The man in the red shoes

A friend of mine, the gentlemanly half of an old married couple, recently surprised me by saying he feared the rising wave of Mexican and other Hispanic immigrants because if Roman Catholics dominated the U.S., the Pope would take over. We are Episcopalian, I should make clear, so the liturgical differences are relatively small, it is the power structure which governs us that distinguishes from our fellow Ro-Cath’s. My friend’s view, among my circle, is an unusual sentiment to express, especially out loud. With a roll of her eyes, it is also apparent that the lady half of this couple, disagrees with him entirely. She pipes up as a third friend of mine, who is of the Catholic faith and cheerfully reminds us that the Pope is not God but has his frailties like other men, with a “you tell him!” nod. In large numbers this ant-Papist sentiment would be alarming and no doubt in some circles it is. But as I encountered it, it seemed slightly tragic. To be fearful of a Pope in Red Shoes seems an unnecessary burden and anxiety to be carrying. What other visions, altered and redirected might also lighten our being?

Post-boomerism

Thursday evening at the theater and the gray hairs have it. The usher, a nice young strapping man with dark curly hair, his main duty is to lend a chivalrous arm to the supra-eighty ladies stepping out for the evening. I see him trodding the same path up and down the main aisle thrice in the quarter hour before curtain. Indeed, the starring role tonight is played by a senior. These are his groupies. The personal finance television shows are obsessed with retirement. I still have thirty years to think about, any advice in the meantime? Very little, as it turns out. My apartment, recently constructed, has been designed with doors accommodating arthritic hands, a bathroom wide enough for a zimmer walker to circle around in, and a thermostat within reach from a sitting wheel chair position. The front door is accessorized with a big blue button that automatically opens it; the modern-day butler certain. This is useful to me when I wheel in a cart of groceries. And the sidewalk ramps keep my eggs from cracking. I am old before my time.

Plaid spotted

Black with large white polka-dots is my umbrella. On the train, I spot another woman with like umbrella, black with small polka-dots. Just opposite, a girl with a large animal print bag, cream with black spots, and a belt, white with tawny blots. On the bus, just passing Barney’s on M Street, the big plate glass window declares, “We are Mad for Plaid.” Check back later to see if we are sad or glad.

Marching saints

In endless rounds, with air-trombones, parading away, my sister and I learned to sing, "When the saints go marching in." Only later did I learn to associate the song with New Orleans jazz. The first class I ever taught - English as a second language to high school age refugees from Vietnam – I used a Louis Armstrong recording to illustrate the sound and swing of American jazz. Here in Washington, D.C., the home of Duke Ellington, I heard it again recently – played at a local festival to honor New Orleans. The Marshall Keyes band played it slowly, elegiac, a remembrance of all the saints who have gone marching in, and our longing to be – someday – one of their number.

When I was about 25

When I was about 25, I went to my first international government meeting, one where Seniority Counts. All I aimed to do was listen, make a few friends, and break bread with as many delegations as possible, I thoroughly enjoyed the meeting and as the meeting closed I looked looking forward to being able to report that the affairs were collegial, our relationship with other countries good. Then, we reached the final session of the plenary meeting, convening all delegates for a last goodbye. As we got started, a mid-level official, at least twenty years older than me, quietly approached. There was to be a seminar held in his country, he had been organizing all the necessary approvals and wanted it announced at the final session. My agency had supported the seminar but had little to do with its preparation, yet he wanted to me to make the report. I demurred, should not he, the leading official of the host country undertaking all the work, break the good news and invite everyone to a rollicking good time? No, he pointed out. If the U.S. makes the report, he said, then everyone will listen. I did it. His seminar was a success. But, had my week been?

Old silk

The economy is falling apart and although I am no poorer today than I was three weeks ago, I have thought about cutting back in spending. I had a conference to attend today, one where casual dress was more than enough formal. I threw on jeans and an old pink silk blouse with flowers and a tie neck, at least a decade old. It’s traveled the world with me, this blouse. It washes well in hotel sinks and emerges from luggage relatively wrinkle free. Despite being silk, it’s been hard wearing, nary a hole, a rip, not faded as afar as I can tell. But, I stopped at a store on the way home. Silk shirts, hand washable, in beautiful prints on sale and discounted further today. As I tried on a new one – orange and brown, paisley prints are in this season (or the last, as the case may be), I realized how old the old standby is. It’s from another era and marks me as such. The recent compliments I had on it, I realize, bust be from those who also fondly remember that era; and a sadness, sweet and light, like a blanket of snow, beautiful in its poignancy but harbinger of an unavoidable fresh season envelopes me in the dressing room.

Daily graces

“How y’all doing this morning?” said the gentleman as he walked into the elevator. “Fine, thank you” the chorus and me responded, on cue, in unison. Smiles, nods all around. As the doors re-open, I step out and the gents follow. Make no mistake, this requires a certain consciousness. In Asia, where I travel often, the men get out first and I have to hold back. In the Southernness that DC still has, I pay attention and step out quickly. Otherwise, everyone else’s exist is delayed while one dawdles. Such courtesies are luxuries. I remember as a student in Boston, visiting DC and enjoying these graces I had grown up as a child of the South. As I returned to Yankeeland, doors slammed in front of me, left behind in the stampeded out the elevator doors. Graces matter sometimes.

An ancient pain

An ancient pain resurfaced when I attended Sunday service at Washington National Cathedral. It is not my parish church, I am an infrequent visitor, and I had forgotten that they celebrate the liturgy with a men and boys choir in the old tradition. As a small child, no more than 7 or 8 years old, I was musically gifted but with only an average voice. Good enough to be in a choir, not good enough to be a soloist. The best children’s choir in town, however, was a boys’ choir. They gave the best concerts, had the coolest gowns, sang with orchestras, and had all the pomp that flows from long tradition. There was a mixed children’s choir to which I belonged, but it did not have all the trappings of the other. It was my first encounter as a young child that I had been born in to a boys’ world and there were to be many injustices to come. I cried at the time; and at Washington National Cathedral, those tears returned. The preacher Peter Gomes repeated a message I had heard from him times before. The wealthy should feed the poor and clothe the naked. The knowledgeable, he said, do not know all and cannot imagine the plight of others. And so, although the dinner speaker may be a little dull, and the food may be indifferent, I will go to my board dinner next week because I am nearly the only woman fellow. Ironic, indeed, to be called a fellow. A young student or colleague just getting started, may need to see that I am there, at the head table, with the directors, chatting with the chairman.