Women’s History Month and the Two Things My Mother Gave Me

clare_her_momThere’s a few minutes left to March and it’s been one deadline after another, but I couldn’t let Women’s History Month slip by without noting the greatest female hero I knew first hand, my mom.

Of course I spent the month enjoying whatever public celebrations of great women I could find…the Joan Baez American Masters special on PBS was probably my favorite, since I could re-appreciate her political stamina over a lifetime more than I ever did. Whatta chick!

But I guess my number one female hero would have to be my mom. Everyone called her Millie, though her formal name was Carmela. Carmela Mary Musto before she married my dad.

It would be great to tell you that my mom fought for public justice, ran for senate or started a non-profit organization. I think you would be impressed with her if she did those things. But in her own way, she lived the life of an iconoclast, and I saw her struggle to be herself without the advantage of education or social enlightenment, long before women’s rights were cool. I saw her do what she wanted and face the consequences, no matter what anyone said. I saw her help others without a thought of what she would “get out of it”, and this extended far beyond her family. She saw through people’s facades with an uncomfortable accuracy. And of course, like many Italian American women of her age, she was a great cook! But more than anything, there were two great things she taught me that have become foundations of my life.

Being Different is Just Fine!
Millie  really liked being “different”. In fact, one of the things I remember about her now, was that she encouraged me not to do what everyone else did…one of her famous (and classic) “mom” sayings to me was “so if everyone was jumping off the bridge, does that mean you would jump too?” Maybe this started me off with a certain comfort level to follow my own heart and not someone else’s (though I won’t say it’s not sometimes a lonely road). She was naturally skeptical of what I have learned to call social consciousness: doing, feeling, or going along with what “everyone else is doing”…the mindless march of the masses. Millie was full of her own mind, and certainly marched to her own drummer.

Being Generous is What Life is About
Millie’s generosity was legendary and didn’t seem to have any edges or boundaries to it. When she was in her mid-fifties, she took on the full-time care of two small children, they were three and four years old at the time. Their mom had just died. They were cousins on my dad’s side, not even her side of the family, but my mom took on their care like it was a mission from god. And it probably was. We all lived together and she did everything from breakfast to bedtime, 24/7 with these two beautiful girls; with occasional Sunday breaks when their dad would take them out. I guess I don’t know many women who would take on the care of toddlers at that point in their life, when their own child was almost grown; seems a bit nuts to me when I think about it. Unless the situation was forced on someone, most women would run from this kind of thing. Maybe my mom saw it as her opportunity to really make a difference in the world,  one person at a time. I know it wasn’t easy for her.  And while it’s not like inventing a cure for cancer, this attitude of hers did indeed impact the lives of so many, not to mention those two young girls, now grown with children of their own.

Millie and I argued a LOT, fought like boxers for a championship title and neither of us ever gave in. Like all heroes, she went beyond what was expected, she went where her own heart took her, no matter how unlikely that seemed to be. I still miss her. She’ll always be the first woman who made history in my life and I’ll always be proud to have had the good fortune of being her daughter.

Internet Radio: The Small, the Independent, the Future!

clareblogtalk1BEFORE THIS SHOW GETS TOO OLD, I wanted to post it here so that you could listen to the podcast. There are maybe at least 20 reasons why I love internet radio, but mostly because I believe (next to YouTube) it’s the best and most entertaining learning  you can do. The democracy of it all makes some people nervous (“you just can’t trust the internet to give you THE FACTS”) but lest I remind you, we just can’t trust our corporate-run media to give us THE FACTS either! As I always say…think for yourself or someone else will think for you!

So, speaking of thinking for myself, I had the wonderful opportunity to be interviewed by journalist, poet, and musician Mike Marcellino on Red River Radio (a BlogTalk internet channel) on March 3.  I got to talk about Media Conrol, Verbs on Asphalt and I even read an oldie but goodie at the end. I open the show for the first half hour, but Cherryl Floyd-Miller, Louis Bourgeois and Shaindel Beers follow and are super. Mike is a great host, with an eclectic ear/eye. His journalism background is a great asset to the show.

If you don’t support independent media already, think again. There’s a lot of it out there, (yes, and some are dumb I know) but I’d love to hear which shows are your favorite and why so tell me. I’ll post my own list soon…And the best part about radio…you can do your work while you listen. The show was March 3, 2010. This link should do it:

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/rrradio/2010/03/04/red-river-writers-live–notebook-writer-with-mike-

Happy Birthday to My Angelheaded Hipster

jack-in-ny2“My French Canadian roamin-eyed blue-eyed bum, my movie star-lookin wordsmith extraodinaire”…Whatever dimension you’re hanging out in tonight, Ti Jean, here’s a funny poem I wrote to you. Since my theory is that the internet is a kind of inorganic (?) nervous system, even though you’re no longer on this planet, I think you’ll get it. I love you. X

what I would have called him

I wouldn’t want to sound pretentious.
I would have said “my friend Jack”
if people asked me about him.
Actually, I would have liked to say
“my boyfriend Jack”
if everything had worked out the way I wanted it to.
Then it would have been
“oh yeah, so my boyfriend Jack
brought me rocks from Big Sur
no-  not because he’s cheap-
because he knows rocks are transcendental spirits
and knows how much I love them.”
And of course because he was my boyfriend
he would have called me his “baby muse” or his
“truthful youthful angelheaded hipster”…
something like that.

And I would have a pet name for him
like Roamy or Fubberhead or
Frenchie because we knew each other so long and
were so tight that I could have stupid nicknames for him
and he would really like it
it would be as though I was the only person
who could do that
except maybe for Allen Ginsberg or Neal Cassidy
though in public I would just call him “Jack”,
and sometimes “my friend Jack”
so that people would never guess how
intensely intimate we really were.

but when he wasn’t around and I was talking to my
friends about him I would have said
“yeah, the much older guy with a pot belly
who follows me around
and writes me long love poems from Florida
where he lives with his mother…you know
the Canuck guy with the mother thing,
the one with the thick wavy hair
who can really kiss…you know
the guy who wrote ON THE ROAD!”

And of course, I would never be taken
on the road with him,
since he needed to do that kind of research
for his books without me,
and it would be better anyway
when he got back and
Of course, when we were alone then,
I would never call him anything but “Jack”,
or sometimes “Kerouac” if I was trying to prove a point.

Calling him Kerouac would mean
that I was not just some kid with a crush on him
but a real woman who got angry
when he let her to walk to the subway alone at 3am.
which he would occassionally do when he
got really drunk.

Then there would be what I would call him
when I was ready to break it off
because of course he would want to be my teenage idol
for all of his middleaged life
and would never break off with ME
so I wouldn’t want to bring
too much attention to that moment,
I would just call him “Jack” then,
“Jack, it’s me” when he first picked up the phone
….and then I would call him
“My French Canadian roamin-eyed blue-eyed bum,
“my movie star-lookin wordsmith extraodinaire
with a backpack and some trail mix,
“my powerhouse quarterback
with a dime to call home in his pocket
to let his mother know he was allright”…

When that time came, I would say
“My beautiful perfect older man lover,
I got other roads to rail and besides
I’ve got to go to college and get a real boyfriend
that my mother says doesn’t look like my uncle”.
“And I love you Jack and especially
everything you ever wrote,
you big American icon with those big American icon arms.
But its not fair that your mother still thinks
I’m Allen Ginsberg’s roommate
so this has got to end…be sensible.
I’m just too young to be tied down
and you hate Jimi Hendrix anyway.”

“So Jack, let’s be friends and when I call you
‘my friend Jack’, it’ll be for real and forever
and I won’t have to worry about sounding
pretentious in front of my friends
or feeling grungy sleeping on your dirty sheets
and then you can call your mother
anytime (and for any reason)
even when I’m in the room.

-Clare Ultimo, 2006
(writ for a March 12 “Tone Poem” reading at the Bowery Poetry Club, NYC)

Photo by Jerome Yulsman