City Voices

HARVEY

Road trip no escape from real world worries JANICE HARVEY Williamstown. We marveled at a handful of geriatrics holding “SE-

Sunshine is filtering through NIORS FOR TRUMP” in the town what’s left of the leaves of Lee, as my pulse quickened and outside my home; it’s one my middle finger tried to take on of those October days you a life of its own. I’m sure the sign want to hold onto before fall slips holders were unaware of my disapaway. Yesterday was an equally proval, since cluelessness appeared gorgeous autumn day, one that to be their strength. begged for a road trip. My teacher Laughing about Mike Pence’s pal Dr. Rick and I loaded up his stubborn fly caused Lady Karma Jeep with snacks and drinks — and to send two bees from the heavens masks — and headed off to parts to vie for our attention. One yellow unknown. (Teachers often chum jacket committed suicide in Dr. with other teachers. It gives us the Rick’s stout as we attempted to chance to rant about administra- relax outside a New Lebanon, New tion, kids, parents and contracts. York, brewery. The bee’s bestie flew We can make a cup of coffee last down the back of my hoodie. That four hours swapping tales of injus- decompression thing was elusive. tice, remote teaching frustrations, Road trips require traveling muback-stabbing ambition and poorly sic, so I dug out some early Robert hidden romances. In short, when Palmer — “Sneakin’ Sally Thru the we gather we are every employee Alley,” before he ruined himself with lounge in every workplace.) Our those lipsticked clones — which we goal on a beautiful Saturday was to played for a while before giving in to decompress and explore Western MSNBC and listening with outrage Massachusetts, perhaps crossing to some Trump nonsense. Volume the border into New York. Decom- down, blood pressure up. Then we press? Fat chance. There isn’t a listened to Joe Biden woo union long enough highway in existence members in Pennsylvania. This was that could allow an informed citi- no way to relax. zen to flee reality. We gazed at the breathtaking

Decompressing these days is no fall foliage of Mt. Greylock, but as small task. It wasn’t easy, leaving we rode along Route 2, we began behind a week that included a counting “Biden/Harris” and “Black wheezy president triumphantly Lives Matter” lawn signs vs.Trump pulling a mask from his coronavi- flags. We let red, white and blue rus-infested piehole while doing obliterate the beauty of crimson, his best Benito from the White gold and burnt umber. We were House balcony. Forgetting the fly our own worst enemies. that won the vice presidential de- I’ve written before about the bate wasn’t happening either. But futility of this uncivil war we are we were determined to leave our waging, about the toll it’s taking on worries behind, dammit. us all, both physically and mentally.

In search of an open breakfast I admit my own part in it. Have I apjoint, we stopped at a diner in plied my words to my own reactions Wilbraham. The two men at the to the upheaval that dominates our counter wore no masks, and one lives? Hardly. I realized that just like turned out to be the owner. My eggs everything else that’s been turned were undercooked and my home upside down by COVID-19 and the fries were ashen. I’m pretty sure no reign of DJT, road trips ain’t what one has ever said, “Let’s grab some they used to be. Normal may be fabulous breakfast in Wilbraham!” a town in Kentucky, but it’s not a — I know I never will. The happy place found along Route 2 in Maschef statue outside was wearing sachusetts. Frankly, November can’t a mask; too bad the waitress was come soon enough. I keep telling wearing her mask under her nose. myself that some day I will once

Escaping the chaos that has be- again shout: come the norm became even more “Hey … is that a corn maze? PULL difficult as we traveled through OVER! I want to buy some gourds towns like Savoy, Charlemont and and a jug of cider! Ooh! Kettlecorn!”

FIRST PERSON

The room where it happens

ANNA HILL

I’ve only been in there once, and I was 14 at the time, knee deep into my freshman year of high school. Funny how your “ME”lio-centric view of the universe changes when you find out your grandmother is in a hospital bed.

She had just returned from a trip to Florida with my grandfather in the days leading up to the stroke. In the month before she had attended the funeral of her best friend, remarking that she hadn’t been able to get warm since.

After weeks in the hospital with an ever present but ever changing guard of Toomeys, I remember the family being called to gather in her room. I see images of my mother massaging her mom’s feet and legs over crisp white sheets. I can picture the sunlight streaming through the large windows of this hospital room crowded with members of our large Catholic family. I remember my sweet uncle at his mother’s ear letting her know we were with her. I remember her slow labored breaths and holding my own breath as I waited longer and longer after each exhale, listening for her next intake of air. And then the next one just never came …

The gravity of tears and of the moment winning against me in this contest of strength. Moving into the corridor to see cousins and an aunt rushing up the hallway, only to find they were just a few minutes too late — them disappearing through the door. Sharing yet another first with my cousin and best friend — this initiation unlike all the others — one we never thought about or pined for.

An exit without flourishes — without drama. Just the next breath that never was. The theatrics are for the living as they grapple with the simplest of all truths. Mortality. Loss. Change.

I find myself thinking of that day as I learn of other people’s grandparents and relatives isolated in hospital beds — perhaps with sunlight streaming through windows — but without their family’s touch and comforting words and presence to see them through.

I find myself in awe of nurses and end of life care providers who, with grace and compassion, usher the grandparents, the aunts, the moms and dads who were once someone’s son — someone’s daughter — through their impending inevitability. Of those who, daily, are in the room where it happens.

Though I have lost others over the years, I have not again been witness to that most human but also most holy of moments. Have mourned without the reassurance of witnessing that quiet last breath, the calm stillness that follows it. But whether I was in the room or not, having been there once, I get to envision that peace for them — the letting go of worldly weights — as they move softly from this room into another.

Anna Hill is the lead vocalist for the band Dodeca.

Want to Write For First Person? Hey, you. Yeah, we’re talking to YOU. You look like you have something to say. We’re seeking essays from our readers about whatever facet of Worcester life they want to share. And not just politics: We want to hear about things in this city we might not otherwise ever know: Things that make the city uniquely yours. Tell us your story, and the story of the people around you. To submit for consideration, please send a 750 word essay to WMeditor@gatehousemedia.com with the words “First Person” in the subject line.

WORCESTERIA

Happy Indigenous People Day!

VICTOR D. INFANTE

THIS GUY AGAIN: It’s Columbus Day as I write this, and can I be honest? I’m really sick of talking about Christopher Columbus. Perhaps it’s because I’m largely divorced from my Italian-American heritage, but — as much as I understand the importance that Columbus held for the families of Italian immigrants who faced heavy oppression in the United States — I can’t find anything there that makes me want to venerate the man. But I was struck by something I heard Nikole Hannah-Jones say on “Wilmore” last week: To summarize: You can’t just embrace the pieces of the past you want and ignore the rest. If you want to embrace Columbus’ role in Europeans discovering the New World, then you have to also acknowledge the history of genocide, slavery and rape that came in his wake, a history which his own letters attest began the moment he arrived, or as Columbus wrote of the Arawak people in his diary, “They would make fine servants…. With fifty men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want.” But fine. If you want to venerate that sort of thing, by all means, go ahead. Just do us both a favor and be honest about it.

TAKING THE HIGH ROAD: On its social media presence, The Nipmuc Nation Tribal Council took a moment to “wish all our Citizens, all our Nipmuc/Nipmuk sisters and brothers, and all the descendants of the indigenous peoples of these lands and those around the world, a very Happy Indigenous People Day. May the Creator fill each of our hearts with pride in our heritage, with determination to make a difference for all indigenous people, and with reverence for our ancestors, who endured the horrors and persecution of colonization, while still leaving us with the inspiration and hope for a better tomorrow.” The Council also recently announced an “All Absentee Ballot” election for all 10 tribal council seats. According to the tribe’s social media, “The Tribal Council and the Election Committee have been working closely to preserve the integrity of our election process … To all the Citizens of Nipmuc Nation, we remind each of you that during these chaotic times your participation is extremely vital to preserving our Nipmuc heritage and voting is one of our sacred responsibilities.” Ballots were due Sept. 20, but results were not posted, and a call for comment was not immediately returned.

ART AND COMEDY: Worcester Art Museum is open to the public again! Wait, that’s not the funny part. No, the funny part is that comedian John Oliver, on the Oct. 4 installment of “Last Week Tonight with John Oliver,” announced a fundraiser for museums where the show will tour three of the … unique … paintings it has acquired over the course of its run, including a piece of cartoon rat erotica and a recent one of talk-show host Wendy Williams eating a pork chop, bequeathed to him by Williams herself. Says the show’s Twitter account: “Museums are struggling, so, in an effort to help, we’re going to pick five museums to host these fine works of art! We’ll be donating $10K to each museum, and $10K to a food bank in their area. Museums can email john@johnoliverhasyourraterotica.com to apply!” This seems like a ripe opportunity for WAM. And just to sweeten the pot, Worcesteria pledges that if Oliver picks WAM to host the paintings, we will officially deem him, “considerably cooler than Conan O’Brien.” Mind, that’s not hard, but we would definitely proclaim it in public (and of course, the alternative would be to be LESS cool than Conan, and really, who would want that?).

LETTER

You catch more ‘Flies’ ....

WILLIAM B. HYNES

Mr Gustafson (spelled correctly) should be comforted to know that I have not only read Goldings’ book but taught it as part of the Worcester Public Schools’ English curriculum, in the turbulent sixties no less. Its lessons should reverberate to all Americans as they approach the ballot box this year.

As to his disparagement of where I live, this hints at the weak argument of “ad hominem” but is probably better classified as “ad home-in-em”.

William B. Hynes lives in Holden

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A MUSICAL LIFELINE OpporTUNEity offers creative outlet for inmates at Worcester County Jail

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