Goodbye, BeeGee

I suppose it's no surprise that I'm missing my cat BeeGee, who was put to sleep last Wednesday while I held him in my arms. He was a loving companion to me for ten years, a daily dose of uncomplicated affection and togetherness. Of course I've cried a few times and am in a fugue state (as Sheila calls it so eloquently). I hadn't planned to do anything this weekend, and I didn't, and I shouldda gone out, done something, been with people. But this is my self-protective tendency, to pull back and be by myself - to lick my wounds - when I least need the solitude. I happened to spend an evening a couple of weeks ago with a woman whose nephew was gunned down by gang members a few weeks before that. Once she confided in me what had happened, our evening became one of commiseration and empathy as I sat with her while she grieved, reminisced, shouted in anger and wept in sadness. Numerous margaritas were sucked down, and at the end of the evening she seemed somehow better, another incremental step further along in dealing with this tragedy. But that's not my way.

When my mother died, I didn't tell any of my high school friends because I just didn't know how to do it, and I didn't want to burst into tears in front of them. My closest friend Jim found out about it by reading the obituary (he read them religiously - strange kid), and I found out that he knew about it because he sent a donation to the cancer fund specified in lieu of flowers. Our entire conversation about it was a week later, when I said, "Thanks for the donation," and he said, "Don't mention it." Then we both looked away from each other. Teenage boys, right? Both of us were treading in uncharted territory.

Adults weren't much better. A month later, my Dad and I attended an open house sponsored by the community arts association I belonged to, and someone said, "How is your mother?" and I said, "She died a month ago," and the woman was insensed. "Why didn't you tell me?" she shrieked, as we both stood there in the middle of the living room nibbling on swiss cheese and Ritz crackers. I don't know. Because it seemed really awkward to call her up and tell her the news? Because I didn't understand the protocol? Because I honestly didn't think she would care?

My loss isn't a tragedy - BeeGee had a wonderful, long and healthy life. But it sure is impactful on me, because BeeGee clung to me every minute I spent at home, much to my delight, and I spend a lot of time at home. He laid on me, he slept, he buried his front paws between my neck folds. He greeted me each morning (at 5:30 am, even on weekends) with a resounding chorus of meows and was always in the window sill when I came home from work, waiting for me. He never quite got the idea that when a book was laying open in front of me, it wasn't an invitation to curl up on the fresh white pages, but he loved the heat from my gooseneck reading lamp so much that it just made complete sense to him - of course: a tanning bed! He was scrupulous in his litter box usage, never once making a boo boo in ten years (except for the two or three times when I hadn't changed litter fast enough and he peed on a bath towel as a Mafioso-esque message which I would discover only when I went to dry my face - "change the frickin litter!"). He kept himself well-groomed and didn't scratch the furniture. I think a lot of the cute feline behavior was behind him when he came to live with me. He was already ten years old by then, well into his middle-age, and completely uninterested in anything other than eating, sleeping, cuddling and seeing what was going on in the neighborhood from his perch on the windowsill. Kinda like me! Toys were ignored. New upholstery was examined for its comfort, not its inherent ability to be shredded. We were two middle-aged guys, set in our ways, finding acceptance and affection just by being there for each other.

I have a stomach ache this weekend, not because of BeeGee's death, completely, but because of some past-its-prime cauliflower I ate a few days ago. The discomfort seems appropriate to the weekend I'm having, though: puttering around, thinking I hear him meowing, imagining the sound of his paws on the wood floors as he makes his way to the litter box (it's just a bird in the back yard), realizing with a start that the warmth I feel on my chest as lay in front of the TV is not his body but a throw pillow.

On the morning before I brought him to the vet, I held his weak, worn-out body wrapped in a towel like a baby in my arms, letting him lick vitamin gunk off my hand, and sang to him. BeeGee was almost completely deaf, but if his head was close to mine, and if I sang loudly, he could just make it out - he'd cock his head to the left and press his ear against my mouth, his eyes closed in what appeared to be music appreciation bliss. My lips and his ear would vibrate together as I belted out a song. Maybe he didn't hear me, but just enjoyed the vibrations. I'm not sure. But the song I sang on that last day, without really thinking about it, was "One less bell to answer."

The Beedge

Well, it's sad - my cat BG (the Beedge) is dying. He's twenty frickin years old, which is quite ancient in cat years, and he's been healthy and happy until just recently. So that's a big blessing. And he's been my baby for a long time now. Standard joke: "I always wanted to live with a 20-year-old guy, and I do, but I shouldda been more specific." Bada bum.

BG isn't so sick that it's time for the visit to the vet, nome sang. He's just not eating, or I should say, not able to eat. About a month ago he had a stroke, and since then his mouth and tongue don't work like they used to, so he has trouble getting food into his mouth, and once there, swallowing it. I'm feeding him with a syringe now, water and feline Ensure. The highlight of his day is when I smear the back of my hand with this nutritious gunk made of corn syrup and cod liver oil and vitamins, and he slowly licks it clean. I guess it's the highlight of my day, too.

He's been through it along the way. I'm his second long-term partner. He was the happy, beloved pet of a couple who sadly miscarried, and their doctor told them to get rid of BG, so he went to the pound, and that's where I found him, about 10 years ago. I had my eye on a prettier female, but everyone at the pound kept saying, "Oh, he's special, he's the greatest, you'll love him." I'm a sucker for word of mouth, so home he went, and he quickly became my darling, my super lovey dovey boy. Okay, I'm getting icky poo sweet here, but that's really what he's like. He's very shy around other people (just ask Sheila - when she visited for a few days, I think BG let her see him for a total of ten seconds). But with me, it's snuggle snuggle snuggle. His current favorite position is to get on my chest when I'm leaning back on the sofa, and tuck his front paws in the flap between my chin and chest. He loves that spot. Nice and warm for his paws, I suppose.

I'm glad I have a yard now, because when the time comes, I can find a sweet spot under the mimosa tree. He might make it a little while more, but he's lost a lot of weight, and everything seems to be slowing down, so I'm not expecting too much.

My friend Ande has three dogs and five cats (and for awhile, a chicken and two turtles). She's a critter person, no doubt. And we have the same conversation: she says, "I don't know if it's worth it to have a pet, when in the end you lose them." And I always say, "Oh yes, it's definitely worth it."

Those of you who have read some of the pieces on this blog know that there's sort of a tradition in my family - people die in my arms. First mom, then grandpa, then grandma, then dad. About three years ago my Dad's dog Gypsy, who came to live with me after Dad passed on, tuckered out and I held her as she was euthanized. It was hardest with my Mom (I wasn't ready, although I've come to think that she was). It was easiest with Dad (I was ready, and so was he). And I've come to the conclusion that maybe it's the most special thing a person can do, to be there when their loved one dies, to provide comfort and solace at a moment when it may do no good, to express love deeply and sincerely with no future attached to it.

My little Beedge. The time will come soon, and I'm not really sad so much as I'm glad to be here for him.

Culture Wars

I work in a federal agency where eighty percent of the employees are American Indian. That's as it should be - it's an agency that serves Indian people and tribes. I was hired during a brief window of time (about a year or so) when Indian Preference policy was not ascribed to some of the lower secretarial and administrative positions. Indian Preference, in case you didn't know, is a hiring policy which excludes from consideration any non-Indian applicant, no matter how outstanding, so long as there is at least one Indian applicant, no matter how marginal (it's called "minimally qualified" in bureaucratese). The point of the policy is to populate agencies that serve mostly Indians with Indians, the idea being that Indians have a vested interest and will therefore serve their Indian customers in a more committed way. A highly commendable idea. It just so happens that, in practice, at this stage of the game, the result is different.

Can you imagine if such a policy existed with any other group? Imagine, as an example, a policy that excluded African American applicants from consideration, no matter how outstanding, so long as a white person applied, no matter how marginal.

We could go into a free-wheeling conversation here about the devastating experience of Indian people at the hands of white settlers, the treaties broken, the millions of lives lost, the land stolen, the destruction of cultures and ways of life which flourished for thousands of years. There aren't words harsh enough to describe the horror inflicted on this continent's native peoples, a horror shared with most of the other indigenous people of the world, for that matter. Certain chapters of history are unutterably tragic. I know that and am empathetic.

Another conversation we could have would be about what it's like for this white male American of a certain age to be the low man on the - ahem - totem pole at a time when, for much of his life, to be a white male in America was to be bestowed with privilege and opportunity that had nothing to do with ability and everything to do with being the top dog. There's a story there to be told as well.

But what I'd like to focus on is how Indian Preference has created a culture at my agency which leaves everyone on rocky footing.

Part of the story is simply a rift between cultures. I'm going to make some broad characterizations here so please bear with me. Indian people are different from pueblo to pueblo, tribe to tribe, state to state. These are generalizations I see played out in my particular neck of the woods - Albuquerque, New Mexico. Most of the Indian people who work at my agency are from the Pueblos near here.

Pueblo culture, it seems, bestows honor and respect on people who have reached a certain level of achievement or education. A person with a law degree, for example, is respected because of the degree, regardless of the nature or quality of the person who holds it. The person is believed to deserve respect because of the position they hold. This turns out to be completely at odds with the way I see the world, and as it happens, I share this perception with many of my non-Indian coworkers. I think it's ludicrous. I mean, I worked for the Justice Department, where attorneys were a dime a dozen, and where a person could be brilliant and educated and high-achieving but didn't deserve respect because of the way they treated other people. Despots, bullies, ruthless people - sorry, I don't respect them even if they have law degrees or are high-ranking government employees.

The flip side of this belief is that people who have not reached a certain level of achievement or education - secretaries like me, for example - do not deserve respect no matter how wonderful they may be or how much they accomplish at work. Again, this is exactly the opposite of a core belief I hold dear, which is that people who are kind and sincere and hard working and good deserve my respect regardless of their achievements or education. This goes without saying, or at least, it always did in my life until now, where I find myself in a work environment that holds tight to the opposite point of view. Again, it's just outrageous to me. I have true respect for the low-ranking typist who is struggling with two kids at home, no spouse to share the work, and going to night school to complete her elusive degree. I respect the hell out of her. I don't withhold my respect and admiration because she makes half my salary. Again, ludicrous.

Complicating matters is Indian Preference (IP). Possibly in most other office cultures, there is at least the tacit understanding that the person who holds a position, unless they were the recipient of blatant nepotism, has earned it. Somewhere in their career, they competed with other similarly-educated and experienced people and were found to be the best. But this is not the case in my agency. There are so many people in high-level positions who simply would never have the opportunity to serve in that capacity because they would've been washed out in the job search process. But still they sit, in these high positions, expecting respect and deference by virtue of their having achieved these high positions.

Meanwhile, secretaries and other low-ranking employees who are non-Indian receive no respect (they don't deserve it - they're secretaries) and even the enormously capable ones (okay, like me) do not have the opportunity to promote (and therefore be respected) because they are non-Indians.

Maybe if I hadn't had fifteen years of experience in a non Indian Preference government office I wouldn't rankle so. Maybe I wouldn't be as aware how so many of my co-workers simply do not have the skills necessary to perform their duties. Maybe I wouldn't tut-tut in disgust when someone who earns $120,000 a year can't seem to write a simple email (a person who inexplicably has earned a master's degree along the way). And maybe, if I weren't an egalatarian, I wouldn't find myself butting heads with my office culture over who is and isn't worthy of respect.

I would love to say most of us are able to celebrate our differences and acknowledge that what we struggle with is just a cultural clash that can be smoothed out by learning the secret handshake or bowing just so. But our cultural landscape is too rocky for that. This question of who is deserving of respect sits at the bottom of almost every conflict, of every uncomfortable boss-secretary relationship in my agency. It is the pink elephant in the room. Nobody talks about it. But everybody experiences it in some way. Call it respectism. It's as rancid as racism, and as corrosive.

Another cultural difference that plays out in this mess is that many Pueblo cultures encourage their people not to speak out, not to communicate clearly, not to participate in discussions or meetings or even "soft skills" trainings designed to ameliorate some of the tensions in the office. The Pueblo way is to hold it in, ruminate, and maybe whisper disparagingly about what was said by a white person later on, but to offer no feedback, to remain stone-faced. Meanwhile, us loud-mouthed whites, who have long been encouraged to speak our minds and volunteer our opinions no matter how useless, find ourselves dominating conversations and expressing vociferous opposition to lame-brained policies, which is perceived as showing a lack of respect. Oh, it's a vicious circle, all right.

The upper-level Indian people want respect from the lower-level whites, but the lower-level whites don't ascribe to the idea that the upper-level Indians deserve respect by virtue of the positions they hold. Meanwhile, the upper-level Indian people don't respect the lower-level whites because they're lower level. And the whites feel it, and it's hard to have respect for people who don't respect you.

Everybody's dissing everybody else.

A big part of me simply wants out. And eventually I'll find another job and get out. But another part of me wants to point the finger and say, "Hey! There's something fishy here."

I feel like the kid who naively points out that the emperor has no clothes. It isn't so horrible for me, the white male who is experiencing institutional discrimination for possibly the first time in my life (oh, I've been on the receiving end of sexual discrimination and fat body discrimination, but not to my knowledge for my ethnicity). I don't mind being thrown on the bonfire of trying to right a despicable wrong, and I'm lucky - I make a decent living and am relatively secure at a time when many people are struggling. Get over it, white boy, you say, and I join you. It's not so dire for me. So what if people who "should" respect me for my sterling attributes hold me in disdain because I'm a secretary? Should they really respect me? Isn't it enough that I'm not openly held in contempt just for being white? And couldn't I in turn muster up a show of respect for them just for making it to the upper echelon when, only a few years ago, it would have been impossible for them to achieve what they've achieved? Bow down, lower-level white man. Take your medicine. In this culture, I am "less than," and it's as if I'm living a Star Trek episode about the privileged people up in the clouds (Stratus, right?) and the drones who live and work in the caves on the planet below. Never fear; Mister Spock is on his way to clear everything up, and Captain Kirk will seduce one of each of the women, proving that we're all the same.

Still.

It's more than me. The office culture resulting from Indian preference is problematic for all of us who work there. More far-reachingly, Indian preference is problematic for the people it most dramatically impacts - our constituency. Frankly, Indian people are receiving less than stellar quality service from our agency because the people who are hired may be in over their heads, and we are engaged in an unstated culture war among ourselves. Until such time as there are outstandingly qualified Indian people applying for every position, the discrepancy in quality is a detriment to those we serve. Maybe it won't be long until that is the case - a few years, maybe longer. But for now, things could be better.

Sticks and Stones

The questions and comments of "well-meaning" people regarding my weight over the years has been amazing, puzzling, upsetting, heartbreaking, even hilarious at times, but still I give them the benefit of the doubt. I don't want to be angry at these people or hurt, because no matter what they say, it's a huge step up the ladder from the ones who just stare disgustedly, or the ones who whisper to the person they're with who then swivels their head toward me, or those who call me lardass, or don't employ me, or avoid touching me.

Part of it is immunity - after all, if you're stung a thousand times, the next sting will either kill you or, if you're lucky, you won't feel it. It's another way those of us who are "different" come to accept ourselves in a world that's doing everything it can to reject us - you care less about what they are saying and doing and care more about the way you feel about yourself. The point is to maintain equillibrium regardless of the hurricanes coming your way. God knows this is a process - I'm so much more secure in my self-esteem now than when I was twenty years younger and prone to let people's stares and sneers and repulsion cause me intense pain. I've grown up. I've learned a thing or two. When I stand in the surf, I plant my feet firmly and lean into the waves, thereby lessening their impact.

All the possible answers to "well-meaning" questions, whether the response is funny, clever, huffy, sad, hurt, defensive, outraged, or matter-of-fact, I believe the best I can do is to let the question or comment serve as a reminder to myself how far I have come -- I hear the words and let them drift on through me, without triggering any anger or pain. I'm not ignoring the pain, putting on a false face, then sobbing into my Haagen Daz later. I'm really really okay, and I love myself, I really love myself, and anything anyone says that could be construed as an attack or an attempt to categorize me as "other" is not gonna budge me one inch from believing in myself.

I think about those little black children in Birmingham in the 60's, clutching notebooks to their chests and walking hurriedly into school while people yelled and screamed the most despicable things, and spit on them, and threw shit on them, and tried to hurt them, and huge police dogs snarled viciously just inches away. Somehow those children knew - they KNEW - that the only response was no response. With poise and resolve, they discovered a sense of self and a level of courage I can only imagine. If they had cowered in fear, burst out sobbing, angrily shouted back to the mob, whipped out a gun and blown a few heads off, or issued a well-worded press release, they would have been torn to shreds in seconds. Any of those responses would have been understandable under the circumstances, but the one response that saved their lives was no response.

In a similar way, I choose to survive the verbal sticks and stones thrown at me. I may be entitled to a more emotional response, but I make a different choice, and in so doing, I survive. Hell, I BLOOM! And nobody's gonna rain on my parade.