In this Story... with Joanne Greene
Joanne Greene
Joanne Greene shares her flash nonfiction, each essay with custom music, showcasing tales and observations from her animated life. Her book, "By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go" is now available as a paperback, e-book, and audiobook from Amazon, Audible, Barnes & Noble, and your local independent book seller.
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Overcoming a Childhood Fear
In this Story... with Joanne Greene
05/10/24 • 4 min
In this story, I share a childhood fear that I outgrew.
Admittedly and with only minor apology do I share the truth that I’m obsessed with dogs. The apology is to those with whom I walk as the canine imperative forces me to stop and pet any pup in my path. I love almost every dog I meet and communicate with them in a way that makes me, dare I say, gifted? It IS a gift to be able to look into a doggie’s eyes and let him or her know that they’re safe with me, that I understand how hard it is to wait to be fed, to stare at the back door when you just have to pee, to have to be leashed, outdoors, like a wild animal. This makes it all the more difficult for those who know me, even for me, to understand that at one point in my way distant past, I was actually afraid of....cats.
I tried connecting in the way that I did with dogs, but they always walked away, unimpressed. Sometimes they hissed. Or swatted a paw at me. So rude. Two women – Ceil and Barbara, lived together across the street from us with their two cats: Penny and Kitty. – My mom said that Ceil and Barbara were old maids, like they didn’t luck out when husband shopping. I pointed out that they were a happy lesbian couple – it was obvious. They drove to their jobs at Polaroid together every morning and, in the evening, they called “Penny, Penny, Penny, Penny....here Penny, Penny, Penny” and “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty...... here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.” It was the soundtrack of my childhood, punctuated by an occasional piercing cat cry that left me glad there was a solid door keeping me safe inside and them outside in the dark. I’d be walking down the street to school and one of them would dart out from behind a bush, scaring the bejesus out of me. (I looked it up. It’s a word...Irish in origin...small J so I’m assuming not disrespectful....) For years I would cower if a cat was anywhere in the vicinity. Cower. It’s true.
And then there was that one long night the summer after I graduated from high school, when I might have ingested a hallucinogenic substance. After listening to Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd on some guy’s waterbed – he was elsewhere - I wandered up to the apartment roof to gaze at the stars. It was so peaceful, and I was perfectly relaxed, lying on my back, when seemingly out of nowhere a cat sauntered up to me. She walked toward me slowly, looked me right in the eye with what I interpreted as kindness, and lied down next to me. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of a cat. It was like someone flipped a switch and we were two beings, basking together in the warm summer night under the stars. I gently pet her coat and she purred in bliss.
Was it a magical roof? Do I attribute the sudden cessation of my fear to the fact that it was 4am, that she was a particularly docile cat? Or should hallucinogenic substances be investigated as a tool for ridding people of phobias? I don’t know...nor really care. While for the decades since, I haven’t been drawn to felines the way some people are, I can’t say that I’ve ever felt afraid again. Except for that one time when I was bitten by an adolescent tiger in a Mexican zoo....but that’s a different story.
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
Admittedly and with only minor apology do I share the truth that I’m obsessed with dogs. The apology is to those with whom I walk as the canine imperative forces me to stop and pet any pup in my path. I love almost every dog I meet and communicate with them in a way that makes me, dare I say, gifted? It IS a gift to be able to look into a doggie’s eyes and let him or her know that they’re safe with me, that I understand how hard it is to wait to be fed, to stare at the back door when you just have to pee, to have to be leashed, outdoors, like a wild animal. This makes it all the more difficult for those who know me, even for me, to understand that at one point in my way distant past, I was actually afraid of....cats.
I tried connecting in the way that I did with dogs, but they always walked away, unimpressed. Sometimes they hissed. Or swatted a paw at me. So rude. Two women – Ceil and Barbara, lived together across the street from us with their two cats: Penny and Kitty. – My mom said that Ceil and Barbara were old maids, like they didn’t luck out when husband shopping. I pointed out that they were a happy lesbian couple – it was obvious. They drove to their jobs at Polaroid together every morning and, in the evening, they called “Penny, Penny, Penny, Penny....here Penny, Penny, Penny” and “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty...... here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.” It was the soundtrack of my childhood, punctuated by an occasional piercing cat cry that left me glad there was a solid door keeping me safe inside and them outside in the dark. I’d be walking down the street to school and one of them would dart out from behind a bush, scaring the bejesus out of me. (I looked it up. It’s a word...Irish in origin...small J so I’m assuming not disrespectful....) For years I would cower if a cat was anywhere in the vicinity. Cower. It’s true.
And then there was that one long night the summer after I graduated from high school, when I might have ingested a hallucinogenic substance. After listening to Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd on some guy’s waterbed – he was elsewhere - I wandered up to the apartment roof to gaze at the stars. It was so peaceful, and I was perfectly relaxed, lying on my back, when seemingly out of nowhere a cat sauntered up to me. She walked toward me slowly, looked me right in the eye with what I interpreted as kindness, and lied down next to me. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of a cat. It was like someone flipped a switch and we were two beings, basking together in the warm summer night under the stars. I gently pet her coat and she purred in bliss.
Was it a magical roof? Do I attribute the sudden cessation of my fear to the fact that it was 4am, that she was a particularly docile cat? Or should hallucinogenic substances be investigated as a tool for ridding people of phobias? I don’t know...nor really care. While for the decades since, I haven’t been drawn to felines the way some people are, I can’t say that I’ve ever felt afraid again. Except for that one time when I was bitten by an adolescent tiger in a Mexican zoo....but that’s a different story.
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
My Encounter With A Terrorist
In this Story... with Joanne Greene
02/16/24 • 10 min
Women on the radio receive letters from prisoners. It's a given. I only responded once and it was when I was contacted by Bill Harris, of the Symbionese Liberation Army, the small band of revolutionaries who had kidnapped newspaper heiress Patty Hearst in 1974. Hear the full story of my experience with a man the FBI called one of the first terrorists to emerge from the American left.
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
We Take Off Our Clothes
In this Story... with Joanne Greene
07/05/24 • 3 min
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
In This Story, we take off our clothes.
I never saw either of my parents naked. Unusual? Probably not for that era. But did it sew the seeds of bodily shame for me? Perhaps. There’s a fine line between modesty and shame. Modesty, for my mom, was tied to virtue, morality. Good girls were never naked. Even the word naked made her squirm. So, imagine the awkward moment when they took me to see the play Hair when I was 15. At the end of the first act, the lights went out briefly and when they came back on, the actors were completely nude. On stage. Front and center for all to see. I thought my parents might pass out. I was tickled.
I never much liked my body... too pasty white...too chubby in the belly. The focus was on how we looked in clothing. Was the outfit (and I quote here) “flattering to the figure”? “Hold in your stomach”, my mother would say, which these days sounds more like “engage your core.” Ultimately, it was solid advice, but for all the wrong reasons.
In the 60’s and 70’s, at least in the circles in which I traveled, there was peer pressure to skinny dip, when the opportunity presented itself. While I certainly couldn’t refuse to participate and risk being called a prude, I wasn’t the least bit comfortable and ran into the lake as fast as I could, wishing I had at least two more arms to more fully hide my body. The first time, it was pitch dark out and I consoled myself that no one could see much. Years later, at a nude beach south of San Francisco, I had to talk myself into removing my swimsuit top. And, even then, I was mortified. It took far too many decades for me to feel good about my body – to appreciate its beauty without being disgusted by my pouchy belly, ashamed of the sagginess of my boobs. I never once had sexy tan lines like my flat stomached friends. They didn’t know how good they had it! How can we expect girls to love their bodies if we insist that they cover up, even at home? I don’t think I would even have been permitted to be in my own bedroom naked, alone. Of course, the thought never once occurred to me.
My granddaughter loves to be “nakie” as she calls it. At home, with the family, it’s fine. She’s learned that it’s not appropriate to take her clothes off at the park, even if it’s hot out and she happens to feel like it. As a result of this body positive approach, she loves her body. ‘Course she’s only 5. How long before she, too, becomes self-critical, before bad messaging seeps in to pollute her healthy self-image? Hopefully never, but at least she’s starting out shameless and that, my friend, can only be good.
In This Story, we take off our clothes.
I never saw either of my parents naked. Unusual? Probably not for that era. But did it sew the seeds of bodily shame for me? Perhaps. There’s a fine line between modesty and shame. Modesty, for my mom, was tied to virtue, morality. Good girls were never naked. Even the word naked made her squirm. So, imagine the awkward moment when they took me to see the play Hair when I was 15. At the end of the first act, the lights went out briefly and when they came back on, the actors were completely nude. On stage. Front and center for all to see. I thought my parents might pass out. I was tickled.
I never much liked my body... too pasty white...too chubby in the belly. The focus was on how we looked in clothing. Was the outfit (and I quote here) “flattering to the figure”? “Hold in your stomach”, my mother would say, which these days sounds more like “engage your core.” Ultimately, it was solid advice, but for all the wrong reasons.
In the 60’s and 70’s, at least in the circles in which I traveled, there was peer pressure to skinny dip, when the opportunity presented itself. While I certainly couldn’t refuse to participate and risk being called a prude, I wasn’t the least bit comfortable and ran into the lake as fast as I could, wishing I had at least two more arms to more fully hide my body. The first time, it was pitch dark out and I consoled myself that no one could see much. Years later, at a nude beach south of San Francisco, I had to talk myself into removing my swimsuit top. And, even then, I was mortified. It took far too many decades for me to feel good about my body – to appreciate its beauty without being disgusted by my pouchy belly, ashamed of the sagginess of my boobs. I never once had sexy tan lines like my flat stomached friends. They didn’t know how good they had it! How can we expect girls to love their bodies if we insist that they cover up, even at home? I don’t think I would even have been permitted to be in my own bedroom naked, alone. Of course, the thought never once occurred to me.
My granddaughter loves to be “nakie” as she calls it. At home, with the family, it’s fine. She’s learned that it’s not appropriate to take her clothes off at the park, even if it’s hot out and she happens to feel like it. As a result of this body positive approach, she loves her body. ‘Course she’s only 5. How long before she, too, becomes self-critical, before bad messaging seeps in to pollute her healthy self-image? Hopefully never, but at least she’s starting out shameless and that, my friend, can only be good.
An Heirloom Makes Tea
In this Story... with Joanne Greene
09/01/23 • 3 min
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
They must have loved their tea.
They probably couldn’t risk life without it. What if the new world didn’t have samovars? Their heavy, brass samovar, or self-brewer as it translates, is Russian tea kettle that was used by everyone from royalty to the peasant class in the 18th and 19th centuries. And not just in Russia. My maternal grandparents shlepped this bulky item, engraved with Russian writing that I can’t decipher, across the sea, when they emigrated from a village outside of Kiev in the Ukraine to Ellis Island and then on to Providence, Rhode Island in the first decade of the twentieth century. One can only assume that making and drinking tea was too much a part of daily life to leave to chance. What if there were no tea making devices in America? How would they make it through the day? I get it. That first cup of coffee in the morning is like air to me. And I’m fussy. Each time we travel, I consider packing my Nespresso Virtuo machine along with the milk frother. But since I try my best not to check luggage, I leave my coffee to chance.
Imagine what it meant to board a ship for the chance at building a brighter future. Sure, they’d survived the pogroms, where vicious mobs of Russian soldiers came barreling through on horseback, burning Jewish homes and raping women. But it was economic opportunity that drew my ancestors to pack up and leave. My grandfather and his two brothers were all kosher butchers, and they couldn’t all make a living in their little village. In Providence, Rhode Island, America, they’d heard, there were enough hungry Jews to support three kosher butchers. And, sure enough, all three opened butcher shops and each made a decent living.
The samovar was a fixture in my home growing up. We never actually used it; it was more of a yiddishe objet d’art. A modern American family of the fifties and then sixties, we used tea bags – such a luxury - from Swee-Touch-Nee. When the big black tin of tea bags with the gold lettering was finally emptied, my mom used it as a sugar container. She was practical. Tea was a drink for when our tummies were upset. Instant Maxwell House –decaf Sanka later in the day – were the adult beverages of choice in our home. The percolator was brought out for company, along with the matching sugar and creamer dispensers.
My grandparents’ samovar holds a place of honor in our home, more than one hundred years after and thousands of miles from where it arrived on American soil. The question remains, where will it find its next home?
They must have loved their tea.
They probably couldn’t risk life without it. What if the new world didn’t have samovars? Their heavy, brass samovar, or self-brewer as it translates, is Russian tea kettle that was used by everyone from royalty to the peasant class in the 18th and 19th centuries. And not just in Russia. My maternal grandparents shlepped this bulky item, engraved with Russian writing that I can’t decipher, across the sea, when they emigrated from a village outside of Kiev in the Ukraine to Ellis Island and then on to Providence, Rhode Island in the first decade of the twentieth century. One can only assume that making and drinking tea was too much a part of daily life to leave to chance. What if there were no tea making devices in America? How would they make it through the day? I get it. That first cup of coffee in the morning is like air to me. And I’m fussy. Each time we travel, I consider packing my Nespresso Virtuo machine along with the milk frother. But since I try my best not to check luggage, I leave my coffee to chance.
Imagine what it meant to board a ship for the chance at building a brighter future. Sure, they’d survived the pogroms, where vicious mobs of Russian soldiers came barreling through on horseback, burning Jewish homes and raping women. But it was economic opportunity that drew my ancestors to pack up and leave. My grandfather and his two brothers were all kosher butchers, and they couldn’t all make a living in their little village. In Providence, Rhode Island, America, they’d heard, there were enough hungry Jews to support three kosher butchers. And, sure enough, all three opened butcher shops and each made a decent living.
The samovar was a fixture in my home growing up. We never actually used it; it was more of a yiddishe objet d’art. A modern American family of the fifties and then sixties, we used tea bags – such a luxury - from Swee-Touch-Nee. When the big black tin of tea bags with the gold lettering was finally emptied, my mom used it as a sugar container. She was practical. Tea was a drink for when our tummies were upset. Instant Maxwell House –decaf Sanka later in the day – were the adult beverages of choice in our home. The percolator was brought out for company, along with the matching sugar and creamer dispensers.
My grandparents’ samovar holds a place of honor in our home, more than one hundred years after and thousands of miles from where it arrived on American soil. The question remains, where will it find its next home?
I Question Fairytales
In this Story... with Joanne Greene
07/07/23 • 3 min
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
In this story, I consider the Fairy tales. I’m Joanne Greene.
I never quite saw myself as a princess. If I squinted enough, I might see myself in Orphan Annie – that orphanage looked like a blast. And I had a thing for Shirley Temple, with her cute little dances and conversations with grown men, though I definitely didn’t envy her curls. And then there was Dorothy. Yes, I would be Dorothy especially if I could carry Toto or, really, any dog in a wicker basket and travel around with a lion, a scarecrow and a tin man. Organizing three friendly but needy men and helping them get their shit straight. Yup, that’d be a job for me.
Fairy tales never quite connected. Take Humpty Dumpty, for instance. Why was a fragile, pale faced, underdressed, egg sitting way high up on a wall? To give the king’s men and even their horses a good laugh when they found him crumpled into a million pieces on the ground? Not funny. No inspiration.
And take Little Miss Muffet. Have you ever sat on a tuffet? As a young kid I thought it was made-up word because nothing else rhymed with Muffet, but in fact it’s a small grassy mound or clump of grass. Precisely the kind of place where you’d find an insect or an arachnid. And a picnic of curds and whey? Really? Disgusting! And this was before refrigeration, much less the little pre-packaged, hermetically sealed containers that lunch parts for kids come in today. Mainly, though, who sits outside on the ground in a forest when they’re afraid of spiders? It’s asking for trouble. Miss Muffet should have read Charlotte’s Web like I did. Then, she’d love spiders.
Now, who could relate to Cinderella? A victim with unrealistic fantasies, that’s who. Yes, I empathized with the part about missing out, again and again, as the youngest member of the family. But Cindy, get a little self-respect. Poor me, mopping the floors. My stepsisters are so mean. Why do they get all the fun? Self-pity, my friend, will get you nowhere. Dream on about your magical prince...like some man who hasn’t done a day of work in his life is going to save you from your pathetic little life. Grow a spine. Go on strike. Get back at your sisters. Do something other than whine and feel sorry for yourself. Snap out of it!
And, finally, there’s the Gingerbread Man. Who, in their right mind, would tell this story to a child? The woman bakes the gingerbread man and when she takes him out of the oven, he’s alive. And pissed. He runs for his life – faster than the woman, and the man who starts to chase him from the garden, and the pig and the cow and the horse, all of whom want to eat him and can’t catch up. So he comes to the river and, since he doesn’t know how to swim (what gingerbread man would?) he hitches a ride on the back of a fox because, right, they’re notoriously trustworthy. When the fox tells him his back is aching and he should move up to his nose, the gingerbread man does and the fox promptly eats him. The moral of the story? Eventually, something’s going to get you but if you like running, go for it.
In this story, I consider the Fairy tales. I’m Joanne Greene.
I never quite saw myself as a princess. If I squinted enough, I might see myself in Orphan Annie – that orphanage looked like a blast. And I had a thing for Shirley Temple, with her cute little dances and conversations with grown men, though I definitely didn’t envy her curls. And then there was Dorothy. Yes, I would be Dorothy especially if I could carry Toto or, really, any dog in a wicker basket and travel around with a lion, a scarecrow and a tin man. Organizing three friendly but needy men and helping them get their shit straight. Yup, that’d be a job for me.
Fairy tales never quite connected. Take Humpty Dumpty, for instance. Why was a fragile, pale faced, underdressed, egg sitting way high up on a wall? To give the king’s men and even their horses a good laugh when they found him crumpled into a million pieces on the ground? Not funny. No inspiration.
And take Little Miss Muffet. Have you ever sat on a tuffet? As a young kid I thought it was made-up word because nothing else rhymed with Muffet, but in fact it’s a small grassy mound or clump of grass. Precisely the kind of place where you’d find an insect or an arachnid. And a picnic of curds and whey? Really? Disgusting! And this was before refrigeration, much less the little pre-packaged, hermetically sealed containers that lunch parts for kids come in today. Mainly, though, who sits outside on the ground in a forest when they’re afraid of spiders? It’s asking for trouble. Miss Muffet should have read Charlotte’s Web like I did. Then, she’d love spiders.
Now, who could relate to Cinderella? A victim with unrealistic fantasies, that’s who. Yes, I empathized with the part about missing out, again and again, as the youngest member of the family. But Cindy, get a little self-respect. Poor me, mopping the floors. My stepsisters are so mean. Why do they get all the fun? Self-pity, my friend, will get you nowhere. Dream on about your magical prince...like some man who hasn’t done a day of work in his life is going to save you from your pathetic little life. Grow a spine. Go on strike. Get back at your sisters. Do something other than whine and feel sorry for yourself. Snap out of it!
And, finally, there’s the Gingerbread Man. Who, in their right mind, would tell this story to a child? The woman bakes the gingerbread man and when she takes him out of the oven, he’s alive. And pissed. He runs for his life – faster than the woman, and the man who starts to chase him from the garden, and the pig and the cow and the horse, all of whom want to eat him and can’t catch up. So he comes to the river and, since he doesn’t know how to swim (what gingerbread man would?) he hitches a ride on the back of a fox because, right, they’re notoriously trustworthy. When the fox tells him his back is aching and he should move up to his nose, the gingerbread man does and the fox promptly eats him. The moral of the story? Eventually, something’s going to get you but if you like running, go for it.
I Share a Little Women's History
In this Story... with Joanne Greene
03/17/23 • 3 min
"By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go" by Joanne Greene is available for pre-order from your online favorite book sellers. Release date June 20,2023
Learn more at joanne-greene.com
In this Story...I Share a Little Women's History
I couldn’t throw out, okay or recycle, the pink “While You Were Out” slip that showed I’d missed a phone call from Gloria Steinam. It was 1976 and I was producing a weekly feminist show for Berekeley’s KRE Radio called “Women Making Waves.” You get the double meaning, right? Airwaves? And “making waves’, like making trouble?
Gloria was one of my heroes, a feminist role model of the highest order, and Ms. Magazine, of which Gloria was co-founder the year I graduated from high school, was something between a manual and a bible for me.
In 1977, I went to Houston for the National Women’s Conference because a group of Lesbian Separatists raised the money for my roundtrip flight. Listeners to my radio show, they thought the only way they’d get the truth about what happened was to send their own reporter. Alice, the station manager, said yes because it wasn’t going to cost her anything. It didn’t occur to me how big a deal it was that a woman was running the radio station.
I met Margo, a fellow journalist. in the elevator of the Houston Convention Center, on my way to pick up press credentials. “Where are you staying?” she asked in a lilting southern accent. When I shrugged, she said, “It’s settled. You’ll stay in our guest room! And I’ll drive you to and from the conference each day.” Southern hospitality is really something.
There were so many women, from every state, every ethnicity, and every walk of life, all there to claim their rights. For the right to an abortion, to love whom they want, for decent childcare. rape crisis centers. shelters for battered women. Rights for prostitutes who consciously chose their profession. The organization, based in S.F., was called COYOTE, an acronym for “Call Off Your Old Tired Ethics.” And then there was conservative activist Phyllis Schlafly with her bullhorn, trying to keep women out of the military, out of the board room, and send all of them, all of us, back into the kitchen. Four former First Ladies spoke, and I washed my hands in the Ladies’ Room right next to feminist icon Kate Millet.
I recorded everything – the plenary sessions, the conversations happening in the hallways, interviews with the most fascinating women I could find – and somehow, with the help of the radio station’s production director, I turned it into a one-hour documentary called “Women on the Move”, the title of the conference.
I assumed that the Equal Rights Amendment was a slam dunk, that there would be National Women’s Conferences every few years. That this was just the beginning of normalizing rape crisis centers, that battered women shelters would spring up in cities across the country. What never entered my mind in 1977 was that Roe v. Wade could be overturned by the Supreme Court, and that women in nearly half of our nation would, once again, be forced to choose between risking their lives or taking an unwanted pregnancy to term. Of course, I also couldn’t have imagined that the Supreme Court would legalize same-sex marriage in all fifty states. It’s a good thing I’m not a betting woman. Happy Women’s History Month.
Learn more at joanne-greene.com
In this Story...I Share a Little Women's History
I couldn’t throw out, okay or recycle, the pink “While You Were Out” slip that showed I’d missed a phone call from Gloria Steinam. It was 1976 and I was producing a weekly feminist show for Berekeley’s KRE Radio called “Women Making Waves.” You get the double meaning, right? Airwaves? And “making waves’, like making trouble?
Gloria was one of my heroes, a feminist role model of the highest order, and Ms. Magazine, of which Gloria was co-founder the year I graduated from high school, was something between a manual and a bible for me.
In 1977, I went to Houston for the National Women’s Conference because a group of Lesbian Separatists raised the money for my roundtrip flight. Listeners to my radio show, they thought the only way they’d get the truth about what happened was to send their own reporter. Alice, the station manager, said yes because it wasn’t going to cost her anything. It didn’t occur to me how big a deal it was that a woman was running the radio station.
I met Margo, a fellow journalist. in the elevator of the Houston Convention Center, on my way to pick up press credentials. “Where are you staying?” she asked in a lilting southern accent. When I shrugged, she said, “It’s settled. You’ll stay in our guest room! And I’ll drive you to and from the conference each day.” Southern hospitality is really something.
There were so many women, from every state, every ethnicity, and every walk of life, all there to claim their rights. For the right to an abortion, to love whom they want, for decent childcare. rape crisis centers. shelters for battered women. Rights for prostitutes who consciously chose their profession. The organization, based in S.F., was called COYOTE, an acronym for “Call Off Your Old Tired Ethics.” And then there was conservative activist Phyllis Schlafly with her bullhorn, trying to keep women out of the military, out of the board room, and send all of them, all of us, back into the kitchen. Four former First Ladies spoke, and I washed my hands in the Ladies’ Room right next to feminist icon Kate Millet.
I recorded everything – the plenary sessions, the conversations happening in the hallways, interviews with the most fascinating women I could find – and somehow, with the help of the radio station’s production director, I turned it into a one-hour documentary called “Women on the Move”, the title of the conference.
I assumed that the Equal Rights Amendment was a slam dunk, that there would be National Women’s Conferences every few years. That this was just the beginning of normalizing rape crisis centers, that battered women shelters would spring up in cities across the country. What never entered my mind in 1977 was that Roe v. Wade could be overturned by the Supreme Court, and that women in nearly half of our nation would, once again, be forced to choose between risking their lives or taking an unwanted pregnancy to term. Of course, I also couldn’t have imagined that the Supreme Court would legalize same-sex marriage in all fifty states. It’s a good thing I’m not a betting woman. Happy Women’s History Month.
Lessons for Life
In this Story... with Joanne Greene
04/05/24 • 4 min
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
SCRIPT:
In June of 1990, in a Wellesley College commencement speech, former first lady Barbara Bush said, “At the end of your life, you will never regret not having passed one more test, winning one more verdict, or not closing one more deal. You will regret time not spent with a husband, a child, a friend, or a parent.” I’ve held on to that piece of wisdom, knowing deep in my soul that what matters most to me is my relationships, how I give, receive, and grow as a person, not what I accomplish externally.
Recently, for my seventieth birthday, my children created a list of 70 tips for life that they’ve learned from me. What a gift. It’s my values, my truth, my quirks, and my legacy all in one document.
I’ve apparently shown them that being in nature, hiking and reading, dancing and celebrating, maintaining strong friendships, and showing up for people when they’re hurting or facing a challenge are key to a meaningful life. Keeping promises, maintaining open, welcoming arms to new family members, working on yourself at every stage of life, believing in magic and exploring spirituality in whatever way works for you are all things I strive to do, and it fills my heart that they noticed. Apparently, I taught them to try to be humble, to live life fully, to be generous, and know when to laugh at your own expense, to be a hugger, to never miss a chance at a sales rack, and to love every dog. (The canine imperative was repeated in various forms. I guess I really made the point.)
After continually overbooking yourself, they wrote, just learn to lay low. Go to the spa and get massages, invest in your own rejuvenation. Material things don’t bring happiness, spend your money on health and education, travel – there is so much to discover in the world, and always remember where you came from, honoring generations past by sharing their stories and traditions with the next generations. Never doubt the worth of a good therapist, never turn down the opportunity for adventure, be spontaneous, smile, and give, give, give. The best gift is a lasting memory, consume the news even though it’s painful, cherish and foster your community, they show up for you when you need them. Learn to cook healthy food to feed yourself and your family and to bring people together. Never miss a Stevie Wonder concert, check in on people regularly, try not to put a picture of a naked guy riding a bike as your social media cover photo, but if you accidentally do, as admittedly I did, know that you will never live it down.
To be a grandparent is to give, encourage your kids to actually take a break by being a genuine caregiver to your grandkids, be your grandchildren’s safe space and also their most fun playmate.
Do fashion shows of your latest purchases and dramatically explain the discount, pick a partner who makes you laugh and holds you when you cry, light the Shabbat candles, take a hot tub under a starry night sky, journal regularly, and understand the other side, regardless of the context.
Letting go, I believe and now they do too, is a lifelong process and age is only a number. Disabilities are nothing to be afraid of. Treat everyone with respect and love. That one just tells me that they were watching. And Be Extra. Life is too precious to play small.
If this is what I’ve shown them....if this is how I’m remembered...I’ve accomplished enough.
SCRIPT:
In June of 1990, in a Wellesley College commencement speech, former first lady Barbara Bush said, “At the end of your life, you will never regret not having passed one more test, winning one more verdict, or not closing one more deal. You will regret time not spent with a husband, a child, a friend, or a parent.” I’ve held on to that piece of wisdom, knowing deep in my soul that what matters most to me is my relationships, how I give, receive, and grow as a person, not what I accomplish externally.
Recently, for my seventieth birthday, my children created a list of 70 tips for life that they’ve learned from me. What a gift. It’s my values, my truth, my quirks, and my legacy all in one document.
I’ve apparently shown them that being in nature, hiking and reading, dancing and celebrating, maintaining strong friendships, and showing up for people when they’re hurting or facing a challenge are key to a meaningful life. Keeping promises, maintaining open, welcoming arms to new family members, working on yourself at every stage of life, believing in magic and exploring spirituality in whatever way works for you are all things I strive to do, and it fills my heart that they noticed. Apparently, I taught them to try to be humble, to live life fully, to be generous, and know when to laugh at your own expense, to be a hugger, to never miss a chance at a sales rack, and to love every dog. (The canine imperative was repeated in various forms. I guess I really made the point.)
After continually overbooking yourself, they wrote, just learn to lay low. Go to the spa and get massages, invest in your own rejuvenation. Material things don’t bring happiness, spend your money on health and education, travel – there is so much to discover in the world, and always remember where you came from, honoring generations past by sharing their stories and traditions with the next generations. Never doubt the worth of a good therapist, never turn down the opportunity for adventure, be spontaneous, smile, and give, give, give. The best gift is a lasting memory, consume the news even though it’s painful, cherish and foster your community, they show up for you when you need them. Learn to cook healthy food to feed yourself and your family and to bring people together. Never miss a Stevie Wonder concert, check in on people regularly, try not to put a picture of a naked guy riding a bike as your social media cover photo, but if you accidentally do, as admittedly I did, know that you will never live it down.
To be a grandparent is to give, encourage your kids to actually take a break by being a genuine caregiver to your grandkids, be your grandchildren’s safe space and also their most fun playmate.
Do fashion shows of your latest purchases and dramatically explain the discount, pick a partner who makes you laugh and holds you when you cry, light the Shabbat candles, take a hot tub under a starry night sky, journal regularly, and understand the other side, regardless of the context.
Letting go, I believe and now they do too, is a lifelong process and age is only a number. Disabilities are nothing to be afraid of. Treat everyone with respect and love. That one just tells me that they were watching. And Be Extra. Life is too precious to play small.
If this is what I’ve shown them....if this is how I’m remembered...I’ve accomplished enough.
A Glimpse At My Idiosynchrocies
In this Story... with Joanne Greene
06/21/24 • 3 min
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
In This Story, a glimpse at my idiosynchrocies. I’m Joanne Greene.
We all have idiosynchocies – things we do that are peculiar to us. My favorites, these days, are my morning rituals when, for starters, I’m thrilled to wake up Yes, of course, because I love life and am grateful to be alive once again. But, also, because I tend to torture myself in my dreams. Go figure. My lifelong anxiety is nearly gone from my waking hours but, at night, it percolates, poking at me with recurring themes. Last night, I was in endless lines, crowded spaces, and didn’t have the item I was in line to return. Often, it’s that I’ve overcommitted and then gotten distracted so that when it comes time to perform, I’m not prepared. The most frequent version is the dead air dream, unique to radio people. The song is ending, and I can’t reach the mic to start the newscast. I flip the mic switch to start speaking and I have no voice. While my dreams are challenging, I’m abundantly kind to myself upon waking up. First, I snuggle with Moxie, the goldendoodle and any other dog that happens to be visiting. Then, I might luxuriate in the hot tub, listening to the birds, inhaling the scent of jasmine, an embarrassment of riches.
And before you label me a hedonist, let me share that it’s taken me decades to indulge without guilt. Accomplish, produce, get stuff done. Those were my mantras. I’ve silenced the inner voice that said, “you don’t need a massage”; “you can get a new outfit if it’s on the sales rack” and “why do you indulge in Nespresso pods when you could easily just brew yourself a cup of coffee?”
Now...somewhat retired...and a survivor of loss, cancer, & being hit by a car, I’m giving in to pleasure. In the mornings, I try very hard not to rush. I make myself a very indulgent latte and get back in bed to do NY time crossword puzzles -wordle, connections and Spelling Bee. I share my scores with a couple of friends and text back and forth about whatever’s going on in our lives. I check my email, read a few articles, and maybe meditate before even contemplating the kind of exercise I’m going to get. The coffee is less an addiction than a ritual – a sweet, frothy, soothing balm that energizes me as I slowly ease into the day.
Mornings are glorious - filled with possibilities, a blank slate, moments of gratitude, ...perhaps some writing and definitely a walk with the dog... Had anyone told me decades ago that this is how I’d be choosing to spend my time, I may not have believed them. But it’s sure working for me!
In This Story, a glimpse at my idiosynchrocies. I’m Joanne Greene.
We all have idiosynchocies – things we do that are peculiar to us. My favorites, these days, are my morning rituals when, for starters, I’m thrilled to wake up Yes, of course, because I love life and am grateful to be alive once again. But, also, because I tend to torture myself in my dreams. Go figure. My lifelong anxiety is nearly gone from my waking hours but, at night, it percolates, poking at me with recurring themes. Last night, I was in endless lines, crowded spaces, and didn’t have the item I was in line to return. Often, it’s that I’ve overcommitted and then gotten distracted so that when it comes time to perform, I’m not prepared. The most frequent version is the dead air dream, unique to radio people. The song is ending, and I can’t reach the mic to start the newscast. I flip the mic switch to start speaking and I have no voice. While my dreams are challenging, I’m abundantly kind to myself upon waking up. First, I snuggle with Moxie, the goldendoodle and any other dog that happens to be visiting. Then, I might luxuriate in the hot tub, listening to the birds, inhaling the scent of jasmine, an embarrassment of riches.
And before you label me a hedonist, let me share that it’s taken me decades to indulge without guilt. Accomplish, produce, get stuff done. Those were my mantras. I’ve silenced the inner voice that said, “you don’t need a massage”; “you can get a new outfit if it’s on the sales rack” and “why do you indulge in Nespresso pods when you could easily just brew yourself a cup of coffee?”
Now...somewhat retired...and a survivor of loss, cancer, & being hit by a car, I’m giving in to pleasure. In the mornings, I try very hard not to rush. I make myself a very indulgent latte and get back in bed to do NY time crossword puzzles -wordle, connections and Spelling Bee. I share my scores with a couple of friends and text back and forth about whatever’s going on in our lives. I check my email, read a few articles, and maybe meditate before even contemplating the kind of exercise I’m going to get. The coffee is less an addiction than a ritual – a sweet, frothy, soothing balm that energizes me as I slowly ease into the day.
Mornings are glorious - filled with possibilities, a blank slate, moments of gratitude, ...perhaps some writing and definitely a walk with the dog... Had anyone told me decades ago that this is how I’d be choosing to spend my time, I may not have believed them. But it’s sure working for me!
Key Ingredients for Successfully Relating To Your Adult Children
In this Story... with Joanne Greene
10/13/23 • 4 min
Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at [email protected] or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!
In This Story, I share the key ingredients for successfully relating to adult children.
When they were young, I was their manager.
Did you finish your homework?
Remember the “P” word, PLEASE.
You can’t have dessert if you don’t eat your dinner.
There are two choices – come to temple with us or we’ll drop you off at Grandma’s.
When they were teens, I fired myself as manager and took on the new role of consultant. This concept was from Michael Riera’s book, Uncommon Sense for Parents with Teenagers.
Why do you think the teacher accused you of cheating? I’d be happy to help you set up a system for getting your applications done if you like. You seem a little down. Want to talk? It might make sense to get a jump on the competition by starting to look for a summer job before school lets out.
With adult children, it’s a very different ballgame. If they want your input or advice, they’ll ask for it. I know. The temptation to help your son or daughter avoid an emotional sinkhole, not to mention a car accident, is great. You’ve lived longer. You KNOW, from experience, that leaving a job before you’ve landed the next one is probably not the best idea, that something could go wrong if one leaves on a road trip in a blizzard, that someone who struggles with substance abuse probably shouldn’t date a person who smokes dope all day. But should you say something in any of these instances? Absolutely not. Why? Because you will not get the desired result. Instead, bite the inside of your cheek. Make a quick detour to the bathroom before you open your mouth. Pull out your phone and do Wordle, for God’s sake, but do not give your adult child more motivation to make a bad decision. We only learn from our own mistakes and even our children are entitled to make theirs.
You’re happily married, and you want the same for them. Great. Don’t tell them. Asking if there’s someone special that they’re dating is invasive. They’ll share if, and when, they’re good and ready. Thinking of offering a little advice on how to put the baby go to sleep? Don’t do it. Whatever you learned thirty years ago is out of date. There’s a maximum of two people who get a vote on how the child is reared and you’re not one of them.
Should you jump in to clean up their messes? No freakin’ way. You shouldn’t be serving them every meal and cleaning up after adult children who visit nor should you be finding an attorney, a mechanic, or a therapist for your adult child, unless he or she asks for your help.
Key to having a strong and satisfying relationship with adult children is remembering that they are adults. Yes, they’re still your children, and they may even behave like children, but your job in molding them is over. Now, it’s about respecting their choices, or pretending to. You are no longer their most important person, and you shouldn’t be, so don’t make them choose between you and their partner, lover, or even their friend. When visiting, keep your stuff in one place, be as helpful as you can, leave the room if you sense tension that doesn’t involve you , and don’t overstay your welcome.
I’m sure I blow it at least once during each visit with my adult children but I’m trying. I’m listening when they tell me that I shouldn’t try to influence the outcome or expect that they’re going to call me as often as I would like. Of course, I think about them more than they think about me. I’m way more interested in their day, their job, their relationships, than they are in mine. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Above all, and I can say this with certainty, keeping my suggestions, opinions, and judgements to myself is paying dividends.
Don’t believe me? Good luck!
In This Story, I share the key ingredients for successfully relating to adult children.
When they were young, I was their manager.
Did you finish your homework?
Remember the “P” word, PLEASE.
You can’t have dessert if you don’t eat your dinner.
There are two choices – come to temple with us or we’ll drop you off at Grandma’s.
When they were teens, I fired myself as manager and took on the new role of consultant. This concept was from Michael Riera’s book, Uncommon Sense for Parents with Teenagers.
Why do you think the teacher accused you of cheating? I’d be happy to help you set up a system for getting your applications done if you like. You seem a little down. Want to talk? It might make sense to get a jump on the competition by starting to look for a summer job before school lets out.
With adult children, it’s a very different ballgame. If they want your input or advice, they’ll ask for it. I know. The temptation to help your son or daughter avoid an emotional sinkhole, not to mention a car accident, is great. You’ve lived longer. You KNOW, from experience, that leaving a job before you’ve landed the next one is probably not the best idea, that something could go wrong if one leaves on a road trip in a blizzard, that someone who struggles with substance abuse probably shouldn’t date a person who smokes dope all day. But should you say something in any of these instances? Absolutely not. Why? Because you will not get the desired result. Instead, bite the inside of your cheek. Make a quick detour to the bathroom before you open your mouth. Pull out your phone and do Wordle, for God’s sake, but do not give your adult child more motivation to make a bad decision. We only learn from our own mistakes and even our children are entitled to make theirs.
You’re happily married, and you want the same for them. Great. Don’t tell them. Asking if there’s someone special that they’re dating is invasive. They’ll share if, and when, they’re good and ready. Thinking of offering a little advice on how to put the baby go to sleep? Don’t do it. Whatever you learned thirty years ago is out of date. There’s a maximum of two people who get a vote on how the child is reared and you’re not one of them.
Should you jump in to clean up their messes? No freakin’ way. You shouldn’t be serving them every meal and cleaning up after adult children who visit nor should you be finding an attorney, a mechanic, or a therapist for your adult child, unless he or she asks for your help.
Key to having a strong and satisfying relationship with adult children is remembering that they are adults. Yes, they’re still your children, and they may even behave like children, but your job in molding them is over. Now, it’s about respecting their choices, or pretending to. You are no longer their most important person, and you shouldn’t be, so don’t make them choose between you and their partner, lover, or even their friend. When visiting, keep your stuff in one place, be as helpful as you can, leave the room if you sense tension that doesn’t involve you , and don’t overstay your welcome.
I’m sure I blow it at least once during each visit with my adult children but I’m trying. I’m listening when they tell me that I shouldn’t try to influence the outcome or expect that they’re going to call me as often as I would like. Of course, I think about them more than they think about me. I’m way more interested in their day, their job, their relationships, than they are in mine. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Above all, and I can say this with certainty, keeping my suggestions, opinions, and judgements to myself is paying dividends.
Don’t believe me? Good luck!
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FAQ
How many episodes does In this Story... with Joanne Greene have?
In this Story... with Joanne Greene currently has 45 episodes available.
What topics does In this Story... with Joanne Greene cover?
The podcast is about Society & Culture, Personal Journals and Podcasts.
What is the most popular episode on In this Story... with Joanne Greene?
The episode title 'I'm Shocked When a Famous Person Propositions Me' is the most popular.
What is the average episode length on In this Story... with Joanne Greene?
The average episode length on In this Story... with Joanne Greene is 4 minutes.
How often are episodes of In this Story... with Joanne Greene released?
Episodes of In this Story... with Joanne Greene are typically released every 14 days.
When was the first episode of In this Story... with Joanne Greene?
The first episode of In this Story... with Joanne Greene was released on Feb 20, 2023.
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