9-11 The Day the Earth Stood Still

Laughing Again

Since 2010, when I was first certified as a Laughter Yoga leader, attended "Can Humor Save the World" in Cape May, New Jersey, and started down the path of learning the importance of enhancing one's well being through humor and laughter, I am often drawn back to the events of 9-11-2001. 

Life would never be the same, and many of us wondered if we could ever laugh again—physically, emotionally, spiritually. There were unsuccessful attempts met with condemnations of "too soon." The equation that comedy = tragedy + time didn't tell us how much time. Mel Brooks often challenged others' interpretations of that, successfully facing it head on with movies such as both versions of "The Producers."

We know from many survivors of horror, such as Viktor Frankl, and the clowns who entertain children in Middle East war zones and other places, humor, even "gallows humor," often has a place in the midst of unimaginable situations.

Next April, The Association for Applied & Therapeutic Humor will center its whole conference on the very idea of "too soon." I'm sure part of the discussions with be the Comedy Equation, and how the "time" factor must remain an unsolvable variable that will require many other calculations to glean.

As the anniversary of 9-11 approaches, I look back again on what I wrote that year, doing my best to assure myself and others, that, yes, we would laugh again. That in fact, laughter is a necessary part of healing.

We Will Laugh Again

©Noreen Braman

As I write this, October 2001 is spreading the golden crown of fall across most of America. A sense of change is in the air, as nature prepares herself for the long restful sleep of winter.  And, deep within us, there is change too – not a seasonal change brought about by nature, but a violent upheaval that reverberates to the innermost depths of the soul. Our hearts have been slashed open by an insidious foe hiding behind a cowardly mask of self-serving ideology. Our pain is so great, we know we have been changed forever, and in our grief, in our mourning, in our righteous anger comes the feeling that we will never smile again. Indeed those of us who have survived these horrific events, those of us who can hold our loved ones to our breasts are burdened by an overwhelming sense of guilt and a helplessness that is almost paralyzing.

But we have been asked to get back to business. We have been asked to prove that our way of life here in America is not something that can be snuffed out by those who place no value on life, have no sense of honor and seek only to destroy all who cannot feed into their megalomania. Indeed, they are depending on the very things that make us American ­– our compassion, our openness, our hands that we extend in friendship to those who love and hate us — to let them get to us, hurt us, kill us. But those hands have now closed into fists of anger and frustration, those hands have grasped the tools of rescue and rebuilding, those hands have raised the flag of freedom and justice, and those hands are reaching across the globe, to find the cowards where they hide, to drag them out into the light of day, where no evil thing can live. And slowly, yes, slowly, our tears will dry. Our faces will wear the grim visages of determination; our eyes will focus on the task ahead. As one, we will rise like the Phoenix from the ashes, stronger and fiercer. And when the dust, dirt, debris and blood of the battle clears – we will stand, united and free still.

And yes, as time goes by, we will smile again, we will laugh again. The United States, the nation blessed and charged with standing as the shining example for all, will go on.  But we shall never forget.

A poem in honor of baseball season

The D Sign

When my coach flashes the D sign
my pitching arm better be warm
and ready to retire the side
3 up, 3 down.
Not to get battered
pitching into disaster
my rotator cuff on fire.

Or, stepping up to the plate
the D sign means
don't think about my average
just face down the fastball.
Out of the park
or hard bounce in the infield
whatever brings the run home.

Getting the D sign is serious
strikeouts or homeruns expected.
That's what happens 
when you make the choice
to compete as a
D-signer.

©2018 Noreen Braman

Mediators Learn to Live on the Smile Side of Life

INDEPENDENCE DAY 2018 - John Adams and Erma Bomeck

This time of year, I think about my favorite Broadway play, 1776. The music is wonderful, the story well-presented, and perhaps, the fact that I first saw it back when I was an idealistic teenager has something to do with my affection for it.

I could not help but be caught up in the portrayal of John Adams as an annoying buzzing fly (among the other annoying buzzing files in Philadelphia) who doesn't give up on his vision of what a new country, the United States of America, could become — if only his compatriots could see what he saw.

I still get goosebumps just thinking about the roll call at the end and how they all end up frozen in place, to match the famous painting. Yes, the music, the bells, the humor — it accomplishes the whole point of leaving the audience with swelling pride. But also, in some respects, an underlying current of sorrow. Sadness, perhaps, for the distance between aspiration and accomplishment that still exists.

The history of the US is full of bright lights and dark caverns. We have, at times, been the beacon of hope for the world, and at other times lost our way in the shadows. It is a history we must pay attention to, in order to keep the light burning bright, while acknowledging the darkness and keeping it at bay.

This year, I worry, more than I ever have, about the soul of the United States. Our collective minds debate daily what should be the future path, and our hearts are pendulums that traverse from stone-cold indifference to tearful empathy. But our souls seem the most fragile and endangered. At times we seem to teeter on the edge of losing them forever, either through willful abandonment or the sweep of powerful tidal forces.

Dante posted a sign at the gates of Hell, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." 

Yet, Pandora found that hope could still exist, even in the face of overwhelming tribulations. 

My wish for the US on this Independence Day, is that we choose the path where hope is still the beacon we shine to the world.

1776: Is Anybody There? 

Adams:
Is anybody there?
Does anybody care?
Does anybody see what I see?
They want to me to quit; they say
John, give up the fight
Still to England I say
Good night, forever, good night!
For I have crossed the Rubicon
Let the bridge be burned behind me
Come what may, come what may
Commitment!
The croakers all say we'll rue the day
There'll be hell to pay in fiery purgatory
Through all the gloom, through all the gloom
I can see the rays of ravishing light and glory!
Is anybody there? Does anybody care?
Does anybody see what I see?
I see fireworks! I see the pagaent and
Pomp and parade
I hear the bells ringing out
I hear the cannons roar
I see Americans - all Americans
Free forever more
How quiet, how quiet the chamber is
How silent, how silent the chamber is
Is anybody there? Does anybody care?
Does anybody see what I see?


Words from Erma Bombeck:

Two Tales of Dunkin' Donuts

Today, I read a story in The Outline, by Laura Yan, who decided to spend 24 hours in her neighborhood Dunkin' Donuts - a Brooklyn neighborhood not far from the neighborhood where I spent my early childhood. It also reminded me of my own Dunkin' Donuts poem - a poem that was once published on the website of a popular NPR show that is no longer with us. A poem I can hardly believe I wrote 18 years ago! So, I am sharing it here again, as well as the link to the Brooklyn story.

An unfortunate demolition of the driveup menu from 2007.

Opening Night at the Jamesburg Dunkin Donuts

“We’ve been crushed all day,” says the man behind the counter

who unlike the other workers, wears a crisp, embroidered, denim shirt,

denoting his position as a higher authority, maybe even the franchise owner.

All day long they’ve been doling out coffee, doughnuts and ice cream

like Atlantic City card dealers — here’s your hand, let me scoop up your money.

By 8 PM, the stock is depleted, not a chocolate doughnut in sight

but the ice cream counter can make up for that

even though the night is unseasonably chilly for June

big dollops of mint chocolate chip tantalize the lips of customers

some who stay to revel in the clean newness,

sitting at the burgundy tables, scraping the floor with the heavy wooden chairs,

leaving chocolate sprinkles, doughnut crumbs in their wake.

A huge van equipped for cross-country travel tries to park outside the window

back and forth it goes trying to fit, while the children inside

illegally unrestrained, press their faces against the window.

Finally they are in the space and the door slides open

and out bounds Dad with three in tow — pale blondes,

one for each hand, and one to hold his shirt tail.

Inside he picks up the youngest and stands him on the counter, leaning far over

to see what doughnuts are left.

Hidden behind the line of coffee drinkers, soda buyers and ice cream lickers,

the other two children discover the freezer and it’s all too easy to open the door.

Inside, a wonderland of ice cream cakes, complete with sparkling trims

little plastic graduation hats, diplomas and glitter.

It seems perfectly logical to help daddy out and bring him the cake

and they drag it by the box until the corners give out

and the ice cream cake with its chocolate top

and frozen roses and crunchy bottom

rolls out of the box and onto the floor,

in front of amused coffee drinkers who have no idea that the cake is real.

And daddy, who notices at last, shoves the mutilated frozen treat

back into the box, and back into the freezer,

and quickly departs with his  purchases, and his three little blondes,

two of whom seem confused that they have no ice cream.

Finally some one asks, are those real cakes, or just displays,

and finding out they are indeed consumable,

tells the tale of the upside down cake —

which is immediately removed by the teenage girls

who dish out the ice cream in their white shirts and hats

and the glitter is swept up and the melted ice cream mopped up

as the dealers at the counter don’t miss a beat

pouring the coffee, wrapping the donuts, collecting the money,

smiling and hoping this crush of business

continues after opening night.

©2000 Noreen Braman

24 Hours At My Local Dunkin' Donuts

Home page of The Outline 


 

The Whole World is Watching. 1968 - 2018