In Hopeful Times: Robert Reich on Optimism

 At the beginning of Trump 1.0, I began a series entitled “In Troubled Times.” With the onset of the war in Ukraine (aka The War of Russian Aggression), I shifted to “In Times of War.” Today, Substackian Robert Reich offers reasons for cautious optimism. Let’s feed that hope!

This is a very brief summary. Click on the link to read the whole thing and to subscribe.

Friends, If you are experiencing rage and despair about what is happening in America and the world right now because of the Trump-Vance-Musk regime, you are hardly alone. A groundswell of opposition is growing — not as loud and boisterous as the resistance to Tump 1.0, but just as, if not more, committed to ending the scourge.
1.Boycotts are taking hold.
2. International resistance is rising.
3. Independent and alternative media are growing.
4. Musk’s popularity is plunging.
5. Musk’s Doge is losing credibility.
6. The federal courts are hitting back.
7. Demonstrations are on the rise.
8. Stock and bond markets are trembling.
9. Trump is overreaching — pretending to be “king” and abandoning Ukraine for Putin.
10. The Trump-Vance-Musk “shock and awe” plan is faltering.

In all these ways and for all of these reasons, the regime’s efforts to overwhelm us are failing.

Make no mistake: Trump, Vance, and Musk continue to be an indiscriminate wrecking ball that has already caused major destruction and will continue to weaken and isolate America. But their takeover has been slowed.

Their plan was based on doing so much, so fast that the rest of us would give in to negativity and despair. They want a dictatorship built on hopelessness and fear.

That may have been the case initially, but we can take courage from the green shoots of rebellion now appearing across America and the world.

As several of you have pointed out, successful resistance movements maintain hope and a positive vision of the future, no matter how dark the present.

Seeing things Jewishly

So many strangers are telling me right now that I’m not Australian and that none of my relatives are Australian and… my mind keeps returning to what this means for the Arts in Australia. Certainly it’s much more difficult for anyone Jewish to earn money in the Arts here: there are some places I won’t even fill in the forms until I see that things have changed. I don’t have much physical capacity and when something is obviously a waste of my time, I do something else with that precious time. However… it struck me that I see the world through my upbringing. I talk about books from non-Jewish Australia a great deal, but my own view of the world is shaped by my family and their friends and the stories I was told as a child.

We all see the world from our own eyes. If someone were to ask me how I see the arts in Jewish Australia, I’d only give a partial answer, because there is so much stuff I forget. The first thing I think of, in fact, is what has impacted me and when and why. I thought, this week, then, I’d give you a little list. The list is little but it contains many words, because I annotated it. Welcome to the Arts in Australia seen Jewishly, through my life.

Let me begin with family and friends.

My mother’s family arrived in Australia before World War II or died in that war (save one person, who is not part of today’s story because he was not an artist, musician or writer). Mum’s immediate family was all here by 1918. It was a big family in Europe and is not the smallest family in Australia. Of all my mother’s cousins there are two who were well-known as writers. Very well-known, in fact.

Morris Lurie was Naomi’s brother. Naomi was so much a forever part of my life that even now she’s gone, I still think of one of Australia’s better known writers of plays through the fact that his sister was Naomi. Every time Naomi was in Melbourne, she’d shout “Sonya,” across the street to my mother, because they were very close. Mum hates loud voices and Naomi thought that Mum hating the noise and the laughter was hilarious.

I know about Morrie, and I collected his plays when I was a teenager. One of the lesser known facts of Gillian’s life is that, for twenty years, she collected plays. I still have my collection, but most of it needs a new home. I never met Morrie. He wasn’t much into meeting our side of the family. Even if we had met, I suspect we wouldn’t have had a lot in common. Naomi, on the other hand, was someone I would spend any amount of time with. She was my bridge to the Yiddish-speaking side of the family, and is the main reason why I don’t use that in my fiction: it’s her culture, not mine. My cultural self is from my father’s family. Loving Naomi, though, sent me to understand klezmer and Sholom Aleichem and so much else. I need to re-read Morrie’s plays. Maybe now I’m no longer a teenager I’ll like them more. Maybe not. I’ll see.

Arnold Zable is, as my mother explains, a family connection. His refugee cousin married Mum’s refugee cousin. Arnold is Victoria’s great storyteller. He also wrote an amazing book about the family left behind: Jewels and Ashes.

My father’s side of the family is so very musical. One of my father’s best friends was an extraordinarily well-known performer… but that’s another story. This is one of the days when stories lead to stories and those stories lead to more stories. Between family and friends, I grew up with music the way I grew up with rocks. Science and music and Doctor Who kept our family together for a very long while.

The most famous musician/composer/music critic in the family (she was never just one thing, nor was she a simple person) influenced me a great deal in my youth. Linda was my father’s first cousin, and spent time with me when I was very uncertain of where I fitted and who I was. She accompanied my sister on the piano when that sister was doing more advanced music. She told me some of the stories of her life, but never the really private ones.

Linda was Linda Phillips She described her own music as “light classics.” We played them on the piano at home… but never well. Her music was a lot more than ‘light classics’ as was Linda herself. Her daughter, Bettine, also wore her talents lightly. I knew that she had acted on stage with Barry Humphreys as an undergraduate, but I had no idea that she was a famous radio actor back when radio was the centre of so many people’s entertainment. They were both quiet about their achievements.

Here I need to explain that, not only were they modest and exceptionally fun to be with, but they were nothing close to my age. Linda was my father’s first cousin, to be sure, but she was born in the nineteenth century: she was sixty years older than me. Linda lived until the twenty-first century, and we lost Bettine to COVID. They were part of an enormous change in the Arts in Australia, beginning with Linda’s early career as a pianist over a century ago. I grew up with this, taking it for granted that there was a life in the Arts and a world and so much enjoyment… but seldom enough money to live on.

There is a third family musician, my own first cousin, Jon Snyder. His life is another story. He was in a very popular band (Captain Matchbox) and became a music teacher. His professional life began in the sixties, so the age differences are still there, but not as great. So many of the friends of my schooldays also became musicians, and three of them play in the same band, in Melbourne. That’s another story, however. I am no musician. I had some talent, but words were always more fun and, to be honest, I used to be tone deaf. I love music and the artists who create and perform it, though, because until I left home, it was part of my everyday. In fact, even when I left home, music crept up on me. I kept running into friends of Linda’s. They would send messages to Linda through me. Stories breed stories…

Also, this stopped being a list almost as early as it began being a list. I’ve only talked about a third of the writing side of the family. But this post is long enough. The rest can wait.

PS I have not at all forgotten the questions I promised to answer. There are only two questions, but the answers require a lot of thought. My everyday is a bit over the top at the moment. When things calm down, I will answer those questions. I promise.

The Cost of Fear: A Great Book on Self-Defense

Every fall, when it starts to get dark earlier, we see a deluge of messages on social media aimed at telling women how to stay safe (and yelling at men because they don’t have to pay attention to such things). These messages – which include things like holding your keys in your hands and not going out alone at night – are usually well-meant and mostly wrong.

There are also ongoing debates about how to deal with violence against women in our society, with many people arguing that the focus should be on those who commit the violence. These people think it’s unfair to encourage women to learn self-defense, since they’re not the cause of the problem, and advocate for programs aimed at perpetrators.

Unfortunately, even improved laws and law enforcement around sexual assault and rape – and such improvements are scant – don’t help when someone’s being hurt, and the training programs aimed at stopping men from harming have been unsuccessful.

What has been most successful, as Meg Stone points out in her excellent and thorough new book The Cost of Fear: Why Most Safety Advice Is Sexist and How We Can Stop Gender-Based Violence, is the approach taught as empowerment self-defense, a feminist-based system that includes both training in effective physical techniques and a number of other skills such as boundary-setting that can prevent a difficult situation from getting out of hand.

Stone is the executive director of IMPACT Boston, one of a number of groups worldwide teaching effective self defense as more than just fighting back. She’s also worked in the area of preventing gender-based violence for over thirty years and, as this books illustrates, she is very skilled at presenting the issues in a way that changes the response without provoking more of a fight – a very useful self-defense skill.

As Stone points out in detail in the book, linking to studies, unlike the short programs aimed at convincing, say, male college students not to attack women, empowerment self defense classes such as those taught by  IMPACT and similar programs have been shown to reduce the number of assaults and to otherwise give women the power to make their position safer.

As Denise Velasco, a participant in a program teaching self defense to janitorial workers at risk of assault, told Stone:

I came to a point where I understood that self-defense wasn’t just about defending  yourself; it was about changing the way you looked at the world in terms of your own power.

Continue reading The Cost of Fear: A Great Book on Self-Defense”

On Keeping The Rules in Fiction

I have told some of this before, but I was thinking today about what happens when a writer changes the social rules* of the world they’re working in mid-work. Spoiler: it often doesn’t go well.

When I started writing my first Sarah Tolerance book, I drew, among other things, on a book I read when I was a teenager. The name and author of the book are lost to the mists of time: this was a period where I read voraciously, tearing through 5-6 books a week: classics, SF, fantasy, romantic suspense, Regency romances. I was a fairly uncritical reader: mostly I wanted the infusion of story. But even with the volume of story I was ingesting, some critical faculties were beginning to take shape. As you’ll note below, I read a lot of Austen.

So there was this nameless Regency romance. It is nameless and authorless because it irritated me so much that I threw it out when I finished it. Why did it piss me off so badly? It had a really fascinating setup, one that almost transcended the romance genre. Before the book starts, Our Heroine (hereinafter OH), has lived without marriage with a young man (I don’t remember if the decision not to marry was based on some Wollstonecraftian principle).*  At the time the book starts, the young man (who sounds like a monster to me) has died, and left OH (who has been cast off by her family after her disgrace) an income and a house–as long as she lives in the town where both she and the young man grew up. Where her shame is, of course, well known.

In the 19th century attitudes were still in the process of shifting from “marriage is about property” to “marriage is (sometimes) about love.” A woman’s marriageability was based on a number of factors: beauty was certainly one. Family property, and family lineage, were two other factors. Virginity was possibly the most important. A young woman who disposed of this crucial factor in her ability to make a good marriage was not only putting her own future in jeopardy, she was screwing up her family’s ability to wed fortune to fortune, or money to real estate, or Valued Lineage to Big Whomping Piles of Cash. Chastity had a dollar (or pound) sign attached. And no one thought it was odd or old-fashioned to think this way. It was okay to marry for love so long as the economics were in your favor; marrying below oneself for love (as Fanny Price’s mother did) had consequences. And sex without marriage could have near-fatal consequences for a well-bred girl. Continue reading “On Keeping The Rules in Fiction”

Intermission

I am barely in the US Monday as I type. By the time this post goes up, it will be your Tuesday. I meant to write something 24 hours ago, but everything became too complicated, and I needed to breathe. I took medicine and I breathed, then I went to sleep.

This morning, my body told me to go back to sleep. It does this from time to time. I’m chronically ill, and there are times when bedrest prevents a whole host of problems. I listened and I slept. Since then, I’ve been catching up with everything and finally, finally in the early evening of my Tuesday and the cusp of Monday and Tuesday in the US, I can write my post. In that intervening time, I have left the questions my readers asked in such a safe place that I can’t find them… and I don’t want to talk about which bits of my body hurt and why, or the fact that this summer is never-ending.

Summer is always never-ending in February in my part of Australia. Then autumn hits with storms and leaves and arbitrary weather and it is as if summer never was. Only some parts of Canberra have the leaves, and there is a moment when pretty colours seem very exotic and Canberrans go driving around admiring these foreign trees and watch them shed their leaves. Last year I took some spectacular photographs from a local park. It’s too early this year for spectacular photographs. We’re still at the period of spectacular fatigue.

That we actively have to look for leaves in certain suburbs is why so many Australians subdue a chuckle when someone from the US talks about Fall. Not only is our autumn at a different time of year, but you need to be in very particular parts of Australia for there to be autumn leaves at all.

This moment of perpetual summer is when school has gone back after the long break, it’s when the heat is more likely to bite, and when university begins. Everything starts up, and so many of us just want to sleep until the more comfortable weather comes. It’s one of those times when all kinds of work deadlines present and many demands are made and those of us who are sensitive to the heat suddenly dream of the northern hemisphere.

Why do I call it an intermission? I’ve been writing about Todorov and that moment he describes as a hesitation, when you don’t know what the world of the novel will bring you. Anything’s possible. There could be horses, or unicorns, or fast cars, or slow bicycles. I often stop at that point in a novel and dream my own story, the plunge in and see where the real story will take me. That’s what life feels like now. As if it could go in a thousand different directions. Only I haven’t stopped to dream my own story (it’s tempting) because it’s too darn hot.

Defiantly Acting Free

My partner and I are making our way through The Ultimate Hidden Truth of the World …, a posthumous book of essays by David Graeber, with one of us reading it aloud while the other is cooking. Thursday night, Jim was reading an essay called “On the Phenomenology of Giant Puppets,” a piece about the late 20th and early 21st century global justice movement.

He read these words:

Direct action is a form of resistance that, in its structure, is meant to prefigure the genuinely free society one wishes to create. Revolutionary action is not a form of self-sacrifice, a grim dedication to doing whatever it takes to achieve a future world of freedom. It is the defiant insistence on acting as if one is already free. [emphasis added]

And I exclaimed “Yes” and would have thrust my fist in the air if I hadn’t been stirring a pot.

Now this is in part because I am inspired, as I wrote a couple of weeks ago, by the likes of the Zen Monk Takuan Soho, who did not cower before the powerful or mistreat those who lacked power.

I want to move through the world as a free person, to treat all with respect so long as they do the same to me, and to stand up to bullies and Nazis. That this may be a perilous time for such an attitude does not keep it from resonating deeply with me.

I have a friend who refers to the rich and powerful as our “owners.” It drives me crazy, though I understand what she means and can even see some merit in the usage when I think of organizing unions of workers and tenants and others.

But I do not acknowledge that anyone has that kind of right over me. That certainly includes the broligarch in chief who is orchestrating the destruction of our government right now.

This is also driven by my feminism, because so much of what is going on right now is aimed at making women into second-class citizens again – people with limited rights but still bound by the law – and I am damned if I am willing to go along with that.

I didn’t think I was inferior back when the law treated me as such – I am old enough to remember when the minimum wage for women was lower than that for men, just as an example – and I have no intention of recognizing anyone’s right to reinstate that kind of misogynistic discrimination.

Some of it is rooted in the current of American Exceptionalism in which I was raised. In my childhood, it was not uncommon to hear a dispute on the playground that ended in the words “It’s a free country.” Continue reading “Defiantly Acting Free”

In Troubled Times: How Stories Save Us

I first posted this in August, 2021. Hold on to hope!

Stories can heal and transform us. They can also become beacons of hope.

Quite a few years ago, when I was going through a difficult personal time, I came across a book about the inherent healing power of telling our stories. No matter how scattered or flawed our lives may appear, as we tell our stories, we gain something. Patterns emerge from seeming chaos, and our lives begin to make sense. It may be dreadful, agonizing sense, but even tragedies have order and consequence. I found that over time, the way I told my story changed, reflecting my recovery process and new insight.

The mirror side of story-telling is story-listening. While a confidential diary or journal can be highly useful, having someone hear our words can be transformative, especially if all that person does is listening. Not judging, not analyzing, not wondering how to respond, just taking in our words, a silent partner on our journey. Often we feel less alone in retrospect, no matter how isolated and desperate we might have been at the time. Additionally, a compassionate listener invites us to be kinder with ourselves.

Perhaps this is how Twelve Step programs work, apart from any Higher Power mysticism or Steps: that by simply hearing our own voices relate our histories, and having the experience of being heard, we open the door to viewing ourselves through the lens of new possibilities.

Personal storytelling calls for discretion, of course. Although it may be true that “we are only as sick as our secrets,” casually (or not-so-casually) violating a confidence from someone else is not the same as choosing to include the listener in our own private lives. Some of us never learned healthy boundaries about what is safe to share, and when, and with whom. We, or others, can be harmed by indiscriminate broadcasting of embarrassing, illegal, or otherwise sensitive information. The kind of storytelling I’m talking about, on the other hand, is as much about the journey as it is the facts.

Stories can get us through dark times by giving us hope and inspiring empathy. Stories work by creating a bond between the narrator or central character and the listener/reader. Who wants to read a story about a person you care nothing about? And if that appealing character has a different history or journey, or learns something the reader never experienced, so much the better. We accompany them into darkness and out again.

Hopeful stories provide an antidote to fear-driven stories. We find allies in unexpected places. Who would have thought that scruffy old Strider would turn out to be Aragorn (not me, not the first time I read The Lord of the Rings)? They remind us that even in times when all seems bleak, the tide can and does turn. Spring follows winter’s desolation. We, too, can be saved. Or, more to the point, we too are capable of setting aside those fears and reaching out to those in need.

I have a treasure trove of stories I come back to again and again. They re-kindle hope in me but also when I tell them, they create a bridge of empathy, even with people who appear to be “on the other side” of arguments. One story I heard in an inter-faith workshop, from a Catholic woman who had worked with The Compassionate Listening Project in the Middle East. She said that she and her colleagues listened to people from different sides of the conflict there, and that as the speakers made their points and felt their experiences valued, their stances softened. Each side became more willing to look at mutually beneficial solutions and to acknowledge the suffering and aspirations of the other.

So stories of hope and positive change affect not only the storytellers but the listeners. A recent blog post on the website of the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC) put it this way:

Fortunately, research also shows that messages framed in terms of hope, especially when coupled with messages that include positive feedback, can counter fearmongering effectively. Hope-based messages can also help people change their minds about key issues. Why? Because when people have made up their minds about an issue, they are prone to only hear facts that support their position – especially if they are already stressed and the facts they hear are framed in terms of fear. But, when people hear messages framed in terms of hope and positive feedback, they are able to digest new information in ways that can ultimately lead to a shift in perspective.

As we move through troubled times, let’s do our best to create and tell – and re-tell as many times as necessary – those stories.

Different places, different troubles, same times

On Sunday, I put up a Facebook post. The reaction to it was a lot more positive to the one I was expecting, so I’m sharing it here… with an update.

I’ve been trying to find words to say this all day. I’ve given up trying to find decent words and I hope that what I say is clear. This post may get me a lot of people arguing, but it’s important, so it’s public. Be kind, please. None of this stuff is easy, for anyone.

For the past little while, so many people around me have blamed everyone Jewish for even the smallest thing someone else Jewish or Israeli might have done. They’ve translated antisemitism into false flags and are full of spite and opinions. I don’t know if 75% of Jewish Australians are Zionist, because I don’t know what definition of Zionism those who claim it use and I’ve never been asked as part of a survey… and nor have most Jewish Australians I know. I know I don’t worship Satan. I certainly know I’ve not killed 30,000 children. That sort of thing. Life has been… rather difficult.

Lots of folks on the left demand a shibboleth, that I publicly denounce or deny this thing or that thing before they will talk to me. I’ve just accepted that I don’t get to talk with them, and I’m sorry, but saying “OK” and giving them what they demand is adding to the bigotry around by playing the games that let people determine good Jews and bad Jews and I try not to play those games.

You know about some of this because I speak about it when I can.

This week, it has taken a turn, or even a twist. Not an unexpected twist, but one that saddens me. The sort of bigotry I’ve just described is infectious, and this is the moment I can choose to not be part of spreading that infection to other Australians. (And the medical metaphor may alert some of you of what’s to come.)

Right now, Australia’s facing the case of two nurses who I, personally, never, ever want to meet. I am not going to make the same assumptions about Muslim Australians from the example of these two, that people make about Jews from whatever examples they use. I would like the hospital at Bankstown to look closely into things and, if there is a pattern of bigotry embedded, to do something about it. I would like both nurses to be tried, fairly, with all the evidence laid out. I will not ask any Muslim Australian (whether they’re a friend or complete stranger) to give a particular opinion on what the nurses said or did before I am willing to talk to them about anything.

Things are going to be very difficult for Muslim Australians for the next few weeks and not a single one of them needs my demands on top of everything else. They don’t need any of our demands. Any questions or needs should be sent, courteously, to whichever governing body is responsible for the specific thing you need to know. If it’s a religious opinion, ask religious experts. If it’s a medical opinion relating to Bankstown Hospital, then Bankstown Hospital would have the right people to talk to. Your local dentist or wifi expert is not responsible for what those nurses said and should not be put on the spot about it. The only organisations I want to hear from, myself, are the ones linked to the two nurses and who moderate the ethical behaviour within their communities and professions. Some of them have already spoken out. I can wait for the others.

Yes, as a Jew, I will try to avoid the hospital in question … because these sorts of attitudes often belong to a community in a location and because I’ve heard other rumours. I hope they’re only rumours. Even if they’re true, the vast, vast, vast majority of Muslim Australians wouldn’t even know those two nurses. Many of them don’t even come from similar backgrounds to the two nurses.

I will not let my personal fear turn me into someone who hates a bunch of other Australians just because they share a religion with two people I do not ever want to meet. My favourite local grocer is still my favourite grocer (and owned by a Muslim family) and my favourite local butcher is still the halal butcher in Mawson, just next door.

Update:

Organisations linked to the nurses are beginning to speak up. One public statement in particular is worrying. I looked into the organisation that issued the announcement, and the announcement appears to reflect their identity (and may make them part of the same community as the nurses, with some of the same views as the nurses), in which case, they would not like me at all. They still comprise only a tiny fraction of Muslim Australia and give absolutely no excuse for treating anyone else badly.

It does mean that there are places that anyone Jewish may have to be careful (more places, I mean) and this is bad, however, I will continue to check out all the statements, and continue to not judge anyone who has not done anything in need of judging. My friends are still my friends and I am deeply disappointed that I have far too much coffee and don’t need mincemeat and my pantry is full and therefore no excuse to go to Mawson and buy favourite things. I go for coffee and mincemeat and emerge with three bags of food I love.

I often talk about food when I’m distressed, and the nurses thing has riled up even more hate than other events and… I am still determined not to hate just because others have fallen into that hole.

A Reading Practice

I’ve been working on adding some new practices to my daily schedule. A key thing I added in December – even before the Solstice, much less the official New Year – was to spend about 15 or 20 minutes reading every morning.

The original purpose was to give myself a reason to sit quietly for a few minutes before checking my blood pressure – which I’m keeping a close eye on – but it quickly evolved into something I really wanted to do. And that was probably because of the book I started with: Carlo Rovelli’s The Order of Time.

I stumbled on that book in a used bookstore in Sebastopol (the one in California, not Crimea) last summer and bought it on impulse. When I started doing the reading back in December, I pulled it out with a couple of other books on much the same impulse, and quickly fell into it.

Rovelli is a physicist, and the book is about the understanding of time by physicists, and yet that doesn’t begin to completely describe it, not to mention that it doesn’t tell anyone what a joy it is to read.

Rovelli is a lyrical writer and a gentle one. He can make statements that might be controversial without issuing a challenge. While I’m reading the English translation of this book (it was translated by Erica Segre and Simon Carnell), I am quite sure the beautiful and gentle writing is all Rovelli and was there in the Italian original. Rovelli does speak English (and likely several other languages, given the different scientists with whom he has worked), so I imagine he has some idea of what his words should look like when translated.

In doing this reading, I began to keep something of a commonplace book in which I wrote down quotations from the book or, occasionally, my own reaction.

Here are some of quotes that struck me:

Nothing is valid always and everywhere.

[T]he world is nothing but change.

The world is not a collection of things, it is a collection of events.

We are part of a network that goes far beyond the few days of our lives and the few square meters that we tread.

We are more complex than our mental faculties are capable of grasping.

I could go on, but perhaps that is enough to entice others to read this book. Continue reading “A Reading Practice”

Raised in a Barn: The Tango

As I was making the bed this morning I found myself humming “Tango Jalousie.” It’s a melody* that has been used for ads and other things, and is familiar in that in-the-background-of-western-culture sort of way. But it’s also familiar to me because when I was… 9? My parents decided that my brother and I should learn to tango.

Insert glyph of “huh?” here.

This was in the 60s, mind, when the Bossa Nova was in. The Twist. The Frug. The Mashed Potato. Not the tango. But my father liked to tango, and felt that somehow this would be a civilizing influence on his hell-spawn young.

The tango was initially considered a scandalous dance, one which dismayed the proper citizens of Buenos Aires (where it first emerged) in the 1880s.  The partners stand so close together! (Bear in mind that seventy years the tango emerged, the waltz was considered vulgar and outré for the same reason.) The tango’s origins were a mix of African and European influences, and it was a dance of the poor people. Like jazz, the tango came from the margins and–like jazz–it took over. By the early 1900s the tango had become a European dance craze. It had its rises and falls, and by the time I learned it it was…quaint. Where some of my classmates might have been forced into dance classes where they learned the two-step or foxtrot, no one I knew was tangoing. Except me and my brother.

It’s not a difficult dance; the pattern is simple: 1-2   1-2-3. The steps can be taken in a straight line (a la Gomez and Morticia Addams) or, as we did, in a box. Step forward on my left, then right; step back on my left, step a little further out on the right, then bring the left in to join the right. The second three steps are a little faster than the first two. Once I could do that without falling over, Dad introduced other steps (my favorite was a sort of zig-zagging step where he held on to my elbows and turned me right and left, back and forth, for a count of five to the tempo of the music). And there were dips–Dad did not drop me backward as in the illustration here. Mine was just a slight bending backward, supported by his hand (nor did I wrap my leg around him. We didn’t have that kind of relationship). I assume my mother was teaching my brother roughly the same things: I wasn’t watching him, I was watching my feet.

Years later, when I was a theatre major in college, my ability to tango reliably (and to follow–or occasionally lead a dance partner who didn’t know how to lead) won me a certain amount of performance cred. “How did you learn that?” a director asked me. “My father taught me.” Silly me, I thought everyone learned the tango at home.

________
*familiar enough that Mad Magazine set lyrics to it, which I recall as “Jealousy, how could you do this to me? Because my eyeball just fell into your highball…” Which is hilarious if you’re eight years old… or my mother.