We’ve All Done It

A brief exploration of recent moral dilemmas

My friend Cathy uses a phrase that I have found one of the most reassuring in this American life: “We’ve all done it.”

For example, last February I slipped and fell down my spiral staircase to the basement of my Queens apartment. I am usually, always, really, until then, so careful it’s absurd: “don’t die, don’t die, don’t die,” I chant, as I carry down recycling. Then on that morning, for whatever reason, I held onto no rail and thought I’d just pop down there and bammo, bruise city, swollen ankle, trip to the ER.

“We’ve all done it.”

And let’s face it: before you judge the bonehead accident of another person, it would not kill you to take a breath, think to yourself, “Have I done that, or something like it?” And then, reassuringly say to your friend, not the judgy thing, but the true thing: “We’ve all done it.” This, I feel sure, would be a really helpful thing to do and go a long way to calming both you and your friend.

Breathe. Who among us hasn’t left a stove burner on, forgotten to time something in the oven, or left coffee in the microwave for three days? And who among us didn’t try to sneak at least once into a movie for free? “We’ve all done it.”

But there’s a limit that also might be constructive to consider.

It occurred to me as I was washing the dishes just now (I spend a lot of time in the kitchen), thinking about how we’ve all gone a whole day and not bothered to wash one dish, that surely this phrase of reassurance does not always apply to all missteps.

Murder, say. Or insurrection. Or violating another’s right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

No.

So I’m writing today because I think this phrase, “We’ve all done it”—the thinking of it and considering it—might help a bunch of Americans right now who are either undecided about or outraged over former President Trump’s 91 indictments, arrest, and, finally, mugshot. Or say, the painting of swastikas on the houses of Black people in Montgomery, Alabama. Or, perhaps, the mass murder of Black people by a racist white supremacist in a store in Jacksonville, Florida. Or the lackadaisical attitude of sportscasters as people and players ran screaming during a mass shooting during a high school football game.

That phrase, “We’ve all done it,” may be the test you need as to whether, or not, a big ass really criminal crime might have been perpetrated as opposed to the human mistake.

I, speaking as an occasionally above average, certainly flawed human being, can honestly say about the charges of voter fraud, treason, intimidation, etc., to say nothing of the weekend’s racist attacks and mass murder, that I cannot utter the reassuring phrase, “We’ve all done it,” with anything like conviction.

On the contrary, some major convictions are what we need.

And don’t get me started on that GOP “debate.”

This has been a public service announcement on behalf of sane and sentient citizens everywhere. We’ve all done it…or have we? If we haven’t, and it’s not art, chances are it’s a big ass crime. And if you can’t tell the difference, you are the problem. See your ass in court, no doubt sooner than later.

Kisses from Miss O’.

Miss O’ has no claims to perfection, but Jesus Christ already.

Surfacing

Seen in Queens. Photo by LO’H

Of the Surface of Things

by Wallace Stevens (1879 –1955)

I

In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four
hills and a cloud.

Surface Chair

Years ago, my friend Tom and his partner were moving and downsizing, and he sold me a delicious olive green wing chair (which I foolishly gave away when I later moved to New York and I miss it still). On first seeing the chair, which was solid and plain, in my house, my friend Chuck remarked, “Now it just needs a couple of bright pillows!” When walking the shops of Fredericksburg, Virginia, I found two expensive hand-painted pillows, with an accent of that very olive green, that did just the trick. I thought of all this just now as I pulled down my bed covers and shifted one of those very pillows to the side so as not to crush it in my sleep.

So much of life and living is surface, a chair you buy and lose, the bright pillows you spend so much money on to decorate the chair, the casual remark that caused you to elevate your home decorating aesthetic beyond solid colors into bright patterns of possibility. All surface thoughts, yes, but more than the surface shifts. Doesn’t it?

II 

From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
The spring is like a belle undressing.”

Surface Friend

Thursday afternoon, I texted my dear friend Cindy who lives on Maui to ask what was happening and if she and her family were safe, and they were, as the fires were not on her part of the island, but oh how she was grieving the loss of Lahaina. She then texted, “Did you know that Tammy [a fellow student and actor from Virginia Tech days in the 1980s] passed?” I did those things we do now: looked up Tammy’s obituary online; wrote a tribute memory; posted of her death in a social media alumni group. I really had only a surface relationship with Tammy, acting with her in a Summer Arts Festival production of Andre Gregory’s adaptation of Alice in Wonderland the few months before I started my teaching career. We took to walking home together on the nights after rehearsals and performances, as neither of us had cars, and her place was my halfway point. She’d kiss my cheek, wish me “safe home,” a phrase I didn’t know. She graduated the year I was a freshman, and by the summer I got to know her had waitressed and auditioned in New York City for three years and lived with a Russian boyfriend named Roman who wouldn’t go down on her because he didn’t understand what “the magic button” was, which was not where women bleed and pee, and her favorite city memory was Roman pushing her around the East Village in an abandoned shopping cart in the cold wee hours after the bar where they worked closed for the night, her legs sticking up out of the cart while he spun her around on the deserted streets and she screamed and laughed. That’s what I know about Tammy. And can’t forget.

Surface memories as lasting as love.

At the Planetarium, American Museum of Natural History. Photo by LO’H

III 

The gold tree is blue,
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.

Surface Life

Sometimes I think I have only ever known surfaces, surface friendships, surface news, surface travels, surface nature, surface career, surface artistry, surface feelings, surface disaster, surface stories. So of course I dread. I obsess over decorating a home, oddly, that almost no one sees, an art project for an audience of one, knowing it and I could be lost at any time, and it’s so much fog, really. I see spots I missed when I dusted today. And what should I have to show for all this care and attention? Is there anything inside me deeply affected by bright pillows on a muted chair? Is there anything that can emerge out of me that will deeply affect the world? And what of all this death?

Three or four memories and a cloud. Is there much more we can expect?

Sending love out to everyone who needs it, even from my surface, to help you absorb whatever was your loss in life this week.

Morning from the 82nd Street Subway Station. A couple of cars and a sun Photo by LO’H