Jonathan P. Baird

When I was recently in Olympia Washington visiting family, I spent a rainy Saturday cruising the used bookstores there. I did want to mention Last Word Books and Browsers’ Book Shop. They are both good.

When I was at Last Word, I came across and purchased a wonderful book of collected poems by Thomas McGrath titled The Movie at the End of the World. While McGrath is well known to poetry lovers, he is not well known to the general public.

McGrath (1916-1990) was from North Dakota, a farmer’s son. He had various nicknames including Dream Champ, Tommie the Commie, Crazy Horse, Peasant Poet, Longshot O’Leary, and Tom Fool. He is best known for an epic poem Letter to an Imaginary Friend. I have not seen it but there is a documentary available from Amazon about McGrath also with the title The Movie at the End of the World.

I have barely scratched the surface of his work but I wanted to share some of his poems i liked best. I would encourage all who read this to check him out. He was an absolutely fearless American original.

Left Town

On Monday he died.
A few heard of it and were shocked but not surprised.

On Tuesday
A newspaper noted his passing.

On Wednesday
There was a small service and some people came.

On Friday
They buried or burned him at the beginning of a long weekend.

On Saturday
They went to the beach, doped, drank, fornicated, had a “good
time.”

On Sunday
With headaches, a few went to a bar and one remembered a line
of a poem.

He would have understood perfectly the “human condition.”

______________________________

How could I have come so far?
(And always on such dark trails!)
I must have travelled by the light
Shining from the faces of all those I have loved.

______________________________

My dead father comes back
In the shape of my little son.
And I sing him to sleep with his songs
Still in my own child’s ear.

_____________________________

O’Leary’s Last Wish:
In Case the Revolution Should Fail

I want to be buried in Arlington Cemetery,
Somewhere at the patriotic center of the American Death,
With my bones full of the sleepy dynamite of the class struggle
And the time-bomb of the century under my private’s shirt.

I want to lie there and tick like a pulse among the defunct
Heroes, the quiet deserters of their own body and blood-
The ones who stood on expensive roads in the total shell fire of money
Being cut off at the balls for their own and the public good.

I’ll be there, the anti-bourgeois neutrino of the irreconcilable
                                                         proletariat,
Among the tame terrene charges of those patriotic stiffs.
Contra-Destiny Factors ring midnight, but there’s no gold in their
                                                       veins;
Cock crow chimes thrice. Reveille. No one is stirring yet

But under the ghost-overgrown honortabs to the wars,
The real estate and spirit-money my fellow-death-workers have won,
Is the Word of the Four Last Things of the Working Class, the rumored
Revolution of the Dead which Heaven, and the Boss, want put down.

Nevertheless, I’m still here, hell’s partisan, with my anti-god bomb,
Agitating toward the day when these stony dead
Shall storm up out of the ground in their chalky battalions
To judge wars, Presidents, Fates, God and His Own Elect.

___________________________

Gone Away Blues

Sirs, when you are in your last extremity,
When your admirals are drowning in the grass-green sea,
When your generals are preparing the total catastrophe-
I just want you to know how you can not count on me.

      I have ridden to hounds through my ancestral halls,
      I have picked the eternal crocus on the ultimate hill,
      I have fallen through the window of the highest room,
      But don’t ask me to help you ’cause I never will.

Sirs, when you move that map-pin how many souls must dance?
I don’t think all those soldiers have died by happenstance.
The inscrutable look on your scrutable face I can read at a glance-
And I’m cutting out of here at the first chance.

      I have been wounded climbing the second stair,
      I have crossed the ocean in the hull of a live wire,
      I have eaten the asphodel of the dark side of the moon,
      But you can call me all day and I just won’t hear.

O patriotic mister with your big ear to the ground,
Sweet old curly scientist wiring the birds for sound,
O lady with the Steuben glass heart and your heels so rich and round-
I’ll send you a picture postcard from somewhere I can’t be found.

      I have discovered the grammar of the Public Good,
      I have invented a language that can be understood,
      I have found the map of where the body is hid,
      And I won’t be caught dead in your neighborhood.

O hygienic inventer of the bomb that’s so clean,
O lily white Senator from East Turnip Green,
O celestial mechanic of the money machine-
I’m going someplace where nobody makes your scene.

Good-by, good-by, good-by
Adios, au ‘voir, so long,
Sayonara,  dosvedanya,  ciao,
By-by, by-by, by-by.

____________________________

Invitation
Fargo-Moorhead, about 1980

Friends, I am old and poor.
The ones who lived in my house have gone out into the world.
My dogs are all dead and the bones of my horses
Whiten the hillsides.

All my books are forgotten.
My poems
Are asleep, though they dream in many languages.
The ones I love are carrying the Revolution
In far away places.

This little house has few comforts- but it is yours.
Come and see me here-
I’ve got plenty of time and love!

I have found most discussion of Michael Vick and his crimes to be superficial and boringly predictable. There are those who feel that Vick’s crimes were so evil that he is beyond forgiveness. Witness Tucker Carlson from Fox News. Carlson did not want longer imprisonment. He publicly favored executing Vick. Even by the debased standards of cable news, this was ridiculous and off the charts.

Then there are those who feel Vick paid his price and deserves a second chance. I would say the majority of sports commentators feel this way. I saw Jimmy Johnson say this on a Fox Sunday pregame show. Tony Dungy also has voiced the same sentiments.

Vick served 18 months at Leavenworth in federal prison. He filed bankruptcy and he is in the process of paying back creditors over $20 million. Vick lost all his previous endorsements. His reputation was absolutely in tatters. He was widely reviled as a monster for running a dog fighting ring for profit. He oversaw the torture and execution of dogs.

When Vick pled guilty, he appeared before U.S. District Court Judge Henry Hudson. Hudson asked, “Are you entering the plea of guilty to a conspiracy charge because you are in fact guilty?”

Vick replied “Yes sir. I totally ask for forgiveness and understanding. I take full responsibility for my actions. I made a mistake in using bad judgment and making bad decisions. Dogfighting is a terrible thing.”

Since he got out of prison, Vick has been a virtual model citizen. When he has not been playing football, he has been a spokesman for the Humane Society’s End Dogfighting campaign. He has spoken to numerous audiences of inner city young people across the country with this message. “Don’t be like me. Don’t follow the rest of the crowd. Exercise good judgment. Be a compassionate person.” After his talks, he has typically stayed around for discussion sessions with the young people.

Since August 2009, Vick has spoken to audiences in Atlanta (Aug 8,2009), Chicago (Aug 12,2009), Philadelphia (Sept 8,2009), Washington DC (Sept 29,2009), Philadelphia (Oct 13,2009), Newport News (Dec 1,2009), Newark (Dec 1,2009), Philadelphia (Jan 26,2010), Miami (Feb 8,2010), Durham (Feb 26,2010), Chicago (Mar 26,2010), Baltimore (May 6,2010), Philadelphia (Sept 28,2010) and New Haven (Nov 23,2010).

For the last year or two, Vick has probably done more than anyone to raise public awareness about the evils of dogfighting. I think this is because he was a dog torturer. This reminds me of one analagous former perpetrator. A couple months ago, i read a book Autobiography of a Recovering Skinhead by Frank Meeink. The writer, who grew up in Philadelphia, became a prominent neo-Nazi in his teen years.He changed too and he became a spokesman for the Anti-Defamation League. Sometimes, the people closest to an evil can speak most authoritatively to that evil.

I would ask the Vick haters: what more could he do? How many times should an individual be punished after he has served his time, lost everything etc.?

I think the truth is that for some people there is nothing he could to redeem himself. I find this unforgiving perspective disturbing. When an individual rehabilitates himself that is a cause for celebration. Vick is a rehabilitation model for all offenders.

I do see the Vick case connecting to a deeper context. In the last 30 years, the prison population in the United States has increased in staggering fashion from 300,000 to over 2 million inmates. The deeper context of the Vick case has to do with attitude toward offenders and ex-offenders.

The vindictive unforgiving attitude is based on dehumanization of prisoners. In all the public discussion about Vick, i only saw one commentator who nailed this and that was Dave Zirin, the sportswriter. With thousands of ex-offenders returning to society, the deeper question is : will they get a genuine second chance or will they be written off?

I wanted to mention a very strong book that seriously affected my view of these issues. The book is The New Jim Crow by Ohio State law professor Michelle Alexander. In her book, Alexander focuses on the mass incarceration that has occurred over the last 30 years, especially its racial dimension. Alexander points out that the United States imprisons a larger percentage of its black population than South Africa did at the height of apartheid. No other country imprisons so many of its racial or ethnic minorities.

I will write more about Alexander’s book but I did want to mention it in connection with the Vick case. Giving offenders a second chance is generally the humane thing to do and it is imperative so that ex-offenders have an opportunity to contribute to society in a positive way. I was glad to see President Obama weigh in regarding Vick and I totally supported his comments. He did see the deeper issue. As quoted by Peter King of Sports Illustrated:

“The president wanted to talk about two things, but the first was Michael, Lurie (Philadelphia Eagles owner) told me. He said, “So many people who serve time never get a fair second chance. He was passionate about it. He said it’s never a level playing field for prisoners when they get out of jail. And he was happy that we did something on such a national stage that showed our faith in giving someone a second chance after such a major downfall.”

Demonizing ex-offenders and adding punishments after they have served their time is stupid. The potential for good and bad resides in all of us. Thoughtful social policy should allow the opportunity for the good in people to emerge. Mike Vick is a perfect example.

Eulogy for Deena Baird  1925-2010
Delivered at her funeral at Roosevelt Memorial Park, Trevose, Pa
December 14, 2010

After the loss of my dad and Lise in 2009, it is hard to fathom losing my mom too. My mom was always there for me, especially after Dad and Lise died. From my earliest memories, she was an absolutely loving and caring presence devoted to her family. Over the last year or so, we talked at least twice daily, even if briefly. Unlike her daughter, Mom was not much of a phone talker.

She and Dad modeled the value of family and not in some phony way. My mom was a straightshooter with an acerbic wit and a dark sensibility. She and my dad were actually quite the contrast. My dad was ever the optimist, even when not necessarily justified. She, on the other hand, was more pessimistic and had an acute appreciation of the dark side of life. They complimented each other.

I do have a lifetime of memories and I did want to share a few that would highlight my mom and her sensibility. It is probably silly to bring up this example but I will.  Mom loved sports and she was a diehard Phillies and Eagles fan. For years, Mom, Dad and I argued over the merits of Donovan McNabb as a quarterback.  Mom hated Donovan. Dad and i were more forgiving and, I think, balanced. To Mom, Donovan was the guy who threw up in the Super Bowl. She cut him no slack.

Mom had x-ray vision and a low tolerance for, pardon the expression, bullshit. I would note that she taught me how to swear, a talent she passed on to others as well. She could hold her own in that department, especially when driving.

She and Dad suffered through prolonged humiliating and depressing reversals of fortune. They felt dropped and rejected by people who they previously considered their friends. Dad battled for years in the face of declining health and never got out from under.  Mom handled it with grace and dignity. She always stood by Dad even in his darkest hours and he had some very dark hours. I respected her loyalty and her steadfastness. I think the experience made her more compassionate and empathetic to people who were down and out.

Mom was fundamentally a caretaker. Her life was about caring for her husband and her children. She and Dad had almost 60 years together, a remarkable span. I think there is a powerful message there about the value of devotion. When I look at the old pictures of Mom and Dad, they do look like movie stars. I am certainly not the first to say that. Mom was a beautiful woman. She was glamorous.

Mom was also a foodie. She was artistic and she had a unique skill in not just preparing delicious meals but in doing it with aesthetic flair and a sense of presentation. Anyone who sat down to a meal prepared by my mom was lucky. I won’t even go into her struedel. When I returned to Philly, Mom always prepared my favorite dishes. That was so typical.

While Mom was a product of pre-feminism, her politics were not conventional. She was a badass and a lifelong Democrat. Harry Keiser, her mom Molly Keiser’s second husband, used to call her “the Russian”.  That was a joke but Mom was very liberal. She was strongly pro-choice. She loved Obama from after the Pennsylvania primary and defended him against my criticisms just last week.

Mom and Dad attended the huge Washington Moratorium march against the war in Vietnam in 1969. Lise and I always found it hysterical that the Baldwin School thought our parents were hippies. Whatever they were, Mom and Dad were not hippies and it seems beyond ridiculous that they could be pegged that way.

Mom and Dad loved the shore, especially their place at the Longport Seaview in Longport, NJ. As a family, we shared many wonderful times there. Mom loved the beach and bike riding on the boardwalk. Mom prided herself on frequently pedaling the entire length of the Atlantic City boardwalk, back and forth. That was 22 miles.

She and Dad used to fish both deep sea and in the bay near Margate NJ when Dad owned his boat Any Old Rags. I remember when Mom hooked a giant skate that she fought for what seemed like hours. Many surrounding boats in the bay watched as my mom surfaced the skate which turned out to be far bigger than our boat. My dad ultimately had to cut the line.

After Dad died, it was like the light in her life went out. Mom was stoic and self-effacing but watching Lise die may have been too much. Mom was and had been severely depressed. She drank more vodka and less water. I do not think she was happy about it when her doctors made her shelve drinking. Pep talks did not help too much.

I remain somewhat mystified at the avalanche of her health problems. Up until the last four months or so, Mom was completely functional. She was always mentally sharp.

Sometimes life can be unbearable. Mom derived great purpose from caretaking Dad and then Lise. Without Dad and Lise, I do think she felt purposeless although she never stopped caring for those around her especially my Aunt Arline and her grandchildren, whom she adored.

I was blessed to have a mom like Deena Baird. I have tremendous pride in both my parents. They knew how to live and I think they lived it up. They pointed the way in many good directions and I admire their example of living with zest and passion, even in the face of tough times.

Finally, i want to thank my brother Rob who stepped up and cared for Mom especially through this last period. I also want to thank Ben, Andy, and David Keiser for their support for Mom.

Mom, I will miss you enormously for as long as I live.

Sometimes music is the only thing that can make you feel better. The last election was a downer of major proportions. I am writing to recommend a listen to John Legend and the Roots new album “Wake Up”. It made me feel better.

There are times when music can capture a period.  This album is like that. The first song Hard Times could not be more timely. While the album is almost entirely a collection of covers, Wake Up is anything but outdated, boring or rehash. I have enjoyed repeat listening. It is addictive.

I should say that I have been a John Legend fan since his first album “Get Lifted”. I loved a number of the songs on that album. It Don’t have to Change evoked love of family and his roots. Stay With You is a very romantic, melodic song. I also liked Alright which shows Legend’s bad boy side.

The new album features some classics. The title track Wake Up Everybody is the great Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes song. Legend and the Roots do it justice. Legend also sings Ghetto Boy, the song made famous by the late great Donny Hathaway. I could not imagine that Legend and the Roots could get close to the Hathaway version but I have to say it is worthy.

I want to mention Shine, the only new song on the album. Hard not to love that song too. So positive and for the people.

Go out and get the CD. You will not be disappointed.

After living in New Hampshire for 28 years, I moved to Anchorage, Alaska, last May. I had one question that I wanted answered: Does Alaska have snow days? Based on my own informal poll, the consensus answer is “no.” Snow is business as usual.
As we head toward winter, it is the light, or lack of light, that is the big adjustment. It has been dark until almost 10 a.m., and every day we lose five or six minutes of sunlight. The season switch is fast flipping from fall to winter.
I am what Alaskans call a cheechako – a newcomer. That is anybody who has not lived through an Alaskan winter. Long-termers are known as sourdoughs. For a state full of transient people, the ethic of who is a real Alaskan is reminiscent of New Hampshire. I think you have to live here more than a lifetime to be an authentic local. Anything short of that, you are a flatlander equivalent.
When I first arrived, what hit me was the big sky, the vastness of the land and its physical beauty. On a clear day, flying up from Seattle, as you close in on Anchorage, all you can see are mountains beyond snow-capped mountains. While Anchorage is gritty, it is nestled between big water and majestic mountains.
More than any place I have lived, there is a frequent buzz of small plane traffic overhead. One reason people fly so much is that roads are not a given. It is not like the Lower 48, where roads go everywhere. Small planes are a way of life because distance and the lack of roads make flying the only way to go.
This summer I made two trips to Juneau. First time there, I caught a week of perfect sunny weather. Locals call days like that “sucker days.” There is a history of tourists arriving on sunny days and deciding they want to move to Juneau permanently because it is so beautiful. Little do they know that it rains 75 percent of the time.
Still, for those who might contemplate a trip to Juneau, taking the tram up Mount Roberts and hiking on the mountain has to be one of the most visually spectacular experiences in Alaska.
Wherever you are in Alaska, wilder parts are not too far away. There are great hiking trails around Anchorage. I hiked the Powerline trail on the hillside near Anchorage and came upon a large moose parked in the trail. I did not try to walk past. I waited until some other hikers with dogs came along. Then the moose scooted.
The big issue for hikers is not moose – it is bears. When I first got to Anchorage I was surprised by all the ads for bear spray. I have heard a number of conversations on the subject of what type of gun takes down a grizzly.
In Alaska, the bears are an obsession, largely because there are so many. The Alaska Department of Fish and Game estimates 50,000 black bears and 35,000-45,000 brown (grizzly) bears in the state.
Bear stories are a staple of local news. The most recent story I saw involved a hunter near Kodiak. The hunter got off a round from his .375 calibre H&H Magnum rifle before he was charged, bit on the leg and butt, and tossed like a rag doll. The guy’s hunting partner saved him. In the moment when the bear stopped mauling, the hunting partner shot again and killed the bear.
Male grizzlies can weigh up to 1,100 pounds, but it is a big mistake to assume bears will be slow and lumbering. Grizzlies have been clocked at 35 mph.
In September a guy who was fishing in the Kenai area had part of his scalp removed by a grizzly who dragged him about 30 feet. He was also fortunate to survive. The bear let him go.
I do not want to create the impression that maulings happen that often. They do not. I would say, though, that one difference from hiking in New Hampshire is that I never have worried about bear encounters in the White Mountains. The bears are now headed for hibernation as the long dark approaches.
Speaking of the dark, Alaska has no shortage of dark side issues. Homelessness, substance abuse, domestic violence and racism toward Native Alaskans top my list. Considering the dimension of each issue, I find the public discussion here weak. I would call it denial.
During the summer, many homeless people panhandle and beg at street corners all over midtown Anchorage. It had a third-world quality. I have also been surprised how many people are tent camping into the winter. Mix in alcohol, and homeless people freezing to death in the winter has become almost routine. The increase in homelessness appears to me to be outstripping any public response.
Substance abuse, especially alcoholism, is of epic proportions. Excuses abound about the long winter, cabin fever, etc., but the lack of treatment facilities considering the size of the problem is beyond shortsighted. It is irrational, almost a form of throwing in the towel.
Domestic violence is another whopper problem. From my observation, we are not dealing with the world of “he said, she said” threats. Much more often we are talking beatings, strangulation, broken bones and rape. There is a level of brutality that passes as normalcy. The Justice Center of the University of Alaska at Anchorage released an important victimization study this year that was the first statewide study of domestic violence. That was an important step and public acknowledgement.
As for the racism, my impression is that the history of Native Alaskans has much in common with the history of other Native Americans. Conquest, discrimination, loss of land, loss of cultural traditions – these are much the same. I think there is a taboo quality around this history. I do not see much candor or openness around this discussion.
The longer I have been here, the more I have felt the differences with New England. Behind the bluster about fierce independence, there is a neglect of infrastructure that goes beyond New Hampshire. Alaska has a good way of surprising conventional expectations, though, and I expect it will continue to do so.
It is youthful, vibrant and volatile – good qualities in my book. There is a lot to like here, but I have to admit, I am still homesick for New Hampshire.

I have previously written about the disappearing poetry section in bookstores. I guess this is not surprising given the decline of bookstores generally, especially independent bookstores. Many poets who deserve notice and recognition are out of print or they have vanished into oblivion given the volume and massiveness of media and the lack of attention to poetry.

A good example is the German playwright and poet Bertolt Brecht. I went around Anchorage trying to find Brecht poetry collections. Other than the Anchorage Public Library, the only Brecht poetry I could find was an old copy of Manual of Piety in Title Wave Books, an excellent used bookstore in Anchorage. Brecht appears to be out of print.

I would imagine that most Americans have never heard of Brecht. That is too bad because Brecht speaks to our present time. Brecht lived in Germany during the era preceding and during the Nazi rise to power. He was a political poet, an anti-fascist, and his stance as a poet was very different than elite or academic poets.  Brecht connected to everyday people and he was very much the social poet. He remained politically engaged his entire life.

In America, clarity of expression and the poet’s voice seem to be lost in the exposure to far more information than we can ever hope to sort or comprehend. The sheer volume of media creates a meaninglessness where lack of discriminating taste rules.

I want to offer up some of my favorite Brecht poems. I actually had a hard time deciding which poems to feature since there are so many I like and admire. I hope this encourages readers to further check out Brecht.

The Song of the Waterwheel

Ancient tale and epic story
Tell of heroes’ lives untarnished:
Like the stars they rose in glory,
Like the stars they set when vanquished.
This is comforting and we should know it.
We,alas, who plant the wheat and grow it
Have but little share in triumphs or disasters.
Rise to fame or fall:  who feeds our masters?
                        Yes, the wheel is always turning madly,
                        Neither side stays up or down,
                        But the water underneath fares badly
                        For it has to make the wheel go round.

Ah, we’ve had so many masters,
Swine or eagle, lean or fat one:
Some were tigers, some hyenas,
Still we fed this one and that one.
Whether one is better than the other:
Ah, one boot is always like another
When it treads upon you. What i say about them
Is we need no other masters: we can do without them!
                         Yes, the wheel is always turning madly,
                         Neither side stays up or down,
                         But the water underneath fares badly
                         For it has to make the wheel go round.

And they beat each other’s heads all bloody
Scuffling over booty,
Call the other fellows greedy wretches,
They, themselves, but do their duty.
Ceaselessly we see their wars grow grimmer,
Would I knew a way for them to be united.
If we will no more provide the fodder
Maybe that’s the way all could be righted.
                          For at last the wheel shall turn no longer,
                          And shall ride the stream no more,
                          When the water joins to water as it gaily
                          Drives itself, freed of the load it bore.

Song of the Inadequacy of Man’s Higher Nature

A man lives by his head:
His head will not suffice.
Just take a look at your own heads
At most supporting lice.
                        For this world we live in
                        None of us is sly enough
                        Never do we notice
                        All is lie and bluff.

Make yourself a plan,
One that dazzles you!
Now make yourself a second plan,
Neither one will do.
                       For this world we live in
                       None of us is bad enough
                       Yet our higher nature’s
                       Made of splendid stuff.

Chase after luck and joy
Yet running will not find them!
For all men chase and luck and joy
Are running just behind them.
                      For this world we live in
                      None of us has modesty enough.
                      Thus our higher nature
                      Is but pose and bluff.

Man is not good at all
So boot him in the can.
Perhaps if he’s kicked soundly
He’ll be a better man.
                        For this world we live in
                        None of us is good enough
                        Therefore let us calmly
                        Boot each other’s can.

A Worker Reads History

Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
The books are filled with names of kings.
Was it kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
And Babylon, so many times destroyed,
Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima’s houses,
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
is full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Byzantium lives in song,
Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
The night the sea rushed in,
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.

Young Alexander conquered india.
He alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?
Philip of Spain wept as his fleet
was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
Frederick the Great triumphed in the Seven Years War. Who
Triumphed with him?

Each page a victory,
At whose expense the victory ball?
Every ten years a great man,
Who paid the piper?

So many particulars.
So many questions.

It is a year since my sister Lisa Baird died. I did want to do something to honor her memory.  I am posting two lovely eulogies that were given at her funeral. The first is from my brother Rob. The second is from Rabbi Leonard Gordon who presided at the funeral.

Robert J. Baird
Eulogy delivered at the funeral of Lisa Baird
October 23,2009

Since Lisa’s death on Tuesday night I have felt a wrenching sense of loss – bereft of my big sister’s love I can hardly come up with words except this is “so, wrong-so, wrong- so wrong.”

56 years young Lisa was cruelly ripped from the world when there should have been so much more life in store for her. The loss which is so overwhelming for me and my family is magnified by the grief of her dearest friends and all of those many people touched by her.  For someone who could share the same size sneaker as mine – Lisa’s footprint – her impact on the world – was enormous. Lisa did not view her work as a job – she extended herself in ways that go beyond what jobs normally demand. Yes she was always motivated by social justice and her commitment never wavered but Lisa loved what she did because of the people and her connection to their lives and stories. Everyone here who knew Lisa knew she loved recounting the stories of her clients. Many times I would call her and she’d pick up the phone and say “I can’t talk now. I have to meet a client” but would still begin a story and 45 minute or even an hour later she’d say “now I really have to go but I’ll call you later”. This was classic Lisa.

But today most importantly my message is for Molly and Lou, your mom’s love for you was at the center of all her decisions -your family – Josh, Eric, Samira, Amelia and your extended family of your mom’s friends will be there for you – we cannot replace her love but we can care, love and help you as you build your lives and just be there for you when you need us.

My only comfort today is that Dad was not here to see Lisa in these last days but for Mom even though you are so strong – Jon and I are there for you – we will backstop you whenever you need us. To Lisa’s friends, especially those who were with her constantly over the last weeks – thanks are inadequate you were and are amazing – Debra and Miriam – Jon and I are blessed to have you especially now.

To Lisa – the pain is over but your departure has left an emptiness in all of our worlds. But as you would want us to do – we’ll be good to each other and move on with life – joyous in good times and like you always resilient and alive.

Rabbi Leonard Gordon
Eulogy delivered at the funeral of Lisa Baird
October 23,2009

These past days, those who were close to Lisa have been repeating the stories of her incredible dedication. Even on the day she died she was pushing forward on behalf of a client, calling the INS office and leaving plaintive messages for case officers. Lying in her bed, in hospice care, she was giving solid immigration advice to the health care worker who had come to care for her. Just a few days ago, Lisa and her brother Jon drove to court to meet another client as Lisa worked through her pain and growing weakness to try and bring one more case to closure. When asked why, why not pass these cases on to others, why not step back and hold on to your strength, her response was simple. Referring to one particular case that was on her mind Lisa said: “if this guy gets deported, his life will be over.”  Lisa was passionate and devoted to caring for others, in the psychological language of our day, she did not have good boundaries. What was heroic about Lisa and what we all so admired about her, also meant that she did not care for herself and protect her time and her energy. In the words of her nephew Josh, she was not a material person, she was all about love, Lisa was warm, friendly, genuinely caring for others, she was active all the time. When I saw her to say my goodbye our conversation was about her children, about their future, about taking care of loose ends. I needed to remind Lisa that loose ends are how we make connections, they are the signs of an engaged life.  In Jewish terms, loose ends are symbolized by the tallit, the ritual garment that ends in loose strings of wool, pointing us away from ourselves and towards the world around us.

The world around us is deeply in need of repair and Lisa seemed to have taken on the burdens of the world community on her shoulders. The Chinese boat person, the victim of female genital mutilation, the man who had been tortured, the Ugandan child soldier; for the past years these have been her clients.

This afternoon, i want to say a few words on everyone’s behalf to frame Lisa’s life and we will hear from members of her family. i want to acknowledge, however, that there are many other voices that should be heard and in addition to the words that will be shared today and over the weekend, everyone will be invited to a memorial gathering at the Germantown Jewish Centre a month from now, on Sunday, November 22nd at noon.

Lisa was born in Philadelphia and her father Donald, who died only this past May, was committed to her education and sent her and her brothers to the finest private schools. She and her father always maintained a close and special relationship and we remember him as well today.

From those early years, Lisa was an activist and even a rebel. She advocated for minority students, for enhanced scholarship support and for creating shared spaces for boarding and day students. In an era of political engagement she was especially active in the major causes of the time, the emerging feminist movement, civil rights work, and protesting the war in Vietnam. She began college at the University of Texas – Austin and completed her studies at Temple before beginning turning to start work in community organizing. Lisa lived her politics and she inspired those around her, most notably her brothers.

In the 1980’s she graduated law school at Rutgers Camden and Lisa worked for Lehigh Valley Legal Services, for the City Council of Philadelphia and then as the first staff attorney for HIAS, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, where her attention turned to immigration law. Immigration law would become the passion of the rest of her career. When members of the immigration bar gathered over the past weeks to review her caseload, they came across dozens perhaps over a hundred open cases on which Lisa was working and which many of her colleagues will now take over.

In addition to her work which engaged her around the clock, Lisa found time to be active in TAG, the Tenants’ Action Group, the CW Henry School home and school association during her years as a Henry parent, and she would volunteer with the American Immigrant Lawyers Association to help people fill in forms. In the recent election, knowing what was at stake, she served as a poll watcher.

But, of course, work was not the totality of her life. Lisa was a runner, she wanted to do a triathalon. She rode crew and dragon boats, and she was a creative writer. And Lisa was a devoted friend to many and a loving parent to both Molly and Louis. Molly, you said that you and Lou were the center of her world — what an amazing gift.

You and your mother shared music, you were amazed at how many lyrics she knew, and you loved to hang out with her. Recently, she visited you in Mexico where you were studying. You also spoke about a memorable trip years ago to Armenia, where your dad Roger, had a Fulbright, and where Lisa taught, Lou ran around and you were in 2nd grade. Without any language in common with the local population, Lisa connected, found someone who also knew Spanish, and discovered the local Jewish community.

Louis, you spoke movingly of your gratitude for the freedom and opportunities your mother gave you. The way in which her support for who you are, her belief in creative expression, has empowered you. I know how much she loved you and wanted to make sure that you were still having your senior year in the midst of her illness.

In 1992, around the time of Lou’s birth, Lisa was diagnosed with cancer. This was followed by years of good health and energy until the cancer recurred in December of 2007. Lisa fought for her health and she was supported by so many.

Deena, i want to especially mention your loving and devoted care, you opened your home and your bedroom to your daughter, you nursed her and cared for her, during this year when you were still dealing with the death of your husband Donald. May you be comforted by your memories and by the presence of your family and friends. This is the loss of a second child for you and no one can really understand what it means to a mother to watch her daughter face a fatal disease. You responded with grace and love.

Molly and Louis, your mother was so proud of you both and so concerned that you continue on your paths as students, friends and very special young people. Know that that special community that has gathered around your mother are still there for you. may your memories of your mother, of her love and of her commitments, continue to inspire you both.

Along with the family, there are many friends who are in mourning today, and I want to mention a few who were especially close with the understanding that so many of you were part of Lisa’s circle of friends and colleagues who stayed in close touch over the years and especially during these past two years.

Tish Fabens has done so much both as a medical and personal support. I also want to mention Bob Rhoades, Bob and Kate, who is remembered today, helped Lisa immeasurably. Friends John and Sherri and Eva as well as nephew Josh, you also made such an impact through your patient and loving presence. To all of Lisa’s friends and extended family we offer the consolation that her memory and her values will endure through you all.

Eternal One, giver of all life, you give the gift of your spirit and we are born. You take it in return and our bodies return to the earth. We are grateful today for the many blessings in Lisa’s life. And we now turn to you, and to one another, for comfort and light. Master of compassion, grant us solace and strength;reinforce our connections, for you are our Rock and redeemer, and we say AMEN.

If John Lennon had lived, last Saturday would have marked his 70th birthday. The media certainly took note and there were numerous tribute stories about John, his family, and the Beatles. Most stories I saw featured the floppy haired guy who was remembered for singing “All you need is love” and “All we are saying is give peace a chance”.

I think John would have hated that.  While John’s music connected with millions and fans differed over what part of his work they loved, I believe John was contemptuous of the simplified Fab Four image which was the lowest common denominator of Beatlemania.

John’s public image was at odds with the John of actual experience. During his life, John constantly evolved. He went through a number of incarnations and he faced adversities that are now little remembered. He had a dark side as well.

Unlike almost every rock star from that era, John faced political investigation and repression. On March 6,1972, the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) ordered Lennon deported from the U.S.. For much of 1972 and 1973, he was under order to leave the U.S. within 60 days. Good lawyering kept delaying the deadlines.

Thinking back on the era, there were many political artists. I think of Dylan, the Jefferson Airplane (Volunteers), the Stones, Bonnie Raitt and other folkies like Phil Ochs. But no one else was an object of 24/7 surveillance and likely wiretapping.  John’s persecution was a backhanded compliment for his power and influence.

The evidence about government surveillance comes directly from the FBI. History Professor Jon Wiener, after a long legal battle over his Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request, obtained FBI records about the Lennon case. Records show that the FBI essentially tailgated Lennon.  He was under constant surveillance. The FBI proposed: “Lennon should be arrested, if at all possible, in possession of narcotic drugs”. Such an event would have made him immediately deportable. The INS did ultimately try to use an earlier British marijuana conviction as a basis to deny Lennon’s application for permanent residency.

The background to the INS deportation order is quite fascinating. In the FBI files, there was the equivalent of a wanted poster for Lennon. Former FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover described Lennon as “a member of the singing group, the Beatles”. The picture of Lennon in the FBI files was actually of another New York musician, David Peel. While unintentionally hilarious, the story did have a sinister side.

Now deceased former senator from South Carolina, Strom Thurmond, had received a secret FBI memo in February 1972 advising that Lennon was planning a series of rock concerts in various primary election states with a goal of recruiting people to go to San Diego to demonstrate during the Republican National Convention in August 1972. The memo noted that the persons engaged in this effort were the same individuals who had disrupted the Chicago Democratic Convention in 1968. They were now part of a ‘dump Nixon’ effort.

Thurmond, who was on the internal security committee of the Senate Judiciary Committee, passed the memo on to Attorney General John Mitchell. Mitchell, with assistance from his deputy Richard Kleindeinst, then wrote the INS Commissioner Raymond Farrell asking if there was a basis to deny Lennon admittance to the U.S.. Lennon was already in the country though. However, the INS got the message and revoked Lennon’s visa.

The surveillance of Lennon was a common tactic of the era. One FBI document specifically recommended the tactic as a form of intimidation against the New Left. “It will enhance the paranoia endemic in these circles and will further serve to get the point across that there is an FBI agent behind every mailbox.

Lennon described the surveillance when he appeared on the Dick Cavett Show on May 11,1972. He felt under siege and he had good reason to feel that way.

It should be noted that the deportation order achieved its desired result. John and Yoko cancelled their tour plans. Out of fear of deportation, they (probably wisely) played it safe and did not participate in later anti-Nixon efforts although John did revile Nixon.

The later self-destruction of Nixon changed the political dynamics of Lennon’s case. Watergate et al made the deportation effort look even more ridiculous. Eventually the Gerald Ford administration allowed Lennon to obtain a green card. The judge on the case ruled that Lennon’s earlier British pot bust was not an adequate basis to deny him residency.  The history around the deportation effort is well-described in Jon Wiener’s book Come Together.

The FOIA battle around complete release of FBI records relating to Lennon went on for many years until 2006 when Wiener prevailed and withheld records were released.  Since national security is now regularly invoked as a reason not to disclose information, I wanted to mention that the FBI had argued, in opposition to release of information, that releasing Lennon’s records could cause military retaliation against the U.S.. I am not making this up.

My personal favorite tidbit of information from the FBI files was the report that the FBI uncovered that a neighbor of Lennon’s had a parrot that would say “right on” when he was engaged in heated arguments.

While John provides a kaleidoscope of images and periods in his life, my impression is that for all his wealth and fame, he was miserable. When he went to the primal scream therapist Arthur Janov, John was quoted saying,

“Well, his thing is to feel the pain that’s accumulated inside you ever since your childhood.  I had to do it to really kill off all the religious myths. In the therapy you really feel every painful moment of your life – it’s excruciating, you are forced to realize that your pain, the kind that makes you wake up afraid with your heart pounding, is really yours and not the result of somebody up in the sky. It is the result of your parents and your environment…
All of us growing up have to come to terms with too much pain. Although we repress it, it is still there. The worst pain is that of not being wanted, of realizing your parents do not need you in the way you need them.”

John never was at peace and his fame and wealth put him at a distance from everyday people. It does not denigrate his music to recognize that he spent much of his life living in a cocoon. His last years do not appear much different than Elvis as far as his personal happiness.  For all the great music, based on credible accounts (eg Albert Goldman) his life appeared pretty awful.

John once said there are two types of people in the world – people who are confident because they know they have the ability to create and people who have been demoralized who have no confidence in themselves because they have been told they have no creative ability but must just take orders. John’s creativity left a legacy of wonderful music that millions will continue to enjoy for a long time to come.

It has been almost a year since my sister Lisa died. Lise was 56. I am still having a hard time accepting the finality of her death. I often want to call her on the phone to discuss whatever is bothering me.

As probably anyone who knew Lise knows, she was a world class phone talker.  She relished talking on the phone and I always liked getting her take on things. We talked daily. She did have many opinions. She told me what to do about everything and I was hardly alone in that department. I tremendously miss her wisdom and good advice.

I went down to Philadelphia last September to spend time with Lise. One morning i drove her to the hospital downtown so that she could get her chemo transfusion. She was not able to get the chemo that day because her white blood cell count was too low. I remember the conversation with her oncologist,  Dr Mason. Lisa hoped to live until Molly and Lou graduated from college and high school respectively. We did not know there was no chance that was going to happen although I secretly thought it was a long shot.

Lise had also asked me to drive her to a federal building downtown that day. I drove her there, parked the car and waited in the car while she met her client. I remember how slowly and deliberately Lise moved as she walked from the car into the building. She was in obvious pain, walking at a snail’s pace. She was already having big trouble with ascites. I did not feel good about her going to see that client. She was not up to it but it did not stop her.

Lise had drive. She made up her mind she was going to that appointment. In retrospect, it was crazy she was still working. Yet, the positive was that it took her away from herself and her increasingly desperate situation. Cancer forces a grim recognition of imminent mortality. Work allowed Lise a reprieve, another focus.

It was pretty downhill from that point on. Lise was gone in less than a month.

I do hear her voice in my head. Lise had a wonderful way of personalizing. i was always “Boo-boo” to her. Not Jon or Jonny. The bond of history and common experience between siblings has to be one of the deepest connections there is.

I do not feel good about her last month. Not just that she was dying, it was my failing to tell her how important she was to me. Maybe I did that some and maybe presence counted too but when someone is dying they deserve total accounting. There is no tomorrow.

I do find myself dwelling on the unfairness. Why Lise? Why so young? Lise, of all people, did not deserve it. She was so good. She did not know how to handle people with bad intentions. I think she wanted to believe there were not people like that. It sounds crazy but Lise wanted everyone to like her. She had a hard time accepting that that could not happen.

Lise had an underdeveloped sense of anger. Even when she had  a basis for the emotion, she could not get angry. I wish that had not been the case. There was something unhealthy about her lack of anger.

I have sought out a poem that captures some of my feelings. The best i could come up with was a poem written by Kenneth Rexroth, a poet Lisa admired. Lisa had looted my Collected Short and Long Poems of Kenneth Rexroth. It was always a joke between us about her taking my books. She always did it and denied it.  She did have good taste in poets though.

FOR ELI JACOBSON

                             December, 1952

There are few of us now, soon
There will be none. We were comrades
Together, we believed we
Would see with our own eyes the new
World where man was no longer
Wolf to man, but men and women
Were all brothers and lovers
Together. We will not see it.
We will not see it, none of us.
It is farther off than we thought.
In our young days we believed
That as we grew old and fell
Out of rank, new recruits, young
And with the wisdom of youth,
Would take our places and they
Surely would grow old in the
Golden Age. They have not come.
They will not come. There are not
Many of us left. Once we
marched in closed ranks, today each
Of us fights off the enemy,
A lonely isolated guerilla.
All this has happened before,
Many times. It does not matter.
We were comrades together.
Life was good for us. It is
Good to be brave – nothing is
Better. Food tastes better. Wine
Is more brilliant. girls are more
Beautiful. The sky is bluer
For the brave – for the brave and
Happy comrades and for the
Lonely brave retreating warriors.
You had a good life. Even all
Its sorrows and defeats and
Disillusionments were good,
Met with courage and a gay heart.
You are gone and we are that
Much more alone. We are one fewer,
Soon we shall be none. We know now
We have failed for a long time.
And we do not care. We few will
Remember as long as we can,
Our children may remember,
Some day the world will remember,
Then they will say, “They lived in
The days of the good comrades.
It must have been wonderful
To have been alive then, though it
Is very beautiful now.”
We will be remembered, all
Of us, always, by all men,
In the good days now so far away.
If the good days never come,
We will not know. We will not care.
Our lives were the best. We were the
Happiest men alive in our day.

September 9 was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year. I mostly wanted to say happy new year to all. I have always liked the Jewish new year because it is a pretty different holiday than the January 1 new year. Rosh Hashanah is the beginning of the Jewish high holy days, a time when self-reflection is encouraged.  Instead of mindless hoopla and an essentially fake sense of celebration, the enphasis is on thinking about our failings individually and collectively so we can do better in the future. There seems to me to be a lot to atone for this year.

It occurs to me that being in Anchorage has put me further from any Jewish community than I have ever experienced. I know there is a reform temple on Eastern Northern Lights Blvd but i confess that the closest I have gotten to it is a bar on Northern Lights named Don Jose’s where they have good margharitas. So, clearly, I can do much better too. In honor of Rosh Hashanah, I wanted to share a poem written by Yehuda Amichai.

The Jews

The Jews are like photos in a display window,
All of them together, short and tall, alive and dead,
Brides and grooms, bar mitzvah boys and babies.
Some are restored from old yellowed photographs.
Sometimes people come and break the window
And burn the pictures. And then they start
Photographing and developing all over again
And displaying them again, sad and smiling.

Rembrandt painted them wearing Turkish
Turbans with beautiful burnished gold.
Chagall painted them hovering in the air,
And I paint them like my father and my mother.
The Jews are an eternal forest preserve
Where the trees stand dense, and even the dead
Cannot lie down. They stand upright, leaning on the living,
And you cannot tell them apart. Just that fire
Burns the dead faster.

And what about God? God lingered
Like the scent of a beautiful woman who once
Faced them in passing and they didn’t see her face,
Only her fragrance remained, kinds of perfumes,
Blessed be the Creator of kinds of perfumes.

A Jewish man remembers the sukkah in his grandfather’s home.
And the sukkah remembers for him
The wandering in the desert that remembers
The grace of youth and the Tablets of the Ten Commandments
And the gold of the Golden Calf and the thirst and the hunger
That remembers Egypt.

And what about God? According to the settlement
Of divorce from the Garden of Eden and from the Temple,
God sees his children only once
A year, on Yom Kippur.

The Jews are not a historical people
And not even an archeological people, the Jews
Are a geological people with rifts
And collapses and strata and fiery lava.
Their history must be measured
On a different scale.

The Jews are buffed by suffering and polished by torments
Like pebbles on the seashore.
The Jews are distinguished only in their death
As pebbles among other stones;
When the mighty hand flings them,
They skip two times, or three,
On the surface of the water before they drown.

Some time ago,  I met a beautiful woman
Whose grandfather performed my circumcision
Long before she was born. I told her,
You don’t know me and I don’t know you
But we are the Jewish people,
Your dead grandfather and I the circumcised and you the beautiful grand-
daughter
With golden hair: we are the Jewish people.

And what about God? Once we sang
“There is no God like ours,” now we sing, “There is no God of ours”
But we sing. We still sing.