Jane Roper's Blog, page 8
July 27, 2022
Bracing for what’s ahead
July 26, 2022
Rancor is an anchor
Every so often—ok, very often, these days—I escape to New Hampshire’s White Mountains, my number one “happy place” (barf). Back in 2020, when I took my hiking up a notch, I started keeping track of the 4,000-footers I summited, and now I’m close to hiking all 48 of them. It’s fun to have a goal.
When I’m driving to the trailheads, often quite early in the morning, surrounded by the peaks, I get a delicious feeling of anticipation. I’m on the brink of escaping the everyday world, into a realm of spruce and rocks (oh, the rocks…) and roots and moss, and views of mountains beyond mountains beyond mountains.
But until I get there, I have to drive through a gauntlet of ‘Let’s Go Brandon’ and ‘Trump 2024’ and ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ and ‘Blue Lives Matter’ signs along the way. A defunct bakery in Twin Mountain has, in addition to a ‘Let’s Go Brandon’ sign, a hand-lettered sign that says: “First Amendment! Triggered yet?” I don’t even understand what this means (who’s triggered by the first amendment?) but, as Democrat, I’m pretty sure that I’m the target of this ire. Ugh.
New Hampshire is a purple state, and decidedly redder in the more rural parts. But the (rural-ish) White Mountain and Lakes regions are constantly flooded with hikers and skiiers and vacationers from more liberal Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York. I don’t think I’m wrong in assuming that all of the flags and signs and all the rest are intended in part to “trigger” us.
And, in my case, they do. That is, if being “triggered” means feeling angry and frustrated, hated and hateful, not to mention downright dismayed about the state of our country, which, I think it’s fair to say, is in the midst of a not-always-bloodless civil war.
But then, I put on my pack and hike up into the hills and all is (mostly) forgotten. People don’t tend to talk politics on the trail, and it’s rare to see political t-shirts or hats. On my most recent hike—a glorious two-night trek across the Presidential range with stays at two AMC huts—my hiking pal Marah and I shared a bunk room and dined side by side with folks who I’m pretty sure spanned a range of political views, based on some little “tells” in the course of conversations. And I know based on the “Hike the 4000-Footers” Facebook group I’m in that the range of political persuasions out on the trails is wider than one might think—especially of late, when so many more people are hiking.
But in the huts, we didn’t talk about current events or hot-button issues. Instead, we talked about hiking and gear and travel and hometowns and food and family and whatever else happened to come up.
Yet when the sixty-something thru-hiker from Texas across the table from me on our second night let drop a little comment about “bozos like Cuomo, with their pandemic restrictions,” I felt myself getting angry. Ironically, not so much because of the substance of the comment itself—I actually think the issue of pandemic restrictions was and still is very complex—but because I associate that stance with others that I find more unequivocally problematic.
But dammit, I didn’t want to feel angry at this person who had just passed me the bread, and who had been sharing stories of his family and his section hikes on the Appalachian trail—this person who had fancy waterproof socks but also duct-tape covering a tear on his jacket, who said that the pumpkin curry soup we were eating reminded him of something his wife made, and who loved being in the woods and on the mountaintops as much as I did.
And it’s weird; I almost felt like I was obligated to be angry, as a loyal member of Team Liberal.
But I made a concerted effort not to go there. I gently pushed the anger to the side. I tried to stay in the moment of our shared humanity, and the things that we had in common, known and unknown, rather than the things we might vehemently disagree on. It actually felt like a kind of mindfulness exercise: making the choice to focus on what my eyes and ears were telling me in that moment, rather than following my assumptions and stereotypes and fears and tribalistic impulses down a rabbit hole of anger and dismay.
It felt good. It felt like something I want to try to do more.
Now, let me qualify this a bit, because I can just hear my fellow liberals revving up their “yeah, but” engines: I am not saying I want to stick my fingers in my ears and close my eyes and sing LA-LA-LA so I don’t have to feel icky sad mad feelings. I’m not talking about shrugging and saying “We can agree to disagree! Pass the peas!” when it comes to matters of major moral weight. I’m never going to cozy up to an unrepentant racist or transphobe, or trade recipes with a right-wing militia member or January 6 Capitol invader. And you can bet your bippy I’m going to stay mad at the people in positions of power who are curtailing rights and undermining democracy and blocking legislation that I believe would help improve life for all people, and at the pundits and propaganda peddlers who are stoking the flames.
But the kneejerk anger I so often feel toward ordinary people on the “other side,” usually without knowing a thing about them except that I know, or even just suspect, they’re not on my “team,” feels corrosive. Hypocritical (I don’t want them being reflexively angry at me). Indulgent, even. Because the fact is, aiming my anger at ordinary, individual people—as opposed to larger political and systemic realities, or those aforementioned powerful folks—doesn’t change the world for the better.
And seething and muttering “fuck you, asshole,” when a flag-flying pickup truck emblazoned with Trump stickers passes me on the highway isn’t accomplishing anything, except probably raising my cortisol levels, which leads to increased belly fat, and nobody needs that.
I don’t know. There’s a lot about our current political and cultural reality that really does make my heart hurt and my blood boil. And you can’t just turn off your feelings. But it seems that if I try, I can fiddle with the knobs a bit when it comes to fellow humans, such that my anger doesn’t completely overwhelm my empathy, my curiosity, and my belief in the inherent worth and dignity of all people.
Which, if nothing else, is good news for my belly.
Now. On a COMPLETELY different note! Things are moving with regard to my book!! Galleys for The Society of Shame are in the works, to send to reviewers and booksellers and the like, and pretty soon I’m going to reveal the cover. Here’s me forcing it upon unsuspecting tourists on the Swan Boats in the Public Garden, where I shot a cover reveal video. (Why the Swan Boats? You’ll find out soon!)
So….to see the cover, and some of the sillness that transpired in the park that day, kindly follow me on Facebook or Instagram. Or keep reading here. Either way, thank you.
July 1, 2022
50% Natural
So, look, I was originally planning to write one of my philosophical posts I seem to keep writing of late about the fleeting nature of time and life and blah blah blah. Specifically, I was going to write about the strong pull of the past, and the strange way nostalgia works. (Just got back from my 25th college reunion, so, you know. Relevant)
But the truth is, it’s been a particularly shitty couple of weeks for our country. Between watching these fuckers in the Supreme Court overturn Roe, make it harder for the government to curb emissions and easier for people to carry concealed weapons, and also watching the January 6 hearings knowing that millions of brainwashed MAGA cult members won’t belive or care the last president fomented a coup based on a lie, one can’t help feeling a little, well, exhausted. Disheartened. Powerless.
So today, I just don’t wanna write about the shifting sands of time or boats being borne back ceaselessly into the past. I wanna write about Carob and SuzyQs.
Carob: I’m not even sure exactly what it is. Some kind of bean? Anyway, in the seventies, some sadistic ex-hippie / earth mother types started using it to make a waxy, bitter chocolate substitute and pushing it on unsuspecting white, suburban mothers. As a result, my mother started incorporating it into our family diet (even our EASTER BASKETS, for the love of God) along with wheat germ, homemade granola, and “fruit leather,” which I’m pretty sure was just baked applesauce. She grew her own alfalfa sprouts in jars, and I can only assume she made her own yogurt at some point. Meanwhile, for several years in the early eighties, my brother and I were only allowed to have sugar-free lollipops. These tasted like a lollipop crossed with a candle.
Now, flash forward ten years or so: I’m a teenager, and our kitchen is regularly stocked with Diet Rite, Gorton’s fish sticks, and Suzy Qs. (If you’re not familiar with them, they are the Hostess verison of a Devil Dog, but far superior on account of the softer cake part and the higher cream to cake ratio. One could also describe them as the Kardashian version of a whoopie pie.) We still ate fairly healthily overall. My mom cooked a well-balanced family dinner nearly every night. There was no white bread in the house, only wheat. But neither was there any wheat germ or carob.
I often wonder what happened between 1977 and 1987 that led to this change. Certainly, there were larger cultural forces at work. The earth mother / Our Bodies Ourselves / Free to Be You and Me culture yielded to microwaves, aerobics, and Smurfette. But I aso suspect that on some level my mom got to a point where she was like “eh, fuck it.” Pass the Suzy-Qs.
I can relate.
Except my shifts from healthy to unhealthy, earth mother to….space mother (?), environmentally responsible to unresponsible happen not on a decade to decade basis, but month to month or week to week. Sometimes even day to day.
Example: There was a period when I declared (to myself and those around me, including my husband, who rolled his eyes): WE SHALL EAT NOTHING BUT HUMANELY RAISED AND LOCALLY SOURCED MEAT! Because it’s better for the environment (if you’re going to eat meat) and nicer to the animals. And if it means spending more and going out of our way to find it, well, it’s a sacrifice worth making!
Flash forward a few months, and maybe our checking account is a little anemic, and I’m crazy busy, and I’m at Stop & Shop (where I am buying whole wheat bread and also Oreos) and I’m all “This time, I’ll just buy this store-brand ‘Nature’s Promise’ chicken, because the package has a leaf on it, and it’s more expensive than the regular kind, so that must mean it’s better for the environment, and the chickens, and my children’s insides, and come on, I can’t be perfect.”
And then, next thing you know I’m saying eh, fuck it. It’s probably exactly the same meat as that stuff over there on the yellow trays that’s on sale for $1.89 a pound. We have solar panels and one of our kids is a vegetarian, so it cancels it out.
Flash forward a few more months, and maybe I happen to have just gotten a big fat check from a client so I’m feeling flush with cash, and I just read something about pesticides ravaging us all from within, and I’m at our local farmer’s market slapping down $20 for two pounds of chicken from a farm in Western Mass., declaring NO, THIS TIME I MEAN IT! ONLY HUMANELY RAISED AND LOCALLY SOURCED MEAT!
Rinse, repeat.
(Speaking of rinsing and repeating: I once tried that shampoo that comes in bar form—no plastic packaging. It made my hair look like shit.)
Periodic oscillations aside, I suppose I have actually gotten gradualy more “eh, fuck it” as the kids have gotten older. Like, I used to buy the fancy, all-natural frozen waffles when the kids were little. At some point, I shifted to Nutri-grain Eggos. Now, I just grab the cheaper, ‘Homestyle’ ones and call it a day. The kids like them better, and I’m pretty confident that eating the non-whole-grain kind won’t subtract years from their lives. I mean, if they’re going to eat frozen waffles anyway, right? (But did I mention the wheat bread? It’s organic wheat bread. So I think that cancels out the waffles. And maybe the Pepperidge Farm cinnamon raisin swirl bread, too.)
I admire the commitment of the 100% natural and organic and healthy and sustainable people. I really do. But this is one area where I think I will forever be inconsistent.
I feel like I should make some larger point here now, as I often do at the end of my posts. Something about everything in moderation, or perfect being the enemy of good, or the importance of balance in one’s kitchen and one’s life, or something like that. I should probably also touch on inequality and food deserts and the connection between "virtuous” eating and wealth / privilege.
But…eh, fuck it.
You stopped thinking about Roe vs. Wade for five minutes, right?
You’re welcome.
May 11, 2022
Bracing for what's ahead
I am a master of the clickbait headline am I not?? Bwah ha ha. This is why I make the big bucks in advertising.
So, what’s this terrible thing looming on the horizon of my life? Other than jowls?
Before I get to that, let’s start with a really good thing that’s happening right now: I am really enjoying being a mom. Like, more than ever. Which is pretty unexpected—even shocking—given that my kiddos are 15.
Because who likes being a parent of teenagers, right? Teenagers are the worst! They’re selfish and rebellious and pimply and rude and sullen and stinky! They don’t want anything to do with you—until they need money or a ride somewhere! They call you a Boomer when you are GEN-X DAMMIT!
Except…not really, in the case of our resident teens. I mean, some of those things above are definitely true at least some of the time. (Seriously, do I look like a Boomer?) And it’s a damned good thing neither of them wears anything with lapels, because there are most certainly times when I really want to shake one or both of them by them.
But mostly…I gotta say. I like our kids! They’re funny, smart, curious, interesting people! They’re good conversationalists! And Lord knows they’re more rational than they were as little (if slightly less cute). And although they’re quite independent, they also seem to still enjoy being around me and Alastair, miraculously.
Frankly, they’re really quite lovely. (Having written this, I will now probably come home to one of them smoking a cigar whilst rifling through the liquor cabinet.)
NOW. This isn’t to say that there aren’t times when things are tough. We did go through an extremely rough stretch last summer with one of our kiddos, owing to some mental health and other struggles. There certainly may be more struggles and thornier issues to come.
But at the moment, anyway, I’m loving this phase. I did not expect to. But I do.
So it breaks my heart that in three short years, it’s going to be over. Both kiddos gone in one fell swoop, assuming they both start college in the fall of 2025.
That’s the thing. The thing I’m bracing myself for. (That and jowls.)
Look, I know they’ll always be my kids. And hopefully I’ll still see them plenty once they fly the coop. But the idea of not having them living full-time at home, being part of the fabric of day-to-day life...not hearing them tromping up and down the stairs…seeing their rooms empty, day after day…it’s like a punch in the stomach every time I think of it.
And I’ve been thinking of it a lot more since the kids started high school.
Meanwhile, when I lament all this to Alastair, he responds by saying absurd things like, “Yeah, it’ll be a little sad, but I also think it’s gonna be great!”
GREAT? Great HOW??
In talking to various female friends, it seems this is a common dichotomy: Moms dreading the empty nest and Dads looking forward to….I don’t know what. Spontaneous trips to the Bahamas? Sex every day in every room of the house? (Like that’s gonna happen…)
In my own, neatnik husband’s case, I actually think it’s the thought of fewer dishes, less laundry, and fewer shoes littering the front hall that’s most appealing. See, whereas I will miss the messy evidence of the kids’ presence. I will miss all of it.
I mean, yes, I will probably enjoy having more time for my writing, and will most likely do more hiking, too. I will probably enjoy the opportunity to spend more uninterrupted time with Alastair, and maybe more time with various friends and family. And maybe there will be spontaneous trips to the Bahamas. Or, you know, New Hampshire.
But if I could trade all that away for five, six, seven more years of the kids being at home, I think I would do it in a heartbeat. (Sorry, honey.)
It would be a very selfish trade, though. After all, a big part of our job as parents is to get our little birds ready to fly on their own and then, when they’re ready, let them.
But I think it’s going to be the hardest part of this whole parenting thing yet.
I’m trying not to think / worry about it too much. Trying to enjoy and live in the moment and all.
Plus, In my experience, there’s no way to minimize the sadness of endings by trying to brace yourself for them in advance. All you can do is let them come, feel the loss, and keep going.
Dammit.
