I have been to many a Gala/Fundraiser in my lifetime. Often bored out of my head. Sometimes irritated that a lackluster production and/or a sluggish donor base failed to raise necessary funds for a deserving institution. Sometimes beyond irritated that a misplaced focus raised hundreds of thousands of dollars in no time – does a small private school, which shall remain nameless, really need an astro turf when scholarships to increase diversity are scarce?
Last night was different. Phametastic was such a lively affair that at times you thought the entire Hilton Hotel vibrated with approval. The annual auction for Phame, an organization that provides art education and performance opportunities for adults living with developmental disabilities, raised spirits as well as funds.
Maybe it was the costumes. The theme of “1970s” sure brought out a slew of attires stashed safely back in the closet for the last 40+ years. Rarely have I seen so many bell bottoms, head bands, glittering disco swag and peace signs in one place since I went to law school. And this from the woman who does an annual pilgrimage to the Oregon Country Fair….
Speaking of which, there was a couple who must have made a wrong turn from their way to the OCF, and were off by a mere 100 years in their style of clothing, and DESERVEDLY won the prize for most creative costume.
Although these folks were close second for my money.
Or maybe these.
And did I mention Polyester?
Maybe it was the music. Having an entire ballroom hum to Al Green or know (and belt out) the lyrics to every single hit of the 1978 charts was pretty uplifting. Even thought they looked as were they all 5 years old at the time….
Maybe it was the fact that Phame’s mission to provide performance opportunities so seamlessly morphed into some amazing entertainment in situ: the iPad orchestra, the rock ensemble strongly assisted by the drummers, the soloists all rocked the room.
Maybe it was the speeches. The MCs had a personal relationship to the school which made their banter heartfelt and insightful. The Executive director was infectious with her enthusiasm and a gravitas that the real princess Leia could only dream of. The auctioneer and her team were rambunctious.
Honestly, though, I think it all came down to the guests. You really had a feeling that there was a passion for a shared cause at each and every table. No reticent employees sent down to represent their bank or other institutions here, waiting for the evening to be over. Rather there were groups who cared and showed that with some serious generosity. Whether they were liable to do so for personal experience of living with or caring for some of the students, or whether they understood the value of providing support for populations that so easily slip through the cracks when the museums, symphony, the opera or other venerable organizations beckon – who knows. Who cares. They were there. They came out and had fun. They could be counted on. As I said, community.
Down to the kind waiter who offered this apparently hungry-looking photographer to slip her a meal. Too bad that I was too busy documenting the memorable affair – the chicken looked good!
What better way to celebrate March 8th, International Women’ s Day, than by introducing some extraordinary women who have recently moved to the US. I met them this week: Sweta Ravisankar, Sridharini Sridhara and Yashaswini Raghuram are dancers who perform together with a group of women musicians, Lakshmi Sridhar, Anuradha Ganesh, Laya Kashyap and Harini Ganesh.
They will be performing Shakti tomorrow Saturday March 9th and if you have any flexibility on short notice do come out to see it – you’ll be immersed into a different culture by both dance and setting in a small temple in Hillsboro.
The dance that the three will be staging on Saturday is a South Indian classical dance form called “Bharatanatyam.” It is story telling at its best, using every conceivable means to convey meaning: specific steps, sequences of foot movement (nritta), hand movements and facial expressions (abhinaya.)
The dance includes scenes about strong women danced by strong women – their physical stamina had me breathless just watching. One of the scenes depicts a fight between Goddess Durga, an incarnation of the Goddess Parvathi and the demon Mahishasura. Parvathi was the consort of Shiva – and sometimes she appears in the form of the left side of his body. This is a concept expressed in the dance as “ardhanari,” literally translated as half a woman’s body. Two dancers perform as two parts of the same body, requiring strong synchronicity.
Parvathi reincarnated in another strong woman as well: Goddess Meenakshi. She is the presiding deity of the Madhurai Meenakshi temple in Madhurai, India and was a warrior princess who was trained in martial arts and warfare including archery. The bow and arrow movements are perfectly incorporated into the story telling.
Essential part of the bharatanatyam recital are the musicians who sing, play the cymbals, drums and violin. Particularly fascinating for me was hearing rhythmic syllables sung, which are called jathis / solkattus. The person reciting the jathis has to orchestrate it with equivalents beats on the cymbals called “nattuvangam” which is why they are called the nattuvangam artist.
The three dancers have not been in the US for long. Sweta moved from India to California in 2012 and came to PDX in 2015. She holds a master’s degree in Fine Arts and now pursues her PhD at OHSU. How she has time and energy to combine strenuous studies with the devotion to her dancing is a mystery to an old sloth like me. As a Bharatanatyam and Nattuvangam artist with 25+ years of journey in this art form under the tutelage of her gurus, Roja Kannan and Padmini Radhakrishnan in India, she now focusses on choreography, teaching and giving performances as a solo artist, as well as being a member of this terrific trio, Sankalpa. No wonder, she’s been accumulating awards.
Sridharini is a Bharatanatyam dancer from Chennai (India) and moved to Portland in 2014. Trained as a certified accountant she now directs her own dance school Kala Shiksha that intensively trains students in the nuances of the artform. Her pupils must love her – she radiates warmth as well as self-discipline. She is the disciple of Guru Smt. Revathi Ramachandran of the Melattur style and has been under her tutelage for over 20 years. She is also formally trained in Nattuvangam and carnatic music and holds a diploma in Bharathanatiyam. Her international performance history speaks for itself.
Yashaswini is a Bharatanatyam and an Odissi dancer and moved from Bengaluru, India to Dallas, Texas in 2012 and to Portland in 2015. She has been studying Bharatanatyam under Smt. Shubha Dhananjay for the past 18 years and has also been learning Odissi under Smt. Aparupa Chatterjee for the past 5 years in the US. How someone who looks younger than my youngest son could have been dancing for almost 20 years is another mystery to me. Her performance history is extensive, including conducting dance festivals. Her own dance school here in Portland and her work as an assistant director of the Odissi Dance Company, a Texas based non-profit organization, focus on there essential aspects of Indian dance: learning, teaching and creating.
I felt privileged and grateful that they invited me to attend their rehearsal, taking place late in the evening after their full days’ of work. Being in their temple added to the wonder. Nestled in a small industrial setting in Hillsboro it is a modest affair, probably a rescued warehouse, lovingly devoted to Sai Baba of Shirdi.
In parallel to the strong women I’ve introduced so far, here is a strong man – or Indian spiritual master who is regarded by his devotees as a saint, a fakir, a satguru and an incarnation of Lord Shiva and Dattatreya. He was holy to both Hindus and Muslims during and after his lifetime and strongly defied conventions.
Sai Baba displayed both his disdain for the rigid formalism that Hinduism and Islam could fall prey to and his empathy for the poor and diseased.
He also condemned distinctions based on religion or caste and all forms of orthodoxy. His teachings focussed on a moral code of love, forgiveness, helping others, charity, contentment, inner peace. What’s not to like.
Join me for the dance performance tomorrow at 5:30 pm – you will be transported.
Yesterday was the first day of the Chinese New Year and the Chinese Garden looked particularly festive with red balloons swinging from black branches topped with a bit of snow. Made me think of Snow White, skin white as snow, hair black as ebony and cheeks red as blood… which her birthmother dreamt about while pricking herself accidentally with a needle.
Wrong mythology, wrong continent, wrong calendar. Same appreciation for striking color combinations. And same hopes and dreams for future happiness and wealth, judging by the good luck coins, the fortune couplets, the many small gestures intent on finagling fate’s benevolence.
The garden was in winter bloom and hummingbirds fluttered around ignoring all the action.
The little ones clad in traditional outfits, students of some or another language immersion program, were supposed to sing and dance, alas too close to nap time.
Many an unhappy toddler, a heroic teacher pushing through the program and a phalanx of beaming parents at the end. Just watching the kids run around made my day, though, so happy to see families embracing diverse cultures.
The dragon sat proudly on the water, snow slowly melting off its back.
Someone had fed the lion with some snow, how else would it have gotten into its mouth?
And some clever gift shop manager had guaranteed that there would not be a pig on earth that could not fit under its roof – all Made in China one presumes.
I take that back – here are some that did stay on the mainland.
I could have kicked myself. Here I am friends with one of the most formidable dance critics around, ArtsWatch’s own Martha Ullman West, and yet it did not occur to me to drag her with me to the dance performance I saw last Saturday. Just as well, though, since no matter how learned a tutorial I’d have gotten, it would have been but a drop in the vast sea of my ignorance about dance.
Abhinaya School of Kughpudi Dance
Consequently, my report today is not going to be a performance review, but instead some thoughts on how culture is preserved in an expat community that is growing by leaps and bounds. And ample photographic documentation of my enchantment.
The program I saw, Nrityotsava 2019, was put on by Kalakendra, a 32-year-old Society for the Performing Arts of India here in Portland. The non-profit organization serves on multiple levels: it contributes to the diversity so essential to the vibrancy of our city; it puts on a wide range of programs that promote awareness of and knowledge about the Indian subcontinent, be they music, dance performances or lectures. And, importantly, it provides a platform for the exhibition of local talent – which in turn supports all those dance schools and individual groups to engage in meaningful practice and, significantly, education.
On Saturday evening alone, there were 11 separate groups performing a wide array of dances. The program listed them as ranging from traditional Carnatic pieces, folk dances, contemporary forms of dance to what was described as a first attempt to raise awareness about a modern social issue (pollution) through dance. Those were all words to me, in no way preparing for the experience that followed.
Imagine sitting in a high school auditorium surrounded by a sea of happy, expectant people awaiting the performance of their friends and family members. If you close your eyes you might as well pretend to be on the subcontinent, hearing language(s) that place you far away. Once you open your eyes, you are engulfed in colorful visual displays, costumes, adornments and choreography all vibrant, with movement that ranges from serene to exuberant.
More importantly, the artistic expressions conveyed stories that were so universal that anyone without prior knowledge or insight into the historical, spiritual and literary underpinnings could get them. People like me, in other words. People whose entire knowledge of India consists of hopelessly colonially-colored children books devoured during a childhood in Germany (poor Indian orphan adopted by NGO folks, forever displaced as a stranger, marries Indian doctor, lives a life of service as wife and nurse in Calcutta…) or the adventure stories of Rudyard Kipling (before his anti-Semitism came to light) the films of Mira Nair or the novels of Arundhati Roy, who with a fine acerbic brush paints the complexities, tragedies and ecstasies of life in India.
Saturday’s dance groups differed in a variety of ways, but also had several things in common: their athleticism (the physical demands were making me tired just by watching;) their memory capacity (the number of different steps and sequences were a marvel; add to that a significant repertoire of different hand movements, and also timed and specific facial expressions/eye-movements and you have an extraordinary memory load;) their sheer loveliness, all.
Abhinaya School of Kughpudi Dance
They differed in their age, their amount of expertise, the kind of choreography and music they chose, and the way their movements were culturally specific or more universally communicative. I cannot appropriately describe all of them, but here are my highlights: A group of young mothers who just love to dance (Khamma Ghani Group) performed a Rajasthani folk dance with such exuberance that you wanted to jump in your seat.
A trio of young women (Sankalpa Dance Ensemble) convinced me that their Hymn to Devi exhibits indeed transformational power.
Sankalpa Dance Ensemble
A company (Aura) experimented with a combination of traditional and modern dance and costuming to tell the age old story of the fight between good and evil.
AuraAura
The two artists of Nritya Suhrid were perfection in their presentation of 5 of Vishnu’s incarnations based on the Geetagovinda.
Nirtya SuhridNirtya Suhrid
What won my heart, though, were the children, the many, many girls and occasional boy. I don’t know how many of the more than 5000 Indian families who live in the greater Portland area send their children to one of these dance programs. You obviously have to have talent, a willingness to work hard and be disciplined (although you will have fun, too, and not just on stage: The scene in the Ladies Room was a gaggle of giggling girls 9 years and older applying or repairing each other’s makeup, a sheer delight.)
Nartana School of Khugipudi DanceKalabharati School of DanceKalabharati School of DanceAbhinaya School of Kughpudi DanceAbhinaya School of Kughpudi Dance
The children who are able to participate will learn more than how to dance. They will be exposed to 1000s of years of culture, immersed in the teachings of their religious and/or historical backgrounds, picking up a vocabulary of gestures that are helpful for intra-cultural communication. They also will run around in some of the coolest clothes on earth…. just look at those costumes (none more impressive, and supportive of some stunning choreography, than those of the Kalabharati School of Dance.)
Kalabharati School of DanceKalabharati School of DanceKalabharati School of Dance
And the kids will learn from their elders how to combine traditional knowledge with adaptation to the kind of world they live in – the example on hand was a piece called The Story of Plastic created and performed members of the Nartana School of Kughipudi Dance. The dangers of plastic to our oceans was conveyed in ways funny and eloquent enough to be poignant rather than didactic.
Nartana School of Khugipudi DanceNartana School of Khugipudi DanceNartana School of Khugipudi Dance
There is an obvious intersection of cultures, a cross-fertilization that will strengthen both the bonds to one’s own and the integration into new ones. The bridge between tradition and contemporary thinking has been built here – all these kids have to do is travel across it. Back and forth, mind you, it’s in no way a one-way street.
Smita’s Indian Dance AcademyFolk Jhalak
It was the best three hours I spent in a while. Transported, educated, energized. I only regret that I didn’t purchase more of the samosas during intermission to take home with me….
Folk JhalakAnubhav Natya
(I tried my best to match photos to names – apologies if I erred.)
If Portland, Oregon ever wanted something like an idol it would have elected Ursula LeGuin. Never mind that she would have been the first to scoff at such a notion. The author’s death last year caused true grieving across the city, not just the “let’s write clever obits for a celebrity” kind, but the “find yourself crying spontaneously” kind.
I photographed the street where she lived on a walk yesterday – picking views that in my imagination would have perhaps given her inspiration for the next quip. She was known not just for her breadth of writing, from science fiction to poetry, but also for her barbed wit.
Yuppie lingo prevails….
Independent of LeGuin’s prolific literary output and her political activism, she did much for the community in other ways, and, as it turns out, for individuals as well. I was reminded of that by a singular case of reminiscence by a young writer who found her footing through LeGuin’s advice.
Literary Hub Tin House is closing Tin House Magazine come June. Another loss.A writer is to make revolution irresistible (unless s/he gets erased on the blackboard…)
As a young, misfit college student’s Alison Smith spent a week as driver and guide to LeGuin during the latter’s visit in Rochester, NY. She was empowered by LeGuin’s books, politics and, importantly, her personal advice. She went on to be a fine writer in her own right, evidence of which can be seen in this moving essay, attached below:
The Thurman St Library current center display – science fiction, anyone?Zombies next?
Encounters matter. Encounters with role models matter. Encounters with role models who don’t look down but lift you up matter.
See, not everything is bleak, even though I have been writing about a few depressing issues this week (why should this week be different from any other…) With guarded optimism, I am particularly thrilled to add Katha Pollitt’s assessment of women’s increasing defiance in her latest bit on likability politics: https://www.thenation.com/article/aoc-tlaib-warren-womens-march/
She talks about the new crop of female politicians who refuse to be cowed.
Not changed – the oldest coop food store. Probably got her food here.
Fat Tire Farm goes bucolic
The Peculiarium’s windows, forever unchanged
LeGuin wrote in The Wave in the Mind : “All of us have to learn how to invent our lives, make them up, imagine them. We need to be taught these skills; we need guides to show us how. If we don’t, our lives get made up for us by other people.” She clearly modeled for many of us how to do that, and the young female politicians around us are now modeling defiance for the next generations.
There is hope! Let’s toast to that and strong role models in general!
I have a tendency to burst into spontaneous laughter when I read something funny. This amused my mother, irritated my father and baffles my husband to no end. As to my sons, they just roll their eyes. As they also do, incidentally, when I crack some jokes myself; the Heuer-Humor, as they call it, seems to be the kind that elicits, if any at all, amusement with a side of head shaking.
If you look at the scientific literature, this turns out to be true for women’s attempts at humor in general. Men don’t laugh as much at women’s jokes as women do, and certainly not as much as women laugh at men’s jokes. The gender differences are striking. If asked what is desirable in a partner, both genders give high value to “having a sense of humor.” Except that they mean two very different things: women want a man who can make them laugh, men desire women who laugh at their jokes.
Why should that be? Evolutionary psychologists (yes, that line of psychology seems exempt from extinction) have some handy explanatory moves: Humor is linked to intelligence (true fact: there is a correlation between IQ points and ratings of funniness in men.) Women want smart men (the old supporter theory,) therefor they go for funny. Men don’t like women to be smarter than themselves (indeed those correlations are also established) and so avoid the comediennes among us.
If you observe men and women in social settings, not only do women laugh more, but they do so with increasing frequency if men are nearby. This is the kind of laughter by the way, that researchers called “posed” in contrast to the spontaneous laughter that cracks you up, whether in company or not. These two kinds of laughter have distinct physiological profiles that we can measure, and also allow us inferences about the social function of posed laughter: as a tool for communication, support, social cohesion, mating and – alas, – condescension and exclusion, when people get laughed at rather than with.
Men try harder at making jokes and more often; even if they fall flat repeatedly – eventually they get better at it. We women, who do not get rewarded for being funny, on the other hand, give up trying early on and so never develop the ease or repertoire necessary to make people laugh, regardless of gender.
Lucky for us, however, not all of us do give up. Some have the courage, determination and talent to become outstanding stand-up comics. You can go see for yourself: we have one of the funniest (and as it turns out most incisively intelligent, sarcastic and wise) female performers coming to town this week, with several shows to choose from. Penny Arcade, the NYC icon of irreverent political humor, is back with a variety of skits.
November 29-December 1, 2018
Venue: Imago Theatre, 17 SE 8th Ave, Portland
November 29—The Faghag and Her Friends in the Summer of Love (work-in-progress) – 7:30pm
November 30—Longing Lasts Longer – 7:30pm
December 1—Longing Lasts Longer* – 7pm
& The Girl Who Knew Too Much (work-in-progress)* – 9p
I saw Longing Last Longer earlier this year and share Portland City Commissioner Chloe Eudaly’s assessment: “I laughed, I cried, I remembered, I dreamed, I longed, I saw the light… There shouldn’t be an empty seat in the house!”
This time I look forward to The Faghag – a trip down memory lane of the 1960s gay bars in New York and P’town. Let’s hope my laughter doesn’t interfere with my camerawork…..
I am blessed with friends, too numerous to list. But I will have one of them speak for me on this day of Thanksgiving. He manages to put into words what I feel motivates me to do art. More importantly, though, he conveys why art matters, across time.
Reading his essays, watching my many friends make art, serve the community, make a difference, benefitting from their wisdom and insights, the modeling they do during rough times, their criticism when warranted, the warmth, support and love they extend to me on a daily basis: I am grateful for this.
I iron when I need therapeutic diversion. I love to iron and to see all that crinkly stuff somehow get back in semi-pristine shape, o.k., hints of pristine, given my ironing skills. It calms me down to watch the overflowing ironing basket empty slowly, and the shelves back in order, neat for about a minute-and-a-half. I like ironing even more than I despise cooking, and that’s saying something.
It did not work to calm my nerves, however, on this eve of midterm election. If anything, thoughts cropped up like: “Which one of my beloved tablecloths (I have a bit of a fetish there) would I take if we had to leave the country?” Now, we are NOT leaving the country, not yet anyhow, but the fact that these thoughts involuntarily pop up is disconcerting.
Back to positive thinking then, heeding the sage advice of those less prone to drama than yours’ truly; the only thought that came up, alas, was along the lines of “How did other people manage to get through far worse catastrophes than a potentially messed-up midterm election?”
Well, for one, they made it through a horrible war and decided to focus on beauty, and playfulness, and doing good. They, in this case, refers to the French, who shortly after WW II created a small miracle of a traveling show displaying the height of French fashion on small, strangely life-like wire mannequins in sets created by numerous fashion houses and artists. The idea was to raise funds for war relief and also bolster a sense of pride in a people identifying with fashion as an important part of their culture.
The 237 little mannequins in their elaborate, functioning outfits, buttons buttoned, zippers zipped, hats ever so slightly angled,
were put into sets representing either Parisian landscapes or fantasy worlds, all depending on the fashion to be augmented by such backgrounds.
The exhibit opened at the Louvre in 1945 and then traveled the world.
From Wikipedia: After Paris was liberated, the idea for a miniature theatre of fashion came from Robert Ricci, son of couturier Nina Ricci. All materials were in short supply at the end of World War II, and Ricci proposed using miniature mannequins, or fashion dolls, to address the need to conserve textiles, leather, fur, and so on. The mannequins were 27.5 inches (700 mm) tall, fabricated of wire. Some 60 Paris couturiers amongst them Nina Ricci, Balenciaga, Germaine Lecomte, Mad Carpentier, Martial & Armand, Hermès, Philippe & Gaston, Madeleine Vramant, Jeanne Lanvin, Marie-Louise Bruyère, Pierre Balmain.joined and volunteered their scrap materials and labour to create miniature clothes in new styles for the exhibit. Milliners created miniature hats, hairstylists gave the mannequins individual coiffures, and jewellers such as Van Cleef and Arpels and Cartier contributed small necklaces and accessories. Some seamstresses even crafted miniature undergarments to go under the couture designs. Seamstresses carried their sewing machines around with them to complete work on the Théâtre de la Mode during Paris’s post-War electricity shortages.
You can see it all close to home at Maryhill Museum in Goldendale WA, where each year a third of the sets get rotated into view. (The museum closes on 11/15 until the spring, so you either have to dash or you have something to look forward to in 2019.) The link below gives a thoughtful, more detailed description.
I can see how a project of this size can help people focus, be motivated, create a sense of community. The money it generated for victims of war must have been meaningful to the organizers. But above all, I think the creativity that went into generating this beauty served as a release valve from the direness of everyday post-war existence.
As Phil Ochs put it: In an ugly world the only true protest is beauty. Looks like we have options, even after November 6th…..
One of the many heartwarming experiences this weekend were the adventures of the flower girl. Barely three years old, this young lady explored her surrounds, was patient during unfamiliar proceedings,
performed her job marvelously in front of the best man and maid of honor,
knew exactly what she wanted (including trying to get all the petals back into her basket,)
and, after overcoming an initial bout of shyness, was a hit on the dance floor. Chloe, I adore you!
The history of flower girls, and that’s what they mostly are, goes back to the Romans. Little girls paraded in front of the bride, dribbling grains and herbs on the ground as a kind of offering to the Goddess of fertility. Or, as Liz Susong put it in a really funny essay on the topic “it of course represented the collective hope that this woman could also make little humans just like the ones tossing oatmeal, lest she be doomed to a life of barren dread. And this my friends, is the definition of patriarchy.”
Now, how you get from the first quoted sentence to the second escapes my feeble brain, but I nonetheless enjoyed reading her descriptions of the origins of the process, as well as its later versions during the Victorian period, where the innocence and purity of childhood was celebrated, soon to be lost by the virgin bride.
I also learned something else from Susong’s writing, which makes me declare a new goal in life: I want to be a flower grandma. Elective grandma will do, given that I see no Heuer grand-babies on the near horizon (and in despairing late night thoughts about climate change consider that a sad but perhaps preferable thing….)
I am henceforth publicly available to be an Ersatz grandma, throwing flowers at a wedding, sort of like the one in the clip below, which just made me feel good for a long while.
I will, of course, also enjoy the freedom of rolling around on the dance floor when everyone else is line dancing which I am simply unable to master. Just don’t wait until I need a walker…..
Lift off!
And if nobody calls on me I will just sit wilting at home listening to Delibes – I know I have posted this duet before, but I just love it. Here is the Sutherland version, rather than the Nebtrebko who we heard some time back.
What do Llamas, the Boy Scouts, Brazilian drummers, clowns and high school cheerleaders have in common? They were out in force to support an important cause: the 2018 Buddy Walk organized by the Down Syndrome Network Oregon.
We were just ambling through Lake Oswego, a small suburb of Portland, on our way to the river for a Sunday morning walk. And there they were: announcing themselves from afar with loud, cheerful music, milling about on the Millennium Plaza, a square that usually holds the local farmer’s market. Yet another dear, patient friend of mine who had to bear with me disappearing into the crowd, camera in hand, spontaneously documenting the richness of human connectedness in this city, the lovely small- town feel while marching with a national cause.
The NDSS, National Down Syndrome Society, instituted the buddy walk in 1995 to promote public acceptance and inclusion of people living with Down Syndrome. They had some 17 events across the country during this inaugural year. 4 years later they added a fundraising component and a Times Square video to raise awareness; in 2001 their logo of a family holding hands was born. National conferences followed, special events as far away as military bases in Afghanistan, and by last year the event saw some 330.000 participants, in more than 250 national and international events, raising 14.2 million dollars for research and education.
Reading up on this history brought another history to mind: it has only been 4 years, since 2014, that a memorial in Berlin honors the victims of the Nazi’s T4 “program,” the systematic killing of people with disabilities, children with Down Syndrome among them. Even in ideology-driven, violent death and its commemoration, disability ranks last.
Let’s return to the brilliant mood and energy experienced on a market square on Sunday. The names of the teams alone were up-lifting. So was the outpouring of friends and families. Rita’s Ramblers, Hudson Hornets, Drew Cru, Miles for Miles, Claire’s Crusaders, Piper’s Posse, all gathered in the crowd, and my favorite name: Nolan’s Gnomies who invited on the website of the fundraiser with We hope you will JOIN us on Sept 23rd rolling with my Gnomies with extra Chromies!
Even the teens of the cheer leading squad rose to the occasion – up early on a Sunday morning, in identical outfits down to the lipstick (they seemed to be sharing a single one) with probably hours gone into carefully grooming ponytails (can you not cheerlead if you have short hair?): they were there for the cause.
The drummers drummed,
the clown blew balloons,
the llamas chewed,
and the Boy Scouts, well the Boy Scouts did some serious patriotic business which we will ignore.
