G74tgLXXfhmp_qZjhuXjSJcF3-TMOFI=s2845" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2845" data-original-width="2734" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjLi5QHABqp20pMawIJl9b2el_vDAucofc-xK5DHp66S8oRTD_Un7dBpj9QdsDPovRSEcv77V8Z-FgWC3ku3CQ1F3vskSsxcJoQb-838gR3Sg5B-JTPDrkDqaqETvhpdnKQAt2KftAEhf2xvWnIjHbMTt_G74tgLXXfhmp_qZjhuXjSJcF3-TMOFI=w385-h400" width="385" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last month Sehome High School put on its annual “24-Hour Play Festival.” On Friday night at 7 pm, four teams of writers arrived at the school to create new one-act plays overnight. The playwrights were assigned the same theme – “Keeping a secret</span>”<span style="font-family: inherit;"> – and the same location – “The Wilds.” At midnight the producers added a random twist: </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">“All plays must include the word </span><b style="font-family: inherit;">serendipity</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> and </span><b style="font-family: inherit;">a trophy</b><span style="font-family: inherit;">.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The tech crew, directors, and actors arrived Saturday morning and spent all day putting the four plays together before performing them Saturday evening. Eleanor was both a writer and an actor, which meant she stayed up for 46 hours straight. Their play “Crash Landing” presented a <i>Lost</i>-style jungle island mystery.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Serendip” is the ancient Sanskrit name of the island of Sri Lanka. The English word “serendipity” first appeared in a 1754 letter by novelist Horace Walpole, and referred to a Persian fairy tale, <i>The Three Princes of Serendip</i>. According to Walpole, the three princes were “always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of.” They deserved trophies for their discoveries. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That’s the difference between serendipity and mere fortuity: it is precisely because the Princes of Serendip were on a quest for something that they found something else.</span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0000ee;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq3vbI_4MA4P4G8m0rVZea_egOPTDkveTfw3Y51PNHaLam8kClY24WaOvpV9CmLZnRB7ZtIO6kvqYNTKmTVzqtiiQphej_x1FIynU7v6SHvoV4gZ08p9DMqRIBN6X5RlYzvB7OegYlegfQs_m_VldlYFFgbupJyaLi1Hbj5eLrABmZs3NDOJs1wJ4=s1920" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq3vbI_4MA4P4G8m0rVZea_egOPTDkveTfw3Y51PNHaLam8kClY24WaOvpV9CmLZnRB7ZtIO6kvqYNTKmTVzqtiiQphej_x1FIynU7v6SHvoV4gZ08p9DMqRIBN6X5RlYzvB7OegYlegfQs_m_VldlYFFgbupJyaLi1Hbj5eLrABmZs3NDOJs1wJ4=s320" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Bear, you are just like my father. And me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My Apple Watch transcribes my dialogues with Bear as we walk. That recent quotation came as Bear sniffed his way along the trail from the off-leash park to the beach. Bear enjoys playing catch and frolicking at the park. But soon it’s time to move on.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My father turned 82 last month. He regularly golfs, bowls on multiple teams, and plays bridge several times a week. Dad is endlessly curious, and always busy with something. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve never understood the attraction of golf, the alleged sport that is often described as “</span><a href="https://marktwainstudies.com/the-apocryphal-twain-gold-is-a-good-walk-spoiled/" style="font-family: inherit;">a good walk spoiled</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">.” I don’t need a pretext to be outdoors. I can just go for an unspoiled walk. But like my father and Bear, I have to keep going.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTVi_3OlpegE0wJziH6bPAVER9rXA_nkVslnTWDmI2tIyAN1ozKyc2ktBZmUqbtaO4JJGEy1_k2Up8POYgIoK1_BsxjCYbFZuwffTi3VPGNTDsupgrJ0x8fDqt_K3FJxPzsb2uo6AtHw/s1600/hamerblazer_01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="202" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTVi_3OlpegE0wJziH6bPAVER9rXA_nkVslnTWDmI2tIyAN1ozKyc2ktBZmUqbtaO4JJGEy1_k2Up8POYgIoK1_BsxjCYbFZuwffTi3VPGNTDsupgrJ0x8fDqt_K3FJxPzsb2uo6AtHw/s320/hamerblazer_01.jpg" width="142" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the Mormon church, the children’s program is called “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/07/PioneerChildren.html">Primary</a>.” When I was growing up, “Blazers” was the class for the oldest boys, just before turning twelve and graduating to Boy Scouts. You earned a glass medallion for your personal Blazer banner by memorizing and reciting each of the thirteen Articles of Faith, which are like a catechism of Mormons’ most basic beliefs. Obviously I had to earn every one. The most coveted medallion was for memorizing the Thirteenth Article of Faith, which was much longer than the other twelve. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 1976, I was the only boy in our class who could make it by memory all the way to the end of the Thirteen Article of Faith. I still can. It happens to be what I believe:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We believe in being honest, true,<br />chaste, benevolent, virtuous,<br />and in doing good to all men;<br />indeed, we may say that we follow<br />the admonition of Paul—<br />We believe all things,<br />we hope all things,<br />we have endured many things,<br />and hope to be able to endure all things.<br />If there is anything virtuous,<br />lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy,<br />we seek after these things.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Serendipity is the process of looking for something and finding something else. Nevertheless, what you’re seeking matters.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBEk6E2sh5arQ_nBa4QUMqa_ag83-gJp5ohcEqjEaIQADu8-OorQj6RkmI7C5gYMZ9x6I4io4U7jM698gn1vkeyxIotxas0G-e-oXOD6iYzi44f44qeldkiNMnhgQyRdwl6mEnXcBRCncXSd8Y59tUMbCK2_a-FS-NLNbtja8gN9-Z8SiPMNolLsE=s3458" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2399" data-original-width="3458" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBEk6E2sh5arQ_nBa4QUMqa_ag83-gJp5ohcEqjEaIQADu8-OorQj6RkmI7C5gYMZ9x6I4io4U7jM698gn1vkeyxIotxas0G-e-oXOD6iYzi44f44qeldkiNMnhgQyRdwl6mEnXcBRCncXSd8Y59tUMbCK2_a-FS-NLNbtja8gN9-Z8SiPMNolLsE=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calligraphy by 1980s Roger for the family room at his parents' house</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div></div><p><br /><br /></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-4647571065495057212022-02-10T18:24:00.017-08:002022-02-19T18:33:22.222-08:00SLOW DOWN MORE!!!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyZ0GSahYJx-wYdtU2Tc_E8E2pl4gsCAvgUxKU4gXKDnXc8zQDAhUahvKHI5_oI8ygf23vWSnFvpoYKQ42xYaG9xVNSASL-u5N6Xyhz0jw8ckx2dmMk9Zu-H0M4b2wSmVKeuZ3ZXK1A/s1600/Epur+tattoo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="600" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyZ0GSahYJx-wYdtU2Tc_E8E2pl4gsCAvgUxKU4gXKDnXc8zQDAhUahvKHI5_oI8ygf23vWSnFvpoYKQ42xYaG9xVNSASL-u5N6Xyhz0jw8ckx2dmMk9Zu-H0M4b2wSmVKeuZ3ZXK1A/s400/Epur+tattoo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t have any tattoos, mostly because I can</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t decide between a bust of Shakespeare, my children’s names, and my longtime motto <i><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/12/ConfirmationBias.html">e pur si muove</a></i>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, you may be surprised to find out I used to have a navel ring.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4eT-HS9Hn1PkS8sPw5ZkdUc4oLTepSR5TlRh8YWg97CWEO3tkBwzjGdCsUKOP-mIhTOBFmYikw7xkV2Xg3s4kzQ17diyCVTK5mNGHprJjnXdxeEbdv2K35rZc1ozCcV2s9V-5R98ZeaEnDNZptRZMKyhW3Mb0bch69YXSdCGSQk67zOBcXlxEpqQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1423" data-original-width="1374" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4eT-HS9Hn1PkS8sPw5ZkdUc4oLTepSR5TlRh8YWg97CWEO3tkBwzjGdCsUKOP-mIhTOBFmYikw7xkV2Xg3s4kzQ17diyCVTK5mNGHprJjnXdxeEbdv2K35rZc1ozCcV2s9V-5R98ZeaEnDNZptRZMKyhW3Mb0bch69YXSdCGSQk67zOBcXlxEpqQ=w193-h200" width="193" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As part of a minor midlife crisis, I got my belly button pierced for my 35th birthday. My boyfriend at the time, Skinny Pharmacist, researched the hygiene at various local establishments and supervised the piercing process. For the next decade I hid my secret identity under a T shirt.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtzqebTyf85OUI0TLQDyuznnm8LSpDszYn9h2GBnQ3V-w7nOI95obizzPwm08P2akVZesaGIGoww1T_BjOvARIKd2TRRaKjAff83zD1gw0O3qC3hIeMG_HiR42ZIe4Ys59m92ODVoDGXEnQ9JaItKInjIfcLIIMp8jwdh7ouTgoWIZrOvkEEh-Lfw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtzqebTyf85OUI0TLQDyuznnm8LSpDszYn9h2GBnQ3V-w7nOI95obizzPwm08P2akVZesaGIGoww1T_BjOvARIKd2TRRaKjAff83zD1gw0O3qC3hIeMG_HiR42ZIe4Ys59m92ODVoDGXEnQ9JaItKInjIfcLIIMp8jwdh7ouTgoWIZrOvkEEh-Lfw" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had to give up my belly button ring a few years ago because of my right foot. And my children.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Have you ever had a <a href="ttps://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/stress-fractures/symptoms-causes/syc-20354057">stress fracture</a>? They’re <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #111111;">tiny cracks in bones caused by repetitive force, often from overuse but sometimes from structural problems. A few years ago, back when I worked for a law firm that provided Cadillac health insurance, I had a stress fracture in my left foot. I wore an awkward isolating “boot” for a month as it healed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #111111;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few weeks later, I started to feel the same burning pain in my right foot. My Seattle doctor did two things. He sent me to a podiatrist who analyzed my feet and gait before prescribing some of the custom orthotic shoe inserts I still use. (My original inserts are held together with duct tape and relegated to my house slippers.) Because I experienced stress fractures twice in a row without noticing any particular jarring event, my doctor also ordered an MRI to find out whether I have the bone density of a little old lady.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #111111;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This was the only time I’ve even been inside a fancy imaging tube. Before the technician let Magneto do his work, she made me remove my navel ring, <a href="https://bodyartforms.com/blog/piercings-and-the-mri.asp ">just in case</a>. In the excitement I left the ring behind. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #111111;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Afterwards my children forbade me from buying a new one, so I let the piercing heal over. Apparently middle-aged parents with belly button rings are “gross.”</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeSUPKZBxdjJwGKjNA9YLc1xwjr1755y-_iUVjlp_TRphumZ5FC0VGXGoaQat8Alfd-SnHMdAndE3rwUikI96PAf4vhuSqA2w_L-1zJ37dDgrOPEzGYCpT9KEsd62zBzwqDwdRUOVxa68T6yPdV9E2IZKTJ2Cj7k736YYjU9HFl_Ln0VtXZgAObCw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeSUPKZBxdjJwGKjNA9YLc1xwjr1755y-_iUVjlp_TRphumZ5FC0VGXGoaQat8Alfd-SnHMdAndE3rwUikI96PAf4vhuSqA2w_L-1zJ37dDgrOPEzGYCpT9KEsd62zBzwqDwdRUOVxa68T6yPdV9E2IZKTJ2Cj7k736YYjU9HFl_Ln0VtXZgAObCw" width="180" /></a></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is not a stress fracture boot. It’s a “night guard.” Not the mouth night guard that used to ease the impact of </span>grinding my teeth<span style="font-family: inherit;">, before Buster chewed it. Instead, this is</span> the<span style="font-family: inherit;"> foot night guard I bought last year after my Bellingham physician <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/09/FootWhisperer.html">Dr. Heuristic</a> diagnosed me with “plantar fasciitis.” Your <i>plantar fascia </i>is the tendon on the bottom of your feet connecting your heel and toes. You know you have</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">plantar fasciitis if the heel pain is at its excruciating </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">worst first thing in the morning when you step out of bed, after your tendon curls up overnight. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It takes a few miles walking with Bear every day to keep both of us “functional.” Fortunately, with expert guidance from both Dr. Heuristic and the earnest folks at Fairhaven Runners & Walkers, I gradually learned to pace our walks and recover an effective equilibrium. Recently I’ve only needed to wear my plantar fasciitis night guard once or twice a week, on the days when Bear cons me into walking more than ten miles.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMXPzGvBF9oJF9qEPf2IsvMcZ0IepT3UJHye-wPCZFdDI4cZo3KBQH-KPbd5iHzEjTj5buLBhIcuL6c5wezFecNpGNeU0XhgQMToRoioVLb8v_PuEFz0zYYKBzkXjkXqm3dhoPX6lYmKpKzmH7RJHJyvVnk0bNlyD4KlazpdP4ev3idtQYwLsJYa4=s867" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="867" data-original-width="811" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMXPzGvBF9oJF9qEPf2IsvMcZ0IepT3UJHye-wPCZFdDI4cZo3KBQH-KPbd5iHzEjTj5buLBhIcuL6c5wezFecNpGNeU0XhgQMToRoioVLb8v_PuEFz0zYYKBzkXjkXqm3dhoPX6lYmKpKzmH7RJHJyvVnk0bNlyD4KlazpdP4ev3idtQYwLsJYa4=w299-h320" width="299" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A couple of weeks ago, I started feeling a familiar burning in my right foot. I recognized the signs of another stress fracture, but I wondered whether it was merely part of life with plantar fasciitis. Last Friday while the kids were at school I walked into our excellent PeaceHealth same-day clinic to find out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On this visit, I didn’t see our usual urgent care physician <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/06/DrPractical.html">Dr. Practical</a>. Instead, after having my foot X-rayed upstairs, I met with “Dr. Frank.” He tends to be the most candid of my healthcare providers. Dr. Frank immediately diagnosed a stress fracture, even though it didn’t show up on the X-rays. (They never do.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dr. Frank is also a power walker, so we sat and commiserated about chronic foot problems. Obviously my big question was how long Bear and I would be off the trails and stuck on the injured reserved list. Dr. Frank said his 17-year-old daughter recently suffered a similar stress fracture. (My daughter Eleanor was at the basketball game where it happened.) Dr. Frank said his daughter</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s foot was already better after resting for only a week. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At this point Dr. Frank got up from our tete-a-tete and walked over the computer station, muttering the words “fifty-seven-year-old man” under his breath. He grabbed the after-visit summary for “Foot Stress Fracture” from the printer. It said Bear and I should expect to forego long walks for six to eight weeks. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEie-UeuCiROBAphnb1PZd3AnM9SYifxFKKycxZE3cERKLJ4f_4eJbI6XwDSmlSHZWFWEHqFamw_OQZle0BuWRjl2-4pACKWn2h5QHZq2EPViC5CTAJeMYcK9Uw6VmDnyVOq6h_bDki9xksG7WRSfdkCvkfElO_5xmzZVd-ECKEGxVW6QymkXPpeVgM=s3572" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3572" data-original-width="2421" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEie-UeuCiROBAphnb1PZd3AnM9SYifxFKKycxZE3cERKLJ4f_4eJbI6XwDSmlSHZWFWEHqFamw_OQZle0BuWRjl2-4pACKWn2h5QHZq2EPViC5CTAJeMYcK9Uw6VmDnyVOq6h_bDki9xksG7WRSfdkCvkfElO_5xmzZVd-ECKEGxVW6QymkXPpeVgM=s320" width="217" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I wrote this week in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/02/SlowDown.html">SLOW DOWN!!!</a>,” lately I’ve made huge progress in learning how to slow down my writing and thinking processes. Finding the right pace helps accommodate the various limitations that PTSD and other stressors place on my Executive Function. Regular walks with Bear have become essential to achieving equilibrium.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Slow down” was supposed to be a metaphor. Living with a stress fracture already is a literal catastrophe. For </span>example<span style="font-family: inherit;">, because I can’t hop away from the computer often enough, I already feel twinges of karpal tunnel and </span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2017/11/TennisElbow.html" style="font-family: inherit;">tennis elbow</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">. Driving with a boot can be awkward. Bear is miserable. Hideous typos slip through the editing process. Life is a disaster.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our family has compensated in other ways. I’m getting more hugs. The kids are doing more dishes. I meditate longer. My stack of library books rivals my mother’s. Yesterday I crossed the border for my first in-person Vancouver Men’s Chorus rehearsal of the year. I’m rocking Wordle. I bingewatch affirming television shows, starting with The Good Place and Ted Lasso. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Somehow we’ll make it to spring.</span></p></div><div><br /></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsqbhFNb0dHvvgQRFHrCWnzpEYrgyucVPDemrnTP8tWCzU-rijpstbxt89Fm6iFzAGE17CRKD60FkDs_ujcCDEZt_-gEvym-0DFbnx9icCfVmtN6Sm1CwDLzATZV-YmotFzND0Vt5ReBZPOni6ELnzQQEoVAQ-t8980voZmPRF3CeDn6JpCqxFczI" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="610" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsqbhFNb0dHvvgQRFHrCWnzpEYrgyucVPDemrnTP8tWCzU-rijpstbxt89Fm6iFzAGE17CRKD60FkDs_ujcCDEZt_-gEvym-0DFbnx9icCfVmtN6Sm1CwDLzATZV-YmotFzND0Vt5ReBZPOni6ELnzQQEoVAQ-t8980voZmPRF3CeDn6JpCqxFczI" width="295" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ursula Kroeger LeGuin (1935 - 2018)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Growing up, Ursula K. Leguin was always one of my favorite authors. Her slowly evolving Earthsea saga remains one of my literary touchstones. In recent years I’ve also read LeGuin’s works about the writing craft itself. She is an elegant and observant essayist. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">LeGuin shared her daily routine during a <a href="https://www.openculture.com/2019/01/ursula-k-le-guins-daily-routine-the-discipline-that-fueled-her-imagination.html">1988 interview</a>:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: yellow;">5:30 a.m.—wake up and lie there and think.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">6:15 a.m.—get up and eat breakfast (lots).<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">7:15 a.m—get to work writing, writing, writing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Noon—lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1:00-3:00 p.m. —reading, music.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">3:00-5:00 p.m. —correspondence, maybe house cleaning.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">5:00-8:00 p.m. —make dinner and eat it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After 8:00 p.m. —I tend to be very stupid and we won’t talk about this.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I highlighted the first item in her schedule. A writer’s life requires opportunities for sustained attention, away from the temptation of a keyboard or pen. Although walking with Bear has proven most effective for me, I’m similarly productive during the drive to Vancouver, or sitting at the beach.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Later in my day, “lie there and think” would equal sleep. Fortunately, like LeGuin, I find inspiration in the early morning.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvZMfc0zFe4jSYRAP1o8AyWNsiWZaxugiADdX3QSNIaERttO9wLizKECD2DRpY1e5ciU0AUkfu8uk40_rAyWGsR74hw1vV2gAyHuQJi5P-3AJlbtK9ag9rVWSNlq_V_uxP4zhLjiuTThP8IWTv1-69Tl5Nm5iXDFNgainBp0pvx-Hl0LbEX9_5gds" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="525" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvZMfc0zFe4jSYRAP1o8AyWNsiWZaxugiADdX3QSNIaERttO9wLizKECD2DRpY1e5ciU0AUkfu8uk40_rAyWGsR74hw1vV2gAyHuQJi5P-3AJlbtK9ag9rVWSNlq_V_uxP4zhLjiuTThP8IWTv1-69Tl5Nm5iXDFNgainBp0pvx-Hl0LbEX9_5gds" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Currently I’m learning how to sleep late enough to get all my work done. I can </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">get plenty of tips </span>from<span style="font-family: inherit;"> my children, who are experts at sleeping in.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ursula K. LeGuin’s advice comes with a bonus. Although Bear is charming and friendly, he is also an introvert – just like everyone else in the household except for Eleanor. Bear is too self-absorbed, fidgety, and passive-aggressive to spend the night with me. [<i>Ed. Note: </i>Bear says it’s because he hates to listen to snoring and podcasts.] <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, it turns out Bear loves to crawl in bed for morning cuddles.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjz-gRLfH8mQklsXi9uKzAzlCLW0uasAQ3ITU3S2D5FyyR7QH5Tm5VSERbuErrbUL9kAhr8qCPeeqjyLwvn_Z0e9onAiJTg2Q7RUDhgwPjozF1zsriTPSUaHjglgsvw_EDJe1_DoisGqvtjS20U6EmPT77a0B0xXEAiVMTr5UCiQGhNuy0ICV4LrPE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2950" data-original-width="3888" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjz-gRLfH8mQklsXi9uKzAzlCLW0uasAQ3ITU3S2D5FyyR7QH5Tm5VSERbuErrbUL9kAhr8qCPeeqjyLwvn_Z0e9onAiJTg2Q7RUDhgwPjozF1zsriTPSUaHjglgsvw_EDJe1_DoisGqvtjS20U6EmPT77a0B0xXEAiVMTr5UCiQGhNuy0ICV4LrPE" width="316" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-29451862524765755792022-02-08T20:02:00.011-08:002022-02-09T17:51:37.106-08:00SLOW DOWN!!!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaDPzhuW4WcCqIKQwZX6NK4Dsqo4JK990hdnkihpIFKn2wP2MCe8iArMHVRUiXWmC7YSsk0plWazXAEv2oenYjICdNcsWfijYbjeUgJ1zUu6-lkhmnk0Y789VpnqdXiSgQOBwBylEl2tx1Dg0ysLo-RafgC7wgaCGmR7IAjKj2GGZOI-5lpXebTJc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="827" data-original-width="1393" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaDPzhuW4WcCqIKQwZX6NK4Dsqo4JK990hdnkihpIFKn2wP2MCe8iArMHVRUiXWmC7YSsk0plWazXAEv2oenYjICdNcsWfijYbjeUgJ1zUu6-lkhmnk0Y789VpnqdXiSgQOBwBylEl2tx1Dg0ysLo-RafgC7wgaCGmR7IAjKj2GGZOI-5lpXebTJc" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>I’m frugal with my exclamation marks. Nevertheless, before approaching the lectern to present argument before any court over the last thirty years, I</span>’ve<span> always written “SLOW DOWN!!!” at the top of my notes. </span>Nowadays it’s tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqObVhT5U8JxIxAph3Pp5OTrM_WyxSRakTfB_jIzNknswl2peTNDx0fE30uDnNgfpS-5anN7IIr0s7zzBClEKziz-Kjh1W35XH1lGstq60fZacmTH33xWlIa8gCegtZAYsVvD34VoUHu7Lk8rvJin7vljU7-QGP0aG7OtY__WanXUbMnTUm_b4Zpw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="931" data-original-width="633" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqObVhT5U8JxIxAph3Pp5OTrM_WyxSRakTfB_jIzNknswl2peTNDx0fE30uDnNgfpS-5anN7IIr0s7zzBClEKziz-Kjh1W35XH1lGstq60fZacmTH33xWlIa8gCegtZAYsVvD34VoUHu7Lk8rvJin7vljU7-QGP0aG7OtY__WanXUbMnTUm_b4Zpw" width="163" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I recently wrote in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/11/Snap.html">Snap</a>,” this fall I had a series of epiphanies about my relationship with “Executive Function.” According to Harvard’s <span>Center on the Developing Child</span>, “Executive function and self-regulation<span style="background-color: white;"> skills are the mental processes that enable us to plan, focus attention, remember instructions, and juggle multiple tasks successfully. Just as an air traffic control system at a busy airport safely manages the arrivals and departures of many aircraft on multiple runways, the brain needs this skill set to filter distractions, prioritize tasks, set and achieve goals, and control impulses.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The presenter at a recent legal education webinar explained that many new attorneys struggle “with some type of executive function challenge: focusing, staying on task, organizing, managing time effectively, starting and finishing tasks, keeping a schedule, communicating with others, and more.” The recently evolved neural networks in our prefrontal cortex are particularly vulnerable to physical and psychological assaults. As I listened to the presentation, I realized how easily both ordinary stressors and specific PTSD triggers impair my own Executive Functioning.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNj4xapJLlunbUb7e-0PDIOIPN4QV1S5ndUKsQtkHP0ajxJFqTNB8wh7DugtoidKErxjOSIMtSuKjwn9qnj2FFlwP5ZGJlteaDVmgCSB2CeboTabscR-HaVghCA_MLVdRo0gwir8lgTV5cG-Po3VY2FIM_7efxASlkBx4OiYWPs8SA2Oj_JrUQ8JY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="353" data-original-width="691" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNj4xapJLlunbUb7e-0PDIOIPN4QV1S5ndUKsQtkHP0ajxJFqTNB8wh7DugtoidKErxjOSIMtSuKjwn9qnj2FFlwP5ZGJlteaDVmgCSB2CeboTabscR-HaVghCA_MLVdRo0gwir8lgTV5cG-Po3VY2FIM_7efxASlkBx4OiYWPs8SA2Oj_JrUQ8JY=w400-h204" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">During World War I and World War II, the Royal Navy had a slogan: “A convoy travels at the speed of its slowest ship.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last August I obtained major victories in two longstanding legal cases. I thought that meant we would soon begin exciting new phases in the litigation. Instead, none of our reboots occurred until January 2022. While the other side’s lawyers stonewalled, I spent a frustrating fall trying in vain to speed things up. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Looking back, I’m grateful for the breathing space provided by our glacial litigation pace during autumn’s blessed post-vaccination window. The kids went back to school, where they wore masks and thrived while doing normal-ish things like choir and theatre. The Canadian border finally opened after eighteen bleak months. Because of room capacity limitations, Vancouver Men’s Chorus divided itself in half for rehearsals before joyously reuniting in December for a successful and revitalizing concert run.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then anti-vaxers gave us the Omicron surge. Real life slowed down again. Nevertheless, hope has returned with the new year. Tomorrow I’m crossing the border to see my brother and to attend VMC’s first in-person rehearsal of the year.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meanwhile, I finally accepted that the pace of litigation pace will always be set by the courts’ judicious and deliberate speed, not the parties and lawyers. More importantly, I realized I need to slow myself <b><i>way</i></b> down to compensate for all the stress placed on my Executive Function. I’ve learned to work on one task at a time, avoid toxic encounters, and regularly take healthy breaks with my children or walking the dogs. It turns out the courts’ speed works for me, too.</span></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFg3BtaZyzQehPiARFM-1jqWyUtMAzQuuf1tug0MptRgctAXS38Eqlnn2t6GF3oEpKWAxsGodrSANcexe6jRdUPjyUEKT_ESoIz9n-lS_RXoPW4sXkXdMtG7k_NanYyslQyAQtk3W3Q/s1600/Marilla.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFg3BtaZyzQehPiARFM-1jqWyUtMAzQuuf1tug0MptRgctAXS38Eqlnn2t6GF3oEpKWAxsGodrSANcexe6jRdUPjyUEKT_ESoIz9n-lS_RXoPW4sXkXdMtG7k_NanYyslQyAQtk3W3Q/s400/Marilla.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like every good Canadian gay boy, all I really need to know I learned from <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/02/SetTheory.html">Anne of Green Gables</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lucy Maud Montgomery’s novel, published in 1908, is the national epic of Prince Edward Island. It tells the story of spunky 11-year old orphan Anne Shirley, who is mistakenly sent to live with Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert, a bachelor farmer and his spinster sister. </span>The<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>Cuthberts<span style="font-family: inherit;"> asked the Victorian social workers to send a boy to help work the farm. Instead, Anne’s enchanting chatter and vivid imagination quickly brighten the lives of everyone around her. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzruAEzrE0EDdOnVo4qLTCKaS-sgNd9wQN5rr6VK6FyctaM713oQLJGE3kerou4UOHSIjfp69HJXxuIM-hF3zp4PEqvBYeTCOl8ayYDvg3EbrJL_4QUeoEYD33l-MZw0A9bN2m2a2YA/s1600/Mr+Darcy.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><img border="0" data-original-height="968" data-original-width="637" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzruAEzrE0EDdOnVo4qLTCKaS-sgNd9wQN5rr6VK6FyctaM713oQLJGE3kerou4UOHSIjfp69HJXxuIM-hF3zp4PEqvBYeTCOl8ayYDvg3EbrJL_4QUeoEYD33l-MZw0A9bN2m2a2YA/w263-h400/Mr+Darcy.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few years later in the story, when Anne was the same age my daughters are now, Marilla was startled to see Anne had grown taller than her. Marilla noticed “there were other changes in Anne no less real than the physical change”: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 6pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For one thing, she became much quieter. Perhaps she thought all the more and dreamed as much as ever, but she certainly talked less. Marilla noticed and commented on this also.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 6pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“You don’t chatter half as much as you used to, Anne, nor use half as many big words. What has come over you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 6pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anne colored and laughed a little, as she dropped her book and looked dreamily out of the window, where big fat red buds were bursting out on the creeper in response to the lure of the spring sunshine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I don’t know—I don’t want to talk as much,” she said, denting her chin thoughtfully with her forefinger. “It’s nicer to think dear, pretty thoughts and keep them in one’s heart, like treasures. I don’t like to have them laughed at or wondered over. And somehow I don’t want to use big words any more. It’s almost a pity, isn’t it, now that I’m really growing big enough to say them if I did want to. It’s fun to be almost grown up in some ways, but it’s not the kind of fun I expected, Marilla. There’s so much to learn and do and think that there isn’t time for big words. Besides, Miss Stacy says the short ones are much stronger and better. She makes us write all our essays as simply as possible. It was hard at first. I was so used to crowding in all the fine big words I could think of—and I thought of any number of them. But I’ve got used to it now and I see it’s so much better.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEip7zRMo0AswvYKYToLjHw-EAv25pNMd5WwFpguRPHgMRUta5zYH8F0TITJgB9j3DiqKL5otHmuO_JsAV8HWkplOAZtlQcV1AO6Y9WZWk06EJbpFrZUUXFHZoWCvAim_BIcdmVIlt8P1xhg0ZNgGGxEdIdZsiDUvwT61KSinATuVoaGq4s3ke4BoMI=s2202" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2202" data-original-width="2202" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEip7zRMo0AswvYKYToLjHw-EAv25pNMd5WwFpguRPHgMRUta5zYH8F0TITJgB9j3DiqKL5otHmuO_JsAV8HWkplOAZtlQcV1AO6Y9WZWk06EJbpFrZUUXFHZoWCvAim_BIcdmVIlt8P1xhg0ZNgGGxEdIdZsiDUvwT61KSinATuVoaGq4s3ke4BoMI=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Alice Flaherty is a neurologist and a professor at Harvard Medical School.<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span>Two difficult pregnancies left her with post-partum manic-depression so severe she eventually admitted herself into a mental hospital. In her memoir <i>The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer’s Block, and the Creative Brain</i>, Flaherty wrote about her struggle with <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2018/03/Lilies.html">excruciating<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>writer’s block</a>, followed by intense<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>hypergraphia<span class="apple-converted-space"> (the overwhelming compulsion to write).</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My own youthful traumas caused three decades of increasing writer’s block. It took a PTSD diagnosis before the fog began to lift. Writing these blog essays, as well as working on my book manuscripts and even countless legal briefs, became both a creative joy and effective Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy. Like Anne Shirley and Alice Flaherty, my manic early writing was overwhelmingly prolific. The output slowed down as I gained the skills and courage to confront increasingly challenging topics: <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/04/UnCanadienErrant.html">exile from my Canadian home</a>, my <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/07/UnrighteousDominion.html">repressed Mormon youth</a>, <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/01/OkBoomer.html">finding my gay tribe at the height of the AIDS epidemic</a>, and my recent betrayals by an unjust legal profession. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 2020, I had the privilege of participating in an extraordinary cohort of writers and coaches working together as part of The Narrative Project. Last weekend I was one of the writers reading from our recent work at <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/02/Buster.html">the launch of True Stories</a>, a new anthology. The writers in our small group – Jennifer, Kimberly, Patty, and I – would exchange new work and support each other. The larger cohort would gather for sessions about the craft and business of writing, and the elements of a writer’s life. <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/10/Mus.html">Cami Ostman</a>, founder of The Narrative Project, is an experienced writer, editor, educator, and therapist. In addition to growing through the collaborative writing process, I learned how to write through trauma. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nowadays I recognize the warning signs of Executive Function overload – including when my work requires me to produce legal writing about triggering issues. Looking back at my court filings over the last five years, I wish I had figured out how to slow down a long time ago. I owe an apology to a few judges for some longwinded briefs, particularly those slightly ranting conclusions. Fortunately, my new slower gear and improved self-editing skills arrived just in time for new briefing before the Washington Supreme Court. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our group’s coach from The Narrative Project, Rebecca Mabanglo-Mayor, is currently working on a science fiction novel. We bonded over <i>The Mandalorian</i>. And over the fundamental patterns and rhythms of the writing process. As Rebecca would say, This is the Way.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgx3Bxpz_BoTGuHySICDzCEXqgG5rD-Bu8GTiMBLXJZB3hfgwwNC_rX5BA53SGdvFpoPNDTKR6B_sSEzMSZgJOTqgnB_NS8qpzLqqFV_wgLTo65JyoZ5AkjJY_0uIjKsT3iLX2elKZkeJCzsI6MYRV6biGMdMkzTe2c2OZJAE2-NgkmsNZiduJi1-o=s2543" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="2018" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgx3Bxpz_BoTGuHySICDzCEXqgG5rD-Bu8GTiMBLXJZB3hfgwwNC_rX5BA53SGdvFpoPNDTKR6B_sSEzMSZgJOTqgnB_NS8qpzLqqFV_wgLTo65JyoZ5AkjJY_0uIjKsT3iLX2elKZkeJCzsI6MYRV6biGMdMkzTe2c2OZJAE2-NgkmsNZiduJi1-o=s320" width="254" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14973016056573614.post-74876035201768141992022-02-03T22:00:00.021-08:002022-02-15T09:37:00.663-08:00Buster<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWLo0bDJcmdM61TqaSN7Ucs6XCpnunHGkyyiCndADyGFX8YNb1CPhuaSKXliEoXacctD-LbWcj_n4-8Mt0UyCYtEQFXyw-0y1V3C4PZaqjEGiYxxHqaDQirwjihBCSs_lGKEJlabss8qSGfsIqwHLSZkB8O-fQlTApEBGaqrLFbKhB3f0kwEeyycs=s2950" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2950" data-original-width="2056" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWLo0bDJcmdM61TqaSN7Ucs6XCpnunHGkyyiCndADyGFX8YNb1CPhuaSKXliEoXacctD-LbWcj_n4-8Mt0UyCYtEQFXyw-0y1V3C4PZaqjEGiYxxHqaDQirwjihBCSs_lGKEJlabss8qSGfsIqwHLSZkB8O-fQlTApEBGaqrLFbKhB3f0kwEeyycs=s320" width="223" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday was the ancient feast of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Candlemas">Candlemas</a>, also known as Groundhog Day, when we celebrate the greatest work of comic moral philosophy in the Western Canon. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Obviously I</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">m referring to the 1993 rom-com </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Groundhog Day, </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">starring national treasure Bill Murray. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you need it, here is </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">IMDB</span>’s <span style="font-family: inherit;">summary of the classic film</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A self-centered Pittsburgh weatherman finds himself inexplicably trapped in a small town as he lives the same day over and over again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The <a href="https://www.dictionary.com/browse/mcguffi">McGuffin</a> driving the plot is the fact that the “small town” is Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, and the “same day” is February 2. Once a year, beloved rodent Punxsutawney Phil wakes up and confronts his demons. Murray plays grumpy weatherman Phil Connors, in town to cover the annual ritual</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5FswnnxgI3Cb9u9F9mnfifnm95ty3owkG-i6PXg1qS-5bKmxDcTATkA39pM5M6FKPFn55FjDi8RiDPGS1PUsMz8BvRqflOqsHQwBZh3doFA4i2Gz-tpjhti9UjtCbJWujzcX0eq7CQUjIHfbygO_gw_TCF6kn5q9rsioVioUzHOIfan_GwzqocP0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3944" data-original-width="2431" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5FswnnxgI3Cb9u9F9mnfifnm95ty3owkG-i6PXg1qS-5bKmxDcTATkA39pM5M6FKPFn55FjDi8RiDPGS1PUsMz8BvRqflOqsHQwBZh3doFA4i2Gz-tpjhti9UjtCbJWujzcX0eq7CQUjIHfbygO_gw_TCF6kn5q9rsioVioUzHOIfan_GwzqocP0" width="148" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Groundhog Day </i>tells the redemption story of Phil Connors’ transformation from miserable misanthrope to pillar of the community, all in one very long and repetitive day. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The first time through Phil</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s day, the movie provides a framework for the rest of the story by introducing his news team, various Punxsatawney residents, and their key encounters. The town’s high holy day culminates in a big party. </span>As the same day repeats a few times in <span style="font-family: inherit;">the next section of the movie, Phil figures out the nature of his existential trap, and goofs off with predictable self-indulgence. Then we see do-over montages as Phil learns through trial and error how to succeed at various tasks, such as fixing tires, saving lives, and barging into the home of </span>the town’s piano teacher <span style="font-family: inherit;">each day for a “first” piano lesson. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gifted essayist and character actor Stephen Tobolowsky, who played insurance agent Ned Ryerson, describes the movie shoot as one of the most magical experiences of his life. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Some people think <i>Groundhog Day</i> centers on the growing attraction between Phil and his producer Rita, played by Andie MacDowell. Near the end of the movie, Phil demonstrates one of the many skills you can acquire if you have all the time in the world </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">–</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> by carving an exquisite ice sculpture of his beloved with a chainsaw. Phil finally breaks the curse when he wakes up to find it’s February 3rd and he’s part of a couple. <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For me the heart of <i>Groundhog Day</i> is not the romance, or even the comic montages as Phil gradually perfects his schtick. It’s the party that evening where Phil jams on piano with the band in front of the whole town. Rita learns from witness after witness that Phil spent his day reaching out with love and kindness.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv045-2Hue9W72tKg4oquncmw7yawEkU9DeLrzqvUqT-a7drCBjJKT7PMUmKlXi-Ur0M3pgcGEsn4gG9KzCaX-oCVKFBpXQv6HM37GwUJLxGFRot9jO2bN1x6G55fcLqJBJO3QCgs8Rl-H4VGBM_fFLdjmI5X29LF0ZQIEepM9jioj6GboBGl5VcQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1741" data-original-width="1327" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv045-2Hue9W72tKg4oquncmw7yawEkU9DeLrzqvUqT-a7drCBjJKT7PMUmKlXi-Ur0M3pgcGEsn4gG9KzCaX-oCVKFBpXQv6HM37GwUJLxGFRot9jO2bN1x6G55fcLqJBJO3QCgs8Rl-H4VGBM_fFLdjmI5X29LF0ZQIEepM9jioj6GboBGl5VcQ" width="183" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s been six years since my world turned upside down after abusive workplace dynamics triggered Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. With the help of my healthcare providers and the support of the best family in the world, I’ve made immense progress with many of my </span>debilitating symptoms<span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nevertheless, I will never be “cured.” The stress and tics don’t go away. To the contrary, my trichotillomania and my stammer are worse than ever. Meanwhile, my mind has compensated for the vicious cycle of triggers and traumas by compressing four years of memories into two, as if the guys remodeling my brain poured the foundation off-kilter and the rest of us will have to compensate forever. (Silver lining: for me the entire Trump presidency seems like just a couple of years.) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately, more recently I’ve returned to the light. I’ve regained a <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/09/Mindset.html">hopeful mindset</a> for the first time since childhood. And as I recently wrote in “<a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/11/Snap.html" style="color: #954f72;">Snap</a>,” I’ve finally figured out how to slow down enough to think clearly. It involves a lot of long walks with Bear – which had the unfortunate side effect of crippling my right foot with <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2021/09/FootWhisperer.html">plantar fasciitis</a>. Now I just need to find a podiatrist who takes our terrible health insurance.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtZx4vQBdYbFBzzMTL57rUVLMQza3IyrCeA5dwaawA4XW6tkCgHQIzOvd2TZuMvNrVwIhDTSkVZtzMroREu38TqxWYk2hKCg0JZwb_4bNA3Ud-ncR_ihhd2YerGgiwl72Yt0v-2a6UTOR3h9CPOlqjo4Hg9lRXQEQ8qSbpj3NY8eP9o8axAvOB-oU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtZx4vQBdYbFBzzMTL57rUVLMQza3IyrCeA5dwaawA4XW6tkCgHQIzOvd2TZuMvNrVwIhDTSkVZtzMroREu38TqxWYk2hKCg0JZwb_4bNA3Ud-ncR_ihhd2YerGgiwl72Yt0v-2a6UTOR3h9CPOlqjo4Hg9lRXQEQ8qSbpj3NY8eP9o8axAvOB-oU" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Over the last three years I found my personal <i>Groundhog’s Day</i> loop on my daily walks with Bear.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Many of my remaining challenges are social. Trauma had the effect of moving me several notches further away from “normal” on the autism spectrum </span>– <span style="font-family: inherit;">particularly during PTSD episodes, while under stress, and/or in my interactions with gay men. I’ve lost much of my already dubious ability to read ordinary social cues. Faces are a blank. Nowadays I can’t tell if someone is hitting on me or challenging me to a duel. Strangers overwhelm me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But as I walk along the waterfront trail with Bear, I have the opportunity to repeat the same social interactions over and over. I gracefully thank people who admire his <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/09/PiedBeauty.html">pied beauty</a>. I explain Aussiedoodles are a cross between Australian shepherds and poodles. I talk about the weather, and laugh politely when old men quip “Who’s walking who?” as if I’ve never heard the question before. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the beginning I couldn’t sustain a multi-sentence exchange, let alone a conversation. My attempts at humor fell flat and made me seem creepy. But dog people are nice, and you can talk to them about safe topics like de-worming medication and scheduling a groomer. Gradually I added new material. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last Saturday, Bear and I walked ten miles in the sunshine. I confidently risked social encounters with a high degree of difficulty. I even had the nerve to say something clever to the cute new guy at the coffee shop who is in the process of dethroning his charming co-worker from the position of Coffee Boy Crush. (I’m only allowed to have one Coffee Boy Crush at a time </span>– <span style="font-family: inherit;">a prudent rule imposed long ago in Chicago by my friend Charles.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My one misstep occurred when I tried to strike up a conversation with a poodle owner wearing too many layers of fleece. I thought I was talking to a white-haired lesbian, but it turned out to be a little old man. Years ago I made the same mistake o</span>n my way home from the Gay Softball World Series when I stood in line behind <span style="font-family: inherit;">diminutive gay comedian Leslie Jordan. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixYb3KWHoCjMWzcl9r6zI8OPsRp5qwIZgz91ClbzpTNGeFMSdmNw7yjkn90sRV08qCI3Aoo1qVhbu1KRHFJ283-nU_kVF6F4TNzhd4FA-ftN29GcJCtC5fP3u8HS5aPWBsDwI-Sc3-LIYNKKgr_x50PGfoit16w4vmkvtt58FpHD5kJGYxCg6t5cE" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixYb3KWHoCjMWzcl9r6zI8OPsRp5qwIZgz91ClbzpTNGeFMSdmNw7yjkn90sRV08qCI3Aoo1qVhbu1KRHFJ283-nU_kVF6F4TNzhd4FA-ftN29GcJCtC5fP3u8HS5aPWBsDwI-Sc3-LIYNKKgr_x50PGfoit16w4vmkvtt58FpHD5kJGYxCg6t5cE=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read “For Good,” my story about the dogs, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">in the recently published anthology <a href="https://www.sidekickpress.com/product/true-stories-iv/"><i>True Stories Vol. IV</i><o:p></o:p></a></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last weekend I was one of the writers reading from our recent work at the launch of <i>True Stories</i>, a new anthology edited by Cami Ostman, founder of <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/10/Mus.html">The Narrative Project</a>. Here’s a link to the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2p9Mz0rSufE">YouTube video</a> (I’m reading from 35:35 to 39:25), and a link to the site where you can <a href="https://www.sidekickpress.com/product/true-stories-iv/">purchase copies of our book</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My contribution to <i>True Stories</i>, </span></span>“<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For Good,</span></span> ” <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">comes from the chapter of my upcoming memoir where I explain that I</span></span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">m not really a dog person. Here’s an excerpt:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bear is more attractive than anyone I’ve ever dated – way out of <i>my </i>league. As I walk past strangers on the waterfront trail, I often hear audible sighs of “Aw, he’s <i>sooo</i> cute.” Sadly, it’s never about me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nevertheless, the best thing about going on long walks with Bear every day is that everyone we encounter is smiling. Yes, I know they’re not smiling at <i>me. </i>But they’re smiling at <i>us</i>—and at everyone else for a little while. Surely that makes the world a slightly better place.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On our last walk along the Boardwalk, Bear asked if I planned on getting a new dog after he’s gone. I said no. I told Bear I would keep taking care of poor Buster if my daughter turned out to be a flake, but when it comes to pets I’ll stick with the fabulous gay uncle role in the future. Still, regardless of what happens in future, I know that having a dog—having Bear in my life—has changed me for good.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3zT4mjg0w_3DxchnGgMlM_F8QIJgmgp1CMzacGDaFe88XoOdBky4vlUagQuiKO54DxUq90I_dMH1gds9MvsyiRuuPmlZuy5_HzwlFAAW8uJTSyj0fvrRWUm-v1CJ6MXFSeHW6w8uwymwRB6EJPwiSiPkdc_-8hmaTkuT6k7SPLNmG_r-dQgvsbxo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3660" data-original-width="2745" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3zT4mjg0w_3DxchnGgMlM_F8QIJgmgp1CMzacGDaFe88XoOdBky4vlUagQuiKO54DxUq90I_dMH1gds9MvsyiRuuPmlZuy5_HzwlFAAW8uJTSyj0fvrRWUm-v1CJ6MXFSeHW6w8uwymwRB6EJPwiSiPkdc_-8hmaTkuT6k7SPLNmG_r-dQgvsbxo" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Which brings us to Buster, who has been conspicuously absent from his story so far.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This fall my middle brother and his wife became the first empty nesters from our generation. They immediately bought their first dog, an adorable Labradoodle named Scout who now dominates the family Facebook feed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I warned my brother he’s in danger of becoming a dog person permanently. Luckily, I acquired <b><i>two</i></b> dogs at once. Bear is the perfect companion for my life right now. In contrast, Buster is a constant reminder that lightning won’t strike twice.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Buster has more tics and is even more socially awkward than me. He <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/04/HolyUnderwear.html">steals underwear</a> from the laundry basket and bloody tissues from my pocket, then eats them. He’s clumsy and stupid and <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/09/Buster.html">a little bit racist</a>. He hates going on walks. If Bear and I drag him along the trail with us, Buster just barks and walks into things before <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2020/04/BusterWeakestLink.html">pooping out too soon</a>. Buster’s highest and best use is to lounge on the couch and <a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/04/ComfortAnimals.html">comfort</a> my children. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhG9HJ8K1kzEqro1JrdNYZ_AWuDuZ3SXXkV7eulwFjH7R-KL81dxIRJQpMbutPWPJkx7EDaFRY638ngR0FVH0_R36uzxD9xssrVT7JafxuMUUHHsxfpnq4tEW2PL9l3aMumQrs5-dXMvhgfPuMYi4-xoNGSGiDWJ40_srZmwQGgBCHah3eudz_PJXs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="388" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhG9HJ8K1kzEqro1JrdNYZ_AWuDuZ3SXXkV7eulwFjH7R-KL81dxIRJQpMbutPWPJkx7EDaFRY638ngR0FVH0_R36uzxD9xssrVT7JafxuMUUHHsxfpnq4tEW2PL9l3aMumQrs5-dXMvhgfPuMYi4-xoNGSGiDWJ40_srZmwQGgBCHah3eudz_PJXs" width="249" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One day last summer, Bear and I begrudgingly included Buster in a necessarily short walk. On the Boardwalk we ran into my ex’s next ex Brenden. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">After they divorced, my ex moved back to the Midwest and I ended up with the kids fulltime. Plus Bear and Buster. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Brenden still lives in Bellingham, but his work schedule prevented him from taking the dogs. Instead, he has embraced the </span><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2019/03/GuncleAgain.html" style="font-family: inherit;">guncle</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> role with both children and dogs. The continued support of Brenden and his parents has been essential to the kids’ wellbeing during these challenging times. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When we ran into Brenden on the Boardwalk, Bear pounced with typical enthusiasm. In contrast with his usual public awkwardness, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Buster wildly embraced Brendon and smothered him with kisses. When Brenden continued in the other direction, Buster sat on the Boardwalk pining. He wouldn’t let us leave for thirty minutes, and instead stared longingly into the distance. I realized Brenden was the love of Buster’s life – and that traumatic experiences can shatter even a simple psyche.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0kZuKPyQZHrqqlhW1TnPMB5t5ckM7xmTZNkuV-hXVP94tl-6XSmEne2Ge06G1au1P6xdrf1k8nUU5suSyj_HDQQRmYkw2qSV6qzlBTciQqJ2Bq-C_wQk6XV5V7P4gumGDBEIfXX1sj_ItgIIEKS4lzx3leKshW9gdIjFAZLGgQmzbhoRJP7Xrvk8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2902" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0kZuKPyQZHrqqlhW1TnPMB5t5ckM7xmTZNkuV-hXVP94tl-6XSmEne2Ge06G1au1P6xdrf1k8nUU5suSyj_HDQQRmYkw2qSV6qzlBTciQqJ2Bq-C_wQk6XV5V7P4gumGDBEIfXX1sj_ItgIIEKS4lzx3leKshW9gdIjFAZLGgQmzbhoRJP7Xrvk8" width="250" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Several businesses in Fairhaven identify as dog friendly and offer treats at the counter. If any merchant gives Bear a dog treat just once we can never walk past the doors of that establishment again without going inside. It</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s </span>uncanny. <span style="font-family: inherit;">Trading treats for hugs with Bear has become the highlight of the day for numerous Village Books employees. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In contrast, dim-witted Buster approaches every gift of a dog treat like it</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s his first time – a happy surprise.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Seasons and school calendars remind us life is cyclical. For people like Buster or Dr. Oliver Sacks’ amnesiac patients, each circle is the same. For others, like Phil Connors before the events of <i>Groundhog Day</i>, life is a downward spiral. Each February Phil would schlep to Punxsatawney, complaining bitterly about everything and everyone, and make every turn of the wheel worse than the one before. The opposite of a redemption story is a “contamination story.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I’ve slowly recovered my health over the last few years, I’ve also re-learned the power of positive thinking and hopeful living. In the best book I read last year, <i><a href="https://www.rogerleishman.com/2022/01/DoOverYear.htm">What are the Chances? Why We Believe in Luck</a></i>, neuroscientist and statistician Barbara Blatchley writes <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When lucky people are unlucky – when something unwanted or awful happens – they learn from their mistakes, incorporating that experience into their expectations about the future. They are able to use their transformed expectations to change their bad luck into good for the next time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Groundhog Day</i> demonstrates the power of evolution: not biologically as a species, but culturally as a community, and personally as individuals. Unlike Buster, we can choose to spiral upward.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkS-6gndzfkRg4-4etM5-QtRbBEPWCha7fZjbHntGiJe397fbNPyGZxD2s9TFMgLZ7rJQOoz3aCM1em3Fo7jDmR6NsxySsT3j5K1Sy5tTXAdEZDsWWVOsXDsS-NtK-QURHNSXp3wBBTadZh5FusPQOgOOi9hz02L4ttu8_tLIrQuXCXLrR1lqa-YQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3154" data-original-width="2582" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkS-6gndzfkRg4-4etM5-QtRbBEPWCha7fZjbHntGiJe397fbNPyGZxD2s9TFMgLZ7rJQOoz3aCM1em3Fo7jDmR6NsxySsT3j5K1Sy5tTXAdEZDsWWVOsXDsS-NtK-QURHNSXp3wBBTadZh5FusPQOgOOi9hz02L4ttu8_tLIrQuXCXLrR1lqa-YQ" width="196" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><br /><p></p>Roger Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13094800550572325574noreply@blogger.com1