Dept. Of Alternative Facts: Yoked

Yoked (v): when two oxen are connected via a yoke such that they pull the same load, as with a wagon

Yoked (adv): a symbolic reference to two people acting as oxen pulling a heavy load together; or in ironic mode, when referred to two people opposing each other as in oxen pulling in opposing directions on the same load resulting in no forward motion

Yoked (n): verbal play on Germanic pronunciation of “Y” as “J” and verb tense conjugations, such that using “yoked” is slang for “joke”, as in “The yokes on you”, or “You got yoked”, also suggesting that someone has egg on his face for being foolish, thus joke represents egg yoke.

Recently, far right Republicans have been throwing eggs at their perceived opponents. But, as is often the case the egg does not break until it is tossed back at the aggressor. Or, maybe they are just laying eggs which are easily snatched up and tossed back such that they end up with the egg on their face.

Recently, our House of Representative member has been pounding his chest over his perceived victories. He is a member of the House Freedom Caucus, which has many lines drawn in the sand. Whenever, they can force the House to vote on some meaningless legislation, which is not likely to achieve much or get brought up for debate in the Senate, he sends out e-newsletters claiming symbolic victories.

Recently, the Supreme Court handed them a symbolic victory. I will describe the case below, in my letter to my representative. Of course, as is becoming the norm with the far right, the case is dubious in that the person who brought it through the courts, claimed only a hypothetical case. They did not actually run the said business, but wondered whether they might be placed in such a situation; and they did not actually have said a client, but wondered what they would be forced to do if the hypothetical company were approached by the hypothetical client to post a hypothetical website forcing them to make a hypothetical statement against… their hypothetical Christian beliefs.

Such a basket of eggs deserved being whipped up into a hypothetical pie and tossed at their clownish face, hypothetically, of course. Were these actual eggs, I would rather make them into a frittata for brunch.

Representative M,

In your July 4, 2023 e-newsletter, you praised the Supreme Court for ruling that a website design firm in Colorado did not have to work with same-sex couples (303 Creative LLC v. Elenis) because producing a wedding website about a gay marriage would violate the company owner’s freedom of speech.  You stated that this ruling prevented the government (in this case the State of Colorado) from compelling a citizen to say something which did not conform to their Christian religious beliefs.

In the majority decision Justice Gorsuch stated that the company owner claimed to be willing to work with people who identified as homosexual, but just did not want to appear to endorse such lifestyle, by designing a website for their marriage.  Thus, the status of the person (homosexual) was not the issue, but government compelling speech which the individual would not otherwise say.

I am trying to figure out how this could apply to other businesses which would not be as directly identifying a gay couple (e.g. two women or two men submitting photos of their wedding for the website design).  For instance, the owners of Hobby Lobby craft supply store and Chik-fil-A, are outspoken Christians who wish to run their business according to their religious beliefs (such as not being open on Sundays). If some homosexual people went to those businesses, say to buy a rainbow of color craft supplies, to make decorations for a Pride picnic, and ordered chicken sandwiches to serve at this event, would Hobby Lobby and Chik-fil-A being violating their religious beliefs and expression by providing these products of their businesses?  If so, are these businesses allowed to somehow request information on their customer’s sexual activity (say verification that their customers are heterosexual or celibate) before filling their orders?

Or, if some company owner interpreted Paul’s admonish in 2 Corinthians 6:14 to not be “unequally yoked” to mean that people of different religious faiths should not marry (e.g. Christian and Jew/Muslim/Hindu/Buddhist/WICCA, or Catholics and Protestant, etc.), could that owner refuse to design a website for their wedding?  Or, if someone interpreted that passage as excluding interracial marriages, in essence coming from different cultural and religious traditions, as being unequally yoked (e.g. White and Black/Hispanic/Native American/Asian, et al), would that owner be allowed to refuse to provide the website design, party decorations, or chicken buffet to those people?

Rather, I would look to Jesus’ example in Matthew 9, in which the Pharisees challenged Jesus’ disciples when Jesus gathered in Matthew’s customs post, with other tax collectors and sinners.  The Pharisees pointed to their interpretation of Jewish laws, suggesting that Jesus was violating those laws.  But, Jesus replied that the righteous (e.g. Pharisees) were not the people who needed him.

He challenged the Pharisees to meditate on the Hebrew scripture “I desire mercy, not sacrifice”.

I hope that in future e-newsletters, you can identify some homosexual people (or people of color) whom you know, how you are interacting with them, how you can be neighborly and loving toward them without endorsing a lifestyle that you do not believe in.  Saying that you do not discriminate against someone’s status, while advocating only for white Christians, seems to be more of the attitude of a Pharisees, not Jesus. 

Poem: The Bridge

There is a bridge that
We will all cross
Some day.

The road leading 
To its approach
We cannot see.

The road following
Its span
We cannot see.

As our journey
Proceeds, we may
See this bridge,

Maybe while walking,
Or by road or train,
Or even a canal,

We pass beneath,
As others cross over
From side to side.

Those may be strangers,
Friends or family,
Whom we know.

We watch from 
Our vantage point,
Unable to alter

Their course, or 
The life events
Which lead them

To that road,
Which does not
Allow one to turn.

We watch them pass
Over, then realize
That we cannot

See where our 
Road leads, under
That bridge.

* * *

To my faithful readers, the preceding 18 poems are a tribute to my mother’s final year. This began in February of 2022, when she fell and broke her hip. This lead to discovering a previously undiagnosed atrial-fibrillation, which I concluded resulted in changes in blood pressure and possibly a series of clots that altered communication, motor organization, and cognition.

I began writing these poems in May of 2002, after The Mrs and I spent a few days at the New Camidoli Hermitage on a silent retreat, which I addressed in my series of poems last year, “Solitude in Black, White, and Grey”. I concluded that series with the idea that silence was easy for us. Our mission was to serve others. I knew that the upcoming months would be in service to my mother.

The majority of the poems came spontaneously, in the order that I posted them, during the Fall of 2002, Winter and Spring of 2023 during periods that I spent with her, her move to assisted living in Chicago, our our final visit up to Easter. I did very little editing, other than correcting some auto-fill words, my misspellings, and verb tenses. They are raw as I wished them to remain that way.

I left Chicago the Monday after Easter. A few days later, we headed to the Netherlands for a planned canal river cruise with The Mrs’ side of the family. During my last conversation with my mother, she just said, “Go”.

The photo above was taken by my brother-in-law. We were top side of the canal ship, heading out from Rotterdam. I was composing the day’s events on the iPad, where I had also created and compiled the file which held all the poems. The bridge is in the background. You can just see the span behind a row of buildings along the river. I would receive my brother text a few minutes later.

Poem: Shadow

We cast a long shadow,
On a lonely road,
From childhood to death.

Along the way,
We meet many,
And many fade with time.

Geography, and
Activity place us
Among acquaintances,

Coworkers, friends,
And family, who
Populate our time.

And, as often,
Geography, and
Activity separate us,

As we move on,
Change jobs, and
Attend funerals.

At my grandmother’s
Celebration, my aunt
Said, “We’re next”.

She died a few years
Later, followed
By her generation.

Their shadows
Extend as long
As we remember.

But with each
Layer of family,
The photo boxes thin.

As we pass,
Our images will
Be in clouds,

Accessible with
A password,
Or search, if only

Someone knows
To look, for our
Shadows, alone.

Poem: Too Short, Too Long

Friends lament their parents’
Early deaths
From cancer,
Cardio-vascular disease,
Motor vehicle collisions.

They think of the events
That their loved ones missed.
The holidays, wedding,
Births and birthdays,
The vacations.

Dates on the calendar
Become days of sorrow
And sighs for their
Absence and omission
From the celebrations.

My mother laments
Living too long, 
Beyond her years 
Of events, goals, and
Activity.

She sees photos
Of the events attended,
And cries at the memories
Of a past she did 
Not want to live beyond.

Dates on the calendar
Become reminders
That she can no longer…
Some die too soon,
Others live too long.

Poem: Breath

Breath is life
Breath is inspiration
Breath is aspiration
Breath is dreams
Breath is action
Breath is achievement
Breath is sustenance.

But what happens
When breathing stops?

No life?
No inspiration?
No aspiration?
No dreams?
No action?
No achievement?
No sustenance?

Poem: I’m Sorry

My father feared death.
“I’m going to live to 120”,
He declared 
When he was in his 70’s.

For decades before
And until his death
Days after his 89th 
Birthday,

He had carried out
A changing set of rituals
Which he professed
Were his fountain of youth.

But as his health,
Physical ability,
And cognition waned
He denied the inevitable,

Persisting in his rituals,
With ever slowing 
Motions, stooping
Posture, and slowing words.

Only in his last years
Did he become silent,
His living reduced to
Bodily functions.

Ironically, his rage
Was mostly toward 
His sons who
Reflected,

As a mirror,
His decline,
With each task
That we assisted him.

My mother did not fear death,
But called out
Wanting it
To come swiftly.

“I don’t want to grow,
Old, blind, and
Loose my mind”
She railed,

Against her
Inevitable bodily
Failings and
Debility.

With each step
She descended
In to the hell
She foresaw.

But no amount
Of nutrition nor
Exercise routines
Slowed regression.

Each step became
More labored,
Less deliberate,
More risky.

Falls, infections,
Medications cycles,
Depression and
Anxiety,

Became her daily
Routines, regardless
Of our attempts to
Provide comfort.

We were greeted
With tears, rage,
And despair,
Without relief.

After the fight, 
She would sigh,
“I’m sorry”
“Let me die”.

Poem: Possessed

Do we possess possessions,
Or do possessions possess us?

My mother gave away most of what
She viewed as of interest to others.

“Let them possess my possessions
And enjoy them as I did”.

As I open cabinets, closets and drawers,
I find the remains that she did not disperse.

Remnants of a dream of life
That I mostly did not see in my life.

Silver?  Who serves appetizers or a meal on silver?
No one has expressed interest in the trays.

Yet, I do not recall that over 60 plus years,
My parents did more than bring it out

To see if my brother or I wanted silver.
I live in a log cabin in the woods. Silver?

So, I search for local dealers in silver
Finding only one next to the Pink Poodle adult store.

He scowls initially, but then is quite friendly
And supportive of a son cleaning his parents’ home.

“Plate.  No good.” He pronounces, passing trays to me.
“Look for the sterling stamp. This is good”

I leave with a check, and about half of what was
In the box to start, “No good”.  What now?

I will leave the jewelry in the safe 
For my brother to deal with.

Who wears diamond rings broaches 
From one hundred years ago;

And rings the size of quarters?
Not those of us who garden.

Like the silver, the jewelry has remained
Hidden in a safe for decades.  Possessed.

From the top shelf, I pull down a yellowed box.
Her wedding dress, which she sewed herself.

She had memories, that last I saw was about 
Five years ago, when she brought the dress out,

Held it up, smiled and laughed,
And asked who wanted it.  Awkward laughter,

Change the subject, ask about her wedding
Memories.  A wedding dress.  What to do?

There are close to two million weddings every year
In the USA.  Two million women with dresses.

Maybe half store them away in a box on the top shelf?
Of those, maybe half get discarded with divorce?

That is still half a million wedding dresses
Accumulating on top shelves annually,

Waiting for heirs to discover them and pounder 
What to do?  Keep on your top shelf? Donate? Discard?

If one cannot break the bond of possession,
The next generation must consider the fate.

I look at the top shelf and wonder what 
Possesses us to possess possessions?

Poem: Staging

The place has not looked so good for years,
Except when Mom as in it.
I come to her home to prepare it for sale,
Opening closets, drawers, and cabinets,
To determine where the remnants of life go.

She had given away most of what she valued,
And wanted distributed to specific people.
Paintings, ceramics, jewelry, clothes, kitchen supplies.
What is left are the items past service,
And items labeled for future heirs.

She had been a “doer”; one for action.
Thought was not about figuring out motivations,
Assessing strategies and tactics, but about
Acting on the solution that she found suitable.
Existential dilemmas of meaning did not factor in.

Her final acting of doing was distributing.
I come in behind, after her ability to do
Had diminished and the anxiety of having nothing
To control has become her daily strife.
I sort and clean, donate, and dispose.

The cabinets are empty.  The drawers cleared.
The closet hangers only empty hangers.
The dust wiped down.  The nail holes of former
Wall decorations patched and painted.
The place has not looked so good for years;

“It will show well.”  “It will sell quickly”.
“Buyers will be bidding against each other”.
“You have to look your best in this market”.
Room by room I clean, stage the furniture,
And snap another photo to send to the realtor.

My work done, I pack my bags to depart.
I adjust a few items for better balance on a shelf,
To give the room a sense of space.
The place has not to looked so good for years,
Except when Mom was in it.

Poem: Slowly

“We are all dying,
Slowly. Aren’t we?”
A resident muses,
Without existential rhetoric,
From the next table over,
In the dinning room of The Home.

“Yes, all of us”
We reply from our
Position next to our mother,
Who notes but does not
Respond as she eat
From her too-full plate.

Is dying slowly,
What most of us do
Who do not drop dead
In the store from
A heart attack 
Or stroke?

We spend so much
Time and energy
Pretending to regain
Our youth in 
Our waning years,
Waking to death too late.

Our mother has been
Giving away her past
For a decade or more,
In gifts with each visit,
Consolidating the possessions
And photo albums.

Her Norwegian Death Cleaning
Became our family joke,
As each gathering brought 
Out another box of baby items
Or jewelry from some
Distant travels.

And as the visits
Became care giving tours,
And the gifts became scarcer,
The death requests became
More frequent: 
“Just shoot me”

This is a gift we could 
Not give in return.
A plea that we could 
Listen to but not fulfill.
A demand we could
Not follow.

She outlived so many.
She outlived her
Desire to remain at home.
Her health became frail,
But did not fail her
In her time.

When asked, rhetorically,
By us, what advice
She would have given, 
But never did,
To her aging friends
Two words, “Just die”.

But few of us
Just die.  We live,
Slowly, meal by meal,
Sleeping, waking.
Sleeping, waking.
Dying slowly, aren’t we all?

Poem: Gratitude

When you have been the independent person,
How do you learn to depend on others?

You were the go-to person,
The decider who could pull it together.

You were the one to take others in, 
When they had life crises.

You were the host who gave the 
Guest room to friends coming to visit.

You had a meal ready to prepare at
The last minute when friends arrived.

You would adjust your plans when
Someone needed a ride to an appointment.

You would organize three events of
A weekend, all timed with precision.

You would remodel and decorate your
Home with treasures across the globe.

But, now, managing the bathroom requires
Effort for basic hygiene and cleanliness.

Now, holding the spoon level to eat a
Meal has no taste nor delight.

Now, turning the page or selecting
A program is a puzzling sequence of motions.

Now, moving the correct limb in the right direction
Results in hesitation during the exercise group.

Now, staying awake during your show, or a movie,
Or a travel program results in fragmented alertness.

Now, a greeting and conversation come
In one word utterances, without grace and style.

Now, tears of frustration kindle a fire
Of emotions that smolder into sighs of resignation.

But, for all these moments of distraction
A smile and a hug melt the cold reality.

Reciprocated greetings, smiles, and hug
Say what words evade you.

Caring gestures from you to others
And from other to you connect the days.

Expressions of gratitude fill the place
Of the independence we no longer possess.

I recall an uncle who declined from dementia,
And a brother-in-law who motioned to his children:

“It’s waiting for us all.  Learn how to let
Others want to take care of you in the end.”

Unless we die young, eventually we will
Become the one cared for.

May we have the smiles, the hugs, the patience
To let other care for us with gratitude.