Amy Kaufman Burk's Blog

“A glorious medley of characters bolsters this tale of adolescents confronting narrow-mindedness.”
— Kirkus Reviews

Hollywood Pride, a novel I wrote and published earlier this year, has been chosen for the Miami Book Fair. I never imagined this could happen, and I’m filled with gratitude.

The Miami Book Fair is a big deal. Readers and writers come together every year, hosted by Miami Dade College, to form a community of panels, individual talks, workshops. The bookstore Books & Books is affiliated with the book fair, and takes charge of sales. Authors sign books, meet readers, support each other’s work. Both the Miami Book Fair and Books & Books, have a strong history supporting freedom to read, promoting freedom to write, speaking out against banning books. I’m honored to be a part of their tradition.

At the Miami Book Fair, I’ve been scheduled to give an author talk on Saturday, November 22. But writing during this strange and dangerous chapter in my country’s history carries additional layers of responsibility. I’ve been given a platform, and I need to think carefully about how to use it. Out of the gate, my presentation will make no sense unless I begin with the novel’s birth.

When I was in 10th grade at Hollywood High School, a boy disappeared. A rumor circulated that he had been beaten to death because he was gay, as though that could be a valid reason. Nobody seemed bothered, but I was extremely bothered, so I started asking about him. What I found was even more chilling. Nobody knew anything — not his name, not where he lived, nothing. He didn’t seem to exist.

At 15 years old, I knew I’d write about it some day, and my some day is now. That nameless unhoused gay boy I never knew became my novel’s silent hero.

Hollywood Pride’s protagonist, Caroline, is a nerd growing up a misfit in an entertainment industry family. She transfers from her college prep academy to Hollywood High School, which opens her world. The novel deals with the danger of targeting LGBTQ+ students. But it’s also a year of self-discovery, of transforming friendship, of bringing hidden strength into the light. Together, Caroline and her friends discover what can happen when a marginalized group and their allies link arms, stand strong, and hold their ground.

When the people in charge of the Miami Book Fair made their choices, I don’t know exactly what caught their eye about Hollywood Pride — but I have a guess. This annual event is known for celebrating diversity and community; Hollywood Pride is about diversity and community in high school. I know that being moved by a book review may sound absurd, but I’m quite touched that Kirkus Reviews acknowledged the novel’s “glorious medley of characters” because now more than ever, I’m committed to promoting representation in literature. Meet some of the story’s “medley.”

Caroline 
Protagonist. Hollywood High School (HHS) student, tenth grade. White. Nerd growing up in a film industry family.

J.D.
Silent hero of the novel.

Kayla
HHS student, tenth grade. Black. Operatic soprano.

Valerie.
Student from Caroline’s previous school. White. Debutante.

Gary
HHS student, tenth grade. White. First generation Irish immigrant. Huge and klutzy. Brilliant.

Irene
HHS student, eleventh grade. White. Activist. Writes for the school newspaper.

Vincent
HHS student, senior. Japanese-American. Artist.

The Duke
HHS student, repeating his senior year. Black. Leader of a gang.

Toni
HHS student. Black. Wants to become a history teacher.

Blake
HHS student. Mexican. Artist. Loves reading fiction.

Carlos
HHS student, eleventh grade. Teaching assistant in Caroline’s English class.

Five of the group are gay boys and lesbian girls. One is nonbinary. One is trans. Can you guess who they are? Maybe. But if you’re relying on overused stereotypes, you’ve come to the wrong book. My characters are quirky and funny, smart and vulnerable, strong and confused. In other words, they’re healthy adolescents, trying to navigate a baffling world. In today’s political climate fueled by a mentality of banning books, with the Leader of the Free World launching himself into power by proclaiming the non-existence of transgender and nonbinary gender identities — portraying LGBTQ+ characters as healthy turns Hollywood Pride into a voice of resistance.

Since I’m a nerd like Caroline, I’ve been frying my brain, thinking about how to use the opportunity the book fair has offered. Sure, as an author trying to bring my work into the light, I’d be thrilled if this led to more exposure. But more than anything else, I view this as the next step on my path of raising my voice. I can’t force our country’s administration to show even an ounce of reason, and I can’t un-brainwash the masses. But when my talk in Miami is over, I hope everyone in the room who is on the LGBTQ+ spectrum will feel a bit safer. I hope I can bring people together, one room at a time, to take a step closer to promoting each other’s rights, from sea to shining sea. 

When I speak to groups, I always talk only briefly at the beginning. I read a short passage that captures the heart of the book. Then I open the floor to the people in the room. In Miami, I can speak for the full hour if my audience prefers, but that hasn’t happened yet. People have ideas they want to share. They have comments, questions, concerns. I’m fascinated to see our world through their eyes. Each person’s voice matters, and I want to create a space where each voice has a place.

If you’re in Miami for the book fair, I’d love to see you. I hope you’ll introduce yourself. Of course I’ll be there to speak, but if you have something to say, I’ll also be there to listen.

If you’re on the LGBTQ+ spectrum, if you have a friend or family member on the LGBTQ+ spectrum — my author talk is for you.

Congratulations, your novel is now available!

I caught my breath. Before I could exhale, lightning struck and I was rocketed into an emotional storm of shooting sparks. Hollywood Pride was finally launched, ready to be read. Again, my breath hitched. In an eyeblink, I stepped into a time warp and landed back in the high voltage arena of Hollywood High School, the setting for my novel.

The story takes place when I was in high school. My main character Caroline and I both grew up nerds in a film industry family, rebelling against the mindset of powerful men who viewed teens as easy prey. Like Caroline, I left a college prep academy and began Hollywood High in 1973. She and I both were initially blitzed by the change, and navigated our way with peer tutoring and (to our surprise) joining a sports team. We were both horrified, and initially paralyzed, when we witnessed LGBTQ+ students targeted. Our high school opened our worlds.

The rest of Hollywood Pride is fiction — the characters, the plot, the conflicts. The novel tells Caroline’s story, not mine.

As an indie author, I had the choice of when to publish, and I chose now for several reasons. My country has a sexual predator sitting in the Oval Office. One dictum after another is flying from his desk. Trans doesn’t exist. Nonbinary doesn’t exist. LGBTQ+ is under fire. Books are banned for including LGBTQ+ characters and issues.

Meet a few of my characters, friends of Caroline’s at Hollywood High.

Toni — a Black trans girl determined to get an education, even though she’s “always afraid the wrong person will figure out who I am.”

Blake — “I’m a girl. But sometimes I feel like a boy and a girl, both at the same time.”

J.D. — a student at Hollywood High, living on the streets, gay, the novel’s silent hero.

But I wanted my novel to offer more than the ongoing cage fight that our Commander-in-Chief seems determined to perpetuate. While Hollywood Pride deals with targeting the LGBTQ+ community, systemic racism in education, and bullying, the story also offers several paths to becoming an ally. Ultimately, the novel is about self-discovery (in Caroline’s words, “I’m not who you think I am, and I’m not who I thought I was”) and the power of friendship (J.D. to Caroline, “I like your friends”).

I decided to self-publish — no agent, no traditional publisher — because I wanted to make my own choices, retain full autonomy. My inner lightning storm when I read the you’re-launched email was about more than the novel, because this novel is more than a story. It’s my response to the surge of hatred in the United States targeting the LGBTQ+ communities.

Then, my high-voltage storm was immediately followed by an emotional hush.

Self-publishing an indie novel feels like baring a piece of my soul, placing it under harsh lights, influencers polishing their fangs. I feel compelled to step forward for my friends, for people I’ll never know, for anyone who feels unsafe simply because they’re on the LGBTQ+ spectrum. I’m raising my voice, choosing to publish my views. Hollywood Pride isn’t only about my fictional characters; it’s me, just me, up for public consumption.

Public Consumption. Those two words catalyzed the next emotional surge: What if nobody reads it?

As an author, if you’re writing with the intention of publishing on any platform, then you’re hoping that people will read your work, connect to your story. Maybe some would be moved to write a review.

Write a review.

Those three mighty words led to the next lightning bolt. What if the overwhelming consensus was that I suck? What if my ratings averaged a negative-twelve out of five stars? What if they hated it, every review a grenade, all of them!

All of them.

The next electrical shock. What if all of them totalled zero? At that moment, I realized that my worst fear was NOT that people would think my book was lousy, that my writing was abominable, that my magnum opus was a disgrace to all novels. My Mega-Fear was that that my book would become available . . . and then nothing. A resounding thud of nothing.

When the email arrived saying that Hollywood Pride had launched, the lightning storm immediately launched as well. I spent a few days in the throes of the storm. Then a friend asked a simple question, and I found myself caught by surprise, standing on new ground.

“How many copies do you need to sell to feel like a success?”

My knee-jerk internal responses, in order of appearance (and immediate disappearance) were as follows.

First, I have no clue.

Second, of course, I’m gunning for a best seller, breaking all records to infinity and beyond.

Third, I need to get out my laptop, do some research, learn more about algorithms, make a plan, total immersion in Nerdville.

Fourth . . . and I stopped.

I breathed slowly, steadily. The jagged lightning bolts faded. The night sky calmed, moonlit with promise.

How many copies? The answer was One.

If one LGBTQ+ teen reads Hollywood Pride and feels less alone — if one LGBTQ+ adolescent feels more understood — if one LGBTQ+ adult feels validated — if one person in the LGBTQ+ communities feels seen, heard, supported, respected — if anyone, any gender, any sexuality feels more free to be the person they’re meant to be— then I’ll feel like a success.

On top of that, if someone wants to be an ally but doesn’t know how, if anyone has questions they’re afraid to ask, if they can wrap their hands around one of my novel’s characters who changes to become an ally — then I’ll feel like a success.

Sure, I’m going to try to reach as many readers as possible, to find more than one One. Each time I find a One, I’ll feel a step closer to what our world is meant to be. One by one, I’ll reach for the next One, trying to strengthen a community of Ones, LGBTQ+ and cis/straight, racially diverse, uniting in solidarity.

Together and One.

Like Caroline, Toni, Blake, J.D. and my other characters in Hollywood Pride.

I decided to write a novel when I was fifteen years old.

When I was in tenth grade, a girl came up to me in the hall at school and pointed to a boy with the most amazing blond hair I’d ever seen, a shimmering river of gold that brushed his hips as he walked. He was six feet tall, string-bean thin, dressed in white laced up pants, platform shoes, a gauzy shirt, and light makeup. The girl whispered that he had been beaten up by the jocks, hospitalized for three days.

I asked why and she answered, “Duh, because he’s gay.” Then she smiled sweetly and skipped off to her next class.

I couldn’t stop shaking for hours.

A few weeks later, I realized I hadn’t seen the blond boy for several days.

Around a month later, the same girl came up to me again, as though reporting a hot piece of gossip, and told me she heard the boy had died, beaten to death. Then she shrugged and said, “Who cares, one less f— .”

That night I promised myself I’d write about that boy some day. I wouldn’t let my readers feel indifferent like that girl. I’d write in support of the gay community, against bullying.

My high school had a transient population, with a significant number living on the streets, so a student’s disappearance was unremarkable. I had no idea whether this girl actually knew what happened. Still, I felt haunted by the rumor. I began to ask about the boy, but nobody knew anything.

Most chilling, nobody knew his name.

Decades later, I told a journalist friend that I was writing a novel about that rumor. She suggested I visit the archives, do some research, find out if the murder took place. I hesitated and to my surprise, I heard myself telling her that I wasn’t writing about the real person. As the words came out of my mouth, I realized I had carried this boy deep within me since I was 15 years old, and he had taken on mythical proportions.
I was writing about a fantasy person who (like too many real people) had died of homophobia. During that conversation, my novel’s silent hero was born.

As I wrote the book, I considered what to call him. I knew he’d be a curious combination of a silent character, and simultaneously the most powerful presence in the novel. Should I give him a catchy nickname like Dash? A stately name like Hamilton? A likable name like Timmy? A powerful name like Rex? As I rejected one name after another, I realized that his character was grounded in his namelessness. So I kept him nameless, and I built the plot around his living without a name.

I decided to write this book decades before I knew Donald Trump’s name, before banning books became a groundswell, before transgender and nonbinary were declared not to exist. Today, as I watch the post-election culture unfold, the divisive values that my novel fights against are growing — a mentality of hatred, rage running amok, Us vs. Them. My country’s Commander-in-Chief actively endorses an ongoing process of dehumanization. In political terms — in the Divided States Of America, all people are not created equal. In personal terms — it’s a form of taking away their names.

I wish the election results had been different. I wish our administration didn’t define empathy and decency as a self-interested power surge. I wish so many people in my homeland weren’t hurt by their statements, their policies, their actions. I wish that rage and hatred weren’t contagious. I wish the people in charge cared enough to understood that gaining power by stepping on others isn’t sustainable.

Eventually, they’ll fall, and they’ll drag countless innocent people with them. They’ll all land hard, and some will survive while others won’t. Donald Trump’s name will be remembered, but most of the names of the innocent casualties will be forgotten, caught in a crossfire of dehumanization.

I’m writing for every person on the LGBTQ+ spectrum who doesn’t feel safe being who they’re meant to be.
I’m writing for that boy who disappeared from my high school so long ago, whose name nobody knew.

I’m writing for the day when nobody has to live without a name.
___
Back in tenth grade, I promised myself that I’d write a novel about that rumor some day, and my some day is now. Hollywood Pride is available on Amazon and in Barnes and Noble's online bookstore. amykaufmanburk.com

I was a young therapist, still in training, when a family walked into my office — father (“Deke”), son (“Ian”, age 12) and step-mother (“Lucy”). On their intake form, Deke and Lucy stated that the problem was Ian’s temper, that he yelled and threw things. When we met for the first time, the adults politely shook hands. Ian stomped to the farthest chair and glared at me, an obvious So What Are You Going To Do Now? challenge. Within twenty minutes, Deke and Lucy were bellowing at each other about a disagreement involving dirty dishes. I called a TIME OUT when Lucy threatened to throw her purse at Deke. Ian watched closely, sat rigid, said nothing.

Clearly, screaming and throwing things was not an Ian-Issue, but a Family-Issue. The challenge was how to break the cycle of screaming without listening, of turning a disagreement into a mine-field. Having only a few months of experience with patients, my confidence was low, and I doubted I’d be able to help this family get ahead of their own self-destructive impulses.

They proved me wrong.

They never missed a session, determined to find a better way. Ian turned out to be extremely articulate, wickedly funny, and a gifted artist. Deke was the first to gain access to his own tears, and showed his family the emotional value of being able to cry. Lucy realized that her anger came from many sources, often mistakenly focussed on her husband and step-son. She modeled a healthy use of insight, and they all followed her example. They learned to call their own TIME OUTs. They began to work with each other, instead of against each other.

I wonder if the United States can follow their example.

My homeland has taken several catastrophically wrong turns. Citizens are devolving, turning against each other. Insurrection. Banned books. Don’t Say Gay. Bathroom bills. Gun violence. Assaults. LGBTQ+ rights under attack. Racism. Anti-semitism. Women’s rights gutted. Voting rights kicked in the teeth. The list goes on.

Even as we deal with the aftermath of Donald Trump and Mike Pence’s four years in the Oval Office, we’ve emerged with the painful knowledge of what We The People can become. We’re standing face to face with our worst selves. The MAGA mindset is alive and well — and extremely dangerous.

A rough road lies ahead. We don’t have to like all of our teammates, but we do have to work as a team. In this age of division, we’ve become obsessed with our differences. We’ve built emotional, political and socio-cultural walls which have exacerbated old problems and created new ones. Too many walls lead to the threat of isolation, and many people have lost track of our potential common ground — basic decency, factual truth, the love of our country. We need enough empathy for each other — just enough — to recover our self-evident truths. If we’re going to reclaim our inalienable rights, equally for all, then we need to work with each other, not against each other.

If it takes a village to raise children, then it also takes a village to navigate adulthood. As I try to help, I’ll keep in mind that I’m lucky to have three role models: Ian, Lucy and Deke. I’ll think of the strength and tenderness they found under their layers of rage. I’ll remember their unshakable bond hidden under their divisiveness. I’ll feel their fierce commitment to finding a healthier way, their refusal to give up hope. Then I’ll step forward, into the pain and the beauty of my troubled country, and write for a better tomorrow.

*All identifying information about “Ian,” “Lucy” and “Deke” has been changed to respect their privacy.

In a small town in the Midwest, a ninth grader named “Sally” came out to his parents as transgender. He was born with a body people assumed was female, and with the gender identity of a boy. He was anxious when he told his parents, but they were supportive. They figured it out together, every step of the way. His confidence grew. For the first time, he felt steady, knowing he belonged in his own skin. He liked his name, which was part of his identity, but chose to shorten “Sally” to “Sal.” He felt validated every time he heard “him” or “he” tossed in his direction.

In a rural farming area of South Carolina, a 13-year-old boy named “Lisa” put on a dress to go to school. Lisa knows he’s a boy, but nobody else does. He goes to church every Sunday and prays to wake up in a world where everyone understands his gender and supports him as a boy. He spends every day confused, scared, off balance, hiding his core self. Recently, bullies have targeted him. He dreads going to school, going home, going to church. Nowhere feels safe.

In Maine, an 8th-grade boy named Phil pulls on jeans and his favorite sweatshirt. He’s cisgender and straight. Recently, he grew four inches and isn’t yet comfortable with his new height. It hasn’t crossed his mind to be uncomfortable with his gender identity or his sexuality, and he’s too young to understand his inherent privilege. His best friend since kindergarten, Jeremy, came out as gay last weekend as they sipped soda, watching a movie in Phil’s den. Phil told Jeremy it was “cool,” as they devoured popcorn and hot dogs. Phil asked Jeremy if he told his parents; Jeremy said it was “awkward, but they were okay about it.” Then they talked about a matter of huge import. Phil has a crush on Pamela. Jeremy has a crush on Jon. Miraculously, both were assigned to work on a science project with their secret objects of desire. Neither could muster the courage to talk about anything personal to Pamela and Jon, so now they brainstormed ways to broaden the conversation. Finally, they concluded that was too much, too fast. Maybe, possibly, they could get ice cream together after school, to talk about their science projects. Probably not, but they could dream.

Sal’s biggest worry when he transitioned was losing his friends. But his social group, a mixture of boys and girls, accepted him as the same person they had known since kindergarten. Some other students whispered, but they followed his friends’ example and faster than Sal had hoped, it was no big deal. The teachers and administrators were aware of Sal’s transition, and were ready to protect him if necessary. The only “necessary” turned out to be a handful of alarmed parents, who met with the principal, who calmed them down.

Lisa’s biggest worry…well, he has many big worries. He worries his secret will be discovered. He worries he’ll go to Hell. He worries his parents will hate him. His loneliness is searing. He goes through his day, hiding in plain sight, always afraid.

Phil and Jeremy strategized, and decided to face their challenge together. They debated, brainstormed, and hatched a plan. After school, in a stroke of spectacular luck, the two friends walked out of their last class with their lab partners. Phil (as planned) said to Jeremy, “Wanna get ice cream?” Jeremy (as planned) answered, “Sure.” Then as though the idea just struck, Phil turned to Pamela and Jon and asked, “You guys want some, too?” Everyone agreed. They walked together, talking about their teachers and the morning assembly. Then something amazing happened. It turned out Phil and Pamela both liked chocolate ice cream best, while Jeremy and Jon preferred mint chip. Their bonds were established, and everyone smiled shyly. Phil and Jeremy exchanged incredulous glances. Dreams really can come true.

The gender spectrum is complex, nuanced and layered — just like the spectrum of any aspect of being human. Sal’s parents provided a strong role model for helping their son deal with identity issues — gender or otherwise. They listened as Sal explained his gender and at the same time, they remained sensitive to him as a whole person, responsive to the many facets of his coalescing identity. They were caring, supportive, loving. Jeremy found support from both his family and best friend, which helped him move forward with healthy adolescent development. Lisa, alone and unsupported, will have a much more jagged path.

The Trump Era has catapulted the United States into an un-united state. Many people seem to believe that LGBTQ+ children and adolescents are fundamentally different from cis straight children and adolescents. These people have lost track of the common ground that everyone shares. All kids and adolescents — and I mean ALL — need to feel safe physically and emotionally. They all need acceptance and support. They all need their core selves validated and respected. They all need love.

And let’s keep in mind that some of the finest words in the English language have no specified gender, no particular sexuality — which makes them every gender and every sexuality. Parent. Child. Adolescent. Teacher. Principal. Supporter. Friend.

Ice cream.

*All identifying information in this essay has been changed.

Hollywood High School (HHS) was a new frontier. Students spoke over forty languages. No single racial heritage comprised a majority. The economic spectrum stretched from the wealthy homes in the Hollywood Hills to kids living on the streets. Gangs strutted, loud and tough. We spoke different words, ate different foods, wore different clothes, brought different customs into our classrooms.

The year was 1973, and I had transferred from an all-girls prep academy where the students were mainly white, often wealthy, and 100% college-bound. My previous school was gorgeous — lush lawns, tennis courts, swimming pool, state of the art science labs. Although I loved the academics, I felt increasingly restless. I longed for a wider playing field that was more inclusive and diverse. When I insisted on transferring to HHS, my parents were horrified.

On my first day of school, I barely spoke, looking around, eyes wide. Three thousand students shouted in 40+ languages. I was told by my guidance counselor that less than 50% went on to any sort of “higher education” (which included manager training at fast-food restaurants). A permanent layer of crud covered every surface in the classrooms. The lawn in front of the school was parched. The asphalt in our quad was crumbling. Sometimes we had enough books for our classes, sometimes not.

Hollywood High School’s name added an unusual layer of complexity. When adolescents run away, they need a destination. Looking at photos of Hollywood’s red carpet, a teen from a damaged home would never imagine these people ever experienced pain, fear, deprivation. My high school had a significant population of runaway teens. Although disappointed in the gritty reality that quickly replaced the glossy red carpet dream, these students created their own social support network. They signed each other’s field trip permission slips, shared clothing, kept a running discourse on available jobs. My high school provided a community of street kids’ peer foster care.

Hollywood High was a trial-by-fire education, in and out of the classroom. In a learning environment with this degree of diversity, the expected adolescent judgments (also known as the cool crowd) fell away. We came together in an awkward, clunky, Un-united Nations. As a bookish white girl from a large home overlooking the city, I knew within five minutes that churning out A’s wouldn’t be enough. I had no idea how to navigate my way, but even as I floundered, I knew I was in the right place.

During my daily “free period,” I initially took my math homework to the ragged lawn. But I was immediately approached by two men who wanted something I didn’t understand. Both wore heavy gold chains and 3-piece suits, one glittery silver lamé. Both carried beepers, hair slick with tonic, gaudy rings. Although I felt uneasy and strangely angry, I had no idea why. To their credit, they quickly realized that my skills were much too limited in their area of expertise, and we amicably parted ways. It would be years before I understood the near-miss transaction that took place. Such was daily life at Hollywood High.

Still, the encounter left me with a vague anxiety about sitting on the lawn, so I offered to tutor students in math and English, which gave me a classroom during my free periods. Suddenly, to my complete shock, being a nerd was viewed as valuable. I remember the first time a student approached me at lunch, asking for help with math, and it hit me: nobody in my new school judged me for being a brain in overdrive. I began to understand that openness and acceptance were more than abstract concepts for the greater good. They were powerful, empowering, and founded on diversity. Those teens who approached me for tutoring gave me more than they’d ever know.

As a young nerd hitting her stride, I never expected that the biggest influence on my high school years would be the girls basketball team. I was not at all athletic, and joining a sports team had never before crossed my mind. But my new P.E. teacher knew the basketball team needed girls, and she astutely recognized that I needed a team. She sent me to talk to the coach. At practice after school that afternoon, a girl approached, introduced herself, and kindly taught me the meaning of a “zone defense.” She missed the next three practices and was kicked off the team. It turned out she took a job after school. Her family needed money for food. I understood why the team struggled to find enough girls.

Some of the team’s behavior was startling to a prep-school escapee. They cussed with impressive fluency — their language percussive and unprintable — brazenly uninhibited in front of our coach. They crashed into each other as they scrimmaged, and pounded forward with no apology. I obediently did the drills, following instructions, not speaking a word, drawn to their rugged charisma. They were hilariously unholy and the adolescent in me, hidden under layers of mannerly convention and astronomic grades, began to shake off the shackles.

Through the first few weeks, I tiptoed through our scrimmages. Then at the beginning of week three, one of our terrific athletes knocked into me as she ran past. After she scored a basket, she came straight back, hand raised for a high five as she mouthed, “Sorry.” In that moment, I realized my teammates understood their physicality was new to me. I also realized that in spite of my fair skin, blonde hair, polished exterior — I was much tougher than I looked. From deep within, something began to shift.

The turning point in my relationship to the team came after we had won a game at a school known for its violence. The losing team was livid, and their coach warned us not to walk to our bus until a police escort arrived. My teammates banded together, ready for a brawl, each girl picking her target. While they seemed to relish the idea of a battle, I was literally shaking. I wanted the team members’ acceptance so much I could taste it, but I had never thrown a punch in my life. I looked at my hands, and wondered if I had it in me to use my fists as weapons. In that instant, I knew that I couldn’t, and I broke into a full body sweat. I was about to let down my team in their moment of crisis, no doubt while suffering a terrible injury at best, and an excruciating death at worst. I tried to hide my terror, because my teammates verbally eviscerated “cowards.” Then our toughest girl sat next to me, and (to my absolute astonishment) took my hand for a brief second. She grinned harshly, but her voice was soft. She told me that the team knew I “wasn’t used to this sort of thing.” She hit my shoulder lightly, said they’d protect me, and jumped up to punch the air.

A police officer arrived and no violence broke out.

On the bus ride back to Hollywood, the girls asked about my previous school. I described our uniforms — white button-down shirt, gray skirt, knee socks, penny loafers, gold cotton cardigan — and we laughed together at their abject horror. I described the mansions I had visited, some filled with furniture covered in plastic. One girl shook her head, “That’s no fun.” Another added, “That’s no home.” They asked why I left and I answered honestly. I loved my classes, some of my teachers were truly gifted and I missed my friends. But I felt like the walls were closing in on me.

They wondered if I ever wished I could go back. I thought carefully. I had just dodged a melee and barely escaped with my limbs intact. I glanced around our bus — young faces, different shades of pink, brown and gold. Most would graduate high school, a few would disappear. Some would go on to college, some not. Our coach, who was the school’s dance teacher and knew zero about basketball, sat at the front of the bus — lounging in the tutu she wore to every practice and game.

Do you miss it?” the girl repeated.

“I’m okay at Hollywood High,” I answered quietly.

We were all moved, bonded. The moment lasted two seconds. Then one of the girls began singing at the top of her lungs, a song of her own creation, about a series of X-rated acts entirely unknown to me. The rest of the team shouted approval, tossed in their own verses, hormone driven improv.

I grinned. I’m sure they thought I was beaming my approval of their raunchy lyrics. But they were wrong. I smiled because something within me stirred and reached for the light — a quiet confidence, a core validation.

I belonged.

Since 2001 when the film Legally Blonde was released, we’ve come a long way. The United States has a female vice-president who is Black and Asian American. A high school classmate — female and Black — is president of a liberal arts college. Yep, we’ve come a long way.

Or have we?

In Legally Blonde, Elle Woods (played by the talented Reese Witherspoon) is a perky sorority princess, excessively enamored of the color pink. On the night she expects Warner (her fraternity prince boyfriend) to serve up a diamond, he instead dumps her over dinner in an ultra-fancy restaurant. With the other diners looking on askance, she breaks into sobs, sounding like an agitated bernedoodle. She shuts herself in her room for several days — eating bonbons, barely speaking, neglecting her hair and nails. Then she hatches a plan. She (and her equally perky chihuahua) follow Warner to Harvard Law School with the intention of (not being a lawyer but rather) winning back her coveted (albeit lunkhead) ex. This is all supposed to be funny. Elle’s yappy sobs — her alarmingly pink outfits — her perfect hair — and most of all, the idea of a pretty sorority babe going to Harvard. It’s a joke.

Or is it?

From this angle, the film is deeply offensive. Something’s got to give, or more accurately — something’s got to bend and snap. So lets’ do another take, from a different camera angle.

Elle Woods was born and raised to be a brainless ornament on a handsome man’s arm. As she grew, her natural beauty propelled the process forward. The “problem” is she also grew up strong, bright, quick with words and movingly kind. Throughout the film, Witherspoon manages to give a spark to Elle’s most vapid moments, a dignity to her most absurd reactions. As she shops for a dress for her (soon to be failed) engagement dinner, the sales clerk tries to sell her a sub-par product for an over-the-top price. Elle shows no fear as she eloquently puts the woman in her place. She is — there’s no way around it — savvy, tough, clever. As an outsider at Harvard (too dressed up, pen with fluffy pink feather, heart shaped note pad), Elle is immediately ostracized. Interestingly, having spent her college years neck-deep in sorority pretensions, she sees right through Harvard’s Ivy pretensions and — even more interestingly — figures how to navigate a successful path in her new environment.

Reese Witherspoon’s talent — along with a gifted team both on camera and behind the scenes— rocketed this potential train-wreck into a near-cult success. But even now, looking back 20+ years later, I wonder what many men see when they look at a professional woman who happens to be as gorgeous as Elle Woods. Do they see the potential for success, a brain waiting to be tapped, a rising talent — or do they still see an invitation (which actually exists only in their heads) to trade sex for career advancement? Do they see a serious professional or do they see the Bend And Snap Maneuver?

The what?

“Bend And Snap” is “a little maneuver mother taught me in junior high” (Elle):

Step 1: drop something on the floor (oops!)
Step 2: BEND to retrieve the item (butt sticking out perkily)
Step 3: SNAP back to a standing position (elbows bent, hands at your shoulders, boobs shoved as far forward as possible without risking spinal injury)

What’s wrong with the famous Bend And Snap Scene? Plenty. A bit later, however, the film took me by surprise. One of Elle’s friends finds herself gifted with the perfect Bend And Snap Opportunity. Following Elle’s instructions, she drops a pen (so cute, too adorable). Her love interest bends to pick it up, just as she bends over as well. She snaps back up, cracks his face, breaks his nose…and they fall in love. The film repeatedly invites the viewer to join in a stereotypic mindset, and then debunks its own stereotypes.

Or does it?

Although the film challenges its own gender stereotypes, it unfortunately does no such thing with its stereotypes about gay men and lesbian women. The one and only self-proclaimed lesbian in Elle’s Harvard class is caustic and obnoxious. The film’s only significant role of a gay man is a defendant’s pool boy, who dresses in sequins, lies under oath, and is pegged as gay because he knows who designed Elle’s glorious shoes.

This film holds a lot of talent, but the issues shouldn’t be ignored. We humans are trapped in a never-ending hunt for a convenient group to target. JK Rowling (author of the Harry Potter series) wrote a wonderful portrayal of “Purebloods” (100% wizard DNA) and their contempt for “Mudbloods” (who carry “Muggle” DNA). Years later, she revealed her contempt for transgender women, who are apparently her own personal Mudbloods.

I’ve watched Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, whose credentials are impeccable, face a series of attacks from the GOP. These senators demonstrate spectacular talent at modeling a When-I-Go-Low-Then-I-Go-Lower mentality. Their focus, through their ranting, seems to be that Judge Jackson is a Black woman and worse, she’s brilliant, strong and decent to the bone. Are these the new character-markers for Mudbloods in our government?

We also have an ongoing crusade against the LGBTQ+ spectrum. Choose your poison: DON’T SAY GAY, bathroom bills, banning books. And while we’re riding the wave of oppression, let’s not forget voting rights, which we certainly can’t endorse. I mean, c’mon, it would be unacceptable if They The People (largely of color) might cast their votes differently from We The Purebloods (predominantly white, whiter, whitest).

Folks, honestly, we have more productive options. We have an eminently qualified person joining the highest court in the land, making history as the first Black woman on the Supreme Court. We have a democracy based on the right to vote. We have classrooms where all children could be equal, if we endorse just a sprinkling of humanity. We have an LGBTQ+ spectrum of folks who enrich our lives every day. We have books with diverse viewpoints to open our world.

Even if pieces of Legally Blonde need a rewrite, it’s far beyond time to follow Elle Woods’ example. We need to drop-kick our assumptions, enable others to bring forward their strengths, wear shocking-pink if we choose.

Most of all, we need to bend the Pureblood-vs.-Mudblood mentality until it snaps.

Orange Is The New Black was a television series based on the book by Piper Kerman about her year in a women’s prison. The first 3 (out of 7) seasons are harsh with guards wielding power and inmates targeting each other. The show also celebrates the bonds that develop among the women prisoners. The inmates are troubled and rageful, decent and dignified, kind and thoughtful, entitled and narcissistic. Through the harsh, their relationships are strong, moving, even uplifting.

Then season 4 (2016, the beginning of the Trump Era) brings harsh to an entirely new level.

The prison becomes overcrowded as the owners pledge allegiance not to the humane treatment of the prisoners, but instead to their own economic bottom line. Money and Power are the driving forces behind all decisions, unchecked by a conscience. The new warden, unqualified and flailing, hires a group of guards who are even more unqualified. They have no idea how to sustain order and safety, and resort to school yard bullying to exert control. Worse, the warden then hires a guard who turns out to be a hit-man.

The lust for power is contagious and the prisoners, already divided by racial heritage, begin a pointless turf war. One woman ends up in solitary confinement, emotionally broken. Another woman is gagged, restrained and branded (not a metaphor, literally branded). One of the woman prisoners — beloved by inmates, guards and TV audiences alike — is killed in an incident disturbingly reminiscent of George Floyd’s murder. Another guard forces a prisoner to act like an animal, and then rapes her. A third guard tortures women inmates. A fourth forces a prisoner to eat a live rodent (again, not a metaphor).

Impulses unchecked. Pack mentality. Violence erupting. Prisoners in a cage.

It’s just a TV show, right?

Wrong. Welcome to January 6, 2021.

The footage from the January 6, 2021, insurrection is raw. There are no clever camera angles, no artistic lighting, no adrenaline-rush background music. This is a mob, assaultive, out of control, chanting death threats, out for blood, a hostile takeover.

Impulses unchecked. Pack mentality. Violence erupting. Prisoners in a cage.

Prisoners in a cage?

Actually, yes.

As I write this post, the aftermath continues, and I’m thinking of Orange Is The New Black. Cages come in many forms, many shapes, many sizes. People who support the insurrection, who twist accountability into something unrecognizable, are trapped in cages of their own creation. Whether they realize it or not, these people have the keys to their own cages. But will they unlock their own prisons? I don’t know, because their keys are made not of metal, but of accountability, decency, integrity, the capacity to admit they’ve made a terrible mistake.

In the final episode of Orange Is The New Black, the “prisoners” exit the set, waving and smiling, some graceful and others charmingly awkward. The series is finished, on to the next project, out of prison. But with the insurrectionists, using their keys to let themselves out of their personal prisons isn’t so simple. In Piper Kerman’s words from her book: “…some people were way too comfortable in prison. They seemed to have forgotten the world that exists on the outside….The truth is, the prison and its residents fill your thoughts, and it’s hard to remember what it’s like to be free.…”

I hope they remember soon. I hope they find within themselves the ability to stop, dig deep, reconsider. From sea to shining sea, I hope they find a path to reach for the dawn’s early light.

My sister-in-law Rebekah was an avid cyclist. When she didn’t arrive home from a ride, her husband David tracked her to the nearest trauma center, where she had been rushed into surgery. She had fallen and sustained a traumatic brain injury. She was found unconscious, on the side of the road. Their two sons caught flights home from college. They gathered with David at her bedside. For a day, she hovered between life and death. Then her intracranial pressure increased, and she died a few days later.

Rebekah and I married two brothers and over time, the many layers of my sister-in-law revealed themselves. She was a gifted midwife, a role-model educator, a terrific chef, a runner, passionate about Judaism, a tireless advocate for equality in health care. She was a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend. Our paths overlapped and diverged, connected and reconnected, as we moved from our thirties into middle age. Nearly twenty years after we met, when our husbands’ father Arnold was dying, I discovered another layer of Rebekah.

Arnold was fading. He was in the hospital for a week, and in home hospice care for an additional two weeks. At first, he requested clean pajamas. He asked his nurse for a shave. He initiated conversations. He wanted me to keep him oriented to time. He was living as he was dying.

Although our wonderful hospice nurse prepared us for what was around the corner, Arnold’s final phase took us by the throat. He lost interest in food, then in ice chips, then in sips of water. He stopped speaking. His breathing rattled. He needed meds to rest comfortably, then more meds, then much more.

My husband and I lived near Arnold, so we were with him through the progression. As he entered the home-hospice-care phase, David and Rebekah arrived from the other side the country. Together, they went into Arnold’s bedroom. They stayed a long time, bonded in loss and in love. Lying in bed, Arnold turned toward their voices, feeling their presence.

Rebekah was a fine athlete, and she moved with a supple grace familiar to me. But this time I saw something different. As she crossed the threshold into Arnold’s bedroom, her movements changed almost imperceptibly. She slowed her pace slightly, her body took on a subtle fluidity, responding to invisible atmospheric currents. She placed her hand on Arnold’s arm and spoke a few quiet words. Without understanding how or why, everyone breathed easier.

Before Rebekah arrived, even as we accepted Arnold’s death, we all wanted to fight against it. But Rebekah wasn’t fighting. From a place too deep for words, she understood the essence of Arnold’s experience and in an unconscious instant, she entered his world. Somehow, she opened herself, an unspoken invitation to Arnold’s physical being to communicate directly with her physical being, no verbal translation necessary. At one point, I asked how she, a midwife, an expert in labor and delivery, knew with such completeness how to help Arnold find his path into death. She smiled gently, shrugged slightly. “This is a lot like when someone gives birth.”

Arnold died in the early hours of the morning. Rebekah saw his skin take on a different hue. She woke the others and brought them to his bedside. Arnold took his final breath with his midwife guiding him into death.

Today, four years after Arnold died, I know that if love had been enough, Rebekah would have stood up after her fall, dusted herself off, climbed back on her bike, and returned to her husband and her sons. I’m thinking of Rebekah’s hand on Arnold’s arm, the calm of her voice, the curious beauty of her movements. If I close my eyes for an instant, I see her on her bicycle, eyes intent and shining, brown curls streaming. In my mind, she slows her pace, and our eyes meet. She smiles at me, then through me, a quiet light reaching for David and their sons. Then she turns and rides into death, gone and extremely here.

Rebekah Kaplan
1/4/1960 - 11/16/2021
Rest In Peace

I had known Cal Bernstein since I was three years old, and I knew when he began his battle with pancreatic cancer decades later. In spite of his diagnosis, I never linked him with illness and impending death. I linked him with visual images. 

Cal was a stunningly talented photojournalist. He photographed Martin Luther King, Jr., Jimi Hendrix, the Civil Rights Movement and much more. Not every picture tells a story, but Cal’s pictures tell the stories of our hearts, guts, minds. Light and shadow, sharp and fuzzy, obvious and subtle — the lens of Cal’s camera instilled a pulse in the palette of visual images.

I met Cal’s daughter, Jonine, in preschool, and we grew up together. Her family's house was a large rambling structure, built into the Hollywood Hills. Cal’s living room was always an event, full of ongoing changes and new surprises. He and his wife Roz were fascinated by modern pieces. Their home was crammed with art, and by art, I mean furniture. Shiny steel and sleek leather, curious shapes and unexpected angles. I remember one chair which looked so intimidating that I refused to sit, too shy to admit that I couldn’t figure out where to park my butt. Now I wish I had just asked, because Cal never, not once, mocked another person for ignorance. He would have quietly demonstrated, then offered me a chance to try. He would have hovered nearby until I felt comfortable. Cal was over six feet tall and in a world fraught with people trying to exert power, he was often the tallest person in the room. He was also the most gentle.

Decades later, Cal's condition worsened until the cancer outdistanced his body's capacity to fight. I went to his memorial. As I entered the room, I was greeted by a picture, drawn by Jonine's young daughter, to honor her grandfather. This child had poured her love and loss onto the canvas, and captured the vivid brightness, the boundless warmth, of Cal's essence. Jonine, her brother, and several others spoke, from all phases of Cal's personal and professional world. Every day of his life, Cal felt a magnetic pull toward color, shadow, ideas, people, perspectives.

As the final speaker left the podium and we filed outdoors, I turned back. I stood still, looking at the empty room. The chairs were arranged in rows, ordinary and predictable. I wondered how many memorials those chairs had seen, how many people those chairs had held. I smiled to myself, certain that if Cal could attend his own memorial, he would be studying those chairs. He'd find an elusive surface, a shaft of sunshine, a ray of shade. He’d travel the room -- standing, kneeling, searching -- until he found his vantage point. He'd adjust the lens and the camera would click. In that instant, Cal would recreate those chairs, bringing their story into the light. Those inanimate, uninteresting pieces of furniture would blossom into something they never dreamed they could become. Then Cal would move forward, eyes sweeping his surroundings, always ready to discover the next image, confident that he had given those chairs a story, a meaning, a pulse.

Cal Bernstein
August 30, 1925 - August 10, 2003
Rest In Peace