CAPE COD'S GRASSROOTS: OPINION

I've written about being rooted to the earth in my Shadowwater books, taken from Native American folklore. When the word "ground" is used to describe what we walk on, readers often picture grass, dirt or in urban areas, concrete sidewalks. On Cape, our "ground" in all the above examples covers sand, the peninsula where we live shifts, changes; erodes.

With time, the roots above give way, but not the spirit of Cape Cod's people. Whether they be indigenous, migrants from the Old World (called Cape Codders) more recent dwellers or "wash-ashores," among these inhabitants, those who fight to protect our natural resources represent a grassroots initiative that once thrived on Cape Cod.

(Google Images)

Coming to the Cape from upstate New York as a child, I saw a world that didn't exist in my small town. Our family began our regular summer visits during the early seventies as the counter-culture movement continued to flourish. A record store where I bought my only YES album, "Relayer"; a second-hand shop frequented by "hippies," where I purchased a denim choker, and protesters scattered among several towns for many causes, remain fixed to my memory. For a tween these experiences, along with my mother's activism in multiple causes, taught me to travel a different road where I could make the world a better place.

Since then, with the influx of new money, the Cape, to those who infrequently visit, may appear conservative. And there's no denying we have more right-leaning proponents than in the seventies. However, when I relocated here I learned that long-time activists, both Cape Codders and "wash-ashores" like myself, do exist, though in smaller numbers.

(#NoDAPL - Copyright 2016)

Some fight exclusively for Cape-based causes, such as shutting down the leaking Pilgrim Nuclear Plant whereas others broaden their reach to national movements, e.g. NoDAPL, and worldwide issues like climate change. Of course, Massachusetts has been the hot-bed of rebellion since the Boston Tea Party and the American Revolution.

However, like Nevada, for example, before water shortages forced homeowners to abandon their lawns, the Cape has also become an oasis for those who live in the past and ignore the future. Many here who can afford to replace their natural grounds with grass sod often maintain their yards with pesticides which seep into the aquifers and pollute our lakes. They choose to ignore their local impact, national environmental issues and our decaying world.

(Intrepid Protesters - Copyright 2016)

For social programs, cuts in our state budget including opioid prevention and recovery, and money for the Cape's most vital industry, tourism, the Cape will no doubt see a reduction of tourism-related jobs and services and increasing recidivism, homelessness, and fewer visitors (the Cape Cod Chamber of Commerce has lost 50% of its budget). Homeowners will have to pay more and wait longer for service providers because of locals being forced to relocate off Cape since the cost of living here will become even more prohibitive. The result? What many year-round- and snow-bird-conservatives seem to want by voting for Trump: a resort dwelling where opposing viewpoints are squelched, and the struggling working- and fixed-income-poor are swept under the rug.

What some on Cape don't see or wish not to acknowledge is that young and old, rich and poor, healthy and disabled who disagree with the abrupt turn this nation has taken toward the right have become more empowered.

And to Trump supporters who believe that "the Donald" will create jobs for the working class you have been conned. Instead, you will see reduced regulations which will put more money in corporate pockets and closet nationalists who want white supremacy to rise above our nation's melting pot. In essence, Trump's supporters have given rebels with a cause the ammunition to fight harder, have brought the grassroots movements to an even broader audience, not just Bernie Sander's supporters, and have made the disenfranchised even angrier.

In World War II terms, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, Japan's Pacific theater naval commander after the attack on Pearl Harbor said, "We have awakened a sleeping giant." Trump conservatives heed the Admiral's warning. If grassroots' voices become overwhelmed by fake rhetoric and malicious discourse that have no merit in fact, our greatest ally and reason to continue the movement, planet Earth, will have the final say--sooner than later.

(Nauset Beach - All Rights Reserved 2016)

MOONLIGHT: THE HEAVINESS OF BEING

(Google Images)

The brilliant movie poster for Moonlight (2016) trisects the film's hero-- adolescent, teenager and man--in one photograph. Three skilled actors play Little/Chiron/Black, each embodying the states of metamorphosis--director, Barry Jenkins's description--a fitting analogy. Watching the child's misery you wonder what changes must he endure to become a man, let alone [SPOILER ALERT] a beautiful, free Lepidoptera.

The weight that the young boy carries on his shoulders--no father, a drug-addicted mother, having to care for himself--would daunt any child. But when others' have an inkling that Little is not like other boys, that he may be gay, the cultural taboo silences Little's voice. He becomes a victim before he understands why. Adolescence for the diminutive kid rarely involves child's play. When it does, Little usually gets tagged as the one to chase.

As his mother spirals out of control (the powerful Naomie Harris), Little appears doomed until an unlikely rescuer steps in, a father-figure for the nine-year-old who happens to deal drugs. The Oscar-worthy, Mahershala Ali inhabits this part. Mr. Ali said, when interviewed on CBS This Morning, that he took the often stereotypical role because it had been written to break viewers' perceptions of a black drug dealer. Indeed, his character, Juan, shows compassion toward Little without patronizing or dominating the boy. In fact, he shares the child's demons, also having been raised raised by a single, addicted mother.

(Google images)

Juan and his devoted, self-sufficient girlfriend, Teresa, (Janelle Monae), provide the love and home Little desperately needs. Each help the young boy navigate his way through troubled waters--literally and figuratively. In time Little summons the courage, the self-confidence to assert himself, such as his demand from Juan that Little be called by his given name "Chiron." This act becomes Chiron's rite-of-passage into the next phase of his life.

I'll leave you to discover what happens next, too many spoilers, and move on to Moonlight's themes. Not being an African-American or a gay man, I could never truly feel what it's like to be in Chiron's shoes, but Jenkins wisely finds a universality that many people can comprehend. Watching Little, then Chiron, this writer relived the painful memories of childhood: having been bullied for being awkward and too sensitive. Plus, I appreciated how the boy looks to escape his miseries through the power of nature if only for a moment. The night becomes Little's friend: standing on the beach with a full moon overhead, Little looks toward the stars and the bright light streaming through the darkness, to find comfort. Where daydreaming isn't an option for him, fantasizing at night is.

The director returns to the "moonlight" theme again during pivotal scenes in the movie (set and filmed in Miami). One night Chiron, the teenager, realizes his friend Kevin, shares a poetic appreciation for nature--the ocean lapping the shore; the sand beneath their fingers. The darkness in daylight is replaced by a brief lightness under the moon. The lovingly shot scene of awakening makes what follows even more painful.

There's a beauty in the dialogue, too--much of it street talk--nuances which may be missed by some who are unfamiliar with black dialect. The director, Jenkins, accentuates that poetry isn't lost on children who see its potential. Rap and Hip-hop music demonstrate how the impact of words, with their underlying musical intricacies, can express deep-seeded anger, fear, distrust and violence these children live with everyday. What surprised me is that Jenkins' screenplay (based on Tarell Alvin McCraney's story) emphasizes words over music. Not drowned out by a soundtrack, I could hear the rhythms in the dialogue which may have been lost in another director's hands.

In contrast, violence is a rite-of-passage in Moonlight, but Barry Jenkins skillfully tempers the expected bloodshed until one, life-changing moment. The intimacy, moreover, is implied, not explicit: impressions reveal more than forced romantic dialogue or nude scenes ever could.

(Google Images)

When I left the theater, like other reviewers I felt equally drained and uplifted. It's difficult to fathom how living under an unending, increasing heaviness, [SPOILER ALERT] Chiron finds his way clear; he finds his destiny. I later thought, "How long will it last?" Since then, I've realized that's the wrong question. No, better to ask: how does a little boy with no hope of surviving, discover solace; in other words, how did he retain his ability to love?

Langston Hughes wrote: Hold fast to dreams/For if dreams die/Life is a broken winged-bird/That cannot fly. Moonlight asserts that we all should have a right to be ourselves and to dream.

(Google Images)

For more information about my Shadowwater series and how to contact me directly, access: www.shadowwater.net

THE SILENCE OF MUSIC

(Symphony Hall - Boston, Google Images)

Hunched over, cane in hand, he hobbled along the stage, with an aide holding his right arm. Music had been placed on the piano rack and an additional sturdy cushion on the bench for the performer's frail body. During the man's slow advance some audience members gasped in awe until eclipsed by the majority who clapped and cheered.

The musician readied himself, nodding to the waiting conductor who stilled the orchestra and then directed the opening tempo of Mozart's "Piano Concerto No. 27 in B-flat, K.595."  Hands in perfect attitude, though pale and bruised with aging, the pianist began to play with command and subtlety. More legato than often interpreted by other soloists, the master performer seemed to treasure every note, with a flourish of fingers here and there--maybe to accentuate his passion and/or possibly to flex his stiffening muscles.

My friend and I sat in the Second Balcony, stage right overlooking most of the Boston Symphony Orchestra (BSO) with a clear, view of the pianist. At first distracted by the player's bald spot and wisps of gray/white hairs, I inwardly slapped myself to concentrate on the music, sometimes closing my eyes to listen to each phrase and movement, only adjusting my pained body for brief relief during pauses.

The first Allegro enlivened my spirits, for, like many I imagine, I clamored for escape from the world's unwelcome noise. The musician seemed to have anticipated this need from his audience as he played with gusto. The second movement, Larghetto, elicited more ardor from the soloist: each finger produced brilliant sounds, underscoring every note with intoxicating richness. The final Allegro movement set my adrenaline into overdrive. My heart beat faster as I watched the pianist's hands scurry across the octaves and produce effortless glissandos. Then, coordinated silence: the conductor, soloist, orchestra and audience exhaled the resonance and inhaled, for nano-seconds, the calm.

A nod to the seasoned orchestra and assistant conductor, Moritz Gnann, who did what they should by supporting the great musician's performance yet not interfering with it. Earlier, the Boston Symphony had re-affirmed their own well-deserved reputation with an opening piece--the Overture to "The Hebrides" by Mendelssohn. Later, they would go on to impress with their individual solos and seamless unity performing Dvorak's "From the New World," Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, Opus 95.

(Front -Menahem Pressler - Google Images)

Nevertheless, the afternoon belonged to a man who with his parents had escaped Nazi Germany to grace us with his gift. A soon-to-be 93-year-old (not kidding, skeptics), Menahem Pressler, wooed his audience who lovingly demanded an encore (Chopin's Mazurka, No 4, Opus 17).

My touched friend, a woman whose life-spirit shares Pressler's boundless energy, predicted what I believe to be true: that what we had seen would no doubt be one of Pressler's final performances (he would play once more with the BSO but his website doesn't list future dates at this time). And when, after his last bows, the virtuoso exited stage left, a younger woman embraced him and kissed his cheek. Whether she was Pressler's daughter, I don't know; however, the gesture moved this writer.

I could elaborate on Pressler's "soft" hands, a compliment. Or, I could mention a few tentative notes and his facial ticks (I suspect more of a distraction for those in the orchestra seats, though judging by their instantaneous eruption and ovations, not an issue). But to latch onto the deconstructionist trend by some reviewers would be to assume the professional critic's mantle, in classical music, not my forte. Instead, I'd like to end with this observation: since that stellar afternoon at Symphony Hall, I continue to hear Menahem Pressler's notes or see his hands hovering above the keyboard during rests. In essence, he creates music even in silence.