Taking the Plunge

"Our fears are only what we tell them to be..." ~ Norah Jones, "Young Blood"

I did something different-something very unexpected-this past Memorial Day weekend: I went skydiving! Yes, you read that correctly. I, neurotic, fearful, comfort-zone entrenched Jeanie, decided to do something that really scared me (I'm acrophobic), jumping (literally!) out of my comfort zone and into a new chapter of my life...one in which I refuse to shrink back in fear.

It all started last fall when a high-school friend posted news of her 30th-birthday skydive with WNY Skydiving in Akron, N.Y. I commented on her post that I was jealous but excited for her. Having surprised myself a month earlier by spontaneously trying Darien Lake's Skycoaster, a bungee jumping thrill ride that lifts and drops passengers 180 feet at 60 mph, I began thinking that maybe I should tackle skydiving as the next logical progression (if there is one) out of comfort-zone stagnation. 

I continued thinking about it as fall moved into winter and then (slowly) into spring (and back again), giving myself plenty of time to change my mind. Surprisingly (to me), I didn't. When April arrived, the crazy idea was still firmly lodged in my mind, so I went ahead and scheduled my jump for the weekend before my birthday, after deciding that skydiving on my actual birthday would leave me too anxious to actually enjoy my birthday. Instead, I could welcome my birthday with the pride of knowing that I had done something that truly challenged and amazed myself this year, something I had never thought I would (or could) ever do. It was time to show myself what I was made of.

I awoke 10 minutes before my alarm pealed on jump day, already flooded with a rush of adrenaline as I hurried out of bed and got ready to leave. By 7:15 a.m., I was in my car, MapQuest-ed directions in hand, with U2 blaring on my stereo for additional inspiration. Approximately 30 minutes later, I arrived at the airport and was underwhelmed (to say the least) when a lengthy walk led me to the shed that served as headquarters for the skydiving facility to which I was entrusting my life. 

I tried to stay (relatively) calm and open-minded, though, as I sat in one of the white plastic lawn chairs arranged around a TV set and waited for the other brave (or crazy) 8 a.m. jumping-group members to arrive. Eventually, eight other jumpers and their supporters trickled into the shed and into the plastic chairs to watch a brief skydiving video and subsequently sign our lives away (literally!) by initialing several pages of paperwork that stated in several different ways that we could not sue in the event of injury, and in the event of our deaths...well, our families could not sue. Once the paperwork was completed, a few of the instructors came in and taught us the tandem-jump basics, focusing on proper jumping form (arms crossed over the chest, chin and bent legs up, with pointed feet) and adding a few dos and don'ts.

In the midst of it, as I stood shaking from a mixture of cold (it was approximately 50 degrees) and fear, I was gripped by a feeling of disbelief...that I was there in the first place, but even more that I was less than an hour away from jumping out of an airplane. And, the truth is, the training made me feel more anxious than relaxed. There was so much to learn, so many important rules to follow. Despite my long-ingrained obedience, I feared that I wouldn't be able to remember anything when it was go-time.

It really was too late to run once the owner/operator/instructor handed me a black one-piece jumpsuit and strapped me, very tightly, into it. Since I was the first to arrive that morning, I was also the first to go up, which was both beneficial (I didn't want to spend any more time sitting around psyching myself out) and scary (was I really ready to do this?). The airplane ride itself was one of the most enjoyable aspects of the day. My instructor pointed out the mist of Niagara Falls, downtown Buffalo, Toronto, Batavia, and Darien Lake, and it seemed a shame to interrupt a spectacular plane ride by jumping out of it (possibly to my death, I thought).

"Okay, you can take off your seat belt now," my instructor yelled to me over the plane's engine.

 "Do I have to?" I responded. I was having serious second thoughts now (as I knew I would). 

"Yeah, it's easier that way," he answered. (We might or might not have been joking. It's a toss-up either way.)

I knew it was too late to back out (and I knew I wouldn't), but honestly I no longer wanted to do this. The fear that I'd tried to suppress came creeping to the surface, threatening to take control of me. My instructor made the final preparations, strapping us together, hip to hip, and assuring me that from that point forward whatever happened to me would happen to him (and he was going home to his wife and son that evening, he informed me), and too quickly the door opened and we each stood poised with one foot hanging out and one still safely inside (not too late to retreat back to safety). 

Then we were out. And, along with my body, everything else, all my pre-jump training, any logical thought, also went out that window. Panic set in, but I couldn't scream. The wind was so strong and so cold that it took my breath. So there I was dropping through space, thinking that if the fall didn't kill me, the inability to breathe would. Once we started descending, I caught my breath and released a few satisfying screams as the parachute deployed and yanked us back up where we'd been. I felt my instructor tap on my shoulder a few times and vaguely remembered that it had some meaning that was explained during the training session. Finally, I remembered I could uncross my arms and extend them outward in flying position (like a bird...or Superman!).

On the way down, the instructor released a pair of toggles and showed me how to steer us to the right or left or around in circles. "Can we go down now?" I whined. (Not cool, Jeanie. Not cool at all...) And, not unexpectedly, the closer I came to landing, the more I relaxed and began to enjoy the sensation of flying. That and the plane ride were the best parts, with the initial jump out of the plane serving as the nightmare bookended between sleeping and waking. Back on the ground (at last!), I felt enormous gratitude and relief.

  
So...what did I think of the whole experience? What was the jump like? I was asked many times afterward. I thought I was going to die! It was, in some ways, both the worst feeling and the best feeling imaginable to jump into and hover above nothingness. It's like the biggest, baddest, scariest roller-coaster ride imaginable times a million, in terms of intensity, fear factor, and death defiance. Unlike the roller coaster, however, there's no lap bar, no car, and no seat belt holding you in, giving you the illusion of safety. There are no restraints.

The Women: Then and Now

I've had conflicted thoughts and feelings about the 1939 film The Women since watching it for the first time last weekend. 

While I'd love to say that the attitudes and roles of women depicted in it are dated, with the prevalence and (to me) inexplicable popularity of reality-TV programs like "Real Housewives" (of Atlanta, Beverly Hills, New Jersey, New York, Siberia, Timbuktu, etc.), "Basketball Wives," and "Hollywood Exes" crowding the airwaves, it seems the more things change, the more they don't. Whether it's 1939 or 2013, some women clearly believe that their power and identity are tied to their husbands' (or ex-husbands', in many cases) titles and salaries. The married socialite is alive and well and on full display in both the 1939 film and in these shows aired within the past five years. 

The Women, which was written by women, first as a play and then as a screenplay, takes an often-comic but occasionally poignant look at the ugly truth, including infidelity, abuse, disappointments, and boredom within the marriages of high-society wives without ever showing a man onscreen. But the women's lives are consumed by their relationships with men, including the unmarried shopgirl, played by Joan Crawford, who is romantically entangled with the husband of the main character, played by Norma Shearer.

The tagline tells the story of The Women.

The women are inevitably referred to as Mrs. (insert husband's name), just as the women in today's reality-TV shows are known more as (insert celebrity's name)'s wife or ex-wife than by their own names or accomplishments. It seems they would prefer the blissful ignorance of a facade that allows them to have money and prestige and their comfortable lives rather than risk shaking the status quo for an ultimately more rewarding, truthful existence and an unshakable personal identity.

To me, it's sad. Not pathetic, but sad. As women we have so many opportunities, personally and professionally, that those women in 1939 did not have or were only beginning to have.So why behave as if we don't? Why believe that you need marriage to an unfaithful or abusive but wealthy husband to be someone important? How about carving your identity based on who you are and on your strengths, talents, abilities, and hard work rather than someone else's?

And while we're on the subject of infidelity, far too often (again, doesn't matter if it's 1939 or 2013, the same apparently holds true) women are blamed when their husbands "wander." They blame themselves and they are blamed by others as if they did something wrong to cause the infidelity, crushing their self-esteem and wreaking havoc on their identities. (Prominent narrow-minded dolts like Pat Robertson of "700 Club" fame who publicly proclaim this to be so only reinforce this destructive belief. <http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/video/pat-robertson-cheating-comments-males-tendency-wander-19200017>)*

How about putting the blame squarely where it belongs on the wanderers themselves rather than excusing selfish marriage-destroying behavior?

 ______________________________________________________________________

*Sincere apologies for the preceding Viagra ad, which, considering the video's content, is in bad taste yet amusingly complementary.

Beauty in our Blemishes

Photo by Mark Gutman/Daily News

Last week, I had the pleasure of hearing (and seeing) David Kaczynski, brother of the notorious "Unabomber," Ted Kaczynski, speak during an event promoting awareness of the challenging effects of mental illness on families. 

I was impressed and very moved by his quiet dignity, his strength of character, and, most of all, his brave, compassionate willingness to share his (and, by extension, his family's) story. He didn't have to, and as he explained, while recalling his memories of growing up with and later growing apart from his brother, his and his wife's growing, gnawing suspicion that his older brother, whom he loved and once admired, might be a terrorist whose violent actions caused multiple fatalities, he hoped he and his family would remain anonymous after his brother's arrest. 

But that was not to be. In an era where it seems every attention-seeker is allowed (at least) 15 minutes of fame, he seeks no fame for himself. Instead, he lives a quiet life with his wife as the executive director of a Buddhist monastery in Woodstock, N.Y., seeking long-awaited peace. His willingness to tell his story is motivated by his desire to help others understand those with mental illness (who, he emphasized, are often, unlike his brother, nonviolent) and enable them to get the treatment that his brother desperately needed but, unfortunately, did not receive. 

Hearing his story made me realize that every one of us has a story to tell. And when we find the courage and strength to tell it, no matter how personal and painful, we can heal and, hopefully, help others find healing through it. 

His story has done that. As one notable example, he has bonded with Bill Babbitt, a man who faced the same gut-wrenching decision to turn in his violent, mentally-ill brother to police after realizing he had killed an elderly woman, in an effort to protect other innocent people from his destructive reach. Babbitt, who contacted him following Ted Kaczynski's arrest, knew that this man understood his anguish. In a beautiful, though perhaps not surprising, display of cosmic justice, the two men have become like brothers. The pain of losing their biological brothers, of course, has not been extinguished, but in this bond they've found solace. 

 When we choose to make ourselves vulnerable enough to tell our stories (warts and all), there is a reward for ourselves and for others who hear our stories. There is liberation, peace, power, and healing. There is beauty in our blemishes.

Justice

 "No jury will convict me, and you can mark my words on that."

~ Jodi Arias, "Inside Edition" interview

I'd be remiss (after posting more than once on the subject) if I didn't address my final thoughts regarding yesterday's long-awaited (for me, at least) verdict in the Jodi Arias murder trial. Guilty of first-degree murder (yay!) was a no-brainer verdict for most of us who followed this seemingly never-ending chaotic courtroom extravaganza since January, but not one that I took for granted after witnessing shocking televised not-guilty verdicts in similar high-profile circus-like murder trials for O.J. Simpson in 1995 and Casey Anthony in 2011 (both of which displayed the power a slick defense team can wield over a jury). 

I felt more emotional than I expected upon hearing the verdict (and, indeed, held my breath until it was read) and seeing the accompanying cheers (from the huge group of onlookers gathered outside the courthouse) and tears (from Travis Alexander's family), all dutifully televised by HLN (which has followed the countless twists and turns of this case as faithfully as an old dog follows its owner). Justice is capable of provoking that kind of emotion, even from random looky-loos, like me, with no personal stake in the trial or its outcome.

Jodi Arias reacts to her guilty verdict (ABC News)

The jurors got it right. They stayed focused in the midst of what became an outrageous X-rated four-month freak show. They weren't distracted or deterred from rendering a fair verdict by the defendant's pathological lies (delivered directly to them from the stand for approximately two weeks). They didn't buy into the defense's unjustified claims of self-defensive murder, domestic violence, PTSD, dissociative amnesia, and pedophilia. They didn't accept the decidedly inexpert testimony of domestic-violence expert Alyce LaViolette and Jodi's not-so-secret admirer, psychologist Richard Samuels (apparently swayed by the pretty sociopath's manipulation). They saw the truth, buried,  though it was, beneath a trash heap of lies, personal agendas, psychological mumbo-jumbo, and shameless assassination of Travis Alexander's character.

Despite the verdict, the trial isn't over yet. It's moving into the sentencing phase, starting today, which will determine whether Jodi Arias is granted the death penalty that she reportedly wants. Whatever the result, my wish is that Travis Alexander's family will find healing and peace, if they haven't already. I hope that somewhere someone has learned enough from this tragedy to avoid or end a toxic relationship before it results in bloodshed. And I hope our collective belief in justice, though tarnished by previous American courtroom injustices, is bolstered by this just ruling. I know mine is.

A New Feminist View

Reading Gloria Steinem's essays and articles and watching documentaries on the women's right movement during the past few months has changed the way I think about feminism, as well as the current and former roles of women in the United States. 

I'm sorry to say that although I've always wanted the same opportunities available to any man, and believed that all women should have them, I had never, until the ripe age of 30, really understood feminism  or known the long struggle that brave women have endured to attain greater equality.

Now that I've had my eyes opened to the full reality of the women's movement, it's very difficult for me to watch old TV programs and films that I once enjoyed, like "I Love Lucy," for example, without critically analyzing how women are portrayed (or portray themselves) to viewers and treated by their onscreen counterparts. 

Looking at this show from a feminist perspective (as many feminists have), Lucy Ricardo is constantly trying to break out of her stifling, unsatisfying role as a housewife (and later as a stay-at-home mom), but is always blocked by her traditionally-minded husband Ricky, who wants her to stay home, clean the house, cook his meals, and, in a nutshell, behave herself. 

Her outright refusal to obediently stay home and be just a housewife naturally lands her in hot water in nearly every episode. She wants to be a showbiz star (or, really, anything other than just a housewife), while her husband basically confines her to their home, treating her like an authoritative father would behave towards a rebellious, irresponsible child instead of viewing her as his wife and equal partner. She has no income of her own (Ricky sometimes gives her an allowance...again, evidence that their relationship is more characteristic of parent and child than marriage partners), and her attempts to earn her own money always result in utter disaster. In essence, she has no life apart from him, few rights or privileges, and little freedom, by his design.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nx6BsYIvU4

 

 A clip from the "Equal Rights" episode of "I Love Lucy"

(Funny, yes, but also sad)

Was that all part of the 1950s landscape for most marriages in this country? Perhaps, though Lucille Ball (who played Lucy Ricardo) was an indisputably intelligent, powerful, influential, talented woman and performer (pretty much the polar opposite of her flaky onscreen character).

I'm glad  female roles have changed and will continue to evolve throughout the 21st Century. We (I'm including myself as a newly awakened feminist...better late than never, I always say) might not be where we want to be (or should be) in terms of equality with men, but if we keep questioning the status quo, challenging norms, and fighting inequality, we will get there eventually. And, in the meantime, we can celebrate the amazing opportunities, once unthinkable and unreachable, that we've earned through the unyielding force of those efforts.