There is a lot of drivel on social media and I own up to having contributed my share of it. Usually it’s best to just let stuff go because, really, it evaporates as an issue in hours. (Unless you enjoy some celebrity and some stupid thing you said years ago comes up—but that’s another story.)

Still, I’m troubled by a little Facebook meme that has popped up more than once in the past couple days. It’s related to the allegations that have arisen about Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh. Basically it goes like this:

Boys report priests molestation after 30 years = public outrage. Girls molested by guys are ridiculed for waiting too long.

Where to start?

First, how about reality. The Boston Globe’s Spotlight reports, made famous in the Oscar winning film, came 16 years ago. Two things about that: As we have learned, it’s still going on. And as we have also learned, it was going on for decades—decades before that. Which is to say, even after these men were heard, boys continued to be molested. We owe them more than complaining that somehow their plight is less awful than young womens’.

We also know that though most boys were afraid to speak up, it’s been documented that many boys did speak up to a parent or other adult. And they were disregarded and even chastised or punished for doing so. Just as many girls and young women who have the courage to speak up today are treated.

Instead of engaging in a “who’s more oppressed” derby in times like these, I think it’s better to recognize that these two situations have a lot in common. The boys (and there were lots of girls, too, btw) in the Catholic church scandal faced oppressive norms and power structures that enabled and covered up for horrific behavior.

Sound familiar?

That’s a human issue, one we all have a stake in and we all need to face, together.

During the current six-week session I’ve given a writing prompt about name changes, and two seasonal prompts as well: “Back to School” and “Rite of Passage.” This essay Audrey Mitchell wrote could have qualified for all three! Hearing it read in class taught us what a gift her mother, Leila Goodwin, had for solving the big problems her youngest daughter brought home from school.

by Audrey Mitchell

I never gave much thought to my name until I was in the third grade and learned how to write cursive. I would copy my cursive letters and write them very neatly on the prepared scripts trying my best to imitate my third-grade teacher, who wrote very beautiful cursive.

That’s Audrey being recorded for a video about our class.

My capital letter “A” was a disaster in my eyes. I could not make the letter “A” in cursive to my satisfaction. I practiced and practiced. The rounded part of my cursive capital “A” was too big, too little, too fat, too thin, too oblong, too square…I could never get it to look right.

It was then and there I decided I wanted to change my name.

I settled on the name “Elizabeth.” How did I pick Elizabeth? Elizabeth Taylor was popular at the time.Queen Elizabeth, or Princess back then…No. I picked the name Elizabeth because I could make a fabulous cursive letter capital “E.” I made a big loop at the top of “E,” continued with a backwards number three and then elegantly connected it with the next letters, all of them flowing on to complete my chosen new name. My letter “z” in Elizabeth, though lower case, wasn’t bad either.

I asked my mother what I needed to do to change my name. She tried to discourage me, but I guess my childhood zeal took over. She said she’d support my efforts. She helped me write a letter to the “powers that be,” whoever they were, and said she would mail the letter to them. She told me that it would take some time. That was OK with me.

She probably was hoping I would forget about it, but in the meantime, I went to school the next day and signed all my papers “Elizabeth Goodwin” using the most beautiful cursive letter “E” that I could make.

And then I got my papers back.

My new name was crossed out in red pencil and my old name was written up above it, also in red pencil. Those red pencil markings really frightened me. I always got good grades, and this was the first time I ever had so many corrections in red pencil.

Going to the teacher was not an option. Back then the only time we had a one-on-one with our teacher was when we got in trouble.

I was devastated, and I wasn’t about to push it any further. Red correction pencil markings on my papers discouraged me from continuing the process of changing my name. And since I did not mention it again, my mother did not bring it up, either.

But I made alternative plans on how to write my old name. I continued using the printed version of the letter “A” and embellished it by making the “A” with an imposing loop starting at the bottom and extent the line leading to the top to an extreme point before I brought my pen down the other side. Then I extended the line up again to the middle and made another loop before crossing the center with a line. Then I brought the line back across the center. At that point, the line went down again on the right side to attach to the next letter. Quite a fancy “A.” It was good enough for me.

If I had been persistent about my name change and not intimidated by the red pencil marks on my school papers, today you might know me as “Elizabeth.”

The art fair drew a good crowd–and the weather didn’t hurt.

It’s that time of the year when my working life eats me alive for a couple weeks and occupies the limited space in my head, which means I’m left with not-so-deep thoughts:

• Here in Chicago I’m happy that we might have a real race for mayor now that Rahm Emanuel has announced he will not seek a third term. I’m hoping that the bigfeet like William Daley and Toni Preckwinkle don’t suck up the oxygen and cash, and that we get to hear from a wide range of candidates. And that local media helps in that cause, rather than deeming only a few worthy of consistent attention.
• The summer here has been delightful, and having seen the wildfires in California, and watching the horrific flooding in North Carolina on TV, I’m all the more grateful for our mild summer.
• This past weekend we strolled the first Printers Row Art Fair. OK, yes, some stuff strained my definition of art, but it was, overall, a pleasant surprise and I hope it comes back. Anything that closes Dearborn and makes for a quiet hush is good by me.
• Our friend Anthony continues to wow passersby with his sidewalk telescoping. But the window for viewing is shortening right now, so I hope I get a few more peeps in.
• Meteorological summer will end this weekend, as the White Sox host the Cubs for what may be meaningful games for one of them. Peace everybody (but if any Sox fan going to the games needs an L flag, I know a guy).

What fun it was to be interviewed in front of an audience by my friend and fellow memoir-writer Regan Burke last Friday. Here’s an account of the evening from her, well, point of view.

That’s Jessica, who wanted to touch the contraption Beth uses to read out loud at events.

Last Friday night Beth and I participated in an event called “Body Language—Reading and Discussions about Writing the Body.” The event was held at Access Living, a non-profit in Chicago that delivers programs and services to equip people with disabilities to advocate for themselves.

As a writer in one of Beth’s memoir-writing classes, I’m included in her latest book, Writing Out Loud. The book tells Beth’s story about teaching memoir to older adults, and I gladly accepted the invitation to get on stage with Beth to interview her about her writing and teaching. After introductions, I asked some of the obvious questions most people want to know:

• What was it like to get fired from your job when you lost your sight?
• How did you get started leading memoir-writing classes?

The shocker came when I asked, “What other jobs have you had since going blind?” Beth answered by “reading” a passage from her book about auditioning to pose in the nude for an art class. She pulled out a phone-size gadget with her passage teed up, put in earplugs and flipped the switch that talked the words in her ear as she perfectly mouthed these words out loud to the audience:blockquote

My robe was still on when I backed up to the table and hitched myself up. Crouching down, I felt the tabletop’s edges to be sure I wouldn’t fall off, then stood up and unbuttoned my robe.

I’d been told to strike six poses, eventually ending up in a reclining position. Had I been able to see that first model do her audition, I might have had a better idea of what was expected. I was suddenly so concerned with coming up with six different poses that I forgot I was naked.

I posed.

The department must have been pretty desperate for models, especially ones middle-aged or older and willing to work mornings. Most models are students who liked sleeping in.

I passed the audition.

Access Living is a leading force in the national disability advocacy community. The audience included people from their extensive list of volunteers, clients, personal assistants, board members and friends. Executive Vice President Jim Charlton even brought students from his classes at the University of Illinois Institute on Disability and Human Development.

Next up after Beth’s interview was a reading from artist Riva Lehrer’s upcoming memoir, Golem Girl. Riva read a riveting account from her magnificently written manuscript about growing up at the Condon School for Crippled Children in Cincinnati. A slide show moved from photo to photo behind her as she read. It showed lovely old black and white yearbook pictures of the school, the students and the teachers.

Riva works at Access Living, is an adjunct professor in Medical Humanities at Northwestern University, and was born with spina bifida. Her paintings focus on physical and cultural representations of hers and others disabilities. Golem Girl will be published by Penguin/Random House next year.

The most startling part of the evening came as questions from the audience started flying. An audience member said she’d read Beth’s book Writing Out Loud and asked if she was writing another. Jessica said she writes, too and asked if Beth ever would start a class for younger people near where she lives, in Skokie. Then, Kapow! Someone asked Riva how she was able to accomplish so much after being ridiculed relentlessly as a child because of her disability.

“I’ve been called crip, gimp, freak, retard, midget, you-name-it,” she acknowledged. “In the Condon school, because we all had something, I felt safe, not so different. Outside of school I was always scared.”

She said that when she first started working alongside so many other people with disabilities at Access Living, she felt safe at work like she always had at school. “I was afraid to go out the door at the end of the workday.” She credited Susan Nussbaum, her friend and colleague at Access Living, for helping her navigate the outside world. “You just have to rely on others.”

Afterwards I walked around the room to chit-chat. When I returned to Beth she was leaning into Jessica showing her how to work the reading gadget so Jessica, who uses a wheelchair and has limited sight, could read her own stories out loud to her own audience. Just before we left, Beth’s guide dog, Whitney, uncharacteristically stood up and lifted her head high enough for Jessica to pet her.

Nationals Park was nice, even in the rain. And the seats were great. (Thanks Michael B.)

Last week I wrote while riding the Amtrak train home from Milwaukee, today it’s from row 15 on a Southwest Airlines flight, headed home from a wet but fun-packed weekend in Alexandria, Virginia.

The flight to DC was a little trying—the turbulence was constant, and bad enough that the flight attendants couldn’t bring passengers the pretzels and a drink. As we descended, we made a final bank left and then boom, a big bump that left my stomach in my mouth for a moment.

I stayed with Pick and Hank, longtime friends whom I’ve posted about before. Friday night we went to the home of our mutual pals’ Mike and Susi, who hosted a grand dinner of charcuterie, two kinds of steak, vegetables and yes, some libations. (I wasn’t driving.)

Saturday night Mike and Susi treated me and Pick to a Washington Nationals game. It could’ve been two games, because the previous night’s game was rained out, and our ticket got us into the rescheduled rainout plus the original Saturday night game.

Except.

It rained all day Saturday, too. The rainout had been scheduled for 3:00, with the second game scheduled to start at 7:00. For the longest time, we couldn’t tell what was going on—I finally found confirmation on the Nationals Twitter feed that the first game was going start around 5:30.

Rain was pretty much forecast for the entire evening and weekend, and I wanted to at least see Nationals Park for the first time, so we drove to nearby subway stop and then took the Metro to the park.

For several innings, it was really pleasant. Our seats were fantastic, just to left of home plate and just high enough to give great perspective. And I got to see Max Scherzer—one of the best—pitch. He did not disappoint. The Nationals’ opponent, the Cubs, were not at their best, booting the ball around and generally looking tired (they’ve been on the road a long time). I was easy on the nearby Cub fans—many looked like drowned rats. Rain delays at ballparks can be miserable.

When the rain picked up again in the bottom of the seventh, we decided to head home. I’d had a banh mi hot dog (honest, and it was really good), a cold beer, walked the park (very nice, indeed), and the score was 8-0 Nasty Nats. My work there was done.

It rained again Sunday so Pick and I headed to the newish MGM casino that’s just on the other side of the Potomac River from Alexandria. There’s also a giant convention hall/hotel complex there, with a sort of popup town that wasn’t even there just a few years ago. Pick and I people watched, fed some penny slot machines, had some dumb fun and headed back when that crazy casino background noise started getting too disorienting.

Last week I wrote about how time seems to be flying. So much has changed in the Washington area since I lived there in the late 70s and early 80s. And it’s not slowing down. Construction cranes are everywhere. Those years have flown by.

But the time I spend with these dear friends, well, it feels like it always has and always will–timeless.