Music I Missed

I think I missed a lot being a good girl. I grew up ensconced in the safety of a church. It sat at the top of my street and it gave me music, friends, and a deep love of God. There is nothing wrong with any of that. I was happy, but I missed a lot of good music, and maybe some coming-of-age experiences I should have had then––not later.

In the 70s it was James Taylor, John Denver, and Seals and Crofts. I went to their concerts at the Coliseum and Blossom Music Center. At Blossom, James Taylor was so popular that we sat in my car in the parking lot until 1:00AM just trying to get out. Seals and Crofts was so popular that we parked all the way out by the street on the grass, walking for 20 minutes to get to our car. John Denver was so popular that he filled up the Richland Coliseum––something very few artists could do today (especially since the Coliseum no longer exists).  So I wasn't alone in my love of these artists.

In the 60s it was definitely Motown. In the 80s it was contemporary Christian music all the way––especially Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith. I was a youth counselor at my church and we constantly took the kids to concerts of "famous" CCM artists like Petra, David Meece, Steve Taylor, Randy Stonehill, Kathy Troccoli, Phil Keaggy, Sheila Walsh...whatever happened to all of them? I lived and breathed that music. I sang solos of their songs in church. We taught the youth group their songs. It was a lot of fun. My kids still hear Amy Grant every Christmas morning at my house. It's all good.

I always liked the Beatles, of course, also Elton John, the Eagles, Crosby, Stills & Nash. But what I never listened to was Pink Floyd, The Who, Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Queen, The Doors,  Grateful Dead, Fleetwood Mac, Aerosmith, Santana, Genesis, Deep Purple, Allman Brothers....

In Cleveland that was WMMS––never listened to it. 

But here's the strange thing. I LOVE this stuff now. I married a man who went to all of those concerts. When we met he was puzzled by my lack of classic rock knowledge since I am a bit older than him.  I'm learning to appreciate all this innovative and amazing music now, when I'm old! Even weirder is the fact that I have had the opportunity to go to the concerts I never saw forty years ago!

The first concert I ever begged to go to was The Monkees. I'm sure it's a big surprise that Davy Jones posters hung all around my bed. My parents felt I was too young to go and I was devastated. I still have my diary. I wrote: "Today is the worst day of my life because Mom and Dad won't let me go see the Monkees." (That turned out to not be true.) However, I saw Mickey Dolenz and Peter Tork at a small venue of other 60s idols. (Gary Puckett was even creepier as an old man singing "Young Girl.")

But in the last decade I have seen: Elton John––I missed the goofy costume era though, Eric Clapton––really fun to hear Layla,  Roger Waters–– the Pink Floyd concert I never saw, including the laser pyramid, Paul McCartney––I cried shamelessly, Diana Ross––still fabulous. We've also seen Greg Allman and Bonnie Raitt, and next week I'm going to see The Who!

Who would have ever thought I'd be seeing these icons in the 2000s? 

So, yes, I missed the true era of classic rock, but as long as these rockers are still alive there is always the chance that they'll come to Cleveland, and I'll try to experience what I missed––so long ago. 

The Life of a Book

There was a wonderful and inspirational author named Madeleine L'Engle.  You may recognize her as the author of A Wrinkle in Time and other imaginative and symbolic novels for young people.  I know her as a writer of great faith. In my years of searching, when I was much younger, her adult non-fiction books, taught me that faith, art, and science are all gifts to be used. She led a practical Christian life and claimed that all types of art could be inspirational whether they used words like "God" or not, which I found comforting at the time.  I recently pulled two of her books off of my bookshelf and found something I'd underlined long ago:

The writer does want to be published; the painter urgently hopes that someone will see the finished canvas; the composer needs his music to be heard. Art is communication, and if there is no communication it is as though the work had been stillborn.

 I spent five months last winter writing a novel. It is my third one. The previous two novels were self-published. It was disappointing to have resorted to that, but I desperately wanted to see them as a book, not just a stack of paper or a words on a screen. They would have been dead, stillborn, if I'd done nothing with them.  Their lives would have been like my grandmother's novels––pieces of looseleaf paper in cardboard boxes for someone to find after she died. 

I have no formal training as a writer beyond local classes and critiques by various authors and writing groups. However, I've written a novel of historical fiction based on the life of a real person. I had no intention of ever writing fiction again, but it was an idea I couldn't resist. Oh, how I want to see it published. I know this one is better (or maybe just the query letter is better) because it has had the attention of several agents. Some wanted to see a portion of the work and two have asked to see the entire manuscript. This, in itself, is exciting and encouraging. The agents who have read portions of it all have had something positive to say about it, but...it just didn't grab them quite enough. 

I have been told that the satisfaction should be in the creative process, the journey––but no, that is not true.  A book is a part of you, a piece of your soul, and contains, in some way, everything you believe in. This holds true for all manner of art and creativity. 

All of my life I have a deep desire and urgency to express myself through writing, singing, painting, crafts and playing instruments. I'm sure that will continue no matter whether this new book finds life and breath or not. The most ubiquitous advice is to never give up. I will try not to.

Nationalism vs Patriotism

From This America by Jill Lepore:

"But by the early decades the twentieth century, with the rise of fascism in Europe, nationalism had come to mean something different from patriotism, something fierce, something violent: less a love for your own country than a hatred of other countries and their people and a hatred of people within your own country who don't belong to an ethnic, racial, or religious majority.... but hating immigrants, as if they were less than human, is a form of nationalism that has nothing to do with patriotism.

"Patriotism is animated by love, nationalism by hatred. To confuse the one for the other is to pretend that hate is love and fear is courage."

The current president has proudly announced that he is a nationalist at his rallies and we are seeing the results of this now.

Are You Really Pro-Life?

Twenty humans dead in El Paso, Texas and 9 in Dayton, Ohio, dozens more injured, possibly fighting for their lives, all in one weekend in America. The tweets and messages of politicians with thoughts and prayers are useless. Flying the flag at half-staff means nothing. It will not return those people to their loved ones. The current president has vilified Muslim people and immigrants as dangerous, but none of the shooters are either one. None of the shooters in recent years have been either. They are white supremacists who have been encouraged by the president to hate, to blame, to exclude people unlike themselves, as he does publicly every single day. They are people who should never be allowed to buy a gun, let alone an assault rifle.

In church this morning I wept as the pastor asked us to form a circle, hold hands and pray for our country. But God will not save this country because God does not do what we can do for ourselves. So we pray for the hearts and minds of our lawmakers, that they will choose American lives over guns.  Those same politicians claim to be pro-life.

HERE'S THE THING LAWMAKERS: IF YOU DO NOTHING ABOUT SAVING AMERICANS FROM GUNS THEN YOU CANNOT CALL YOURSELF PRO-LIFE.

I cried as we prayed, I cried when I saw my daughter post that she was afraid to go to a public event today, a place where she makes her living, in a time she is carrying her second child within her.  I weep for the future of my grandchildren.

When we traveled through Italy, and someone discovered we were American, their comments were invariably: TOO MANY GUNS. Other countries have figured it out. They must truly be pro-life. They must value their citizens far more than we do. 

I thought this was supposed to be the greatest country in the world. 

A Reminder From the Past

From today's Cleveland Plain Dealer:

Ronald Reagan received a letter that said:

"You can live in France, but you cannot become a Frenchman. You can go to Germany or Turkey or Japan, but you cannot become a German, a Turk or a Japanese. But anyone, from any corner of the Earth, can come to live in America and become an American. "

Reagan's response:

"Other countries may seek to compete with us; but in one vital area, as a beacon of freedom and opportunity that draws people of the world, no country on earth comes close... If we ever closed the door to new Americans, our leadership in the world would soon be lost."

Just for clarity and background:

Last week Donald Trump tweeted that four congresswomen of color should "go back" to the countries they came from even though they are all American citizens and three were born here. (To say nothing of the fact that they were all legitimately elected to Congress). One is a naturalized citizen, as is Melania Trump.  

He further stated that they "came from countries whose governments are a complete and total catastrophe, the worst, most corrupt and inept anywhere in the world.... why don't they go back and help fix the totally broken and crime infested places from which they came."

Funny, that's exactly what they're trying to do.

Life Sentence

It’s a holy war

with nothing sacred 

but a crucifixion of females

by those who claim that

they love freedom

and a flag.

They can smell the blood,

but not their own stink.

Thank you for reminding us

that life is sacred

while you embrace your gun

and weep fake tears.

A fifteen year-old

with an already ruined life

can’t fight back,

can’t make you care about

the child, the one 

you won’t adopt,

or feed, or raise,

or love.

Breaking Babies

I believe I wrote this a year ago....and nothing has changed except more damaged human beings.

You are breaking them

those children in cages

with their aluminum foil blankets 

their obscene days, damaged psyches 

broken for campaign promises

evangelical leaders preach the Bad News

a deluded Jesus would not 

let the children come to Him

they are under the same stars

lights of the future, those crying orphans

turn away, amuse yourselves

with the scandal-of-the-day, the blatant lies

but they will always be with you 

somewhere in your brain your soul

God is watching 

waiting for your Pro-Life response

their brown eyes see all know all

in a cruel imprisonment of

irreversible memories irretrievable childhoods, 

mothers with no children

fathers with no family

voters atwitter with relief

brown children will not sully the country 

with their abilities

talents

human

being

The Assault on the Spirit of a Girl

I have never been sexually assaulted, unless you count the assault on my innocence and self-image as a young woman. This long overdue “Me Too” movement has prompted me to think of how much I was shaped as a female and a human being by the actions and words of men. Men who felt free to comment, stare at, and belittle me without hesitation or the least bit of concern for what they were doing. We have heard a lot about unwanted advances and physical attacks. I have not read anything about the subtle damage that can be done to young girls by consistent objectification by men. It traumatizes the spirit and self-esteem of females. It’s something most of us just learned to live with, even if at times, traumatic.

This is something men cannot possibly understand. There is no equivalent for a boy’s experience. Men often think mere comments are harmless and should be taken as compliments or jokes. But they are not. They are damaging and demeaning to a young woman’s sense of self and understanding of her place in society.

At the innocent age of thirteen I developed breasts much too large for my 5’2” petite body.  I didn’t ask for them and I did not enjoy the attention they received.  Up until then I only knew the love and affection of my father and grandfather. My favorite teacher in sixth grade had been a man. Males were safe until my breasts showed up.

Suddenly men were hanging out of truck windows and shouting at me as I walked home from school. Boys were staring at my chest in the most obvious ways. Adult males commented as I walked through a mall, even turned around and gaped. My mother was shaken by this turn of events and started buying me matronly clothing and swimwear which just furthered my humiliation. I went from being a carefree and happy girl to receiving the message that I must cover-up and become inconspicuous as possible so I didn’t provoke male attention.

Unfortunately, the things I loved to do involved gymnastic outfits and performing on stages. I was a natural gymnast. I spent my childhood cartwheeling and flipping across the front lawn, but by eighth grade I dropped out of gymnastics because of my discomfort with my body and the uniform I was required to wear.  

At that age I discovered I could sing. My parents were thrilled and supportive. My church and the musicians there provided me with plenty of opportunities. I felt self-conscious in front of people no matter where I went, but at least church often included a bulky choir robe. Later, I did pursue musicals on stage but I was always aware of how the men in the audience were viewing me.

Throughout my teens and young adulthood my breasts were a millstone, a burden. Every piece of clothing I tried on in a store was evaluated by how much it de-emphasized my chest. I hated the off-handed comments of men like, “If you drop some food at least you have a shelf to catch it,” or wearing a Disneyland shirt, “Boy, does Mickey have big ears!” I’m sure men thought those comments were harmless, but they diminished me more every time I heard them.

At my first teaching job at age 22 the principal would comment on what I wore everyday. Each afternoon he would stand at the door of my classroom and stare at me—not the students or the lesson—just me.  I wouldn’t have dreamed of saying anything. When I think about how insecure and unworldly I was then I am almost sure I would not have reported a sexual assault either. My breasts were a part of me and I considered them my fault and my responsibility. It would be decades until I found my voice and would be strong enough to be assertive or defend myself against anything that would diminish my personhood. 

At the age of 40 I had breast reduction surgery at the urging of my respectful and loving husband. At the time I was teaching a college class. When I returned after the surgery it was the first time in my life that I felt comfortable standing in front of people. The very first time.

In our society there is terrible assumption of men believing they are entitled to say what they want to a woman, to look her over, sometimes to touch her as they desire. Not all men, of course. But that is the point. It is not an entitlement of manhood. It is not natural or just a “boy thing.” I don’t believe that crudeness in referring to women is part of “locker room talk” because the men I know, the men I have the utmost respect for, also respect women.  Most men are capable of loving a woman for who she is not just for their favorite body part. We need to teach young boys that it is not a presupposition to treat a woman as personal entertainment. Adult men who think it is need to grow up.

The Church Has Broken My Heart Again

First I was angry, indignant, now I’m heartbroken. The United Methodist Church has proven it is Divided—no different, no better than our riven country. A few verses taken out of context in the Old Testament have superseded the words of Jesus. (Verses that are surrounded with other dictates we do not live by any longer.) Jesus came to bring a new covenant. His message was love, acceptance and non-judgement. But fear wins. Judgement wins. I hope our denomination loses a significant amount of members. I hope there is a schism.

Bishops have voted to continue a ban on LGBTQ persons from marrying or serving as clergy in the United Methodist Church and to enforce this ruling. I wept throughout the service yesterday facing my choir director, a man devotedly and happily married to his husband. A man who has made my life better in every way; a friend, a mentor, a spiritual leader every single week. He draws people into the choir of every age, race and creed. He has done ten times more for others  than anyone else I know. He was crying too, and it broke my heart.

My pastor gave an impassioned and powerful message that our church would never exclude anyone. That we are the same diverse and loving church we were last week.  Of course, LGBTQ people are welcomed at our church. But what if two men or two women wanted our pastor to marry them in their beloved church home just as most of us have done? What if he did? Would he lose his job? Would we all lose his spirited and energetic leadership? Our church has continually grown over the years of his tenure—something rare in a mainline church. 

Many years ago an ego-driven minister moved my childhood church out of town. It was the place where three generations of my family met every Sunday. He took that from us and I grieved deeply. It split up friendships and left people without a church home and it was completely unnecessary. My children left the church which broke my heart. I told them that the church is not God. God does nothing to hurt His children. The church is made up of flawed human beings, and while I know that I still don’t understand why church leaders willingly choose anything that hurts its members. 

I hate the platitude: we love the sinner but hate the sin. No, you don’t love someone you are willing to deny basic human rights. Would you deny your own child food, shelter, love, acceptance?  From Corinthians 13: love is kind, love keeps no record of wrong, it always protects. Banning people from what brings them joy and fulfillment is not love. At the conference a young gay man gave a beautiful speech telling of his lifelong dream was to be a Methodist minister. He will be denied that dream.

I don’t believe those of us in the majority understand what it’s like to be marginalized, discriminated against, denied what the rest of us so freely take for granted. This country is fueled by fear right now and Jesus told us repeatedly to not be afraid. Laws are made to protect us. When has a person who is gay hurt you? How have they taken away your rights or ability to live out your own life the way you see fit? They haven’t? Well, that’s what we’ve done to them.

A poem from my new book: Bonfire

Reading from The Volume of Our Incongruity at Loganberry Books in Shaker Heights, Ohio.
This poem was chosen for National Poetry Month for the Cuyahoga County Public Library poem of the day forthcoming this April.  It's about my grown-up children:

Bonfire

I see them together:

the connective tissues, the shared blood,

a counterpoint in firelight—and 

something primal and holy in me turns.

Orange-yellow waves move over their glossy faces

and rotate like pinwheels in their eyes.

Her perfect tight-teeth smile and luminous hair.

His shoulders wide and strong, his great-grandfather’s silhouette.

White sparks sprinkle upward between us.

My diaphragm expands and my ribs crack in this invisible triangle.

I am stretched like early-morning yoga,

depth perception altered in this stasis.

Leaves flutter in the heat, tree frogs sing, dogs chase

each other in and out of deep shadows. His voice,

her laughter brings stillness to my maternal island

and resurrection to what time cannot take from my soul.

by Diane Vogel Ferri

from The Volume of Our Incongruity

Finishing Line Press  2018

My New Chapbook from Finishing Line Press

The Volume of our Incongruity by Diane Vogel Ferri

$14.99

A certain irresistible sincerity marks these poems. They invite us into sacred space, where grace and unapologetic longing reside and rule, where the singular voice we hear is so quiet and prayerful we must lean in to listen. The Volume of our Incongruity, however, is more than a collection of poems. It’s a narrative, the story of a granddaughter, now recollected as one of eight “graphite markings on [a] basement two-by-four;” a wife, whose “love is a tundra, vast and white;” a mother, a “thirsty woman drinking every last drop of the sea.”   In language that is clear and deceptively simple, Diane Vogel Ferri  reaches into a life lived deeply and pulls out truth.

–Lou Suarez, author of Ask and Traveler

In The Volume of Our Incongruity, Diane Vogel Ferri chronicles life-shaping moments by alternately slowing down the kind of speeding landscapes seen from a station wagon window, and zooming in to examine life’s discrepancies up close and in person. These are poems for our times, stirring a compelling swirl where the past intersects with the present, where hope for the future can spring from a single sonogram.
 –Gail Bellamy, author, poet and Cleveland Heights poet laureate, 2009 and 2010

These intimate, powerful poems about family, love, and memory settle on your skin and won’t wash off. Diane Vogel Ferri ‘s voice is every woman’s, grappling with being a wife, mother and individual. In this vividly rendered collection, the specific details of a life become something wondrous.
–Lee Chilcote, author of The Shape of Home