I remember when sex seemed like the border between childhood and becoming an adult, shrouded in mystery and myth, perhaps wonderful and exciting but also dangerous and distasteful.  Information was scant in my middle-America 1950’s childhood, but my mother managed to pre-empt more unreliable sources by explaining the basic “facts of life” in mildly appalling clinical terms.  Mom!  Stop!

That, together with the diagrams of shedding uterine linings in the film that served as sex education for us sixth-grade girls, didn’t make the reproductive process sound like much fun, let alone the monthly travails of pads and mess and embarrassment.

I don’t remember anyone mentioning how wonderful flesh-on-flesh could be, how perfectly right the experience of intimate and gentle human touch–but what a fortunate discovery that eventually was! In a world of potential violence and disrespect, I was lucky.

My “coming of age” coincided with the summer of love, the generation gap, the antiwar movement, civil rights and women’s liberation.  Rules and expectations, including prohibitions around sex, changed dramatically.  Despite the new freedoms and joys of sexual access, the practical considerations of reproductive health and pregnancy (for heterosexuals particularly) did not magically disappear.  The sexual revolution looked different for men and women.

Information and access to contraception, especially the pill, was critical.  The Boston Women’s Health Collective produced “Our Bodies, Ourselves”, the bound newsprint bible that detailed anatomy, sexuality, conception and contraception options, abortion (still illegal), sexually-transmitted infections and related conditions.  Sometimes you had to wonder if the sex were worth the consequences, which seemed to fall mostly to women. As they always had. And still do.

Medical information was not routinely provided by the male-dominated medical profession.  The women’s clinics where I volunteered took time to help women understand their health issues and many of the staff went on to become medical professionals, as did I.  We shared the explicit goal of improving women’s autonomy and health.  Over the past fifty years, much has improved.  Women have generally had more life choices and become more accomplished and powerful in ways previous generations could only imagine.  We rejoiced when Roe v Wade finally made abortion legal, and it is an ongoing agony to see the destruction of that right in the U.S. today.  Yesterday, today and tomorrow, women’s reproductive health in all its manifestations remains fundamental.

Sex, Drugs & Rock & Roll! It’s all happening again. Right now! It’s the ultimate do-over.  Okay, the sex is likely not the same.  The drugs aren’t, likely, the same.  The Rock & Roll, likely, but may be is, or not, the same.  That is, if you still listen to your favorite golden oldies, dare I say exclusively.

But it’s a definite re-do people.  Or call it a re-boot.  It’s Chicago again.

And, I for one am thrilled. The context is different but also the same. We’re fighting for freedom, equality, and yes stop the war (feel free to choose which one).  I couldn’t say it any better than my beloved artist India Arie.

Please listen to the lyrics of her song ‘What if’.

Who knows.  We may live through the shattering of every possible U.S. glass ceiling.

Jessie’s Earrings

It’s sweet how a chance word can evoke a flood of memories.

My mother Jessie is gone more than 20 years and I think of her I often.  But after talking to a friend about the current rage for tattooing and body piercing I thought of a habit of Jessie’s I’d forgotten.

She didn’t have a lot of jewelry and was the furthest thing from a clothes horse,  but she almost always wore earrings.   Her ears weren’t pierced and so she wore earrings that screwed or clipped on.

However as a teenager I wanted to get mine pierced.  For some reason she forbade it,  and although she and I battled over many things in those years,  on the pierced ears fight I backed down.  I guess it wasn’t that important to me,  but once I was no longer under her roof I did have mine pierced.

But as I knew from the time I wore screw-on and clip-on earrings myself,  they can pinch after you wear them for several hours.   And I now remember a gesture of my mother’s I found endearing.  She’d raise her hands to her ears,  pull off both earrings,  and massage her earlobes.

And now how I wish I could watch Jessie pull off her earrings just one more time!

(For more about Jessie see My Game Mother,  Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes,   Elbow Grease,  The Dinner Party,  Art Imitates Life,  Still Life,  Jessie’s 79th, and  Moonlight Sonata)

– Dana Susan Lehrman

I don’t know if I ever would’ve gotten a tattoo if my daughter hadn’t made us appointments with her favorite artist. I agreed to do it, but didn’t know what to choose. I went back and forth between some ideas (Hawaiian sunset! Lavender roses!), but finally decided on a bluebird of happiness. At the time, my sister was very near the end of her life and I wanted something beautiful and uplifting I could look at every day. And so it came to pass that I got a very optimistic looking bluebird on my midsection, right across from my appendectomy scar (still visible from when I got it at age six!). This was in early 2015. Painful? Yes, it was. But it’s also lived up to my expectations.I don’t know why people get tattoos in places they cannot see themselves without a mirror or serious contortions.

A few years ago now, after my husband was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment and I was struggling to deal with the changes in my life, I got my second tattoo–this time a reminder of what I needed to remember (notice the forget-me-nots) to do when I got frustrated or upset.

#2 left forearm

A few weeks ago, I drove past the place where I got my second tattoo and saw a “walk-ins welcome” sign. On impulse, I made a U-turn and went inside. Again, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but had time to think about it. What I ended up getting has historical and religious significance: the Hamsa Hand.

#3 Right forearm

Google says: “The Hamsa Hand is a universal sign of protection, power, and strength that dates back to ancient Mesopotamia. Known as the Hand of Fatima in Islam and the Hand of Miriam in Judaism, it’s believed to protect against the evil eye and all negative energies.”

And: “Beyond its protective qualities, the Hamsa is also a symbol of peace and blessings. It’s often associated with the idea of bringing its owner happiness, luck, health, and good fortune. For many, a Hamsa tattoo is not just a protective talisman but also a symbol of hope and a source of positive energy and blessings.”

I figured: what could it hurt? (I didn’t mean literally, but still). Who doesn’t want to protect themselves from negative energies, while attaining good luck and happiness? And a dose of hope, positive energy and blessings–all for the reasonable price of a little tattoo? I was all in.

There’s no way I can keep up with my daughter, pictured here. But I’m delighted with my ink. At this point, I won’t say I’m done with tattoos, but the ones I have carry great significance and I do look at and think about them every day.

Breathe, seek happiness and positive energy, count my blessings–these things are more than skin deep.

*The variety in skin tones here is not accurate. I cannot account for the vagaries of cell phone photography