Seeing is Believing – Touring Angkor – Days 2 & 3

After another fine lunch at a restaurant near Angkor Wat temple, we returned to Angkor Tom, to visit the last temple within that complex, the Bayon.  I had seen it from afar, a great temple mountain, but appearing even more complicated than other structures there.  I had no idea.20181226_142331

The Bayon is perhaps best described as temples within temples, with later renovations simply added on top of previous structures.  There are 37 remaining towers, with Buddha heads on most sides.  The effect, once you get inside, is dizzying and just stupendous.  20181226_143831

It’s also a wee bit claustrophobic.  But even when you looked down, there was beautiful craftsmanship on display.


The Buddha heads at every turn can lead to having a little fun.20181226_145620

It’s not everyday one goes nose to nose with Buddha.20181226_144617

No, we were not the first tourists to do this, nor will we be the last.  I’m sure Buddha understands and is at peace with it.

The Bayon is, like many of the other temples in the Angkor Archaeological Park, still an active shrine, where visitors are welcome to pay their respects and meditate for a few moments.  I was instructed to remove both my hat and shoes prior to entering.  It was a quiet, peaceful space, scented with burning incense. CAM_0229


We made our way around and through this amazing structure, ending our tour at the lower level where our guide, Thearith Moeun (John), showed us the extraordinary bas-relief carvings on the lower enclosure.  Here, a woman is being assisted as she gives birth.20181226_152104

All of the professional Cambodian guides receive a university education, and are well-versed in the history of the temples.  However, John charmed us both, and we were a little sad to part company.20181226_151324


After a day of rest, and a brief introduction to Cambodian cuisine via a cooking class, we were ready to resume our wandering.  We were introduced to our new guide, Mr. Hem Sothea, a soft-spoken former monk, who would provide us with thorough and detailed explanations for all that we would see. CAM_0257

Our first stop was Preah Khan, a temple a short distance from Angkor Tom.  It was very similar to Ta Prohm in it’s disheveled loveliness.

And like at Ta Prohm, nature is taking back its’ own.20181228_111718

There were narrow interior and exterior passageways,

and intriguing sculptures.20181228_104046

There was also this graceful columned structure apart from the temple, a two-storied building with no trace of a stair inside.  Experts say it may have been a granary, but I wonder, just because I can’t imagine using such a treasure for such a mundane purpose.20181228_110241

We left Preah Khan’s disintegrating splendor, and settled in for a 45-minute ride through the countryside to the north of the main park.  There we would explore the delicate gem that is Banteay Srei temple.  This temple is a small treasure, ariot with detail, made of pink sandstone.  It must have been a brilliant sight when it was built. 20181228_141151

This is a closeup of one of the towers.  Intricate does not begin to describe it.20181228_142753

There was more elaborate carving at every turn.

And then there were these guys.  I love these guys, guarding Banteay Srei for all eternity.20181228_142459

There was also drama.  I am not sure quite what’s going on here, but it is fraught.20181228_142827

We took some time here after touring the temple to listen to a traditional Khmer band.  All of the members had been injured by landmines.  We saw a number of these musical groups outside various temples.  Unexploded landmines remain a plague upon the country.20181228_143413


Our final temple was Pre Rup, from the mid-10th century.  It’s an imposing group of towers, on the east side of the park, with beautiful views.20181228_153954

The sculptures here were faded by time, but still possessed a majesty and grace that cannot be erased. 20181228_153529

Awe. Admiration. Respect. Joy. Peace. Wonder. Serenity.  In the course of three days, walking around these ancient, glorious, fantastic structures, I felt all of those things, and more.  In immersing myself in this ancient past, I felt restored.  A world that holds these things in it is a world worth preserving and protecting.  It was a privilege I will not soon forget, to have seen the wonders of Angkor with my own eyes.

Seeing is Believing – Touring the Temples of Angkor – Angkor Wat

On our second day of touring the temples of Angkor Archaeological Park , we began our day at Angkor Wat.  First, one crosses the broad moat surrounding the former city.  The temple towers are in the distance.  The bridge here is a temporary, floating structure, while the nearby bridge is being repaired.    20181226_094833.jpg

Our guide, Thearith Moeun, aka ‘John’, escorted us across, and instead of entering the interior via the imposing main gate,20181226_095320

we entered through this lovely side gate.20181226_095543

We stopped inside the outer enclosure for what is an obligatory photo with the towers in the background.  I look at it now, and feel the sense of wonder return.

She & Rog CAM_0141

The wonder is somewhat tempered by the sad muck at the edge of the pond.  Before going further, I will note that despite the park management’s efforts at controlling litter, it is everywhere.  While it is certainly the responsibility of the park to provide places to put garbage, I also think it is the responsibility of visitors to pick up after themselves, particularly in a place which is still an active religious shrine.   It just struck me as sad and rude, that people would be so careless in this of all places.

We moved on, and the towers of the central level of the three-tiered pyramid that is Angkor Wat came into clearer focus.


It is surrounded by a large courtyard, and an interior enclosure of four colonnades, containing bas-relief carvings of great Hindu tales.  The exterior walkway of the colonnade, all by itself, was just perfection, a symphony of balance and grace with its’ beautifully ornamented columns and lintels. 20181226_101658

There were 600 meters (over 656 yards) of bas-relief carvings, along the interior walls of the four sides of the enclosure, telling the ancient Hindu legends.  I will be content to simply show a couple of my favorite examples.

Here, we have a king and I’m guessing his general, on a great elephant, leading his armies, surrounded by trees and umbrellas.  This was a time before sunscreen.  I think the spiky adornments atop their respective helmets are amazing.  Those are serious hats.  I love the ornamentation everywhere – in their battle gear, the elephant’s saddle, necklace and headdress, even the delicately lovely, if seemingly silly, umbrellas.  All this beauty, in the service of depicting war.20181226_103018

Here, what I found most striking was the different faces.  The artist made sure that the soldiers he depicted were not just faceless minions, but individual people.  Even the ornaments atop the helmets are each slightly different.



We gloried in the carvings through the south and east sides of the enclosure, and then John led us inside.  And there was a temple of Angkor Wat, rising above me towards a perfect blue sky.  I admired the steep stairs leading up to the grand, second level entrance.  I loved the layers of stone, striped by the weather through the ages.


I paused for a few moments, in the stone-lined inner courtyard, just to take it all in.  I don’t know that I have words to describe how happy I am at this moment, just being awed by what I see.  I think the nice Roger captured that feeling perfectly.CAM_0185

You can’t rest long, though, because there is so much more to see.  There are devas.  Once again, please note the glory of their headpieces.  Not to mention the tininess of their waists.20181226_110705

There were intricately carved lintels.  This one appears to depict a human pyramid, surrounded by a snake with three heads at both ends.  Note the fierceness of the warriors’ expressions and the flexed arms of those on the lower levels.  20181226_110859

This is one of the stairs of Angkor Wat.  They’re very steep and the steps are tiny.   There are no handrails.  My thought was, you really have to want to go up, to use those stairs.


While thankfully we did not have to negotiate these stairs, the ones we did climb, while modern, were still impressively steep.  The railings were handy if you needed to pull yourself up.


Once on the second level, along with a limited number of our fellow tourists, we wandered through.  We found delicately beautiful carvings.


The views from this vantage point were spectacular.


There were monks, going about their business, once again providing evidence that Angkor Wat’s life as a temple is not past, it is ongoing.  I found it both moving and reassuring, that Angkor remains as vibrantly alive as the jungle surrounding it.


I took a few moments myself, in one of the four cruciform areas, to once again, sit, and take in my surroundings.  And while the yoga assan may be just a pose for a photo, the desire to contemplate, to be in the moment as much as possible, was both strong and quite real.  I mean, look at that stunning structure, and envision, as I was, a king of old, coming out to sit and contemplate affairs of state, while sitting beside his private pool.  I felt glorious.


As we left Angkor Wat, John directed us where to stand, so we could take the same photographs that countless tourists have taken before us, of Angkor Wat, reflected in the pool before it.   Its’ beauty cannot be overstated.   I’ve seen it with my own eyes.





When Whimsy Meets Reality – Traveling to Cambodia

I like to travel to places I’ve seen in movies or on tv, or read of in books.  Something will spark a whim to see some places in person, with my own eyes. This has led to travel to Savannah, GA (Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil), New Orleans (too many sources to count), London (reading English history, and ‘Dr Who’),  and Venice (again, so many sources), among others.  My husband, the nice Roger, likes action movies, so we watch a fair number of them.  In the early 2000’s, this included ‘Lara Croft-Tomb Raider’, starring Angelina Jolie.  I thought there was something truly magical about the scenes shot outside some beautifully deteriorating Asian temples.  Setting movie magic aside, further research – books and travel articles, National Geographic programs, and of course, the Google, only served to cause my whim to evolve into certain belief that the great temples at the Angkor Archaeological Park, in Siem Reap, Cambodia, were places I should see with my own eyes.

However, you don’t travel to Cambodia on a whim.  Our trip required 30 hours of actual transit through four airports via three planes.  Our home airport, Bradley Airport, is a small, well-run international airport.  Surprisingly, our next stop, Toronto’s Pearson Airport, was awful.  The building was under construction & the staff was under-informed. I expected better of the Canadians.  Then, fifteen hours in the air, via China Southern (the less said about China Southern’s in-flight ‘food’, the better) to Guangzhou Baiyun International Airport, arriving in the cold pre-dawn hours.  My first thought as we walked through the nearly empty terminal was to applaud the cleaning staff, because you could eat off the floors.  Other than the glistening floors, it looked like any other Western airport, with stern customs officials, long hallways, and mostly Western advertising.  That is, until I went into the ladies room, entered the first available stall, and found myself faced with my first pan-style toilet, having not noticed the sign on the stall door.  It’s a very new airport, so the white porcelain hole in the floor was shining and clean, but still, I was in unfamiliar territory.  I adapted to my circumstances.

Our connecting flight to Siem Reap was in several hours, so we had time to people-watch and breakfast. I surmise that hiring and grooming parameters for China Southern airlines’ female cabin staff must be very strict so far as height, weight, age, hair, and makeup are concerned.  I saw a crew of eight or ten attendants walk by, and I couldn’t have told the difference between them on a bet. They looked like clones.  Breakfast was interesting, though.  Once a restaurant opened, we had a Chinese-style breakfast, consisting of noodles in a clear broth with lettuce, topped with a fried egg, and side orders of shrimp dumplings (excellent), boiled peanuts (interesting), and a small dish of chicken feet (just…no).  I also found interesting the number of people working in this small airport kiosk. One person took our order, another person cooked it, yet another person brought the tray of food to the table, and at least two additional staffers were standing by, awaiting tasks.  All of this for a restaurant with less than ten seats.  It seemed odd.

Finally, after a relatively short flight, we arrived at Siem Reap International Airport.  The main terminal, to which we walked across the tarmac after deplaning, looks fairly new, a modern architectural riff on traditional Cambodian building styles.  The airport is staffed by largely unsmiling customs officials, although one petite officer’s stern mien was undercut slightly by her choice to accessorize her crisp, immaculate, uniform with sequin-trimmed, platform sandals and a bright pink bow in her hair.  There were ‘No Photos’ signs everywhere.  We obeyed.

Luggage retrieved, we stepped outside into humid tropical air, where we were greeted by a sign with my name on it, held up by the very cheerful Mr. How (“as in ‘How are you?’ “, he explained), a driver for our hotel.  As we drove down the wide, well-maintained road, I asked what the name of the road was.  I was told it was just the airport ring road, apparently built as a direct result of the filming, in 2001, of ‘Lara Croft-Tomb Raider’.  Mr. How spoke at length and with gratitude about the connection between that event and the current climate of bustling growth in both Siem Reap and Cambodia at large.  I also found it endearing how he (and others we spoke with during our stay) referred to Angelina Jolie with warm familiarity, using only her first name.  Cambodia appears to have made Ms. Jolie one of their own.  Additional reading indicates Ms. Jolie has returned to the country regularly on both humanitarian missions and, in 2017, to make a film.  It would appear the warm feelings are mutual.

As we drove to the outskirts of Siem Reap, bypassing the city proper, the poverty of the country became more evident.  I am guessing that zoning and building codes are minimally enforced.  Garbage pick-up appears to be, at best, erratic.  The most common forms of transport are small motorcycles, Vespas,  and tuk-tuks, most of which look quite old.


Traffic laws appear to be viewed as more like suggestions. I was glad to have a driver.  Once we turned off the ring road, the road surface became hard-packed red dirt,with the dust kept down by the occasional sprinkle of water.CAM_0237

There were chickens running loose, CAM_0128

white cows in small fieldsCAM_0236

next to traditional stilt houses, CAM_0069

more elaborate buildings from the French era, CAM_0129

and small businesses set up in front everywhere. There were tiny laundries with two washers and two dryers;CAM_0238

specialty shops of all types – one sells fruit, one sells bike accessories, one sells women’s clothing, etc.


A few more minutes, and we’re turning into the drive of our white-washed hotel, Sojourn Boutique Villas, which turned out to be an oasis of tranquility. 20181227_100417

I had read of this place in the New York Times in 2015. It is a well-reviewed small hotel, just outside of Siem Reap, with a restaurant and spa, run in an eco-conscious manner. Additionally, they provide job training and actual jobs to people from the community in hospitality and spa services.  The fact that they would arrange transportation and guides to the temples made it an even more attractive choice.


We were checked in by So Kheum, a handsome, soft-spoken gentleman, who gave us a basic rundown of the hotel, and also shared with us a bit of his own story, working for the International Campaign to Ban Landmines after losing a close friend and part of his own right leg to a landmine, at the age of 14. His story is included in three books of photographs, taken by Gervasio Sanchez – ‘Vidas Minadas’, ‘Cinco Anos Despues’, and ‘Minadas Diez Anos’. These three books tell, in brief stories and wrenching, beautiful photographs, the tales of people injured by landmines throughout the world, at the time of their initial injury, five years later, and, finally, ten years later. It was a sobering introduction to a beautiful country, devastated by conflict, striving to move forward.

So Kheum showed us our villa, and left us to settle in, after giving us a final, slightly embarrassed, warning not to drink the water.  It was another reminder that we were a long way from home.


Seeing is Believing – Touring the Temples of Angkor – Day 1

I had done what I thought was a fair amount of research, prior to getting on a plane to Cambodia.  I knew the temples contained in the Angkor Archaeological Park were architectural wonders of the ancient world.  I knew I would see beautiful works of art in the carvings and sculptures still remaining.  What I was not prepared for was how I would feel, when faced with the reality of what was, to my eyes, a place of wonder and glory, concentrated in a few square miles carved out of the Cambodian jungle, centuries ago.  I was absolutely overwhelmed. I found myself regularly moved to tears. I stood gape-mouthed in front of beauty I had never imagined.  I was absolutely joyous at the marvels before me.  I experienced moments of profound peace.  In the course of three days of touring Angkor’s grandeur, I felt so many emotions, it is almost impossible to convey.  This is my best effort at doing so, with some of my favorite pictures of the temples we visited, taken by both myself and the nice Roger.

I am not accustomed to having staff, but we thought it a good idea for touring an area of Angkor’s size and had arranged for both guides and a driver through our hotel.  Our guide for the first two days was Thearith Moeun, a chatty and quite cheerful gentleman, who asked us to call him ‘John’ (left, with me at Ta Prohm), and regaled us with detailed historical background or told us the legends illustrated on many of the beautiful carvings. Our guide for the last day was a soft-spoken former monk named Hem Sothea (with me at Banteay Srei), who was also deeply knowledgeable.  Both guides were university-educated and government-certified.  Having Cambodian professionals take us through the park gave us an invaluable perspective, and they were appreciative of our obvious enthusiasm and eagerness to see as much as possible.

Our driver for all three days was a quietly competent gentleman named Polin Polin, who went by ‘Pin’.  The glimpse we had of Siem Reap’s roads and traffic upon arrival made me grateful that we had employed his services. Additionally, Pin’s apparently bottomless cooler in the trunk kept us supplied with both water and cool clothes to wipe our sweaty faces after each temple.  This small courtesy was incredibly appreciated.

Our first stop was Ta Prohm, of Hollywood movie fame.  We parked, then walked a short distance down a red dirt road to the temple.  It is beautiful, mysterious, an altogether glorious wreck.  It is also crowded. 20181225_102822

There were people everywhere, with everyone seeking to get the best shot of whatever they were told was in the movie, ‘Lara Croft – Tomb Raider’.  There was even a bridal party taking wedding pictures.  And that’s ok.  Everyone was pretty congenial, and the ruins of this late 12th century temple are beautiful.  But what I found most wonderful was seeing how nature takes back her own, with the trees enshrouding the temple over the course of the centuries.  Even Buddha seems bemused by his confinement.

Our next stop was far less crowded, as we drove over to Ta Keo, a gorgeous late 10th-century structure.   Roger captured my glee.She CAM_0073

This was our first encounter with the stairs of Angkor.20181225_134200

But the views were beautiful.  20181225_135745

And the nice Roger and I had fun photographing each other taking photographs.


There was much to admire here, but we moved on, to Chau Say Tevoda, where I was entranced by the ornamentation.20181225_124803

Across the road was Thommanon temple, from the early 12th century.  Most of the exterior wall has disappeared, so the interior temple and other buildings, while standing together, seem separate.  I was simply awed, gazing up at the temple mountains.20181225_130108

However, I had also realized by this point, as we went from one sublime temple to another, that sometimes, it’s good to just sit for a minute, and take it all in.CAM_0089


We had seen a great deal, and decided to break for lunch.  While it appeared to not be the usual practice, both John and Pin graciously accepted our invitation to lunch, at one of a number of restaurants along the roads leading to the main temples. The food was excellent, with a wide variety of choices and terrific service.  We ate very well at nearby restaurants all three days of temple-touring.



Our next stop was the south gate of Angkor Thom, once a great city, surrounded by a broad moat.  There are four gates to Angkor Thom, but the south gate has had the most restoration work.  The artistry of the elephant carvers is evident, and this was one aspect of touring these masterworks that fascinated me.  The temples and other structures are attributed to the great kings who built them, but they were, in fact, designed by ancient architects and built by both skilled artisans and artists, as well as laborers.  These glorious sculptures are their lasting legacy, even if their individual names are lost in time.  When I looked into these elephants’ eyes, I felt I was gazing into times long past.  20181225_131607

After the south gate, there was the Terrace of the Elephants.

Met one of the locals.  I was ignored. CAM_0107

We walked a short way, through a quiet area.  I was struck by how peaceful it was, and that this was once the middle of a bustling city, a millenia ago.  Then we were in sight of another glorious ruin, settling into the earth,  Phimeanakas.   And once again, I photographed the temple,20181225_133556

and Roger photographed me.CAM_0117

On our way from Phimeanakas to Baphuon, we stopped a moment to rest. 20181225_135043

The trees were just extraordinary.  Spung trees, strangler figs, banyans, in fantastical shapes and convoluted structures, embraced and enfolded everything they came into contact with.20181225_134808

I think it may be this aspect of Angkor as a whole that seemed the most marvelous to me. How, as many of these magnificent structures diminished and decayed, some magical alchemy occurred.  With nature playing a large role, they became something else, something more.  A union, perhaps, of structure and nature.

The last temple we visited the first day was Baphuon, also in Angkor Thom.  I was awestruck by the reclining Buddha which comprises the entire west side of the temple. 20181225_142740

It was late afternoon, and our first day was all I had hoped for, and more.  My eyes were full.  Rest was needed.  Reflection was also necessary.  As I scrolled through my photos on my phone, I had a sense of disbelief, as if I hadn’t actually seen what I had seen.  Even now, six weeks later, I am still experiencing a little bit of that, but what I’m mostly feeling now is wonder, that this place had come into being in the first place, and gratitude, that I was able to see it.  With my own eyes.

How To Get Rid Of Bamboo (A Cautionary Tale)

My first bit of advice is this : DO NOT PLANT BAMBOO!!!

Pardon my yelling, the point needs emphasis.  Bamboo is incredibly hardy, impressively strong, and wildly invasive. It is not just a weed.  It is “The Weed”.  In Connecticut, it has been illegal since 2013 to plant bamboo near road or property lines.  The fines for violation are impressive, and accumulate daily.

I planted my bamboo in the front of my yard, about 20-odd years ago, my ambition being to grow my own bamboo curtain to wall off the yard from the road.  I have no one to blame but myself. The bamboo loved its’ location. It grew up. It also grew left, right, back, and front.  Two out of four of these was not actually a big problem. There was plenty of room on my property for expansion. But when it began trespassing in my neighbor’s yard, showing one slender stalk, I immediately went to remove the intruder, because I wished to be a good neighbor.  I spent the next two hours removing a dozen or so runners headed into my neighbor’s immaculately manicured lawn.  The battle was joined.

The next spring, I was driving home when I saw something unusual in the roadway in front of my house.  It was a bamboo stalk, coming up through the brand new asphalt.  I was horrified.  I knew the highway department would not approve.  Herbicide was applied immediately (one of the few times I would ever think that necessary), but a way to prevent this needed to found.  I decided to dig a trench in front of the bamboo, so that fresh shoots could be seen before they got to the street.  Additionally, I took some leftover ceramic tiles and buried them along the border with my neighbor, to at least delay invasion into his yard.

The bamboo also grew tall.  As the tops waved in the wind among the power lines, I realized pruning was now needed.  So, the nice Roger was called in because ladders and I are not friends, and the tops of dozens of stalks were cut off.  I had my wall, but it was a lot of work to contain it.

But as the bamboo grew into a thicket, eventually reaching approximately 30′ in length and 10′ in width, I realized something really weird, and rather cool.  I could step into the bamboo and disappear from view.  This delighted my California nephews during a visit, when they declared that I live in a jungle, in the middle of a forest.  And the bamboo seemed to sing in the breeze, leaves rustling softly.  I admired its’ strength and tenacity, even as I was swearing at it as I pulled up another 10′ runner trying to expand the bamboo’s territory.

Last spring, I decided that the bamboo needed to go.  The work needed to maintain it was just too much.  I thought that removal would not be a complicated process.  We would cut it down, hire someone to dig up the roots, put the roots in a dumpster, the dumpster gets hauled away.  Simple, no muss, very little fuss.  And the goddess of landscaping projects looked down upon me and said, “I don’t think so.”

Roger and I cut it down, hauling the 10-12′ stalks on tarps to our yard waste berm at the back of our property.  There were hundreds of stalks.  Hard work, but not crippling.  A neighbor with a backhoe was hired to dig up the root mat.  And here’s where the roadblock to very little fuss was thrown up.  We couldn’t remove the bamboo roots from our property.  No landfill would take them, because of bamboo’s invasiveness.  So we were left with no alternative but to have the chunks of root mat and dirt piled up in the backyard while I consulted with my gardener girlfriend who gave me the bamboo twenty-some odd years ago.  Terri’s advice was, “You have to remove the roots from the dirt.”

Ok.  We are looking at a pile of dirt and roots.  The backhoe dug down about one foot.  My rough estimate of area is 300 square feet.  According to a quick look on the Google, a cubic foot of moist dirt weighs about 78 lbs.  That gives us an approximate total weight of 23,400 lbs.  Estimating that half of the cubic footage is root, not dirt, I’ll halve that weight to 11,700 lbs.  It is, by any estimate, a lot of goddamn dirt.  And roots.  Roots which began sending out fresh shoots within days, from all sides.  That plant wanted to live in the worst way.

The dismantling began.  Roger used a pick to break up the larger chunks of root into smaller chunks, I used a smaller hand pick to do the final removal of roots from dirt.  The roots were piled on top of the previously cut stalks, so that there was no possibility of contact with the ground.  Roger built a screen, with 1/2″ chicken wire, and the remaining dirt was screened for rocks and roots into a large wheelbarrow, to be returned from whence it came, sans bamboo.  My neighbor buddy Shane was provided gainful employment assisting with this operation, which went all through spring, summer, and into the fall.  As winter fell, the pile of dirt we had been playing in for months was smaller, but not gone.

Yesterday, the ninth of May, we finished sorting around 6 tons of dirt and roots.  I had left the subsoil under the bamboo thicket exposed, just to be sure that there was no new growth, that we had indeed gotten it all.  So far, so good.  As we finished screening the last of the dirt pile this spring, I found fresh growth.  Not a lot of it, but enough to confirm that we had been right to be thorough.

This is my tale of yardwork, taken to a ridiculous extreme.  I’m going to plant wildflowers this year.  Hopefully, nothing invasive.



About Sharing Everything on Facebook & Some Additional Thoughts on Shitholes

About a week ago, I decided to make all of my Facebook posts public.  This includes sharing my online activism and reading on current events, as well as my usual musings and occasional pictures.  I did this because I felt that as much as I don’t enjoy arguing with people, not sharing seemed dishonest, like I was hiding something.  Additionally, I thought it might be a good idea to share views with people who don’t agree with me, to get out of my own media bubble.  So, I’ll put it all out there, and see what happens.

So far, the only thing anyone paid attention to was when I questioned how people can continue to support Donald Trump, knowing that they are allying themselves politically with the far right – you know, ethno-nationalists, the KKK, Neo-Nazis, etc, ad nauseum.  For asking this question, I was called divisive by one writer, another shared her belief in a well-known conspiracy theory, and a third writer shared some revisionist history.  It could have been worse, I suppose.  I can’t wait until next week.

In addition to reading with great interest the reactions to my postings, I saw another post regarding the recent furor over Trump calling a whole raft of countries “shitholes” that caught my eye.  The writer stated his belief, based on his own travels while serving in the Armed Forces, that quite a few places he saw were, in point of fact, shitholes.  Now, I’m not going to quibble with his opinion, but it is not just the use of a vulgarity by the president that is the problem here.

The first problem, as I see it, is context. The term was being used in the context of a government meeting about reforming immigration policy.  The president used the term to describe countries from Africa, the Caribbean, and Central America, where the majority of the populations are black and brown-skinned people. According to people in the room, he used it multiple times. This insult was juxtaposed by the president’s stating of his preference for people from, say, Norway, one of the whitest countries on earth.

The second problem is simply basic civility, or the lack thereof.  While I am not widely travelled, I was a cop for many years, and therefore claim some experience with both shitholes and the people who live in them. It strikes me as singularly unhelpful to declare wide swaths of the world to be shitholes.  I am quite certain that if the first thing I did, when walking into someone’s home to take a complaint, was to declare it a shithole, I would have nothing but problems on my hand.  And I would have deserved all of those problems, because I would have been an asshole.

I don’t know where this particular personal experiment will lead, and I don’t know how long it will last.  It springs from a genuine desire to communicate, and I hope, well I don’t know what I hope, only that I have hope.




Not My Burden

Almost every day now, there is a new story in the media about sexual assault and harassment.  People, and so far, exclusively male people, in a whole raft of industries and professions, are being outed as sexual predators who have abused their power for their own sexual gratification.  Potentially criminal incidents involving under-age teens in both professional and educational environments are being exposed.  These people are being accused of sexually harassing, molesting, and assaulting colleagues and subordinates.  I applaud the courage of the women and men who are speaking out, telling their stories and speaking their truths.  It is a hard thing to do, and it is long overdue, because predators like these have always been among us.

I weep as I type those words.

Through the wonder of Facebook, I am back in contact, both online and in real life, with a number of people with whom I went to high school.  I am enjoying renewing these friendships, and getting to know these people as adults.  I  attended a class reunion recently, and had lovely times at both a pre-reunion party, and the reunion itself.  But when one of these high school friends shared her opinion that our youth in Bethel was ‘sheltered’.  I could only nod, because there was just too much for me to say.  I am truly happy for my friend, that she felt sheltered.  I am glad for her, that this is her truth.  My truth is rather different, and I would not wish it upon anyone.

I tell my story now because what is happening in the public sphere has helped me realize that the burden of shame is not mine.  That burden is on the predator’s shoulders. Predators seek out the vulnerable.  I think it’s important to shine as many lights, in as many dark corners of the past and present as we possibly can. I do not name this person, however, because he can no longer hurt anyone, and I have no wish to harm by association any of his family.

I tell my story  now, because, quite obviously, that high school reunion stirred up a great many old memories.  My story is also about how I came to be vulnerable.  However, I seek only to paint a general picture, not to throw specific stones at any individual.  Time, distance, and middle-aged memory prevent that, and that is fine.

And finally, I tell my story because I am sure that I am not the only one from this era with a story.  I am probably not the only student molested by this teacher.  I also know of at least one other faculty predator and a student predator.  I have heard rumors of yet a third faculty predator.  I cannot tell their stories, only my own. But I believe their stories, because of my own.


My childhood was difficult for a number of reasons – a difficult, unsettled home life involving multiple divorces, alchohol abuse, several school changes, and an undiagnosed parental mental illness.  That is the Reader’s Digest condensed version.  So for all of the reasons listed above, school, when I was younger, was something of a refuge.  It also helped that I was smart.  I liked to learn.  I thought algebra was fun.  I loved to read – novels, history, mysteries.  I loved language.

When my mom moved our family back to Bethel in 1969,  we (my mom & my two younger sisters) moved in with my mom’s parents, and I entered the Bethel school system in the sixth grade.  I don’t have any bad memories from middle school.  I remember making friends, going on school outings, enjoying my classes.  Home life remained periodically difficult, but that was my normal.

Many things changed in 1971.  In the fall, I entered high school.  And over the course of the previous year, I had changed physically, growing a pair of breasts that had no business being on the body of a 12-year old girl.  My initial training bras were swiftly overwhelmed and I began to attract attention I was ill-equipped to deal with.  I recall learning to avoid the front of the school during lunch, where the older boys taught their younger brethren how to harass, choosing to yell at me, “It is Balloons!” in a loud chorus.  Please allow me to repeat – I was 12 years old.  Even now, at 58, I am still taken aback by the thoughtless cruelty.

I added to my own difficulties when a popular boy in my class asked me to meet him behind the school one day.  We engaged in what what was known then as ‘necking’ and ‘petting’.  It was all consensual.  I, quite frankly, had been surprised and thrilled that this boy had any interest in me.  After a while, we got up from the field we had been lying in, and went our seperate ways.  I recall no words of affection.  So, what I had naively hoped was someone being interested in me was just someone interested in my body. Regrettably, I was willing to accept this and a pattern was begun.  What I did not anticipate was that details of what I thought was a private encounter would be made public.  The word apparently went round that I was ‘easy’.  Other boys expressed interest, and I had other encounters in out of the way places,  fumbling and unsatisfying, and my ‘reputation’ was cemented.  I had no adult either paying close attention, or available for advice as to how to navigate this world.

What turned out to be an equally damaging repercussion of my affection-seeking was finding myself unexpectedly ostracized by most of my girlfriends.   Inevitably, word of my behavior had gotten round to them.  I recall going to a slumber party, and being asked, during the late-night conversations, if I had done various things with boys.   I remember being asked what this or that felt like.  I thought I was with my friends, and I answered their questions as best as I could.  I guess I didn’t really think, even at that time, that I had done anything wrong.  In any event, I can only surmise that the information I shared was too much.  I try to remember now that they were very young, too.  I don’t recall how I became aware that my friends were now my former friends, but it seemed very sudden.  I do remember a painful conversation with a couple of them at lunch,  when I asked what I had done wrong.  I don’t remember the answer, only that I was left feeling hurt, confused, and terribly alone.

Eventually, I made new friends, who I remember fondly, but not many, and I think I was probably more reserved with them.  I never quite fit in with any of the groups that teens break off into.  Eventually, in my senior year, I acquired a steady boyfriend, a sophomore who made me laugh and had no knowledge of my first years in high school.  Mostly, though, I was isolated, hiding in a faculty office/prep room when I wasn’t in class, trying to avoid unwanted attention from male students. But I was noticed, by a faculty predator.

Both lack of memory and nausea preclude sharing of a lot of detail.   I don’t recall how it began. I don’t recall how many encounters there were.  I don’t remember where the places he drove us to, so he could grope me, were.  I don’t remember how I finally stopped it.  I remember him telling me to tell my mother I was babysitting for him, which now indicates to me that he was practiced at this.  I was probably not his first prey, and I do not know if I was his last.  He was aware of my age, 16, and took care to not go beyond what kissing and fondling I would allow.  I’m aware now of my own passivity in the whole experience.  I am so sad now for the girl I was, and her acceptance of a predator’s attentions.

I’m not sure how to end this tale.  As I proofread, trying to be as accurate and truthful as possible,  I find that while I am sad, I am also peaceful.  I have shared this story with so very few people, but there is relief in making public what was hidden.  I was not sheltered in my youth.  But I chose to use my damage and my hurt to help me become stronger.   I chose to pursue a professional life of service, so that I might help and protect others who could not help or protect themselves.  And I choose to speak now, so that my voice might be part of the greater chorus against those who would abuse their positions of power and trust.  I know I am not alone.













My New Job – Citizen Brooks

I’ve always enjoyed thinking of myself as well-informed. I have for many years enjoyed settling in on a Sunday morning with my coffee (always with my coffee) and not 1, not 2, but 3 newspapers.  The nice Roger goes out and gets them while I make the coffee, offload the dishwasher, and make sure that there is bacon thawed to accompany our omelets later. When he brings the papers home, I go through them first, removing all the advertising inserts (these are saved for a coupon-clipping family member), recycling the sections we don’t read (neither of us cares for the sports pages), and distributing our preferred starters to our respective perches in the living room. He gets the News-Times and Parade magazine, I get the comics from the News-Times, the NY Daily News, the NY Times, and we settle in for a quite a while.

I read the comics first. This is a tradition that goes back to my childhood. My parents were divorced, and Sunday was the day my sister, Sheryl, and I spent with our father, and eventually, our stepmother and younger sisters and brothers. Dad would pick us up, along with two Sunday papers (the local and the NY Daily News), and take us home.  The comics were shared amongst us all eventually as we traded pages back and forth. To this day, although we don’t get a daily paper, I still read (online) over 50 comic strips on an almost daily basis. They provide me with warmth, humor, art, and some of the best socio-political commentary available, in 3 or 4 pithy panels.  Roger doesn’t much care for the comics, but he’s always gracious when I share what I am laughing (out loud) about.

Next, I read the Daily News. This was my dad’s preferred New York paper. I believe it was also his father’s preferred New York paper.  I loved the big headlines and pictures on the front. I loved the gossip columns inside about celebrities and society figures, out and about in New York City. I loved the frequently macabre ‘Justice Stories’ features about terrible crimes committed in days gone by. And of course, I loved the comics. In their heyday, the paper published 4 full pages of them daily, in color on Sundays.  The NY Daily News was a window into an exciting, but quite possibly very dangerous world. To me, it still is. And they still run the best comics.

Finally, I begin to tackle the NY Times.  My mother’s father, my grandfather Will, went out and got the Sunday Times every week, and would spend most of the week perusing each section.  I didn’t read it as a child; it was an overwhelming prospect – just the enormity of the paper itself, the sheer physical weight of it was too much for me. I was well and truly intimidated. But, sometime in my twenties, I began to buy it on Sundays. When I worked on the 12-8 shift, I would frequently share a Sunday Times with my friend, Bill Barlow.  We would divy it up according to our preferences for particular sections – for example, he would have dibs on the Arts & Leisure section because he loved classical music and opera, I always got the Magazine because I worked the crossword puzzle.  Neither of us read the Sports section.  If I were to theorize, I might have attributed my newfound desire for large quantities of information, at least partially, to my need for refuge from a difficult relationship.  But immersing myself in that enormous newspaper also connected me to a grandfather I adored, and admired for his intelligence and knowledge of the world. I felt, and still feel, that his was a worthy example to follow.  I believe that it is important to know what is going on, and why, in the world outside my door.

I’ve never had much affinity for cable news.  During a crisis or calamity, I do, like everyone else, turn on CNN for basic information.  I find, though, that listening to modern news programs, with their arguing and opinionating, is enormously stressful. I don’t enjoy listening to the endlessly adversarial panels. I still want information, but I have never liked being shouted at, so I ingest cable news in very small doses. I watch Rachel Maddow and Chris Hayes on MSNBC regularly.  I find their formats, which involve people speaking one at a time, more coherent, and Maddow’s efforts to weave some sort of coherent fabric out of the various threads of the Russian hacking investigations help me make sense of what is going on there.

So, nowadays, and particularly in the bizarre new world of the Trump presidency, I find it easier to read the news. I make us a pot of coffee, and Roger takes his cup to the living room, allowing the voices of various cable news talking heads to wash over him, and I adjourn to my study. I put on some music, usually (try it, you’ll like it- classic rock, evolved) or (New Orleans-based public radio- jazz, blues, & modern NO-influenced), and start with the Washington Post.  I read the front page, some of the commentary and analysis, and of course, the comics.  I actually started reading the Post because they ran several comics that weren’t available through other papers, particularly my long-time favorite, Doonesbury.

After the Post, I turn to my email inbox, where I read various articles from and the New Yorker.  I sign petitions for various causes dear to my heart (more and more every day), and once I’ve gone through all of that, I read the rest of my comics. Next is Facebook, where I see what my compatriots are posting from the likes of the NY Times and The Guardian. Finally, I turn to Twitter, for additional information from new (to me) sources such as Vox, Slate, Reuters, McClatchy, Pro Publica, The Hill, the LA Times, and small outlets like the Lawfare blog and the Palmer Report.  Yes, that’s a ridiculous amount of input.  But I am enormously reassured by the depth and breadth of the coverage. The mainstream media, much maligned by the administration, is investigating what promises to be a scandal of epic, world-shaking proportion. They are certainly not behaving as if they were, collectively, the enemy of the American people.  They are, thankfully, doing their jobs.

In past years, I seldom spent more than an hour in the morning, skimming through the headlines, reading the comics, and then, going about my day.  I trusted that the people in charge were basically competent, capable individuals.  Even if I did not agree with individual opinions or policies, I seldom did more than sign an online petition.  I thought I was doing enough.  I had spent most of my adult life as a public servant, and felt that after having done that for 27 years, I was entitled to just take care of my life, and the people in it.  I watched the campaign last year with horror, but I continued to believe that my fellow citizens would make the right choice.  I thought that I understood others’ misgivings about Hillary Clinton, but that they would ultimately vote for competency and a steady hand at the helm, over bluster and buffoonery and little in the way of discernable policy.

I read the articles about Russian interference – the hacking, the bots, the fake news sites on Facebook, coupled with Trump’s disparagement of the intelligence community’s reports, with increasing fear.  This, in and of itself, would be cause for concern. Now, couple this with the possibility that the Trump campaign may have colluded with our attackers.  I have followed international society and business dealings for many years, including some involving Donald Trump, with no small amount of fascination, but I now realized that something more sinister was underlying the glitter and glamour.  Underneath was a web of connections which is seeming more ominous and threatening as each day passes and more is revealed.   And finally, add in the policies of cruelty that the administration is attempting to implement (Muslim ban, science denial, Trumpcare, civil rights rollbacks, etc, etc, oh god I need some Pepto), and the truly stunning incompetency on display ( the budget cuts to essential departments and services, the fact that these people can’t stop LYING),  and I have come to the inevitable conclusion that I was wrong and I was not doing enough.

Since the election, I have come to believe that being a citizen of the USA is a job, and I had been slacking.  So, I read, I march (March for Science), I donate (not a lot, I’m retired), I sign petitions, I phone my Congressional representatives, and I signed on to Democrat Al Almeida’s campaign for mayor of Danbury. I do all this in the hopes that it will help make my corner of the world a little bit better.  I take great comfort in the fact that I am not alone.  Over 13,000 women across the country have either expressed interest in or are actually running for office.  Thousands more people donated to the organizations we must now depend on to fight back (ACLU, Planned Parenthood, & EarthJustice are some of my favorites).  Hundreds of thousands of people have marched, so far.

I remain hopeful. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one working here.






The Nice Roger Retires

Before the nice Roger Brooks became a policeman at the age of 35, he had a number of careers. He was a professional photographer, trained at the NY Institute of Photography, and worked as chief staff photographer at both the Milford Citizen and eventually, the News-Times, in Danbury.  He then ran his own photography studio, which led to his involvement with Teleprompter, running their local channel (ask him about the Halloween newscast). After he left there, he became a successful insurance salesman, working locally in Danbury.

In 1979, an old friend, now working as a police officer, bet him $5 that he couldn’t pass the entry test for the Danbury Police Department. Roger won the bet, and became a uniform patrol officer. His old friend, who had graduated first in his police academy class, refused to pay up, preferring to up the ante by betting that Roger couldn’t do better than him at the academy. Roger did as well, coming in first in his academy class, winning the Samuel J. Luciano Award for Academic Achievement, in December, 1979. Roger maintains to this day that his friend welshed on the bet and still owes him $5.

Roger spent a number of years in the patrol division, becoming somewhat notorious for his penchant for chasing cars, and arresting drunk drivers. One shift commander, weary of signing overtime slips (many DUI stops seemed to occur at shift change), ordered him to park his patrol car in the department parking lot well before the end of his shift. Roger stopped a DUI, in front of the police station, on his way in to comply with the order. Oops. In 1984, he set the record for most DUI’s in the department, and was named Officer of the Year, receiving an award from the Rotary Club.

Roger’s background in photography eventually led to his involvement in the formation of the Danbury Police Dept’s crime scene unit. He remained with the Crime Scene unit until 1998.  During his tenure there, he became a latent print examiner and a crime scene reconstructionist.  After joining the International Association for Identification, he also became both a certified senior crime scene analyst and certified bloodstain pattern analyst. Almost all subsequent Danbury Police crime scene unit members received their basic training from Roger. He taught re-certification classes to members of area departments as part of ongoing police training. In the late 1990’s, he worked occasionally for ICITAP (International Criminal Investigative Training Assistance Program), a joint State/Justice Department program to provide US-style training to police in countries previously under authoritarian rule, or at war.  This led to his overseas travel (using his vacation time) to such global garden spots as Haiti, just after ‘Baby Doc’ Duvalier was deposed, Panama, just after Manuel Noriega was deposed, and both Bosnia and the Serb Republic, just after the shooting had allegedly stopped (ask him about being pulled over by a tank).

In 1998, Roger accepted a promotion to detective (after turning down promotions to sergeant) and left full-time crime scene work.  He continued to work the occasional crime scene as a technician, as well as continuing to teach various crime scene classes. As his skills as an investigator grew, he found himself gravitating towards new areas of law enforcement such as fraud and financial crime, identity theft, and consumer fraud, . When asked how his day was, his most frequent answer was, “Typing, typing, typing.”  But much of that typing was for warrants for criminals who had embezzled from a small business, or home repair scammers who had ripped off an elderly person, or counterfeiters running a bootleg CD factory, among other crimes.   He worked not only with the Danbury Police, but with virtually all of the area departments, as well as the USPS Postal Inspectors, CT Department of Consumer Protection, the US Secret Service, the CT State Police, and the FBI.  I’m sure I’m overlooking an agency, but you get the idea.

His last week on the job, he worked overtime three days out of five, finished a couple of cases close to his heart, did roll-call training for the patrol division, and one day, assisted patrol officers in making an immediate felony arrest of unlicensed home repairmen who had ripped off an elderly couple to the tune of $7,000.

May 1, 2017 was his last full day at work. I posted a short note on Facebook, and the department also posted, putting up a picture of Roger and other detectives, along with Chief Ridenhour and Deputy Chief McColgan, congratulating him on his years of service. For the next 36 hours, he got notification after notification of ‘Like’ buttons being pressed, uniformly laudatory comments being made, and the police department photo being shared by family and friends alike. He kept saying, “I don’t get it.” It would appear that this accomplished, honorable and dedicated police officer genuinely thought that no one was paying attention, as he did his job with enthusiasm, expertise, and courage, for 38 years.  I, as his wife, am enormously gratified that I am not the only one who noticed.  I thank you, one and all.

No, I will NOT calm down.

NO, I will NOT calm down. I will NOT stay silent.  On Friday, I listened to tape of a presidential candidate speak with glee about his belief that, as a wealthy male celebrity, he had the right to commit the crime of sexual assault against women at will. I was horrified, to the core of my being.

This was NOT locker room talk. This was NOT just crude language. This was a self-described sexual predator reveling in his privilege.  This was video of a man firm in his belief that he had the right to molest another human being.  NO, I will NOT calm down.

@kellyoxford, a writer I was previously unfamiliar with, asked women on Friday to tweet their first sexual assault to her. She shared hers first, an old man on a bus, grabbing her crotch. She was 12.  A hashtag, #notokay, was used. As of today, MILLIONS of women have shared the tales of one or more of their own sexual assaults, molestations, indecent exposures, and harassments. MILLIONS of women. I was one of them.  NO, I will NOT calm down.

The incidents on my own list number in double digits, going back to the age of 5 or 6. I was not physically harmed during any of them. In that I am fortunate, and I know it. But as I reviewed this list over the course of the weekend, my horror and disgust only increased.  I realized how much of my life has been or is now circumscribed by my desire to avoid assault, harassment, and intrusion.  I had to once again face the pain and sadness associated with individual incidents, while trying to cope with my revulsion at the accumulation. NO, I will NOT calm down.

Half of our population is under continual threat from a sizable percentage of the other half. This is NOT a new phenomenon.  It is NOT due to a coarsening of our culture, unpleasant though that is. It is NOT due to women claiming the right to control their own bodies, own (and revel in) their own sexuality, and live as they please, wear what they please, and, dare I say, FUCK, whom they please. It is due to this sizable percentage of men continuing to refuse to treat women as PEOPLE, with the right to make their own choices, and these men being enabled and encouraged by both those around them and the culture at large.  NO, I will NOT calm down.

Captured on that video was what is now called ‘rape culture’, and most women just call ‘culture’.  A horrible man, surrounded  by sycophantic cowards (Billy Bush was not the only other man on that bus), bragging about his assumption of sexual supremacy over any woman he chose.  An unbridled monster, in a power tie, supported in his monstrousness by a group of giggling toadies.  And these subhumans would presume to deny a woman’s humanity by reducing her to her various body parts. NO, I will NOT calm down.

It has been suggested to me that these men cannot be educated and therefore cannot be redeemed. You know what? I don’t care about redeeming assholes and criminals. I want them controlled, by both government and society AS A WHOLE.  Women cannot do this alone. And we should NOT have to. You know it’s wrong. This is not about being protected. It’s about being respected as people and left the hell alone. How about this for predation and harassment – “If you see something, say something.” Because half the population is being terrorized, and has been for too long.  NO, I will NOT calm down. And goddammit, neither should you.