The Former Seattle Pilots

I’ve had trouble knowing who to root for between the Los Angeles Dodgers and Milwaukee Brewers in this year’s National League Championship Series.  The Dodgers as a former New York City team has long been a favorite.   I adore their uniforms, basic, clean, and simple.  

The Dodgers were the favorite team of Bert, Ronnie’s dad, in Queens so very long ago even after they moved to LA.  He had made a deal with Ronnie, a Mets fan, that as soon as Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale retired he would become a Mets fan and leave the Dodgers behind.   For Ronnie, this time of year makes her miss talking baseball with Bert.  But, in watching the Brewers this post season, I have noted them as scrappy players, and I’ve been tempted to root for them.

The Pilots left Seattle after only one season in 1969. Today, I learned they became the Brewers when bought by Bud Selig, then a Milwaukee area car dealer.  Selig was bereft at losing the Braves to Atlanta and wanted to bring baseball back to Milwaukee.  I thought, “This is the answer.  How could I not cheer for the former Pilots?”  Attached is a great article about that move, an artist, and Milwaukee’s ball and glove logo.*

It also brings to mind my only childhood Major League Baseball game.  My grandpa, Joe, took me with him to see a Pilot’s game in 1969.  I was so excited.  I was 10 and remember very little of it.  I was glad to be with my grandpa and glad to see a big league game.  Although, I might not have known exactly what that was but it was in the big city of Seattle.  (We lived 20 miles away in the town of Des Moines.)

We watched the game.  I’m sure he patiently answered all my excited questions.  There was a foul ball I remember.  Grandpa took me out of the seats to some boys who had caught the ball.  I hung back a little nervous.  Grandpa came back, ball in hand, and gave it to me.  He told me he paid them $2 for it.  (A lot of money then.)  I was thrilled and treasured it while we finished the game.

Unfortunately, no one told me that you didn’t actually play with a prized MLB game ball.  One day while playing baseball with my friend, Alison Warp, she hit the ball over the house into the back yard.  I thought, “We’ll just go around and find it.”  

Our back yard had an open run off creek with a minor swamp.  We looked for that ball for an hour or more to no avail.  It had simply disappeared.  I wasn’t upset nor did I blame Alison.  It was just one of those things, I thought.  Balls get lost.

When I told my grandpa, he had a perturbed face.  I apologized and was sorry I mentioned it.  It was a while later that I figured out you weren’t supposed to play with these precious game balls.  For me, it was, “Why have a ball that you don’t use?”  I always kept my eyes open for it in the back yard of our house.

A few years ago, my brother and his family, Ronnie, our daughter, and I started going to a Mariner’s game each summer as a family event and started inviting Alison.  It’s been a great way to reconnect.  This summer, Alison left the game to forage for food as everyone does.  She came back with a Mariner embossed baseball and handed it to me.  “This is to replace the ball of yours I lost when I hit it over your house.  I still feel bad.”

We hadn’t talked about it for years.  “Oh, Al,” I said, “I never felt bad about that.  I just didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to play with that ball.  I didn’t even remember that you were the one that hit it.  But, thank you.  I love this ball you gave me.”  It now lives on my dresser where I see it every day. 

After reading this Brewer’s logo article, I am now sure I will be rooting for the up and coming Brewers tonight in game seven against the Dodgers...for Seattle, my Grandpa, my young self, and Alison.  I could wax poetic about baseball and life as so many have.  There’s really just one thing to say though, “Play Ball!”

Good luck guys!

Joceile

10.20.18

• https://theathletic.com/601403/2018/10/19/when-i-see-somebody-wearing-it-i-go-ive-got-a-story-for-you-the-inspired-melancholy-life-behind-the-brewers-beloved-logo/?source=weeklyemail

Pictures:  

• Alison and I at Mariners game in 2018 [Picture of woman with Mariner’s cap and jersey with woman in blue shirt with gray hair]
• Picture of newspaper clipping from Milwaukee Sentinel, 11/29/77 [Picture of man with mustache and Milwaukee Brewer’s ball and mitt logo with M and B letters imbedded]

I’m Not Shutting Up

Reflecting on this week, I have to wonder who I am. I enter life with a continuing passion. I have a direction. I check in with people. I give them support. And, I am always angling for helping shape the world around me to reflect my belief that we are all important and we all have something to give. 

To be sure, there are some people I don’t agree with or naturally, actually don’t like. But for someone who has a glimmer of adding value to the world, I am cheering them on. My cheering is as much for me as it is for them. I have to believe I can make a difference. I have to believe there is hope for all of us. Without it, the sticky claws of Depression try to restore their hold on me.  I won’t have it. I can’t tolerate it. 

What can I do to make the world around me a better place?  I vote. I give money.  What really matters to me is whether I show up, add value, and keep swinging at the ball. I never know when I’m going to hit a home run, and it motivates me. 

I give positive feedback or compliments on something I appreciate whenever I can. I give negative feedback when necessary adding in my presentation how my being honest benefits both parties. I speak truth to power.  At this point, I can’t not participate. Life is just too damn short. 

It’s hard to talk about this without resorting to platitudes and cliches. I’ve heard a million of them. I use my words to describe more than an emoji, more than uttering the banal and at this point ridiculous comment of “Awesome!”

As a small child, my mom badly wanted me to stop talking at times.  I ended up with scotch tape over my mouth.  I’ve worked hard to own my life.  Fighting through child abuse, assault, rape, mental illness, physical disability, coming out, gender confusion, and Depression so bleak that every day was a mighty effort. 

I may offend you but by god I am not shutting up. Deal with it. 

L’Chaim. 

Joceile 

9.28.18

Picture by Allan Weingarten, 2018 [Picture of woman with shortish gray hair wearing brown v-neck sweater in restaurant booth]

1985 MEMORANDUM

Found by a friend in some old paperwork from when I worked at the WA ST Human Rights Commission.  I typed this and gave it to my boss.  I have always been a scamp.  Here is the text in the attached picture:

TO: Velma J. Jefferson, Acting Director of Compliance

FROM: Joceile C. Moore, Acting Administrative Assistant

DATE: March 19 (Acting as the 20th), 1985

SUBJECT: STATE WORKERS ACTOR’S GUILD

I thought it important to bring to your attention an event that occurred in this office as (during Yvonne Baptiste’s absence) I am acting Administrative Assistant.  Last week while Terry Quertermous was acting as the Acting Executive Secretary while Jim Medina (Acting Executive Secretary) was away, there was some confusion about who the little blue man in the corner was acting as.  I (then a Clerk Typist III) brought it to the attention of Verdell Pierce, temporarily acting as Compliance Supervisor in the interim while you were Acting Director of Compliance and Louise Tro was yet to be contacted.  She felt that in her acting capacity she did not have the authority to act on it and mentioned that Sherri Apilado, acting as herself, might bring it to the attention of Charles Huey (who is I believe in fact the Chair of the Commission and not now in an acting capacity).

Sherri, sincerely believing him to be a friend of Jane Inman’s, acting as EEOC Liaison, asked Jane if she was acquainted with the man.  Jane Inman acting indignant made it plain that she had no idea what Sherri was talking about.

In any case, it turns out that the little blue man was acting like a janitor in the corner while really being a spy for the Screen Actor’s Guild.  It seems that they are concerned about State workers taking jobs from their union.  So, my concern during my brief day of acting power while Yvonne’s away is:  Do you think State workers acting in our positions should start our own guild?

[Picture of actual memo typed on electric typewriter]

I Can’t Eat Anymore!

Shiffy, Ronnie’s cousin in Montreal, wants to be remembered as a world class wiz with needle and thread. But most notable to me, other than the love and acceptance she shows me, is her mind-boggling ability to provide food on the table for the family she loves.  She brings delectable dishes for a meal...and then brings more delightful dishes, and (really?) more and, (oh my god, Shiffy), more, and (we’re dying here) still more, and (I CANNOT eat any more!) and still more. 

Her son, Allan, says, “Ma, I’m in pain.  My only hope is the dessert cart.”

The spread she puts out would impress any corporate retreat catering company, as well as, bar and bat mitzvahs, weddings, and you name it.  One time, we were meeting Shiffy and Shavey, her husband, in upstate New York at a vacation rental lake house.  Ronnie, Alex, and I were flying, driving, and taking a ferry boat to arrive.  We got to the house and Shiffy proudly tells us she has gone to the grocery store and stocked up on everything we could (conceivably) need for the week.

We were invited into the kitchen and quickly noticed the counters were filled with food and the top of the refrigerator was similarly loaded.  When she opened the refrigerator, it was packed to the brim.  (I was so impressed that I took a picture.)  Not only did we have food for the week (there were five of us), but we also had food for the neighbors which would likely have kept the neighborhood well fed for a month!

It is true that Shiffy is dazzling with a needle and thread.  I still use the 101 Dalmatians fleece quilt she made when I am sleeping in my recliner.  She is prolific and has a basement full of material pieces that she has rescued from the rubbish bins but I would hold her up as a model provisioner for any invading army.  Were Canada only to harness her skills, it could attain world domination merely through other countries’ stomachs.

“No, really, Shiff, I can’t eat another bite.”

Love.

Joceile

9.9.18

Photos:  Shiffy and Alex; Shiffy and Shavey (2006 and 2007) [Picture 1 of senior woman in light gray suit sitting with young woman in black dress, both Caucasian.  Picture 2 of a Caucasian senior couple, man wearing blue suit and tie, woman in black suit sitting at dining table.  Picture 3 of same woman in blue nightgown, proudly smiling next to open refrigerator full of food inside and on top.]

My Lover

Some people may think of her as my wife or my spouse.  I often refer to her as my partner after many years of that being the most appropriate title.  But, I will always think of her as my lover.

Perhaps, this helps with the eternal romantic notion that we are something special to each other.  She could never be my ball-in-chain or the wife.  She is the one I took to my bed and relished her touch and companionship.  It will always be true.  And, she will always be my lover.

Ronnie tells me that it is a more personal term for her and not the best for public essays and the like.  Back in the 80s, in the dark ages, we all referred to our partners as our lovers.  Partners was such a stiff and formal term.  Best used in doctor’s offices or at work.  Perhaps, we didn’t live with them yet.  Perhaps, we didn’t yet have some sort of understanding.  As lesbians, we just referred to our significant others as lovers.  Long term, short term, it didn’t matter.

It probably contributes to that quaint thinking that lesbians are inherently sexual beings and that is first and foremost the point of our relationships.  But, you have to know women’s sexuality to know that sex itself is not always the point.

A male friend once told me that women need to be in the mood and men just need to be in the room.  I’m sure that is an oft told line.  Another one is about the U-Haul lesbians.  This one goes that lesbians just have to spend one night together before they decide to back the U-Haul truck up and move in together.  Both of these lines are silly, of course.  It takes all kinds.

A friend of mine asked me what kind of car I drove.  I told her a Subaru.  She said, “Ah, the cars of lesbians...with a dog in the back.”  Oh, probably.  It’s true in my case.  I read this great article about why lesbians drive Subarus.  Apparently, the Subaru company actually marketed to lesbians in the 90s as one of their target groups.*  I’m here to say it worked.  Certainly, in the Pacific Northwest.

Once, I met another friend’s older mother.  My partner and I stayed at her mother’s house with our two dogs.  My friend told me later that her mother asked, “Why do lesbians always have big dogs?”  It’s hard to say.  Could it be because they have large tongues?

Anyway, my lover of nearly 30 years is sleeping in the living room chair next to me.  It is after eleven, and she has drifted away.  She didn’t notice when I took the dog out for her nightly run.  I left a yellow sticky on her stomach so if she woke up she would know for sure where the dog and I had gone.  Not that there’s a whole lot of other options late at night.  Still, a little confirmation keeps one from worrying.

I see her there.  She often naps a bit in the evening.  I, on the other hand, often nap in the chair in the morning.  I guess the good news is at least one of us is awake and alert during the day.  It’s part of what makes us a good team.  If one of us doesn’t get it, the other will.  Just ask our daughter.

I look at her napping.  Sometimes, she has a little frown.  Sometimes, her face is without care reclined there with her eyes closed.  I think to myself, “Ah, my lover is sleeping in the chair again.”  

Even in my darkest days, I knew I loved her, although I forgot that she loved me for a time.  Such are the vagaries of Depression.  I know with total certainty that she is my lover.  Lover, as a noun, is one who loves.  That fits the bill perfectly.

Good night.

Joceile

9.1.18

• https://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2016/06/how-subarus-came-to-be-seen-as-cars-for-lesbians/488042/

If You Hear Nothing

The bottom line here is that I’m upset.  Not mentally per se.  It’s physical.  I had a relapse last weekend.  It’s Friday now.  I have exceptional tingling and pain in my legs.  I can’t walk nearly as well as I was.  It’s a loss.  I hurt.  I’m frustrated.  There’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it.

I spent 1 1/2 hours with Dr. Tim Shannon late yesterday afternoon.  I reviewed the problem in his drill down inquiry sort of way.  “Tell me again the symptoms you are feeling?”

“And, when did this start again?”

“What happened just prior to this bout of trouble?”

“Had anything like that happened before?”

“Did that seem familiar to you?  In what way?”

Dr. Tim is relentless but in a good way.  I am convinced he cares.  He asks detailed questions.  I feel they are in the service of getting to the bottom of what’s going on with me rather than in some voyeuristic way.

“What did that remind you of?”

“Have you been having any specific kind of dream activity?”

I think there is a sense that my mind may know more than it’s telling me.  We pick our way around my conscious awareness.

“Do you have an affinity for animals?  Or not so much?”

“When you think of water, is that something that resonates with you?  Or, not really?”

There’s no judgment in his inquiries.  He is like Sherlock Holmes hunting for the clues.  He doesn’t look like Holmes other than being long and lean.  He always has reading glasses perched at the end of his nose looking at me over the tops of them while he feverishly takes notes on his computer, gathering data, and cross referencing it.

“What is the number one symptom that bothers you the most?  What does that mean to you?”  I had to start sitting with Tim to understand how this approach helps him define the nuances of my condition.

“I haven’t tried this before with you.  But, some people in Europe have gotten good results with their data with this modality.  They’ve found a correlation between people who prefer certain colors responding to the same treatment regime.”  He opened a little book with color squares covering the rainbow spectrum.

“So, when you look at these, does any one feel more comforting?”

I point the teal blue one out to him.  “Are there any others?”  Dr. Tim’s voice is well modulated.  While friendly, he gives no indication that there is any right answer.  I point out another couple colors and smile because I know the answer to this one.  I pay a lot of attention to colors in how I pick my ties.  He patiently listens to my little diversion about ties.

The colors are on a grid.  He notes the color codes and gabs another book, presumably some sort of key, and frowns into this second book apparently cross referencing something.

Dr. Shannon and I have been working together for 2 1/2 years.  He treats my conditions with homeopathy.  That is finding the symptoms that mimic the use of a substance like lavender or something potentially more harmful like strychnine.  If an over exposure to that substance causes symptoms similar to the ones I am experiencing, the theory is that a extremely minute dose of that substance can cause my body to proactively react and develop a kind of immunity resolving the symptoms.  It sounds to me like a sort of inoculation.

He has references to thousands of different substances and their affects on the human body with data from all over the world.  Tim worked with a specialist in Italy for ten years.  He has a good history of successfully working people with serious psychiatric conditions over the years including trauma veterans in both the wars and childhood.  He also specializes in other conditions.  In some people’s lives, he is the option of last resort and his treatment can be surprisingly effective.

My own experience of this treatment has been at times very successful and others less so.  When we started, I told him I would hang in there for one year.  I am self paying with no insurance coverage for this so I was making a major commitment.

However, I did get initial results.  My main concern was walking of course.  I also have mental health issues that include very violent nightmares.  Having one of these nightmares would cause me to wake up with an exacerbation of physical symptoms.

What Tim gives me is in the form of drops.  I put four drops of the substance under my tongue once a day or more.  This is not hard nor labor intensive.  The bottle of drops costs $17.  Thus, other than the money for seeing him, it’s not hard to try.

Fairly early on, I had some significant results.  We found that four drops a week caused my nightmares to stop being so gruesomely violent.  Whoa.  What is this?  They were consistently less violent.  I have had these violent nightmares several times a week since I was a small child.  You are telling me that four drops a week can make this difference?

Dr. Tim likes to tweak these treatment paths because he wants optimum results which I appreciate.  However, tweaking the nightmare drops involving reducing them for whatever reason caused the nightmares to return in a few days.  No Way!

So, back onto the weekly drop regiment I went.  In fact, I told him no more playing with the nightmare drops!  I’m happy with this.  In fact, nothing over the last 40 years had made a dent on these nightmares.  Think about it, no therapy, no zillions of psychiatric drug regimens, no improvement on lifestyle, my relationship, my work life, sleep habits, meditation, exercise, nothing.  And, here it is significantly improved with four little drops a week that don’t even taste bad?  Impossible.  And yet, remove the drops, the nightmares return with their early morning physical symptoms.  Restart the drops and the nightmares become less violent.  It’s clear what my choice is.

He has had less consistent success on my leg pain, lack of leg control, and walking.  We have had brief times of improvement followed by failure.  More recently, I had several months of improvement for which I am always grateful.  Yet, I just had a relapse.  But, Tim is willing to hang in and keep pitching.  However, even brief respite from walking issues of either weeks or months, is a welcome reprieve for me.

So, I sit here after several months of some significant easing in my ability to walk for short distances and hope for another improvement soon.

I am reminded of an old joke my brother and I used to tell each other to make us laugh:

“Do you ever lay at night being bothered by a buzzing mosquito?  Well, the male mosquito is the one that makes the noise, and males don't bite. It's the females that bite, and they don't buzz. So, the next time you are laying listening to a buzzing mosquito, relax and roll over because it's a male. But, if you hear nothing...”

I may hear nothing.  But, that doesn’t mean something isn’t happening.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

8.31.18

I’m Not Ashamed

There are things I know I should be ashamed about, but I’m just not.  I don’t know why.  Some quirky thing about how I came to accept myself didn’t allow for shame about these things.

It seems like a long list.  I am not ashamed about the scars on my left arm.  Almost no one ever comments on them.  It doesn’t bother me if they do.  I know the scars representing years of self harm are about my recovering from childhood trauma and abuse.  It’s not like at 12 someone told me how to deal with the horror, the confusion, or the mental illness developed because of rape, incest, and emotional battering.  I found my own way to cope.  It was not the best.  It took me many years to feel like I no longer wanted to hurt myself.  That’s it.

I’m not bad nor am l damaged.  I got hung up on a coping mechanism that was dangerous and destructive.  We all have bad coping mechanisms.  Some are worse than others.  Cutting myself was one of mine.

In Western State Hospital when I was 14, the counselors were trying to get me to stop cutting myself.  Based on a combination of destructive forces, I was unwilling and unable to give it up.  I remember one counselor, Frieda, saying to me, “You have scars on your arm.  You don’t want to make anymore scars.  What will you tell your children?”

I found that a very odd argument.  I gathered my 14 year old self up, looking her straight in the eye and said, “I hope I will have the strength to tell them that I had a very difficult time and harmed myself.”  She had nothing to say in response to that.  Even at that age, I knew it was more about what mattered to her than anything having to do with me.  It was a very ineffective argument.

There are other things I’m not ashamed of.  Sometimes, I get really ugly cold sores on my lip.  I remember the first time when I was 25.  You can’t exactly hide your lip.  It was a large one since followed by others.  It was on my last day of an old job.  Someone was taking pictures at the celebration.  I tried to cover my lip with my hand when the camera was pointed at me.

I decided then and there to call it Lip Art.  I told people, “I have Lip Art.”

“What’s that?” was the response.

“Well, you see, the cells of my lip are doing something entirely different and creative.  It’s an art form.  I call it Lip Art.”  

This was usually followed by a frown and then a smile of, “That’s a different way to think about it.”  Yep, it is.  It works for me.

I’m not ashamed of being a mental patient many times over.  “Yep.  I’ve had hard times.”  Who hasn’t?  It wasn’t pretty but so what?

I like people of all body types but am very fond of round bodied women.  Everyone likes bodies of one type or another.  This is mine.

I’ve worked part-time for nearly my entire adult life.  I have my reasons which are life affirming.  It took me a long time to get over the fact that I don’t have a college degree.

I’m what could be considered a masculine woman in that I wear men’s clothes.  Historically, I could be referred to as a dyke.  I am often mistaken for a man by people who don’t know me.  This occurs often in the women’s restroom.  I feel that if restrooms are going to delineate by gender people are going to have to deal with the consequences.

I hate my parents.  I’m not ashamed.  They treated me brutally.  I may simultaneously love my mother, but I also am very angry with her.  Justifiably, in my mind.  My dad is dead.  I am long, long over loving him.

I love wrinkled skin on aging faces including my own.  I love my gray hair.  I told my coworkers one day, “Isn’t that the goal?  To get gray hair?  It’s what’s supposed to happen.”

My boss said, “Wow, you’re right.  That is the goal.  It’s supposed to happen.  I never thought of it that way.”  My point of view never keeps anyone from coloring their hair.

My aging skin is getting spots.  I’m okay with that.  I seem to be getting them down the side of my face.  I could potentially look like an alien named Jax on Star Trek’s Deep Space Nine.  Things could be worse.

This isn’t to say I don’t have things to be sorry for.  I have said thoughtless, hurtful words at times.  I have committed selfish acts that I regret if I can remember them.  I punched kids in elementary school.  I have hurt people I love.  At times, I have been a disappointment to myself and others.

I think this is all related to being alive.  At some point, I had to give up on trying to be perfect.  However, I notice I still strive for it in my work and relationships.  It’s pointless but probably keeps me motivated.

There are a bunch of ways I don’t fit in.  I prefer working in a cubicle to having an office.  I like the closeness and camaraderie of being near my coworkers with the ease of collaboration.  It works because I can totally shut out my surroundings when I need to.  Not everyone can do this.

I like white shirts and thin ties.  I wear the same clothes weekly, sometimes daily.  (To be fair, they are clean and often duplicates.)

I am not a foodie.  I eat the same lunch everyday.  I am intimidated by potlucks and restaurant menus.  I find the options overwhelming.  When I’m in restaurants, both my partner and my daughter tell me what I would like from the menu for which I am grateful.

And potlucks!  You wouldn’t believe the sheer number of potlucks held by my office.  If there is a cause for celebration, my coworkers have a potluck.  I haven’t tracked this but it’s at least two or three times month and maybe more.

When the public disclosure specialist came to our staff meeting, she talked about the need to delete unnecessary emails.  She said she took a sample of our office emails that were not deleted.  The unusual aspect to our unnecessary saved emails compared to other divisions was the extreme number of potluck related commentary.  I think it was 200 out of 1000.  I’m doomed.

When it comes to making money and being ambitious about my career, I just need enough not more.  Enough is more than most people have.  

I love my part-time job.  It doesn’t matter to me whether I’m a Human Resource Consultant 3, 4, or 5.  When my boss came to me and said, “We want you to specialize in reasonable accommodation for employees and go from a 3 to a 4.”  I had to stop and think about it.  In my opinion, a promotion is not always a good thing.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose that’s okay” referring to the promotion not the assignment, “as long as I don’t have to supervise anybody.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, we won’t have you supervise anyone.”  I think they were relieved they didn’t have to deal with that expectation.

My competitiveness is with myself.  I want to do MY very best.  That’s what matters to me.  Other people are in charge of themselves.  They can have promotions if they want.  I just want to do my work and do it really well.

There is a lot to be distressed about in the world.  A LOT.  I don’t need to waste energy being ashamed about something that is intrinsic to my life experience.  

My quirkiness is something I have long since accepted.  It’s my life.  I’m in charge.  Taking care of myself and accepting myself is an act of loving myself as well as those around me.  I can do no better.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

8.5.18