I am perhaps the perfect demographic for Brett Morgen's Bowieaanisqatsi-esque Moonage Daydream. While David Bowie was one of the definitive rockers of my high school and college days ("Under Pressure" was on the charts during my Freshman year [1981] and then the album Let's Dance came out my Junior Year of high school, so I listened to it almost all four years of college) I was never obsessed nor fantical about Bowie. A lot of "unique" performers were seeking our eyeballs and eardrums in the 80s from Madonna and Cyndi Lauper to Boy George and Mick Jagger. But Bowie's music lasted far longer than "Karma Chameleon" or "Material Girl" in my playlists because his depth of lyric and emotional rhythms transcended our teenage years, carrying us far into adult hood. His most amazing song "Changes" was my "bride's song" at my wedding. So, when I saw an ad on my Facebook page last week for Morgen's Moonage Daydream on Imax this weekend, I bought the tickets right away. My millenial child, who, to be fair, had just played a field hocky game so was pretty tired, fell asleep next to my wide-eyed full immersed self, and then proceeded to spout the negative internet reviews already posted of the film as we drove home. And I just listened to phrases like "enervating frippery" and "all show, no substance" and chuckled. Naysayers can hate all they want, but I really liked the film. Far from "boring" as many reviewers claimed, I was fascinated with the wherewithal Morgen must have had to sift through millions of hours of footage and cull it down to 140 minutes. By commiting to using Bowie's voice as the only narrative, we are transported into a meditation on the man, the myth, the megastar. Morgen's choice to intersperse clips of classic films like Nosferatu or Metroplis, were just an additional way of bringing the visual story alive so that our meditation becomes fragmented glimpses into Bowie's mind as these clips and footage quite likely came from Bowie's own collection of films. I had never really had much exposure to Ziggy Stardust, so the concert footage of Bowie's early career fascinated me, as did seeing Bowie oil painting or acting on Broadway in The Elephan Man. Though Morgen's overdone use of explosion audio was surely distracting, the fact is, I would not have said I idolized David Bowie prior to watching this film. Now, I'm designing the shrine I'm going to put up in homage to my hero.

On June 1 I was happy to raise my new Progress Flag to commemorate the start of Pride Month. Even if I was not the mother of a transkid, I would fly that flag proudly as the teacher, advisor, mentor to countless LGBTQIA+ youth over the close to thirty years I've been teaching. While my life in education, as well as a life of travel experience has helped me evolve and expand a scope of vision that sees and celebrates the vast diversity of humanity, that recognizes, appreciates, admires other cultures and systems, at heart I still am proud to be an American. So when on July 1, I went to put the flag of the United States of America up and my kid, yes, the trans one, showed a great deal of consternation at this prospect, I found myself defending my right to be a Progressive and Proud American. This is what the last few decades have wrought on America. The binary thinking of both Conservative and Progressive politicians has created little room for the rational middle. The people who are are willing to "break with party lines" to "cross the aisle" have dwindled to a minority and with this concept of rational thought and willingness to compromise has been replaced with ideological and dangerous thinking. The concept that all abortions should be banned is ludicrous. Ectopic pregnancies, non-viable pregnancies, these all require abortions to save the mother's "right to life". So the "us vs. them" thinking cannot work when it comes to abortion. Common sense gun safety laws that protect children, children out of the uterus, like mandatory background checks, or public spaces where it is illegal to carry a gun, or making sure people who are mentally unstable do not have access to guns, not only for the safety of others, but more so, given the rate of suicide by gun in this country, for their own safety, these are all rational and necessary responses that do not negate the "right to bear arms".  Binary thinking does not work in life. And the last few decades in the United States has shown that it doesn't work in politics either. Humans are complicated and the swirl of angels and demons live inside us all. Or better, to think in terms of Asian ideas, we have both yin and yang in us. While there are a handful of people who may appear entirely lopsided to the yin "darkside" (I'm thinking of some of the cowardly Republicans in Congress who knew the truth of January 6th on January 6th, but somehow conveniently forgot it on January 7th) the fact is system changes from external forces rarely take hold. Change can only come from within. So I will fly the Progress Flag because I live in a country (and fortunately in a fantastically diverse and loving town) and I will fly the Flag of the U.S.A. This is not incongruous in my mind. Because, while I can recognize the harrowing ways in which that flag has been used before to belittle and oppress and kill, I can also fly this flag as a symbol of the defiant masters who worked for Progress in the system: for Frederick Douglass, for Alice Paul, for Harvey Milk, for Deb Haaland, for Danica Roem. If I give into cynicism, then the only thing that "wins" is cynicism. But if I believe, and let's be frank, continue to fight, to make sure there is room for all in this country, "we" all win. I don't believe America is #1, I don't believe it is a "city on the a hill" that can do no wrong. A nation is made of people, flawed people, and I am one of the flawed people who is a citizen of the United States. I will fight for progress in my country, but I can also be proud of the progress so many Americans have made. Despite the ill-conceived decisions of six non-elected people who wielded their power recently, gravely affecting the rights of Americans, I will not allow their myopia to dampen my belief in the power of the people of the United States. There is room for both flags in my home, I hope and believe that there will continue to be room for both flags in my country. 

Ama's Peak (entry to 2020 Flash Fiction Challenge)

AMA’S PEAK a short story by Leslie B. Patient

(NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2020 SUSPENSE/INDOOR CLIMBING GYM/PISTOL)



“Todd, why are we doing this?”


Krista crouched under the desk with her twin brother in the darkened office of Ama’s Peak, the Denver climbing gym they co-owned.

“Stay quiet. Trust me.”

Right then Krista knew Todd had done something stupid. Living in Nepal with their free-spirit Coloradan mom as children, one day Todd convinced an unwitting Belorussian to pay $250 for passage to Everest Base Camp. Krista acted as interference when the money transfer happened. “Trust me,” Todd had said. Their mother was good friends with town officials, so when the naive tourist climber realized he’d been duped, Officer Chaudry brought the children home instead of to jail. “Ama, it was all Todd’s idea.”

“Who are we hiding from?”
Todd put his finger over his lips. The front door smashed open.
Todd bumped his head on the desk. “Where did you put Mom’s gun?”
“Shithead. You know where it is.”
“Oh Fuck, right.”

Their mother’s Beretta Cougar Mini lay in a box just above the peak crevices of Annapurna Wall out in the gym. Krista and Todd agreed if they ever needed their mother’s protection they’d have to climb for it. Intelife Insurance never cracked Officer Chaudry. He insisted armed Bhutanese thieves had rampaged through the region. All Krista and Todd knew was their mother was already cremated when their Denver flight landed in Kathmandu. Three years later as UBoulder graduates, Intelife paid the half-million policy. Four months later they got a certified package from Officer Chaudry containing Ama’s pistol, with one ten-round .9mm cartridge, nine rounds remaining.





“WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, COWARD?” The intruder clamored around the entrance. Krista and Todd saw his cell phone flashlight scoping the gym.
Todd clenched his fingers into Krista’s thighs.
“He’s going to kill me.”
“Who?” Krista grabbed Todd’s wrists.
“Gino Smaldone.” Todd’s face was two inches from Krista’s.
“Gaetano’s Gino?” Todd’s face belied a similar terror when the Bellorussian tourist threatened to break Todd’s legs. “You didn’t!”
Krista warned Todd after seeing how chummy he was with his Tuesday afternoon private climbing lesson.Tina Smaldone was married to the owner of Gaetano’s Pizzeria, notorious for his drunken rages. Todd hadn’t listened.
“If we can get to the closet, the back half opens to the gym.” They bellycrawled toward the closet.
“Climber boy!” Large steel-toed kicks into the office door reverberated. Todd and Krista shut the closet door behind them just as the office door came crashing open.
“You are paying for new doorlocks, asshole.” Krista hit her brother in the back of the head then shimmied along the perimeter heading to back exit before the drunken Italian Stallion heard them out there.
Gino’s cell phone flashlight swept the gym again landing right on Todd’s legs as Todd dove behind the pile of mats.
Krista first thought she would get herself out and leave her brother to fend for himself. She slid past the Anapurna wall before getting to the back exit. She felt the bottom handholds, knowing what she must do, unable to block out her mother’s answer to her plea some fifteen years ago.

“It was all Todd’s idea.” Ama took Krista’s face in her hands, “I know, honey, and I’m so glad you will always be there to keep him safe.”

Krista had climbed the A-wall blind-folded once, but never free solo. Todd and Gino scuffled through all the floor equipment.
Focus, she thought. 22 handholds, 15 footholds, she reminded herself. She could almost make out the second half of the wall from the streetlights coming through the transom windows.
“You freakin’ punk!” Gino’s voice echoed through the gym.
Slow and steady, Krista thought, that’s the key to free solo. Just keep moving. Her legs shook. Keep moving, Krista willed herself. Gino laughed manaically.
“Climber Boy? Scrambling up a wall? I’ll still get you.”
“I never touched Tina! I promise. Never.” Todd’s voice was shaky.
Krista wanted to turn toward the shouting but knew her mission and was only four handholds away. Mats and chairs were thrown at the wall parallel to her. One struck its target and Todd hit the ground with a thud, a moan, and a “fucking goddamn”.
Adrenalin coursed through Krista’s final leg push. No box. She reminded herself how far right she must have started the climb. Reaching further left she found the corner of the box, not having yet thought how she was going to bring the box back down to the ground.

The sound of fists to flesh jolted Krista. She pulled off her tank top, trying to tie a knot at the bottom with her teeth and left hand. She slipped the tanktop backpack on her shoulders the Beretta box corners cutting into her low back as she felt blindly for the footholds below. Perspiration streamed down her temples. 15, reach, 14, and 13. Her eyes were adjusting enough to see the dark green of the rubber floor. As Krista jumped she heard Todd scream.

“Fuck, man, my face. Is that a fucking knife?” More scuffling and Krista heard Todd over by Kidz Korner making a mat barricade.

At the closet, Krista flipped all the switches flooding the gym in light. As she fumbled with the Beretta clip she pulled the safety but forgot the hair-trigger and a shot rang across the gym hitting the mat wall Todd was constructing.

“The fuck? Krista?”
Gino dropped to the ground his hands covering his head.
“Mr. Smaldone. I won’t hurt you. Just get the hell out of here and never come back. We’ll refund Tina’s subscription.” Gino scrambled to his feet and ran out the door.
Todd slowly came back from around the mats.

“You don’t get paid until all of this is repaired.” While Krista pulled the clip out of the Beretta she picked up Gino’s bloody switchblade. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I probably need stitches.” Todd held his bloody cheek. “It might scar.”

“Hope so.” Krista placed Ama’s Beretta back in its box, eight rounds remaining.

SAKASAMA

(received Honorable Mention in 
NYCMidnight's 2020 100-word Microfiction Challenge: 
parameters = Romantic Comedy / Reading a book / the word "better" )

He first saw her at Totto’s slurping on ramen. A day later they walked into the little Chelsea cake pop store simultaneously. He held the door for her and she smiled saying, “Thank you”. He believed in fate when he walked into the Webster Library and there she was reading a magazine. Blindly grabbing a book from a shelf, he feigned naturalness as he slipped into the chair across from her.

“You might have better luck reading that if it was right side up.” She flashed a bright smile.

His face flushed.

They walked out of the library together.

Dear Leslie Patient,

The feedback from the judges on your first round submission from the 100-word Microfiction Challenge 2020 is below.  You should be proud of rising to the challenge and we hope you find the feedback helpful.  Thank you for participating, stay safe, and we hope to see you in a future competition!

''Sakasama'' by Leslie Patient -     WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY - {1636}  This is a sweet, short narrative, with their interaction in the final sentences being the highlights of the piece.   {1854)  I liked how specific the setting of this story was. It gave it more personality.  {1774}  This felt sweet, charming and light-hearted. It seemed fate wanted these two together since they kept meeting up everywhere. Amusing and romantic.   WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - {1636}  One thing that could help this story stand out a bit more would be to introduce some character perspective.  The notion of fate, happenstance is strong, but feels like it's coming from somewhat of an outside voice.   {1854)  There isn't any conflict in this piece. Conflict is necessary to plot, without it, the story is boring.  {1774}  Reveal if one of them overheard something to intentionally be where the other was going to be later. Also, share physical attributes and any intangibles that attracted each to the other.

Busting The Booty Buster Hill

Written as part of the Fat Girl Running Virtual Retreat (5/23/2020)
#mirnavationnation


Yo' booty buster hill
You think you got me?
Well, you did.
This time.
But I will get you
Because my will is magic
Adamantine like granite
And I will not give up
Because my feet are networks of mystic fibers
that lead up thighs of power
that are strong enough to push a piano while lying on my back
these thighs connect to hips
that are rolling Ozarks
smooth abut imposing
More imposing than you
Stupid bitch hill
You are just asphalt
and my ass and my heart have
strength to push my legs far beyond your crest
My body is a force
and will reckon with me
I promise.

Teacher Appreciation Week 2020: Missing my "Hallway Students"

It is teacher appreciation week May 2020 and we are in the middle of a pandemic. As a teacher myself, I'm teaching from my kitchen table on Google Meets about four hours a day. Upside, I am at a school where I am able to connect with all my students at least three days a week. All except, ironically, the Chinese students who have now returned home and have a great deal of difficulty accessing American sites like our Google Suite or Quizlet.

Teaching in 2020

These are strange times indeed. Or as I told my students as we read Lord Of The Flies and encountered the word "vicissitudes", the daily vicissitudes of quarantine are mighty exhausting. I can go from a morning joy having a lovely 9:00 late start, no commute, I can do yoga, I can walk my dogs 3 miles, I can have a healthy homemade breakfast!! To the depths of melancholy, I wish I could move around and tap Myron on the shoulder because I know he needs a subtle "attention reminder". Or give a knowing eye to Ally when I see that she understands, but doesn't want to say anything. I miss walking into my department chair's classroom and getting a Peppermint Patty and hearing his calming voice say that we'll all get through this. 

The compression of  "all the emotions" came to such a head recently when one of my students was featured on our Student Council's weekly Quarantine Shows (which are SUPER highlights to our lives). She sang "Rise Up" and I broke down. It was the first time that I cried during this "Shelter-in-Place" and here is why: I haven't taught this student in two years. In fact, I probably won't teach her again because I only teach ninth and eleventh grade and she'll be a senior next year. I only taught her for one year, but I feel like I've known her for much longer. She is one of my regular "hallway kids". All teachers have those, and our school is relatively small, only about 300 in the Upper School, so we really do have a chance to get to know so many of them personally through their activities, sports, performances. I've known this student since she was nine years old! I put her mic on her at a summer theatre program I was running tech for my first year at this now-not-so-new school. I saw her perform in all her Middle School shows. And while she was not what one would call a stellar English scholar in my class. She always brought a great deal of energy to the classroom. It is this energy I am deprived of and that is what made me tear up, ok, I'll be honest, I ugly cried bawled when I watched her performance. Even those little hiccup kind of sobs came out of me. What hit me so much was the loss of the micro-teaching moments. 

Sure, I have the technology to convey information. Sure, I have the means and wherewithal to come up with meaningful projects for the students in my classes. But having taught at a boarding school for eighteen years, and being a twelve-hours-in-the-building kind of teacher at my day school, what I do in the classroom is the smallest fraction of what I believe I do as a teacher. I chaperone dances, I help sell baked goods, I cheer at basketball games and give standing ovations at the musical. In quarantine, I'm confined to my classroom in such a stifling way. It's shrunk down to a 13" monitor. My students have to be 'invited' in, and there are no waves at the doorway, or smiles and fistbumps in the hallways. My students only see this rectangular version of my face, the same books in the background. No arms hardly, no legs. I cannot dance like a lunatic at prom with them, I cannot sit on the bleachers and chat with their parents at the baseball game. I miss all these micro-interactions. I miss my "hallway kids". I miss all my students. 

I hope during this teacher appreciation week we can all appreciate that while teachers, of course, teach content in the classroom, we teach character all throughout the building. We teach with our hearts and our souls and there is not a monitor big enough or HD enough to capture that. 

TO MY BABY DAUGHTER  a spoken word poem by Leslie B Patient

(performed at Ranney School V-Day 2020)

In the late evening twilight I hold you close, my baby daughter

You drink in the miraculous milk my body knows to make for you

I am your creator, your protector

Your tiny hand grips my finger 

And I am taken aback by an ancient primal rage pulsing in my veins

My breath catches, my eyes widen

I am a lioness

A Mother Bear

And I am sure that if anything

Anyone should ever hurt you

I would kill them with my bare hands.

The feeling scares me at first

An ancient lineage of warrior queen mothers

Whispering in my ear

Will I be strong enough to shoulder

The weight of this responsibility 

Will I, like Ceres, make the earth grow cold

If someone steals my Persephone

Will I, like Hecuba, stave off the Argive soldiers

To wrap my arms around my Cassandra

Will I, like Meena Kamal, sacrifice my own life 

For my daughter’s right to freedom

You have supped full

Your eyes fluttering to sleep

And I bundle you tightly in your mint green blanket

As if fleece and white stars can protect you

And the flash of fear erupts again

Creating a wormhole in my mind

You are four years old 

In the fountain on the eastside of the city

And the little girl you were playing with

Says you are weird

she doesn’t like you

she won’t play anymore

And your eyes are pools of sorrow

But I can’t make her be friends with you

You are nine years old

Swinging on a bannister 

Then run to me holding your two front teeth

In your hand

And I know I cannot fix you

You are eleven

With the swagger of an independent soul

at the amusement park

You ride the coaster on your own

And when I get to the exit you are not there

And I panic

Circumnavigating the entire park

Only to learn you had gone back to take another ride

You are fourteen and the boy who said you had to prove your love

No longer answers your texts

Instead he calls you a slut to his friends

Who were your friends

And now they are not

And you cannot breathe

Or think

Or feel

For months

Until one night you say

“Stay with me, Mom, I’m afraid to be alone”

And for a moment you are my baby daughter, again

and the lioness in me wants to roar and bare her teeth

But I cannot tear the flesh from that boy’s bones

Even if I want to 

Because it’s not his power anymore

But a deeper darkness inside you I must fight

When you are sixteen I stand and watch an ambulance take you 

To some kind of safety 

But too far away from my arms

And the emptiness is crushing

Because I had wanted to protect you

But I couldn’t

Then you are seventeen and we sit in a car and you are stoned

And you are raging

And you say “I Hate You With Every Part of My Being”

in a voice controlled by Satan or poison

You kick and punch

And I want to slap you

Instead

I hold you tight

Squeezing you in Mother Bear arms

And tell you that I love you

That you are my baby daughter

And I will not let the darkness take you

You grow limp as if that incantation is exorcism enough

For you to believe I will do everything in my power

To always keep you in the light

The wail of mothers from ancient dawn reverberate 

In the black hole of my mind

They hear the cries of their daughters

Who are hurt 

Harassed

Raped 

Mutilated

Killed

Warrior matrons beating on burnished steel breastplates

Until our knuckles bleed knowing our only hope

Is to give you tools and strength to be warriors

Yourselves 

and if you die in battle

At least we gave you the iron daggers to maim the enemy

Because your mother’s jaws of rage, her claws of vengeance are impotent

To the myriad powers against you 

We can only slow them down with the strength of our hearts

But we must teach you that you are special

We must teach you to fight your own battles

We must teach you that you are strong

And no one has the right to make you feel small

But there you are again, my tiny baby daughter, snuggled in your crib

Your little belly breaths grow longer, deeper

And I look at you one last lingering moment

Feeling peace flood back in as I gaze at the calm

Of your pink alabaster face.

And I step quietly out of your room.