Thinking about Alabama

Waiting on my husband while he gets checked out for a bad reaction to some medication. And thinking.

Why would someone wait for 40 years to talk about being molested or assaulted?

Several things. 

First, a woman can pretty much assume her reputation will be trashed. In college, we used to talk about how, if we got raped, we would hesitate to report it, because our whole past would be brought out and then our parents would find out we’d been sleeping with our boyfriends. The woman who was 14 when Roy Moore molested her has been quoted as saying “I’m no angel.” Who the heck made the rule that to be believed, a woman would have to be perfect? 

Second, the fear of losing job opportunities or getting sued. For years, I spoke very tentatively about my own experience because I was afraid he would sue me. And people who have less money and power are afraid to confront people with more money and power. I was in my early 20s when it happened to me, and my reaction was to find a job at Rudi’s Bakery, completely different from being a secretary. In the case of the woman from Alabama, she said that the experience resulted in her feeling guilty and making bad decisions. So that affected her whole life.

Third, I think people have a real need for things to just be NORMAL. I see this over and over when friends describe their experiences with elderly parents. People do not want to admit to themselves that something is wrong. And I think it is the same with being molested or assaulted. People don’t want their life to be all about that bad experience — they just want it to go away.

Actually, I think we as a country may have a bad case of that. We cannot believe that all the bad stuff with our government is actually happening. We just want it to be normal and for the people in government to do what they should. Over and over, we are surprised that bad things are happening. We don’t want to believe what is in front of us.

Good Trouble!

My friend Stacy Beyer is not only a warm-hearted, talented singer and songwriter; she’s an activist, out there “standing up for our American Dream” on the streets of Nashville, Tenn.:

“From writing this song in a parking lot because the words and music were pouring out, to presenting it to Congressman John Lewis, to releasing the music video today. It’s been quite a journey. Let’s make it clear that we are watching, and we are listening. #letsmakegoodtrouble feel free to share

Proceeds from the download of the song go to www.emergeamerica.org — working ‘to increase the number of Democratic women leaders from diverse backgrounds in public office.’”

https://youtu.be/Lh2aCbYih2U

Talking about sexual harassment is hard, for many reasons. I hear, this week, with the downfall of Harvey Weinstein, so many people talking about women not saying anything because of fear of retribution. But I think it is even more than that. The dichotomy of someone who is powerful, wealthy, well-known, successful ... being accused by someone who is often young, not powerful, not accomplished. It's even embarrassing to the person who has been harassed. I know that because I've been there.

It is still embarrassing to me, after 38 years.

And not even the embarrassment. Often, the person who is doing the harassing has done a lot of good in the world as well. Look at Harvey Weinstein. He's been responsible for wonderful films, changed the lives of people, given major contributions to causes that, in my opinion, are well worth supporting.

How do you weigh ... putting up with some harassment, being embarrassed, maybe even having sex ... but in return your life is changed, you have major money and influence yourself, and you can do a lot of good in the world? 

I would guess that is a compromise that a lot of people have been willing to make. (I think that anyone who works with Woody Allen probably has some major justifying or denial going on.) 

When Anita Hill was castigated about not having come forward earlier, I really got it. When something stupid and embarrassing happens to you, you (or at least, I) did not even want to admit it happened.

And there's that thing about the other parts of the harasser ... the good parts. Do you take someone down for being a creep? Ruin their career for not getting boundaries? There is a lot of grey area without someone actually being raped. Sometimes the person being harassed just isn't sure how to weigh that moral decision. 

Now, at age 63, I have a lot of friends who are professors. I can talk to them on pretty much an equal level, understanding that their professional and academic expertise are one thing ... but opinions on child-raising, politics, climate change, religion and real estate are fair game for equal talk.

But at age 24, in December 1978, I was a little bit in awe of the physics professors I worked for at Indiana University. There were eight of them.

The very first day on the job, the head secretary, Betty Burhans, said to me, "Dick and Alex are the ones who are bringing in the money to this department (High Energy Physics) so you make sure those two are happy before anybody else."

I began to understand that making Dick Heinz happy might involve more than typing when he told me to let his mistress come to his office, but to call him for anybody else.

Then, he began locking the door of my little office in Swain Hall behind him, and telling me that he needed a massage. My reply was always "You're married. Ask your wife to give you a massage."

There were rumors that he had been caught having sex on a table in Swain Hall with an undergrad, but I have no proof of that. But that's the kind of talk that was going around about him in the department.

Then, one day, I went to Nick's for happy hour on a Friday with a bunch of the grad students who had become my friends. Dick Heinz sat down beside me, and I felt his hand creep up under my skirt. I grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand away from me. He said "Your ass is out of here." Foolishly, I said "You can't do anything to me. I do my work."

I was so wrong. Dick began bringing a sheet of paper to me (this was when the Physics Department had only a couple of computers, and they were for scientific, not secretarial, use) and saying "I want you to cut and paste the changes." I would say, "Oh, c'mon, Dick, it would be much faster to just retype it." And I didn't GET that he was keeping notes: "Lynne cannot follow directions."

It was pretty miserable. I was tense all the time. I was afraid to be in my office. 

And, I was young. I drank too much one night and fooled around with one of the grad students. A couple of days later, another grad student came up to me as I was eating lunch at the Gables. He was a physics star, must have been a post-doc. I remember they were really happy to have him come to Indiana. And he was married. But he sat down at my table and said "So I hear you're fun. When do I get a turn?"

Now, I would think of that as a toxic, unhealthy, oppressive atmosphere. Then, I just thought it was all my fault.

In March, Betty Burhans (the head secretary) came to me and said "Dick and Alex don't like you. I'll give you either of the other two jobs open in Physics or I'll fire you on paper so you can get unemployment. This isn't your fault. I think you're the third one in a year."

And of course, she had my review, in which there were several things of the "she can't follow directions" type.

I told Betty I would have a nervous breakdown if I stayed in Physics and had to see him in the hall. So we agreed that she would "fire" me, but I would stay for three weeks to train my replacement and keep up with things.

Talk about humiliation. Working when everyone knew I was on the way out. 

Homer Neal, then the Dean of Research and Graduate Development, came to talk to me. (He was one of my professors, but I hardly ever saw him, as he worked out of his Dean's office mostly.) He said that seven doctoral students had been in his office to complain about what was happening to me, and that he would assist me through the grievance procedure. I told him, "Oh, no, Dr. Neal, I don't want to keep this job."

Not one person in authority told me that by NOT pursuing grievances, it was like admitting guilt. I could not have worked for the university for several years. Luckily, for most of those years, I was married and living in Boston. But, they did not warn me or inform me of any rights I might have.

On my last day, Dick Heinz said to me, "You're not too impressed with me, are you? Plenty of people around here are." I said "Well, Dick, I hear your wife put you through grad school. Maybe if you'd put her through grad school, she'd be the one sleeping around."

And Alex, his research partner, another brilliant man, stood by my work-study student on my last day. They had hired her to replace me. She was blonde and very pretty. She said "What is this word, Alex?" And he said, "Oh, that's the name of a college — R-U-T-G-E-R-S. You can always come to me with that kind of question." I stood there silently. Later, in private, I warned her what would happen.

And, really, the situation worked out well for me. I got unemployment for a few months, and in the summer, I met my future husband when he interviewed me for a job at his summer camp. He didn't hire me, but he did like me! In the fall, I took a job working in the back at Rudi's Bakery. I wanted to do something completely different from being a secretary. 

I did not mention this at all, except to my family and very few close friends, for years. 

And as I said, I totally got it that Anita Hill had not wanted to even talk about it when Clarence Thomas harassed her. The job stakes were much higher for her, as well.

At the beginning, when I said things were often grey, and that the accomplishments of the harasser might sometimes outweigh the harm done, I was thinking of the accomplishments of Harvey Weinstein, but also of Dick Heinz. Many people thought he was great. He evidently inspired many students. And I admire his making many people excited about science. My impression was that many in the Physics Department knew about the sexual harassment and Dick Heinz. But maybe Ben Brabson, who I greatly admire, didn't, or he could not have written this very complimentary speech about him. As I said, how do you weigh the harm that someone does and the good they accomplish?

Consultation on Conscience 2017: Social Action Conference hosted by the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism

Bad-mama-of-the-year award goes to ...

 A column I wrote, not used by the Herald-Times, so just sharing with friends.

This column was written by Lynne Foster Shifriss of Bloomington.

There is a girl in New York City
Who calls herself the human trampoline
And sometimes when I’m falling, flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Whoa, so this is what she means
She means we’re bouncing into Graceland ...
                                             -- Paul Simon

I often think of the above lyrics when I'm contemplating how far the actual me is from the person I want to be.
I think that is especially true of my role as mom to three kids.
 Jordie and I often say -- "Boy, we really lucked out with those kids!"
They're all IU graduates, working at jobs they can feel good about.
And I know some of it is luck. Possibly good DNA. But one thing it isn't is having had perfect parents.
This is one mama who made a heck of a lot of mistakes.
The kids actually do a little routine in which they mimic -- using first initials only -- a stream of curse words I supposedly shrieked at them. I used to be embarrassed but now I just say "If I did do that, you must have richly deserved it" or "It'll be good material for your therapist."
But the sometimes-too-quick temper was not the worst of it.
High on the list of ways I screwed up was my lack of organization.
In my professional life at the Herald-Times as assistant to the editor, features copy editor and early morning web mistress, I learned to juggle a myriad of tasks, prioritize, handle pressure and breaking news.
The very first morning I worked the early shift alone, there was a shooting. I heard it on the police scanner and snapped into automatic -- consulting with police, the editor at a sister paper, posting a short story to our website, Facebook, Twitter. Calling the editor at home, and the police reporter. Times like that were easy, work-wise. Common sense.
But the day-to-day stuff ... piled-up papers and too many unopened emails could be a real problem. I had to work to get better at organizing all the information.
At home, there was no boss to hold me accountable.
I never finished writing everything in their baby books.
Where's that paper? Probably in the pile on the dining room table.
A recipe? Just look it up on the iPhone.
I was the mom who carried a bag with wrapping paper, tape and scissors in my car trunk to take care of the birthday present we would buy at Target on the way to the party.
I once flew to New Jersey because of a death in our family. The kids -- all grown -- were to follow a day later, parking my mini-van at the airport. They had a little visit with a (luckily) sympathetic cop on the way, because I'd forgotten to renew my license plate.
Probably the worst thing I did, though, what really earns me that "bad mama" title, was to lose the kids' Social Security cards.
That has also been the source for comedy routines in our home.
Of course, as I said, the kids turned out all right. And our oldest is the most organized person I've ever met, which goes to show it's not genetic.
As others coo over a new baby, uttering wisdom like "Be sure and take a nap while the baby sleeps!" and "Don't worry, they all talk at different ages!" I've been known to give out this bit of advice: "Buy a file cabinet right now and use it!"

It's been a pleasure to be part of the newsroom gang

Lynne Foster Shifriss retired from The Herald-Times Friday. She was, in recent years, the editor of the Neighbors and Religion pages as well as webmistress in the early morning. She can be reached at lshifriss@yahoo.com.

Early July, 1995. I stood, shifting nervously from foot to foot. After all, I didn’t really belong in the middle of the H-T newsroom. I had been turned down there before for not having a journalism degree — mine was in English.

Still, I had always been interested. I had taken journalism classes in college, but was shy. When my dad, who worked in downtown Indy, spoke to “Old man Pulliam” of the Indianapolis Star about a summer job or internship, I could not bring myself to follow up on his offer to come over and talk.

For the couple of years before my interview at the H-T, I had been doing a paper delivery route in the country, out East Ind. 45 and Mount Gilead Road. A couple of fellow Harmony School moms who were artists told me that if I wanted time at home, which I did (to be with toddler Abby) doing a paper route was a great idea. And that did work out just fine. Good money. Driving around in the middle of the night, seeing owls, deer, bluebirds. Soaking in the quiet, so different from my daytime life. When a newsroom job came open, Tim Smith, head of Circulation, went upstairs and put in a good word for me with the big boss, H-T editor Bob Zaltsberg. And so I got an interview. And, a job.

At first, I was Shirley Bushey’s assistant in the library.

Over the years, after Shirley retired and I became full-time, I worked for Bob Z, processing letters to the editor and doing the editorial page. I became editor of the Neighbors and Religion pages. And the past few years, I have been the early morning webmistress, updating the H-T website and using Facebook and Twitter to spread news about road closings, weather, crime, school closings and more.

There are so many vivid memories. I was so proud to work at the H-T on that Sunday, July 4, 1999, when a Korean graduate student, Won-Joon Yoon, on his way into a church on East Third Street, was shot and killed by Benjamin Smith, a neo-Nazi. At the H-T, somewhere, there’s a photo of staffers working together — including Bob Z in his summer shorts — to get out an extra edition that terrible afternoon. “Hate Hits Home” was distributed later in the day, responding to a community’s need to know and to bond over shock and sadness.

Again, on that sunny September morning in 2001, when news spread that planes hit New York’s World Trade Center, H-T staff jumped into action to get accurate information out as quickly as possible, understanding the media’s role as part of the community. I remember employees standing silently in front of the cafeteria TV or the one in Bob Z’s office, then rushing off to work some more. Then back again, to stand silently and watch.

In smaller ways, too, I’ve felt pride to be part of the H-T newsroom. You don’t get much more “local” than the Neighbors page, with news submitted by readers about new babies, senior citizen birthdays, charitable contributions, upcoming events and more. I always figured that when something appeared on my Neighbors page, somebody was cutting it out and putting it on the fridge. And I liked that.

And my goal with the Religion page has been to reflect the diversity of faith in our area.

I’ve been happy and fulfilled with both of those missions. I wish I’d been able to do more.

I always wanted to reach out, to help local nonprofits and faith communities get their information into print and online — but at the paper, there’s always a deadline, and mine always seemed to be coming up too fast.

I could tell stories about many fine people I have worked with here. But you know who you are. It’s been a pleasure to be a part of the newsroom gang for almost 22 years.

Relative View

Balancing tasks, attitudes part of a family's story

Abby Shifriss | courtesy photos

Abby, our youngest, volunteering in Americorps before she went to college, ended up stripping bark from trees as her team helped to construct a nature center in Oregon.

I watched a PBS interview Bill Moyers did with anthropologist Mary Catherine Bateson years ago.
She spoke of leaving Iran, where her husband was teaching, when the 1979 revolution happened: “I had friends who were happy to go back to the veil, because at least then their roles were defined. In our country, men and women are struggling with who does what.”
I loved that interview so much that I wrote Bateson a letter, asking if she were teaching any classes in the Boston area, where we lived then. (I had read “Blackberry Winter,” the autobiography of Bateson’s mother, Margaret Mead, and knew that she lived in Boston.)
I explained that I was at home with my baby son, thinking about next steps in my work life.
She called and offered me a job as her assistant.
Bateson has written about women and work and juggling time and needs, especially in “Composing a Life.” But for the couple of years that I worked for her in Boston while she was teaching in Washington, D.C., during the week (opening her mail; doing errands or trips to the airport; walking her big Akita dog, Shizou — all with my little son in tow), I learned from seeing her home life that she and her husband found ways to both have demanding jobs and take care of some needs at home as well.
For instance, they lived in a big triple-decker house. They had the top two floors and the bottom floor was an apartment, usually rented to a couple of graduate students at a good price, with the understanding that someone would be there when their daughter came home from school.
And being her assistant worked well for me, needing to make some money as well as take care of my toddler, as well as for her and her husband, working long hours as professors.
I don’t know what the background was in their house, but over the years, so much of trying to juggle tasks and demands in our home ... let’s just say there has been plenty of talk about just who does what.
And hiring help, as Bateson hired me? Not possible for us.
We tried, as our Shifriss Adventure Team (the name my husband, Jordie, gave to our family even before the kids were born) grew up, to emphasize personal responsibility and teamwork, non-sex-role-related.
I was heard to say, “Laundry is not brain surgery!” and then when I took a few journalism classes, “I abdicate as Queen of this kitchen!” Then, conversely, I would expect my husband to take care of car problems. (I am ashamed of that.)
Though I’ve often found myself stuck in old patterns, the kids don’t seem to be.
For instance, Adam makes a really fine pie crust (which he learned in nutrition class at Bloomington High School North). And he’s the only member of the family to routinely use an iron.
Amalia, in Los Angeles, has been involved in several accidents in which her car was rear-ended. One was especially challenging: “The man who hit me tried to say I hit the car in front of me first. I don’t know if he thought I would just cave and not fight it because I am a woman, and was dealing with it on my own, or because he was part of a very famous family. But I fought, I got a lawyer and we went to arbitration. It took a long time, but I won.”
And Abby, our youngest, volunteering in Americorps before she went to college, ended up stripping bark from trees as her team helped to construct a nature center in Oregon. Although I call myself a feminist, I felt shocked when she told me she had been trained to use a chainsaw. She said “That’s why I didn’t tell you until afterwards.”
Change does happen, even if it takes a while. I’m still learning.

Contact Lynne Foster Shifriss at lshifriss@yahoo.com.

To be of use

By Marge Piercy

The people I love the best

jump into work head first

without dallying in the shallows

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,

the black sleek heads of seals

bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,

who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Greek amphoras for wine or oil,

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums

but you know they were made to be used.

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

Marge Piercy, "To be of use" from Circles on the Water. Copyright © 1982 by Marge Piercy. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

Source: Circles on the Water: Selected Poems of Marge Piercy (Alfred A. Knopf, 1982)