Carol Bergman

 

As Time Goes By; An Interlude

 

 

Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have of them.

 

― Marcel Proust

 

 

In Memoriam: Dudley Stone

 

 

And it's nearly May, 2021. The other day I almost forgot that the year had turned from 2020 to 2021, the brain's way of processing pain: suppression. Psychologists recommend that we dip into the flow of—normal  —life slowly. Is this possible? We've been holding our breath and now we are gasping fresh air, meeting friends and family, hugging everyone once we've established vaccination status. No more elbow bumps. No more masks. Oh, you have a face! I remember that face. Big lips, small lips, I can see your lips, the expression on your face. I can read you again. I can, literally, see you again. Oh, you are not on Zoom, you are here in all your corporeal reality. This is, truly, a miracle.

 

The other day, at Main Course in New Paltz, NY, I saw the young woman at the register who had texted me early in the pandemic to ask if there was anything she could do to help, such as shopping, for example. She had started graduate school,  and way back before the lockdown, she'd asked if she could interview me for  an assignment, which is how she knew me beyond ordering food at our favorite go-to restaurant in town where, happy to say, she still works. I hadn't needed her to shop for a while and fallen out of touch, now here she was again. First things first, a big thank you for helping us out in those early nerve-wracked pre-mask-mandate days when it felt dangerous for those in our age group, the more vulnerable age group, to go into a supermarket. Oh, it was wonderful to "see" her again and to be able to thank her in person.

 

The next day, my husband went into the city for the first time in more than a year. I was skittish. This was more than a toe into the water. But he was determined. A tournament table tennis player, he had missed his friends and the intense athletic effort he'd been used to. Zoom calls twice a month with his pals weren't enough, to say the least, and he'd been trying to stay in shape on his own without the incentive of competition. Our apartment is a gym—two bikes, a rowing machine, and weights. Will this apparatus soon become artifact? Our local gym and pool are open again, by appointment and Covid questionnaire only, please, and I am so relieved I can alternate laps and the elliptical machine with walking.

 

And, then, yesterday morning, my city friend, Nancy, and her sweet pooch, Rudy, came to visit on their way back into town after a two-day getaway. This was as overwhelming as the first hug my daughter gave me on my birthday back in March, which as time goes by, feels like yesterday. I am teary just writing about it. I met Nancy in the parking lot behind our apartment complex where she was walking Rudy, we ripped off our masks, and had a big hug. Oh, my goodness!!!

 

And then, and then, and then, an invitation arrived on email from Alan for a Mediterranean meal with mutual friends in celebration of our release from pandemic incarceration. I can't wait.

 

So, I suppose, a kind of euphoria has set in, the euphoria of survival: most of us have made it through this terrible ordeal. And though we continue to mourn the loved ones we have lost, we must not minimize the experiences, connections and skills we have gained in this challenging interim in our lives. Indeed, dear reader, we are permitted some happiness in this one small moment in time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gloria, Where Are You?

 

 

I can go on the road— because I can come home. I come home—because I'm free to leave.

 

Gloria Steinem, "On the Road"

 

 

I received an invitation to Gloria Steinem's three-floor upscale Manhattan apartment. Would I like to visit, peruse the memorabilia of the Women's Liberation Movement dating back to the 1960's, and perhaps have a cup of green tea, sit and chat for a while, toast Gloria's 87th birthday? As my visit would be managed by Google Arts & Culture, I'd be unable to ask any probing questions, however. In fact, the visit would only be virtual, and not interactive, not even a chat function, more like a museum tour. That stung. I wonder if Gloria knows about it? As a former investigative journalist herself, I am certain she would not approve of the anonymity of Google's Street View tool. Indeed, the apartment was desolate as I entered, no human in sight except for those framed on the walls. Yes, the bookcase, of course, that is of interest, but was it enough? No. I was looking forward to seeing Gloria in person. I wondered if I would bring up my connection with Ms. Magazine. It was brief, but unforgettable. I had been assigned an article, what I cannot remember. Just the very fact that I was working for Ms., that in itself was heavenly. And there were editorial meetings and social occasions and we once or twice must have said hello. But Gloria, where are you now? On the road again? I read somewhere that you fled to California as the pandemic lockdown began, leaving your home to the Google curators. Maybe you are living in a pod with your good friend, Alice Walker. Maybe you will stay in California and never return to the townhouse. Maybe you will end your life in California. Maybe the townhouse will become a customized mausoleum, a structure planned well in advance of a person's death, by the person herself.

 

What a strange experience, dear Gloria. How much you have meant to women of the Second Wave, what an iconic figure you have become, honored in life as you certainly will be in the after-life.  And have you aged a hundred years this year, as all of us have, no matter our chronological age? Are you 187 and still counting? Has time collapsed or expanded for you? How are you feeling? Healthy? You are a breast cancer survivor. Brava to that and so much more, Gloria.

 

Your absence became a presence as I entered your apartment. Alas, only the camera was my guide. No voice-over narration, your strong mezzo silenced, and just some potted written history of the women's movement, most of which can be found online on Oprah's site or in Wikipedia. Alas, did someone you hold dear suggest this special invitation to promote your foundation? Is that what this is all about?  If so, I forgive you.

 

   

Covid as Muse

 

 

One of the things that I tell beginning writers is this: If you describe a landscape, or a cityscape, or a seascape, always be sure to put a human figure somewhere in the scene. Why? Because readers are human beings, mostly interested in human beings. 

 

-Kurt Vonnegut

 

 

One summer, between my freshman and sophomore year of college, still so young, I took a job as a swimming instructor at Manitou Fine Arts Camp about four hours north of Toronto. It was cold up there under the Northern Lights and no one wanted to go swimming. In between canoeing, playing tennis and escorting campers to bed, more or less, I modeled in the art studio. That is, I modeled my head and nothing but my head. I had to keep still, no posing necessary, no instructions other than to sit. I sat and sat and day dreamed that one day I'd travel to Paris and become a writer. I was already in Paris in my imagination, I already was a a writer in my imagination, though it took me many years to become a writer. The teenaged artists sketching me, however, were precocious, gifted and disciplined, very serious about their work, which is why they had chosen the camp. Immersion in art with some athletics and romance for balance all summer long. It was bliss for them and for me. Then one day, the art teacher asked me if I'd pose for him off hours in the nude. He was about twenty years my senior, handsome in a rugged way, not my type exactly, but I wasn't sure—being young and naïve—if he was coming on to me (is that what we called harassment when I was coming of age?), or if I wanted to come on to him, or if I even knew what a nude model did, or why artists since antiquity have used nude models to practice their drawing skills and create great works.

 

   "What would that involve?" I asked.

   "Undraping yourself," he said. "Shifting your body into various poses. Do you think you can do that?

     "Like a dancer?"

      "Yes."

 

          I'd had some dance experience and sort of knew what to expect. But was I willing? Was I being groomed?  Was I flattered? No, none of those. I was in the presence of an artist and that was exciting for me at the time, and I felt safe, and mostly curious. I did wonder how I would respond to the sometimes voyeuristic male gaze, what is known as  "le regard" in France. But I had an emancipated European mother and I was emancipated, I thought, or at least I planned to be. So I said I'd think about it. L'artiste didn't press me, the decision was mine, he had other models, other counselors who were willing, he said. 

 

"But you, maybe, there could be something more."  

"Like what?"

"Model as muse."

 

       Alors, he was in love with me, I decided. So I said no definitively. I had a boyfriend, I was still so young. But it didn't take long for me to regret my decision.  To be an artist's muse, ah well, that would have been a memory to take into full adulthood.

 

          Fast forward decades, I've never had a similar offer or request, though I have had a muse or two myself, have written about art a lot in both fiction and nonfiction, and when I am in the company of visual artists, my spirit soars. I make certain I interview them regularly, artists near and far, so that the life affirming conversation about making art can continue. And so I was pleased to be able to meander –masked, distanced, and vaccinated—through the Unison Arts Gallery a few days ago with  Stuart Bigley to peruse his work and ask him about his process. The title of the show is "Covid Muse," though Covid itself has not been the inspiration. Rather, Covid sheltering has provided time for quiet contemplation and experimentation, a "forced retreat," Stuart says. Most artists and writers I know have had a similar experience during the pandemic.

 

     "When I retired as Director of Unison Arts, I decided I wanted to nail drawing," Stuart continued. "I question artists who can't draw. It seems necessary, even as I moved into abstraction, to be able to observe and record accurately."  As usual, there are analogies to writing; our devotion to practice is similar. A life drawing class, which Stuart hosts in the gallery once a week, is the same—practice and preparation. These days, though the models are still mostly female, the class attracts both men and women image makers. It's a reminder that women, too, enjoy contemplating the contours of the human body and transforming it into art.

 

 

 

Interlude; Buds & Bees

    

 

In a dark time, the eye begins to see…

 

-Theodore Roethke

 

 

When the bees are swarming around the hives, we know that they have survived the winter and that spring is here, or nearly here, and that the queen bee has been protected by the worker bees, huddling together in the man-made hives to stay warm, using the nourishment of the well-preserved and preservative honey for fuel, though not much is needed when there are no blossoms to pollinate. My daughter was not certain if they were visiting bees, awake from wintering, searching out the remnant honey, or indigenous bees that they had nurtured last season. Bees can travel a ways, which can be a problem when one neighbor lays down pesticide and the other doesn't. But the sight of those bees, the soft thrum of their ricocheting flight, made us stop our walk through the homestead and marvel at the beauty of returning life and the miracle of survival itself. We thought of friends and family, near acquaintances and far, even colleagues, who did not make it through the winter. We thought of their loved ones.

 

It was a too-warm day. We let the dogs lead us onto a well-worn wooded path. Detritus of storms everywhere—a harsh winter exacerbating our lockdowns, ice not fully receded. Yet the fruit trees are budding and the frogs have returned to the pond after their winter hibernation—soon there will be an orgy, my daughter explained. Like the bees, they dig deep into the blanket of the earth and stay very still until the earth turns again. We reveled in the chorus of their joyful croaking, eager to disturb their song by piercing the cold pond water with our vaccinated bodies.

 

Passing Judgment

 

 

 

The fact that behavior is commonplace does not mean it should be mistaken for behavior that is normal.

 

-Jelani Cobb, The New Yorker, March 15, 2021

"How Parties Die"

 

 

I've been thinking about Governor Cuomo all morning and began to write this post as I was swimming laps. I've been loading up on well reported descriptions of a toxic workplace environment, the accusations of the Governor's female employees, the nursing home fiasco, and even worse, the cover-up. If true, none of this is good news. We relied on this elected official's leadership during the pandemic and were in thrall to every pronouncement at his weekly news conferences. We took his advice and we trusted him. Many women friends of mine joked that they were standing in line to date the Governor; he was hot, he was competent, he gave us clear instructions. The revelations of recent weeks don't change any of that except for one thing: many of his staff were suffering, and not from Covid. And though none of the allegations have been proven, and must be proven before we pass our final judgment, it is difficult to keep that judgment in abeyance when we feel shocked and disappointed. Nonetheless, we must. The abrogation of the rule of law these last four years has damaged our democracy. I find the prospect of trial by media rather than trial by jury as troubling as anything the Governor did or might have done. Have we succumbed once again to America's "persecuting spirit," as described by Nathaniel Hawthorne and amplified by McCarthyism? 

 

Here are my more specific thoughts in no particular order:

 

1.    Has the Governor been living in such a protected bubble that he's by-passed the protocols of sexual harassment law? They are very specific, stipulated by New York State law. At NYU I must review this law with a video course and answer questions before re-entering the classroom every term. Did the Governor, in fact, take the course?

 

2.    Would it be possible to view the Governor's alleged sexual advances as pathetic rather than malevolent? Or desperate rather than malevolent? The attempts to connect sound as inappropriate and immature as a teenager's. Except for the "groping" allegation, they are not violent.

 

3.    Andrew Cuomo was known as the "enforcer" for his father, Mario, when Mario was Governor. This backstory is well known and proven. Tough guy. Strongman. If it's true that he still bullies, shouts, and threatens to obliterate, why hasn't  there been a protest by the women and the men who have worked for him all these years?  Has he only hired men and women who are easily intimidated? Are his staff so eager and ambitious that they'll swallow all aggressive and abusive behavior?

 

4.    Last but not least, as a mom of a strong daughter, who forced her to take karate until she got her black belt, I do have some questions about the women who have come forward. I believe them totally, but I also am concerned that accomplished ambitious women still do not speak up, or know what to say in situ—providing there is no threat of violence. Did the women in this story have any responsibility, any agency at all, or were they only victims? I hope not.

 

 I am reminded of the complex and troubling discussion about Pablo Picasso's misogyny and Woody Allen's pedophilia. Must we disregard the art, destroy our pleasure in it—if we can still feel pleasure in it--or does the work stand alone, apart from the biography? Will Governor Cuomo be remembered for his management of the pandemic in New York State,  the allegations against him, or for the results of the investigations once they are delivered?

 

False Ending

 

 

People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you've tamed. You're responsible for your rose."

 

           ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, "The Little Prince"

 

 

I was talking to my college friend, Dr. Stephen Goodman, a frontline worker all these past months, and he told me that he was sorry I'd ended Virus Without Borders. Had I ended it? He wasn't sure. Nor was I, as it turned out. I'd had a week of endless work-related distractions, most of them unpleasant, and the grounding of writing a VWB post at  the end of the week was missing. I had tried writing a "regular" post about returning to fiction, rereading a couple of novels to prepare for a new writing escapade, but nothing worked. I was stuck, not blocked, but stuck. Fully vaccinated, I'd assumed there was nothing else I had to say about the pandemic and that it was time to move on. But we are not finished with this plague, far from, and there is a  lot more to say about it, a lot more to document. Just look at the numbers, consider the variants, think about the scramble for vaccines, the insanity of governors re-opening their states completely, the  re-opening of public schools. I will be back in the classroom in September. Will it be safe? Will I be teaching with a mask on, or off? Will the union committee I am on insist on proper ventilation before we re-enter the classroom? And so on.

 

It's as though we've escaped from a war zone but are still inside the war zone, hampered, trampled, halfway home but still at risk. Sitting outdoors at a café with a couple of local friends, celebrating my birthday with a decaf  latte, skim milk, and a vegan chocolate chip cookie, we raised our arms in a hallelujah, and beyond one singular birthday, celebrated all our birthdays, and our survival. Then we tried to figure out what we could and could not do now that we are fully vaccinated. Our children have not been vaccinated and are still super cautious, hyper-vigilant at times, as they must be. And though we see an ending, beyond the false ending we are now living, it will not be definitive like a light switch going off. Closure maybe, a return to activity, and an assessment of the economic, political and personal challenges that lie ahead, but not a definitive ending and a return to what some call "normalcy." No, life will be different, that is a given. And though the plot seems to be heading to a conclusion, dear reader, there's still more to the story.

 

Inner Freedom

 

 

I've always wanted to write a poem that ends/at the ocean. How the poem gets there doesn't much matter, just so at last/it arrives.

 

-Jim Moore, from "Poem That Ends at the Ocean"

 

 

Since I became a writer, I have always wanted to write one book a year. These past few years I have almost fulfilled this ambition, but I never thought I would get to Chapter 59, much less 35 or 40 or 50 in Virus Without Borders. I never imagined that a dedicated blog by that domain name—one  I own—would  be hacked by bad actors, and that I'd have to shift it to my more secure Authors Guild site, or that I'd only be writing about the pandemic and putting other projects aside for an entire year. Indeed, the blog/ book began to feel like the pandemic itself: unending.

 

It began as a project to maintain a writer's discipline, to keep track of time passing or fading away, to process the constant challenges we have all experienced, to acknowledge the struggle, mourn the dead, and to document my personal experience of the pandemic. My intention was to write one chapter every week or ten days, and when the pandemic was over, to donate the book blog—or blog book, I never could decide—to an archive somewhere for future historians to use. I am sure many other writers and artists will do the same. But the pandemic is far from over and won't be for a long while. What else do I have to say about it? We all know the deal: vaccinate as fast as we can, continue vigilance and safety protocols, and return to life and justice initiatives with other survivors—friends, families, colleagues, neighbors, kindred spirits. We are survivors. Will it be difficult to accept that very fact? 

 

I  am gratified that this blog/book has sustained me and others. Some readers have written to me privately with their own comments and stories, some have commented on the website's comments function. I hope that I'll continue to see you on the same Authors Guild site in the weeks and months ahead, that this post today is a coda for Virus Without Borders, but not the end of connection between this writer and her readers. As the restrictions of the pandemic recede, we can move on together and continue a conversation. I'll be returning to ruminations, interviews, reviews and stories about writing, the writing life, and much else, some still pandemic related, some not. All the posts, including Virus Without Borders, are archived, dating back to 2008. Dip in. Enjoy. Comment. Share your stories.

 

 

 

In a Slow Moving Year

  

 

We become what we behold. We shape our tools, and thereafter our tools shape us.

 

-Marshall McLuhan

  

 

In other words, the medium becomes the message and/or the medium is the message. When I first read McLuhan in graduate school, I pondered this statement for a long time. In truth, I didn't get it. I do now, more so since we have become still more dependent on media technology in our pandemic world. We say we are grateful, we enthuse about platforms and apps, the collapse of time zones—the  collapse of time itself—in  a slow moving year. I have students this term across three time zones in the United States and another who just returned to New York from Bogota but had been zooming in from there. And that is grand, consoling, and stimulating, an unexpected benefit of Zoom. But as I walk along Huguenot St. wearing through a second pair of hiking shoes since the pandemic began, and I pass the pit where enslaved men, women and children are buried, or where they were thrown, if their cadavers were not taken for medical dissection, I visualize the killing fields at Auschwitz centuries later, another genocide, where so many in my family were executed, and it is as if no time has passed. I snap a photograph of the wintry expanse of lawn, breathe fresh mountain air, and write to a friend in Singapore, so far away, to tell him about the sensation of collapsed space and time. I wonder: when will I next see him in person? Will I ever? Will our lives continue in tandem—as I am so much older—or will our life spans diverge? Have they already? Is the answer in the questions? Do our time zones overlap or is time a mobius loop, Planet Earth floating unattended in space? Is email communication enough to satisfy a deep, long friendship? Can we continue to sustain friendship through media alone? Are social media platforms portals or labyrinths in which we'll ultimately become lost to others and to ourselves?

 

If we consider all the media at our disposal to stay connected in a disconnected year, anything that amplifies the human voice is the warmest, McLuhan probably  would say: Facetime, Zoom, a writer's voice in an email or  book. And sound bite text is the coldest, without intonation, devoid of nuance even with the enhancement of emojis which are one-dimensional, barren of real feeling, shortcuts, the same for everyone. Yet, among the generations upcoming, long before COVID-19, text and emojis had become the conduit of incessant "conversation," beyond emergencies or simply confirming plans, and that has only intensified. Do texters realize they are not talking? Or do we insert the person's voice in our brain as we are reading? Can you hear my voice as you read my words here? Because I am talking to you, dear reader, and when I hear your voice, your voice warms me.

       

10,000 Calls

 

 

 

I have been calling to get an appointment anywhere, every morning, every afternoon, and often I've been online at night.

     -

Fran Goldman, 90, a Seattle resident, as reported by the AP

 

 

Sound familiar? From what I can tell, Fran's story is everywoman's and everyman's story this week. She is internet savvy and lucked out: she got an appointment, but had to walk back and forth on her own in Seattle's unprecedented snowstorm. A personal friend of mine had ambulatory surgery in New York a few weeks ago, was released, and had to forge a snowstorm to get home on a bus, her neighbor/escort hanging on to her for dear life. In the midst of the pandemic, there were no provisions in the hospital, or the city, to make sure she got home safely. Nor were there beds available for her to stay the night. My husband and I got our second shots, but many "eligible" people I know have not been able to get their shots, or have traveled far to get their shots. And what about people who can't do that? Or can't navigate the internet?

 

Remember President Bush's "thousand points of light," i.e. volunteerism. Well, there are volunteers now helping folks get appointments. Nice, but not an answer. What we need is an emergency preparedness infrastructure. What we need is federally and state employed logisticians. But this is the USA. Good luck. Even the United Nations, crippled as it is by member states' hubris and intransigence, even they do better in countries far far away that sometimes do not even have running water. Vaccination programs succeed.

 

Do you think the United States will be prepared for the next pandemic or climate change catastrophic event? Or are we, individualistic Americans, Texans every one, content with handing over our fates—physical, mental, spiritual—to our paralyzed governments and private grid owners? And why isn't the army or National Guard administering vaccine so that citizens and health care providers do not have to scramble for supplies? And why did Walgreen's and CVS, private for-profit companies, get the gig, their websites crashing every day?

 

These  are rhetorical questions. Next up, I will channel the artist Jenny Holzer and write in big print on a brick wall: ARE YOU A SOCIALIST?  Heaven forfend. A centralized, organized system that works, won't it implode our liberties? Is this even a question from anyone with half an education?

 

Forgive my sarcasm this morning, dear reader, but I had a My Chart conversation with my doctor yesterday in which her over-burdened-self  revealed that when the clinic announced they had a new supply of vaccines, they got 10,000 calls. I had been trying to reach the nurse in the practice for two days as I had an adverse reaction to the second Moderna shot, wanted to report it, and ask a question or two. No such luck. My doctor felt so bad, she apologized. What a ridiculous situation. Because of the collapse—or  nonexistence—of  infrastructure, she could not attend to her patients. In the end, I called a doctor friend in San Francisco. He held my hand long distance and told me to report the adverse reaction to the CDC, which I have done, thus contributing to continuing data collection. They have a user-friendly website for anyone interested:

 

https://www.cdc.gov/vaccinesafety/ensuringsafety/monitoring/vaers/index.html

 

And PS nothing, absolutely nothing, would have stopped me from getting a shot, even knowing in advance that I'd have a reaction. Please get yours as soon as you are eligible and it is available. Please don't knowingly jump the queue in the chaotic scramble everyone is experiencing. And if you are questioning the wisdom of getting the shot at all, please read this:

 

https://politicsay.com/vaccine-alarmism-the-new-york-times/

   Beyond  Pronouns

 

Jake Sully: I see you.

Neytiri: I see you.

 

-from  "Avatar," screenplay by James Cameron based on "Burning Chrome," a short story by William Gibson

 

For the first time since NYU's founding in 1831, students can add their personally selected pronouns, as well as the pronunciation of their names, to the faculty roster. This decision did not surprise; it's been evolving for a long time. To ignore its opportunities and imperatives would be #cisprivilege.  And what is cis? And what is #cisprivilege? I had vaguely, imperfectly understood, then I understood. I have always read Masha Gessen in The New Yorker and find her an outstanding clear-thinking source for all things Russian and trans. Forgive me, dear reader, if I slip now and again. I try to keep up. These changes in our culture and in our language are happening fast.

 

Like so much else, I suspect that NYU's decision was hastened by this past COVID year of invisibility, or partial visibility. We are blended in and out of the classroom, or framed by wee boxes on virtual platforms: I see you, I see myself in the camera's eye. Where are you? Where am I?  The images of ourselves and others are often elusive, so why not ground them, explore them, and redefine them with precise language as we await the day we will become three-dimensional to one another again. At which point, what will the world look like and sound like? How will we have changed? 

 

Just out of college, the cis daughter of a friend ran a support group for trans teens in a Mt. Sinai clinic in Spanish Harlem. She wasn't qualified,  she wasn't trans, but she was an empathetic facilitator. Working with the guidance of a social worker, she never flinched, never questioned the rights and desires of her struggling and suffering younger charges to find peace and acceptance, to get jobs, to protect themselves from abuse and worse. When she asked me to teach a writing workshop, I felt both curious and repulsed. Who were these young people? How did they get this way? What went wrong? Can they be fixed? As an educator, a parent, an espoused progressive, I knew better, but these inane and ignorant thoughts crossed my mind—shame on me. Years later, I have fewer questions, and more understanding, but as a writer and editor I still have a problem with plural pronouns becoming singular (he/she/him/her/his shifting to their/them) even though the psychodynamic imperative is now obvious to me.

 

Shifts in language follow changes in society. We now capitalize the word Black, for example, with reference to a Black person. Just recently, newspapers and magazines of record had discussions about this change as a consequence of the Black Lives Matter Movement; the decision was made decisively and quickly.

 

During a Zoom session last week, two students corrected my mispronunciation of their names. I didn't mind because it took courage to challenge a professor on the first day of class, and building courage to tell a story is key to my pedagogy. I was also pleased that they felt safe enough and self-confident enough to voice their names out loud for all of us to hear, learn, and appreciate.