High School

A large Black man yelled my name from across the crowded bar. 


I stood up to acknowledge my living existence.  One of only two white women at a birthday party for a co-worker, this was the last place in the world I expected to run into someone from my high school days, let alone someone who would recognize my teenage self through the extra pounds, graying hair and wrinkles.  

He walked closer and then took a few steps back.  My confusion and a hint of fear must have shown.

“You don’t recognize me do you?” he said.  

I tried hard to rewind my brain 38 years but I just couldn’t see anyone I knew in this man.

“It’s me!  Johnny Brown,” he said.

I rushed forward for a hug.

“OH MY GOD!  DOWNTOWN JOHNNY BROWN!” I said.  “Now I see you.”

But I never really knew him.  He was familiar to me mostly because he played basketball with some of the boys I knew.  And, of course, because he was one of only a handful of  black kids in a baby boomer graduating class of almost 1,000.  The boys had dubbed him “downtown” Johnny Brown which I assumed had something to do with his basketball prowess.  

He offered to buy me a drink and so I left my table of girlfriends and went to stand at the bar with him.  I mentioned that once in a while I still see some of the basketball players he knew.  

He said that he didn’t.  “Do you know what it was like for me to go to John Marshall High School?” he asked.  “I had never seen so many white people in one place before.”

 “I’m sorry,” was the only honest response I could come up with.  

I told him that it’s kind of funny since some of my old high school chums believed that we went to a really integrated school.  I guess for Wisconsin white kids in the early 70s, having a few dozen Black kids in the whole school was a new and memorable experience too.  We were so self-centered.  But then again, how could any of us know what it was like?  Even now, can I even glimpse the experience of my Black friends when I move through the world as member of the privileged majority?   The real privilege is that I don’t ever have to think about it.  

I had a flash back of what a charming and personable guy Johnny was, yet how afraid me and all my girlfriends were to be “too” nice to him.  We were terrified that our fathers would kill us if we had been encouraging to him and he did something as outrageous as call our homes or ask us to a dance.  

Johnny knew a lot about me.  He knew the name of my high school boyfriend and said that he was my first real love.  I made a scoffing noise at the thought of that relationship being some kind of legendary romance.  

He said that he had met my husband Tom many years ago at a job that they both hated.  I don’t remember Tom ever mentioning this to me.  

Then again, Johnny didn’t know anything about me at all.  He made an offending comment about my having been a housewife for the past 38 years. “I don’t even know a house wife!” I shot back.  He apologized but I wondered if he assumed that about all white women.

He told me about how he had only been “caught” once and had a daughter in her early 30s.  “She’s really smart,” he said.  “On the honor roll all through high school and graduated summa cum laude from college.”

And then he shared that he had been really smart in high school too.  He graduated when he was just 16.  I doubt that I ever knew that he was younger than the rest of us or that he got good grades.  

He told me about living in LA for a time and how glad he was to be back in Milwaukee and that he had his own computer business now.   

 “I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize me,” he said.  “I’m 300 pounds.”

“People think I’m fat,” he said, “but I’m not.”  And he put my hand on his rock hard python of a bicep.  

“And the ‘fro I used to have,” he said while pointing to the pony tail that held his severely thinned hair together.  “That was a perm!  My mom had to give me a perm so that I could rock that ‘fro.  Some of the white guys had better naturals than I did.”

When we exhausted our sparse shared memories, I politely excused myself and rejoined my friends at the table.  I could feel his gaze on me and I was glad that I had paid attention to select a flattering outfit that night.  

I stayed at the party longer than I intended, resisting the urge to ask him to dance the entire time.

 I regret it.  

(I wrote this back in 2012 when it happened. I post it today in honor of John whose memorial I attended today. RIP)

German Biker Hospitality

We’re super jet lagged.  We don’t speak German. We don’t know what’s going on and it is huge!  Like Milwaukee’s Summeriest on acid—packed with people crammed into a dozen circus size beer tents with live bands.

In 1998, my husband Tom and I became empty nesters and we wanted to do something spectacular before one of them moved back. So we booked a trip to Europe. First stop: Octoberfest in Munich!

We make our way to the Spaten tent.  There’s a band blaring/screaming, “Alice, Alice, who the f… is Alice:”  Young women wearing dirndls are slinging giant glass mugs of beer around. We’re so overwhelmed we don’t know what to do. We finally realize that you can’t just walk up to a bar and get a beer. You actually have to be seated at a table because they don’t want patrons walking around with these giant glass liter mugs of beer. But all of the tables are reserved and the couple of tables that aren’t are packed with people.  

I don’t know what to do but Tom says, “Don’t worry.  I got this baby.”  Oh, okay.  He makes a bee line over to a table where there are a couple of seats open but it says reserved.  No, no, no I object..  “I got this,” he says.  

“Hi, we’re from Milwaukee,”  Tom says to the guy at the table who appears to be a biker.  Tom happens to be wearing a Harley anniversary t-shirt. We’ve never missed a Harley anniversary event.  But this is probably the part where I should tell you that while I come from a long line of motorcycle enthusiasts—a couple of cousins work at Harley, my dad has one, my brother has one, my son has one, my brother-in-law has one, and my uncle has one—Tom and I do not. 

Tom gestures toward the empty seats at the table and asks in English if we could sit down with them for just one beer and then we’ll leave.  The biker pulls out two chairs as an invitation.  We can’t really talk to them and but we do our best,  We introduce ourselves,  The guy who appears to be the boss tells us that his name is Mike.  He tells us that they are from Stuttgart.  His girlfriend tells me her name is Peggy.  At least that’s what I thought she said,  I say, “Peggy, like from Margaret?”  Mike snorts and says “No, Piggy.  Like schwine,”  More snorting and everyone laughs.

After we down a mug of beer, Mike and the gang decide that maybe we could stay longer since their other friends haven’t shown up.  We’re all singing loud and off key, “Ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!” Half way into my second mug, I really need to pee. But the whole restroom situation in Germany is new to me. I discover that you have to pay to get in. You have to put a coin in a slot. Since we just got here, we don’t have any German money. We’ve been paying for beer with a credit card. I go back to the table and ask the women to help me out with this restroom thing. I squeeze my legs together and gesture to get my point across. They grab me up and sweep me into this women’s room where they are delighted to drop their pants to show me their tattoos.  Piggy has a bird of paradise all the way up her leg.  They want to see mine.  I don’t have any!  I’m afraid that not having any tattoos to show off will be a sure sign that Tom and I are faking the whole biker thing but they just think I’m shy.

We have a fun long afternoon/evening with Mike and Piggy and the rest of the crew.  As we’re getting ready to depart, my Tom says, “You should come to our house for Harley’s 100th anniversary.”  I smile but cringe inside.  We are so very grateful that they let us hang out with them but having them visit would most definitely expose us as posers. Tom writes our address on a piece of paper and hands it over to Mike.  

We miraculously find our hotel room in spite of the horrible condition we’re in when we leave Octoberfest. The rest of our trip was great.  

That was 1998.  2003 rolls around and we remember Mike and Piggy fondly but we’re also relieved that we haven’t heard from them.  We had moved in 2001.  A week before the Harley Anniversary, we receive a letter forwarded from our old house from Mike that was postmarked over a month before.  The letter began with “Excuse me, my English isn’t so good.”  He must have worked really hard to write this letter.  He reminded us of our invitation. But we are so embarrassed by our charade. It was too late anyway.  By the time Mike would have received our reply, the big Harley event would have been over. So the letter went in the fire place and we pretended we never got it.  Yet, Tom and I both regret not being able to return the favor of hospitality. 

We went to the Harley anniversary event wearing Harley t-shirts of course.  A friendly gnarly looking guy standing next to Tom in the crowd asked what kind of bike we owned.  Tom said, “Schwin!”  He shook his head in disgust and trudged off.  


I had to go there anyway for a meeting. And I knew she was there. On the drive over, I thought about how ridiculous it was for me to still be angry about things that happened over 40 years ago.  That maybe now was the time to let it go. To forgive her, my ex mother in law, for not believing me, for not taking my side, for abandoning me. After all, I’ve learned a lot since then and gained an understanding of the pain she had faced, of the environment that shaped her, of loyalty to sons.  

I recognized her immediately sitting in a wheelchair alone in a hallway. The same frumpy hairdo and tent like dress. DiminishedOf course I had to tell her who I was for I had changed. My long gray locks and extra pounds camouflaging the young woman I had been. She said that she remembered that I had been married to her son briefly. She asked about my boys and grandsons. She told me how she had prayed to Jesus for one more year and that she worried about her son, my ex. And I understand her mother’s worry. She smiled and thanked me for coming to visit.  “Say hello to Elaine” she said.  

My Fierce Family

Bares its teeth and growls at any enemy

Those who threaten our happiness

An unfortunate event

Our own stupidity

We lash ourselves to the ship of family ties

That we have built with trials and tears

With determination and relentless commitment

Stormy seas may batter and whip us

But we are strong enough to weather any calamity

Because our ship is made of mass timber 

We are defiance rooted in love


I was the best marketing director the Boys & Girls Clubs ever had.  I had bill boards all over town.  We had positive stories about the accomplishments of our kids and I’d gotten great media coverage when we opened a new branch.  I’d received multiple awards from the Boys & Girls Clubs of America for my work.  

In 1991, I got a call from one of the major networks.  Aha!  I thought.  That’s how good I am.  Now they’re calling me.  They told me that they were working on a documentary on education in America and wanted to talk to some teens about their experiences.  They specified that they didn’t want any of the honor roll type kids.  No youth of the year.  Just average kids.  They further specified that they wanted to do brief phone interviews with them without me in the room.

That should have been a red flag but I was so delirious with my own power that I agreed.  And no one at the Clubs questioned me.  They trusted me.

So, I lined up about six kids but the producers of the show told me that none of them were going to work out.  I told them that the only kid I had left who would be willing to talk with them was Eric, our youth of the year.   He was also president of his senior class at North Division High School.

Eric was a gregarious kid and a great spokesperson for the Clubs.  He loved the media attention and always showed up for an interview well dressed with a fresh fade hair cut. I could rely on him to testify to the importance of the role the Boys & Girls Clubs played in his central city neighborhood.   He became kind of our own local celebrity. 

I didn’t hear anything more about it until Eric called to confide in me that he had been asked to carry a hidden camera in his back pack at North Division High School.  Now I was worried.  This felt like trouble.  Trying to keep my panic at bay, I tried to caution him but he was excited to do it.  Eric insisted that he needed to do this because otherwise it would always just be his or any student’s word against a teacher’s word.  He wanted to make a difference.  He didn’t need anyone’s permission.  He was 18 years old.  

I called the producers.  Left a message.  Then called again every hour of the day. They clearly stopped talking to me.  

A few months later, the footage Eric collected was featured on Expose’.  It showed things like a teacher sitting at the front of the class while kids played dice in the back.  Not the kind of documentary I thought it would be.  And it wasn’t just Expose’.  The story was national news.  

The shit hit the fan.  The school superintendent was calling the head of the boys & girls club.  My colleagues at the branch where Eric was a member made sure that I knew about the pain and suffering this was causing his family. 

I almost lost my job.  To this day, I don’t understand why I didn’t.  I was responsible and I didn’t tell anyone what was happening.  My own arrogance at the time astounds me now.  

The producers said that they wanted to see what kids see.  I get that.  It’s valid.  We need to let the people who are impacted speak.  Tell their truth.  Powerful stories can lead to change.  But all that this story did was cost some teachers their jobs and make Eric and his family the target of the backlash in their own community.   His younger sister had to change schools.  She wasn’t safe at North Division High School. Eric moved out of state to go to college. The staff at the Club branch where Eric had been a member no longer welcomed me.  

The media didn’t care what happened to Eric after Expose.  He struggled for several years with mental health issues. On a visit home he sought me out.  He wanted to make sure that I knew he was okay.   It meant the world to me to know that in spite of the trauma, he had finished college and was successfully climbing the career ladder in the insurance industry.  He said that what happened wasn’t my fault and that he would do it again.  He wanted to make a difference.  And that he was still grateful to the Boys & Girls Clubs. 

A few years later, he was dead.  I was told that he was shot while protecting a woman from a man somewhere in Georgia.  There was no news coverage of the event in Milwaukee.  I learned about it from a colleague at the Clubs who had remained close to the family.  

When I tried to google him to create this story, wanting to make sure I had my facts right, the only thing I could find was the news reports about Expose, his life reduced to this one story.

This is the hardest story I’ve ever told. It’s a story about the harm caused in the wake of doing good.  I used Eric to proclaim the virtues of the Boys & Girls Clubs.  The media used him to tell the story they wanted to tell.  I question whether I honor him by telling his story or am I further exploiting him for my own benefit.  

I went on to have a long career in nonprofit organizations and storytelling.  I believe in giving a voice to the voiceless and that our stories of courage and resilience can inspire change and empathy.  But I’ve learned that my first loyalty must always be to the human being.  Not the story.  Not the organization. Not the media.  Not me.  

Thoughts About Spring

A time to forgive the cold bleak days

A time to burrow beneath the crust of frost 

A time to reconnect with the nourishing soil

A time to shake off the cobwebs and dance

A time to let soft winds unfurl your brow

A time to see new beginnings in flower buds and baby bunnies

A time to heal your heart with sunshine and laughter

The Coldness of Winter

The coldness of winter.  Bleak.  Barren.  Lifeless.  

I am dormant. 

Like the trees.  Like the grass. Like the frogs. 

Alive but not living.  


Biding my time. 

Breathing shallowly.  


That the troubled waters will pass. 

Praying that I can survive. 

Until the sun shines on my face again. 

And I will smile once more.  

This poem is more than just about the season, it’s about how we endure during times of great anguish.


In August of 1996 a group of friends invited me to attend the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival.  I’d heard them talk about it the year before and it sounded fabulous.  The idea of taking a 4 day break from the patriarchy was very appealing.  However, my husband, feeling a little insecure about me trapsing into the woods of Michigan with lesbian friends, asked for three promises—no nudity, no tattoos, and no sex with women.  “Why go?” I joked.  

It took me all but 30 minutes after setting up camp to relax into it.  It didn’t even seem weird to see a woman wearing a fancy garter belt contraption and stiletto heels high stepping through the woods.  Or to see a parade of semi clad red heads.  Or to see bare chested women with scars from mastectomies.   Everything was okay.  It was like girl scout camp only way better. 

The music was awesome.  I was introduced to bands like Dar Williams whose “When I Was a Boy” song brought me to tears; Tribe 8 who pretended to separate men from their penises with a chain saw;  and 7 Year  Bitch introduced me to the Riot Grrrl scene.   But my absolute favorite was the Murmurs, the lead singer tearing up as she sang about domestic violence in  “Sleepless Commotion.”  It was all so wild and yet gentle.  I saw a 70 year old woman float like an angel above the hands of the crowd in the mosh pit.  Her long gray hair draping down as she held her cane on her chest.  

And OMG the percussionist Ubaka Hill!  It felt like her drumming had summoned these tribes of women from around the world.  I danced with the masses like a cave woman wearing nothing but my blue skirt and body paint.  

There was respect for the land.  No beer cans and cigarette butts littering the woods.  There was cooperation.  Every attendee had to work at least three shifts.  You could be part of a stage crew, you could chop and stack fire wood, or work in the kitchen tent.  I chopped 250 pounds of cabbage and shucked corn into a kiddy pool with five women from around the world,.  

Everyone was cared for.  There was ASL at every stage.  There were quiet zones and rowdy zones. There were AA groups and NA groups.  For the first time in my life, I was in the minority as a heterosexual.  And there was a support group for that.  

For me, the festival was hyper stimulation paired with profound relaxation and spirituality.  But the overwhelming feeling was one of incredible safety.  It felt like a long luxurious exhale.  

I kept two of my promises to my husband.  I didn’t get a tattoo or have sex.  I attended the event for two more years.  

Wikipedia says that “Michfest” or some version of it spanned from 1976 to 2015—almost 40 years.  There were more than 5,000 women there each of the three years I attended on “the land” in Oceana County. There were years when 10,000 women attended.  There’s a lot of speculation about why it ended.  It might have had to do with the controversy of including trans women.  So even this utopia was flawed.  But maybe we can never achieve Utopia if we exclude anyone. Even people with penises.  Except people who are assholes.  Maybe exclude them.  

(I recently told this story at an Ex Fabula story slam. The theme was Utopia. I didn’t think I had a story and then I remembered my precious days at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. Ex Fabula is Milwaukee’s local story telling group.)

Update: And now you can hear my story as told on the Ex Fabula stage on Riverwest Radio. https://www.riverwestradio.com/episode/ex-fabula-0068-eutopia-stories-part-2/


Loose Teeth

IMG_2589In the kitchen of my childhood home, Grandpa and Dad stand having a shot of brandy and a beer after working on their old Model T Ford.  Dreaded stinky liver dumpling soup simmers on the stove.  My Mother summons me away from playing with my dolls.  

“Show them your loose tooth,” she says.  And I oblige by wiggling my front tooth back and forth.  

Dad and Grandpa chuckle.  “Get some string,” Dad tells mom.  

I’m cajoled into one of our vinyl kitchen chairs.  Dad crams his big motor oily fingers into my mouth to tie the string around my loose tooth.  Grandpa measures out enough string to tie the other end to the open kitchen door.  I’m frightened.  

They count “One, two, three,” and Grandpa slams the door and I bolt out of the chair.  

I’m made to sit back down and they tie me to the chair with Dad’s bathrobe sash.  

They count again, “One, two, three,” and Grandpa slams the door and the string breaks. 

Dad rummages around in a drawer and pulls out some butchers twine, crams his oily hands in my mouth again and ties it around my tooth.  

They count for a third time, “One, two, three,” and Grandpa slams the door and my tooth flies out in a huge arc.  Dad retrieves it and holds the tooth out for me to examine.  I’m crying, there’s blood in my mouth, and the awful smell of liver dumpling soup is making me gag.  The quarter I receive from the tooth fairy the next morning helps to lessen my PTSD but in the future, I learn to keep my loose teeth a secret until I can pop them out myself.  

Seven years or so later, I’m babysitting for my younger sister and brother and use the opportunity to snoop in Mom and Dad’s bedroom while they’re watching TV.  I have a vague notion that I might find some mysterious adult “sex” things in their dressers.  But instead, I come upon a cache of teeth in an old watch box—tiny white baby teeth, molars and incisors, that Dad must have collected while on tooth fairy duty.  I use my findings to terrorize my sibs but because I don’t want them to know that dad and the tooth fairy are in cahoots I say, “Maybe dad is a witch doctor!”  Their mouths drop open in astonishment.  

Forty plus years later, I’m at my parents condo alone waiting for a repairman while they are in Texas, taking a break from Wisconsin winter.  Bored, I use the opportunity to do some snooping thinking I might find something amusing to poke fun at them with.  I find my Mothers’ collection of about 40 belts in a night stand drawer arranged by color.  A rainbow of belts.  In the closet are shelves lined with shoe boxes meticulously labeled with dates of purchase and the color and styles of the shoes within.  An assemblage that would make Imelda Marcos proud. Both finds are interesting but not notable.  And then I open Dad’s dresser drawer and spot an old watch box.  There they are!  That cache of teeth!  Dozens of them!  I had completely forgotten but Dad hadn’t.  He kept these artifacts of our childhood all this time.  And the memory smell of liver dumpling soup thickens my throat.  

Not Lost

“Let’s review,” I’d say. And grandma would say, “My husband is still alive and we have three children.  You gave me the picture on the wall. It belongs to me and not anyone else.” Every visit with Grandma at her assisted living community concluded with my correcting her revised life story and calming her fear that someone was angry that she’d stolen that cheap print of a sunset.  She’d lower her gaze in shame. I would cry on my way out the door. She had been my pal as a child. We shared a love of books and she encouraged me to write. Later, through the trials and tribulations of my teens and young adulthood, I could always depend on her sympathetic ear.  And now I felt like I lost her.

But it wasn’t true.  Keys, hats, and umbrellas get lost.  You might get lost in the woods, in an unfamiliar city, or lost in thought.  You might lose your hearing, your patience, or your sense of humor. People with memory loss aren’t lost.  They are who they always were.

If only I knew then what I know now.  I’ve learned that it’s on the play field of imagination where we find our loved ones.  All of the parts re-emerge—the mischievous child, the caring grandparent, the fun-loving friend.  We only need to put aside our own inhibitions and join them.

As a TimeSlips facilitator, I look forward to jumping into that play field of imagination with reckless abandon  At an adult day center, we talked about the tooth fairy and how she comes to collect baby teeth from under a child’s pillow. “That’s not what happens,” said Alice. “When you lose a tooth, the tooth fairy comes to get it and brings it to someone who really needs it.”  

I feel like the fairy.  I get to bring something that many thought was lost to people who really need it.  My heart is full of joy.

But it’s harder with people we know.  There’s a shared past and an established pattern of communication.  Before Grandma’s dementia, our conversations were about family history, the progression of my career and the antics of my children.  

My husband’s friend, Carmen, has early onset Alzheimers. Tom has lunch with her most Tuesdays.  They’ve known each other since they were teens, so their conversation typically migrates to the exploits of their youth.  Carmen increasingly fakes it. She stares off into space and says, “Oh sure, I remember that.” And Tom feels embarrassed for her.  But the day Tom brought her home and they discovered a dead raccoon in her backyard, everything changed. They called him Clarence and talked about how he might have ended up there.  He had a wife and a dozen children. Clarence was out getting some time for himself when he came upon his arch nemesis, a wild coyote named Silver. Silver bit him in the neck and Clarence climbed the fence into Carmen’s yard to try to escape. “His wife is really going to miss him.  How on earth will she support all of those children without him?” They laughed and laughed and the light in Carmen’s eyes shone bright.

I wish I could do my time with Grandma over again.  I wish that I had been able to make the shift either grilling her about her health or reminiscing to imagination.  I wish that when she told me that she was a widow and had seven children, I would have asked her to tell me about her deceased husband and their lives together.  I should have conspired with her to remove that print on the wall that worried her so and restore it to it’s sacred place at the Guggenheim museum. We could have created a story that would have delighted us both and strengthened our bond.  We would have been pals again.

(You can learn more about TimeSlips and making meaningful connections through imagination at timeslips.org)