New Old Words for TrumpWorld

My friend Marilyn Raichle (like Cheryl Strayed's brand of hiking boots) has been sending new words since Trump was elected because she needs a new vocabulary for these times. I love the words, and she has given me permission to share them here.

Interestingly, most of these words are new to me, and presumably to her, but they're old words. Perhaps these times aren't new but old, and we'll survive them like folks before have done.

Pace yourself. There are a lot of them. I recommend one a day,  sort of like that multivitamin for women. In case you just can't stop yourself, I'll give you the next 14 of the list in a couple of weeks. (To date, there are 449 of them!)

WHEN WORDS FAIL US TO DESCRIBE TRUMPWORLD, WE NEED NEW WORDS. The Mouldwarp’s Strammers MOULDWARP n. a stupid, worthless, or good-for-nothing person; a senseless person; a dolt ...1928 Amer. dial. often used as a symbol for Richard III. Middle English: probably from Middle Low German moldewerp, from the Germanic bases of mould and warp; compare with Dutch muldvarp. STRAMMER n.  a big lie, a falsehood ...1746 Eng. dial. vb. to lie outrageously ...1790 Eng. dial. In the midst of his Confloption, he becomes ever more Gumple-Foisted CONFLOPTION n. a great flurry, confusion, panic, fluster ...19C Sc. & N. Eng. dial. GUMPLE-FOISTED adj. in a bad humour, out of temper; ill-humoured ...1824 Sc. PURTING-GLUMPOT a sullen, sulky or ill-tempered person ...1837 Eng. dial. from purt (vb.) to sulk, to pout (dialect) SHONDFUL adj. shameful, disgraceful; infamous ...a900 Old English sceandfull, from Old English sceand shond (n. shame, disgrace) + -ful BADMASH A dishonest or unprincipled man, one following evil courses; a bad, wicked, or disreputable fellow; a villainous man; a rascal, a scoundrel, a rogue, ruffian or miscreant...1843 Anglo-Indian Persian and Urdū, from Persian bad evil + Arabian ma'āsh means of livelihood HUMDUDGEON n. a big, stupid person of an evil disposition ...B1900 cot.   from hum (n. a piece of humbug, an imposition) + dudgeon (n. a feeling of anger, resentment, offense) HUMGRUFFIN n. a terrible or repulsive person ...1842 WREAKFUL adj. given or addicted to revenge; vengeful, malicious, angry ...1531.  from wreak (n.) (in early Northern texts a normal variant of wreche (n.) vengeance; in later use probably substituted for this, or for wrake (n.), under the influence of the verb.) + -ful First the Ninny-Watch.  Then we need to Skrim NINNY-WATCH n. a disturbance, a state of confusion, excitement or a longing expectation or desire; a vain hope; a quandary ...1746 Eng. dial. vb. to get into a state of confusion or excitement ...1866 Eng. dial. SKRIM vb. to bustle about; to work with energy and success; to conduct a vigorous search for anything ...Bk1904 Sc. to skirmish; to dart ...1375 Sc. to strike; to beat vigorously ...1889 Sc. Words to vote by SPERATORY adj. resting in hope or expectation; hoped for, hopeful, expected ...1629 resting in hope or expectation; hoped for, hopeful, expected ...1629 obs.   from Latin speratus hoped for, expected, pa. pple. of sperare to hope  EPINICIAL adj. relating to or celebrating victory ...1774Speratory   from epinicion (from Greek. ἐπινίκιον song of victory, neut. of ἐπινίκιος (adj.), from ἐπί upon + νίκη victory) + -al NAUCIFY v. to set nought by; to disesteem; to have a low opinion of; to consider worthless ...1656 obs. from Latin nauci facere, from naucum a trifling thing Magnanimate! Together we can catamidiate this spewsome bladderscat MAGNANIMATE vb. to imbue with steadfast courage; to inspire with greatness of mind; to render high-souled; to cheer, to inspirit ...1640   from Latin magnanimus (from magnus great + animus soul: corresponding in formation to Greek µεγαλόψυχος, and in scholastic Latin used as its translation) + -ate CATAMIDIATE vb. to put one to open shame and punishment for some notorious offense; to scorn, to defame ...1656   from Greek καταµειδιάειν (katameidiaein) to despise SPEWSOME adj. dreadful, awful ...1996 Aust. sl. BLADDERSCAT  n. a deceiving person; one you cannot trust ...1969 Amer. dial. The Imputable Cheesedick IMPUTABLE  adj. open to accusation or censure; blameworthy, reprehensible, culpable ...1660 CHEESEDICK / CHEESEDIX n. a disgusting or contemptible fellow; a stupid person ...1986 US sl.   See also CHEESEHEAD n. a fool; a stupid person ...1919 Amer. dial. TERRICULAMENT n. a source or object of dread or terror, especially of needless dread; a bugbear ...1548 vb. to inspire with groundless fear ...1644 Origin  Mid 16th century; earliest use found in William Patten (d. ?1598), author. From classical Latin terriculāmentum object of terror, bugbear (2nd cent. a.d. in Apuleius) from terriculum (also terricula) something that excites terror (from terrēre to frighten + -culum (or -cula)) + -mentum. The Fascious Bangster continues to Bespatter FASCIOUS  adj. troublesome, annoying, vexatious; difficult to please, particular; unfortunate, shameful ...1725 Sc. BANGSTER n.  a rough, violent fellow; a bully, a braggart, a blustering fellow; a ruffian; a thug ...c1570 obs. exc. Sc. BESPATTER vb. 1. to asperse with abuse, flame, flattery, praise, etc., to hold in contempt ...1644 vb. 2. to cover with abuse; to vilify or slander, to calumniate ...1653 BESPATTERMENT n. abuse ...1870 ABOMINE vb. to abominate; to feel extreme disgust and hatred towards; to abhor, to loathe ...1683 Attested from the early 16th century until the early 18th century.][1] NANGNAIL n. an ill-tempered, troublesome person; a tyrant ...1856 Eng. dial. PRORITATE to stir up, to provoke, to irritate, to incite ...1620 from ppl. stem of Latin prōrītāre to provoke, incite, entice

Ache

This morning at our church, the Wallingford trio sang in beautiful harmony a hymn to which I wrote the words and Nan Beth Walton wrote the music. 

Though I wrote the words 15 months ago, today it seems again appropriate. I ache for the Squirrel Hill community and all who are affected by violence. Here are the hymn's words. A women's singing group in Pittsburgh has asked to sing the hymn, which is a prayer. I hope it brings some small measure of solace to their great pain. 

O God of beauty and of breath

(Please) Ease my ache with loveliness.

(Please) Slow me down that I might see

All the gifts you’ve given me.

Slow my stride that I might see

A leaf in all its symmetry.

A snowflake’s drift from clouds of white

A full moon on a cloudy night.

O God of beauty and of breath

(Please) Ease my ache with loveliness.

(Please) Slow me down that I might see

All the gifts you’ve given me.

Slow my days that I might feel

Notice Kindness that might heal.

A prayer for love, a hand of peace,

A hope that caring would increase.

O God of beauty and of breath

(Please) Ease my ache with loveliness.

(Please) Slow me down that I might see

All the gifts you’ve given me.

O God of beauty and of breath.

Speaking Australian

Ann and I returned from our Australian adventure last week. Though many Americans and Aussies speak English, our ways of speaking are in some ways so different.

Australians (or Aussies) shorten words whenever they can. This doesn’t seem to be caused by a national habit of hurrying, quite the opposite. Maybe they’re just too laid back to say whole words. There’s Mellie (a person from Melbourne), brekkie (breakfast), Footy (Aussie football, sort of a cross between rugby and soccer), and so forth (choccie, Chrissie , specco, Tazzie… See vocabulary list below.) 

We watched the penguin parade, an event on Phillip’s Island where hundreds of penguins come on shore to breed and chirp each night. You might think Aussies would call these little penguins “pennies”, but they don’t. Oddly, they call them “little penguins.” When I first heard an Aussie used the phrase “little penguins,” I thought she was being affectionate. She wasn’t. The penguins were about a foot tall.

Aussies also like TLAs (three letter acronyms). The MCG, also abbreviated to “The ‘G (The Melbourne Cricket Ground) is Mellie’s giant footy stadium. The NGV is the National Gallery of Victoria, and the CBD is the Central Business District, where we stayed. (The NGV is in Mellie's CBD. The MCG is not far away.)

Then there are just different ways of saying and doing things. “Rockets” are arugula; “Give way” means yield. “Take away” is take out. Look both ways before crossing the street, and note they drive on the left. Also, if you’re riding your push bike, dismount and push it if the hill is too steep.

If someone apologizes, don’t say, “No problem.” Say, “No worries,” so they’ll understand you. Actually, say “No worries” no matter what they say. Then you’ll fit in. 

Vocabulary List (I’d love your additions.)
Aussie = Australian
Mellie = a person from Melbourne 
Footy = Australian rules football
Brekkie = Breakfast
Chrissie = Christmas 

Pressie=present
“No worries” = You’re welcome, no problem, Don’t worry about it 
Take away = Take out
Choccie = chocolate
Rockets = arugula 
The MCG = the Melbourne Australian rules footy stadium 
Give Way=Yield

Little penguins = Little penguins
NGV = National Gallery of Victoria
Specco = spectacular
Push bike= bike you pedal
Tazie = Tasmania 
Melb = Another Melbourne abbreviation
Take away = Take out
Cattle station = Ranch 
Costume = bathing suit
Jackaroo = a young man working on a sheep or cattle station to gain experience

Jillaroo = a young woman working on a sheep or cattle station to gain experience

Billabong= water hole

In the munga = In the boonies
Swag = a hobo’s roll (blanket rolled up)

Stuffie= Stuffed toy
Pokies = slot machines 
Spondooley = money (I think)
Zushy = swanky (sounds like Suchi)
Rabbit = a fool (I think)
The Big Smoke= Sydney (as a result of pollution during industrialization in the 1800s)
CBD = Central Business District (downtown)
“Yeah”= uh
Silver tails= richies = rich people
Jumbuck = sheep
Grub = booze
Grubs = worms eaten in the bush
Footpath = sidewalk
Banana hammock= men’s Speedo

Out of the Closet Down Under and Up Here

Note: Thursday was National Coming Out Day in the US. I was coming home from Australia. This is the first of several blog entries inspired by my trip.

Walking down the street in Cairns, Australia, I notice a sign, “Out of the Closet.” This is the first I’ve seen of anything gay in Australia, so I’m curious and walk towards it. When I get there, I see vintage clothing and the shop’s subtitle. This closet was your grandma’s closet. She might have been a lesbian, but that’s not the idea here.

I continue to an art gallery where I am the only customer. When I mention Ann to the salesperson, he shows me a photo of himself with another man. It takes me a few moments to realize he’s just come out to me as a gay man. 

We chat about our partners until another customer enters the shop. I’m about to continue the conversation, but he gives me a panicked look, his finger over his lips in a “shhh” gesture. 

I’m so accustomed to being around people who love Ann and me as a couple that I’ve almost forgotten being out isn’t safe for everyone. When I first came out to myself, I was quickly schooled by the district superintendent being gay wasn’t safe. 

That day began normally, rising at 6 am to do yoga and rushing with stacks of graded papers in my arms to the high school where I taught, spending my day with my 180 favorite students. After school, things changed. 

Walking down the outdoor hall at the school (the outdoor halls in this wet climate are from a time when our legislature didn’t fund indoor school hallways), I rounded the corner and saw a student I knew well. She was usually a bright-eyed and soulful student, but this day she looked pale and shaken. She did not look me in the eye, and uncharacteristically, she did not smile. Whereas she was usually warm, she seemed absent, distracted. I asked, “Is everything okay?” 

She responded, “Something really weird just happened. I’m going home.”

I could see she didn’t want to talk about it, so I told her to take care continued to the office to do some Xeroxing for my classes the next day. As I headed to the Xerox machine, the principal told me he needed to talk with me, so I followed him into his office. 

He was a kind man, fair and compassionate. Somehow he was friends with the bigoted superintendent. He closed the door, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes and his balding head. He did this when he was stressed.

He said, “Someone has reported that you are grooming a student, and the district is conducting an investigation.” 

I could see this was serious, but I had no idea what “grooming” was, so I asked.

The principal explained: “Preparing to molest someone. The district has contacted your student’s parents, and I have talked with her.” 

I was stunned. I thought of her expression as I had rounded the corner a few moments before, and I was angry that this homophobic investigation was happening. I was also angry my student and her parents were being drawn into this harassment. 

I said very little. What was there to say? This harassment seemed unreal, but it wasn’t. I hadn’t been a target since middle school. I had thought I was beyond that.

After the principal and I met, I told my closest colleagues what the principal had said, and they advised me to contact the union immediately. I did and talked with a supportive investigator who said this district and this school had a history of harassing gay and lesbian people. She would look into it. In the meantime, I should do exactly as she told me. 

After the phone call, I went home exhausted, lay down on the bed and fell into a deep sleep. The phone rang, jarring me awake. Half-conscious, I answered and listened as I woke up. 

“Hello, Mary. This is the superintendent. I know your principal talked with you today, and I want to follow up with you about the report.” He sounded professional. 

“I received an anonymous call in my office, charging you with preparing to molest a student. This is a serious allegation, and we are investigating.”

He continued in his emotionless baritone: “The call came directly into my office rather than going through my secretary as most calls do because it was after hours, and she was away from her desk. Therefore, I talked with the informant directly, but I don’t know the person’s identity.”

I startled awake. This detail was an odd one to explain. I thought, “He’s lying. He knows who ‘the anonymous caller’ is, and he and the caller are harassing me together. They are trying to end my career.”

The next day, I called my representative at the union after second period (because we started early, and I had taught seventy students before most people went to work.) I told her about the conversation. She advised me, “If he calls again, don’t talk to him. Don’t talk to anyone. This has gone too far. I will call him right now.”

Half an hour later, the principal summoned me to his office to talk with him and the superintendent. When I arrived, the principal said, “The investigation is over.” He was standing, and the superintendent sat rumpled in a chair that was too small for him. He did not look at me, but sat mutely in his dark coat and superintendent tie looking at his hands.

The principal continued, “The district has agreed to end its history of harassing gay and lesbian people in the schools. I will announce the district’s determination to the faculty, but I won’t use your name.” The superintendent still did not speak or meet my eye. 

I was relieved, but I was still angry. I considered a lawsuit, but the superintendent was already being investigated for harassing his lover’s husband, had a restraining order so couldn’t enter one of the district’s elementary schools, and it looked like he was on his way out anyway. I also didn’t want to involve me or my student in an ugly trial. 

Years later, when I went to a different district, I was cautious about being out with staff and never came out to students, though some of them knew. I suspect my being closeted among students didn’t help those who were struggling. After a gay teacher in another school told one student I was gay, the student came to me in disbelief. “I can’t believe I told you all about myself and you just sat there with your secret,” he said to me.

(By the way, coming out for someone else is against the gay code of ethics.)

I opened my mouth to share my experience, but closed it, realizing he didn’t need to hear this story. He was a poor, black young man out as gay in a high school. I knew he’d been harassed. I closed my mouth, then opened it again to say, “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

I met another gay Aussie in Sydney, and when I asked her to describe what it was like to be a lesbian in Australia, she said, “Australia’s a progressive place. Especially the cities. No problem here.”

I said, “That surprises me.”

“Because we legalized gay marriage so late?” I nodded in response to her question, and she continued. “The population here is much more progressive than the government. A referendum passed in every precinct but two throughout the country.”

As one of our guides often said, “That’s Australia for you.”

So Australia isn’t why the salesman didn’t come out. Maybe it isn’t good for business, but there’s probably some reason I can’t guess. I can’t judge him. I don’t know what he’s been through or what he fears. 

In the last years of my teaching life, I was out to everyone but my students. Probably I was chicken, but maybe I was having the wisdom to know the difference between the things I could and things I could not change. No, I’m pretty sure I was chicken, but I was doing the best I could at the time, and that’s the best any of us can do. Actually, I believe we all do the best we can at the time, but that’s another blog entry.

I conclude from this experience that Australia is much like the US. Lots of folks are supportive, but some aren’t and a few are dangerous. We just never know with whom we’re dealing. Maybe that’s the US and Australia, or maybe the unknown threat is everywhere. 

Maybe that’s just being human.

Looking Back

Mom and Dad sent Ann and me a card with blue sparkles and doves for the ninth anniversary of our commitment ceremony. Outside, it reads, “Happy Day, Happy Couple, Happy family who loves you.” Ann and I began our celebration with this card before looking at photo books of the week-end.

Family and friends, some of whom flew to Seattle and others drove or walked to the church, for what was in some ways a traditional ceremony. Unfortunately, Ann’s mom was not well enough to come from Texas. We missed her, though both of us felt confident in her love.

Friday night, we rehearsed the ceremony in the sanctuary. Dinner at Tutta Bella, a tasty pizza restaurant, followed Friday night’s rehearsal. I recall much of that night: Stephen’s scotch gift (MacCallum’s—yum), Alex’s giggly toast, the phenomenal amount of tiramisu our nephew Jack ate. A favorite memory is of our niece Lucie.

Throughout the dinner, Lucie asked repeatedly, “Auntie Mary, who ARE all these people?” Each time, the question was more emphatic, and she'd wave her hands even more dramatically than the previous time. 

I finally responded in a way that satisfied her: “They're our friends.” 

She seemed dismayed: “You mean they're all here for you?” 

I was thankful that she and all our nieces and nephews saw that gay couples, like straight couples, could have a community of support. 

Out of town friends and family joined us for breakfast and a pool party at Katie, Diana, and Bailey’s home Saturday morning. It was chilly, so the kids swam while we adults ate.

Saturday at 5 pm, Ann and I went to the church. We were both dressier than usual, in slacks and tops. I’d even brushed my hair for the occasion. Our nephews, dressed in colorful khaki slacks, escorted guests to the pews. We walked down the aisle as our friends Marilyn and Sara played with their quartet. 

My brother's youngest kids, Lucie and Gretchen, carried flowers from Pike Place Market down the aisle, and our older niece Isabella read from First Corinthians: “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres….And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

Our friend Cheli, Ann’s student decades ago, read a poem called “The Eagle,” which I remember but cannot find.

Our friend Pam played and sang Sara Hickman’s song “Simply.” After the ceremony, Dad said, “You told me Pam sang, but I didn’t know she could sing.” Yeah. She was awesome.

Our minister conducted the ceremony and gave a talk about love. Ann and I exchanged wooden rings and vows we wrote ourselves. The minister directed our community to support our relationship. Ann and I kissed. People took a lot of photos, and we all went to a reception to eat and dance. Ann and I exchanged chocolate bites of a fancy cake, four alternating tiers of chocolate and carrot cake. 

In some ways, our wedding was traditional. In other ways, it wasn’t. No father walked us down the aisle to give anyone away. There were neither bridesmaids nor grooms. The minister did not invite anyone to speak up if they disapproved. We were both women.

This was a night we celebrated so many gifts that Ann and I are grateful for: one another, our families and friends, our faith and community. 

Our siblings toasted our love, and Little Brother Matt and Ann’s brother Gene both get choked up during their toasts. They hugged, one of my favorite moments of the night.

We all watched a slide show I'd put together to Tom T. Hall's song, "I Love." Bless Rod Margason, who helped me with the show and probably hears, "I love little baby ducks..." as the soundtrack to his nightmares. 

Ann and I danced the first dance to Exile’s “She’s a Miracle.” Everyone watched as we swung in slow motion. Ann held me tight, and the music played: 

She’s a miracle, a sight to see.
Ohhhh, the way she touches me!
Way down deep, in my soul,
Something’s got ahold, and it won’t let goooh.
If I stumble, if I fall,
She’s waiting right there to catch me.
Ohh, she’s a miracle, a miracle to me!

We had practiced for hours in our kitchen, so I didn’t stumble and I didn’t fall. We danced amid reminders of our Northwest home: totems, a carved canoe, a sunset over the sound. We danced amid reminders of how much we were loved and how much we loved one another.

A lot’s changed in the nine years since our ceremony. I had a second brain tumor; Ann retired from teaching; I had to leave teaching and other jobs in high schools because of my disabilities; I started my own writing, like this blog; we had a state-sanctioned marriage; we’ve lost some friends and family to deaths; we adopted our puppy Dosey. The list goes on. 

Some things haven’t changed. We live in the same home and attend the same church. Many friends and family from nine years ago are still in our lives. We still attend Seattle Storm games, though we have better seats now. We still love one another and feel grateful for each moment we’re together.

We're still living this miracle.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Listen and remember: Aretha sings R-E-S-P-E-C-T. 

Here are the lyrics in case you’d like to sing along

What you want
Baby, I got it
What you need
Do you know I got it
All I'm askin'
Is for a little respect when you get home (just a little bit)
Hey baby (just a little bit) when you get home
(just a little bit) mister (just a little bit)
I ain't gonna do you wrong while you're gone
Ain't gonna do you wrong cause I don't wanna
All I'm askin'
Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit)
Baby (just a little bit) when you get home (just a little bit)
Yeah (just a little bit)

I'm about to give you all of my money
And all I'm askin' in return, honey
Is to give me my propers
When you get home (just a, just a, just a, just a)
Yeah baby (just a, just a, just a, just a)
When you get home (just a little bit)
Yeah (just a little bit)
Ooo, your kisses
Sweeter than honey
And guess what?
So is my money
All I want you to do for me
Is give it to me when you get home (re, re, re ,re)
Yeah baby (re, re, re ,re)
Whip it to me (respect, just a little bit)
When you get home, now (just a little bit)

R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Find out what it means to me
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Take care, TCB
Oh (sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me)
A little respect (sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me)
Whoa, babe (just a little bit)
A little respect (just a little bit)
I get tired (just a little bit)
Keep on tryin' (just a little bit)
You're runnin' out of fools (just a little bit)
And I ain't lyin' (just a little bit)
(re, re, re, re) When you come home
(re, re, re ,re) 'spect
Or you might walk in (respect, just a little bit)
And find out I'm gone (just a little bit)
I got to have (just a little bit)
A little respect (just a little bit)

I had planned to write a blog entry today about how Ann and I celebrated Wednesday night, the ninth anniversary of our commitment ceremony, but yesterday I heard Aretha Franklin died, and my head is full of Aretha Franklin’s voice. My heart is full of my stories where her voice sings the soundtrack.

A beautiful spring Friday. My first year of teaching. Dallas, Texas, 1987. I was 23 years old and sat outside the upper school building with three freshmen students: Luke, Joey, and Kate. Luke and Joey teased Kate in the way adolescent boys tease girls they like, poking her, pulling at her bra strap, and goading her with comments I can’t remember. 

Though I usually laughed along with these students, this time I was stern. “Don’t let them treat you like that,” I said to her. She just looked at me like she was used to it and calling attention to their antics would just make them worse.

I turned to the guys. “Don’t treat her like that,” I said.

Joey looked at me, a smile fading over his braces. “I thought you were our friend,” he said.

“No. I’m not your friend,” I responded. “I’m your teacher, and I’m telling you to show women of all ages respect.”

Joey nodded, and I left the group. The next Monday, when I entered our classroom, students were already there, and Aretha Franklin boomed from the boom box, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me.”Joey smiled, and Luke looked sheepish. This time, I laughed. They’d gotten my point, and there was still humor between us. I’ve always loved Aretha Franklin for that moment.

If you’re remembering, too, and want to hear that powerful voice some more, you can hear the whole album, I Never Loved a Man the Way I Loved You.

Aretha…I just can’t call her Franklin. She’s Aretha like Ellen Degeneres is Ellen. In this case using her first name is an indication of respect. And affection…. Aretha recorded her first record, “I Grow Closer” 

in her father’s church in 1956 when she was 14 years old, like the 1987 Texas students I’d been scolding.  

For a full retrospective, click here. 

Written and sung by Otis Redding, this song needed a powerful woman’s voice, and Redding recognized it was no longer his when he heard Aretha recording the song in the studio.

This song was Aretha’s song. And mine. And anyone’s who has ever felt disrespected. So she sings on. Even after death. She sings on.

Power

I tried to take a nap this afternoon, but with the Navy and Marine jets flying overhead, I felt like I was in a war zone. This siege happens every year as part of Seattle’s annual Seafair weekend. 

On August’s first weekend, hordes go to Lake Washington’s shores to sit on tin bleachers in a tin cage (Okay, it’s really metal fencing to keep out the freeloaders). The hordes watch speedboats making as much noise as possible as they race in a circle. Their race reminds me of one turkey I saw chase another around a bush in Michoacan, Mexico, only it’s louder. Apparently, the land-based hordes eat and drink a lot, as there are 23 places at the event to get food and/or drink. Some hordes watch from their own boats, I suppose so they can save money on food and drink.

As part of the weekend, the Blue Angels roar over our home. The first year we lived in this house, we didn’t know about this event. As the planes flew a few yards over our roof, the house shook, and scurried down from the ladder where she was painting our arbor. Then for a couple of years we tried the “If you can’t beat’em, join ‘em” tactic and went to a nearby park to watch them fly. Since then, we’ve gone to Mount Rainier’s Paradise for the weekend, where most hikers were from our neighborhood or China. 

Now that we have our puppy Dosey, who can’t stay at the Paradise Inn, we’ve stayed in town, and my partner Ann has taken Dosey to other parts of the city to walk and swim. Instead of going with them today, I went to bed to try napping through the siege.

Fortunately, the annual Blue Angels  siege has ended for this year. An opinion piece in today’s Seattle Times argued it’s time for the Blue Angels to retire from this event I agree, but I’m much less appreciative of all they’ve done than the writer. 

To me, The Blue Angels celebrate war in a way that displays power but doesn’t put us in danger. They terrify my dog, wake me from a much needed nap, and remind me with each roaring fly-over how much our country celebrates testosterone. 

Friday night, Ann and I saw powerful women on two WNBA teams play. Our Storm downed the Minnesota Lynx by 10 points. I love these games. Though there’s a lot of noise from the loud speaker and the fans (over 12,000 there Friday night), the noise stays in the arena for those who have chosen to participate in this event. Generally, the game and the crowd are family-friendly: no one’s obnoxiously drunk; people generally don’t boo the refs; and the crowd applauds great basketball from eith team (though there’s more applause for the Storm.) After the game, drivers exit politely from the garage, pausing to let another car into the stream.

Ann and I missed the stream Friday night because we got to have our photo taken with Breanna Stewart. “Stewie,” as she’s affectionately called, is talented, tall, and kind. She’s a shero.

At the end of October, 2017, she came out as a sexual abuse survivor. Her story, like her play on the court, is courageous. Unlike her presence on the court, she’s vulnerable. 

I know males and females who have been sexually abused. #MeToo is not just a women’s issue. To me, it does call into question our country’s, my city’s, celebration of predatory behavior, of power that overwhelms, of sky jets and speed boats.