Solstice Stories, Recalling Virginia, End of Classes, as the Snow Poured

 

Virginia Bower and Suzan Valenstein, writes Virginia,

"Sue recently died she was a mentor to me in the study of Chinese ceramics

a great scholar

and generous and good woman."

Monday morning, I found myself corresponding with Irwin,

who wrote:

"I realize Ben that asking you whether I am losing my mind is like asking Ezra Pound to recommend a good therapist," wrote Irwin on Monday morning, corresponding as we often do, discussing a strange encounter he had recently had. “People are a mystery to embrace,” I wrote. “I'd rather be on the curious side of things.”

All weekend, I’d been thinking about our family friend, Virginia, who was Mom’s roommate for a few years there after she was diagnosed with cancer, living in stage four for far longer than anyone would have expected to survive. They ate breakfast together for years, commiererating as life got hard,  laughing as much as they could.

I got a text about her departure after leaving Mom on Saturday, 

Pneumonia grasped too hard. 

“Life is one god damned thing after another,” said Virginia, paraphrasing the attage, typically attributed to Mark Twain. Virginia was the one who smiled and asked questions, who cared about Mom and always showed up, looking after Mom. Every holiday, every meal, she was around. Mom met her on an art history trip and they became fast friends. She was at Princeton in the same years as Dad, staying in touch through the decades. She inquired about the kids and took snap shots, sending old pictures, new pictures, even when she was sick. She watched Chinatown with us, traversing the story, and traveled to Mohonk Mountain House with us on Thanksgiving. She made Mom smile and kept her company, a companion through years and years and years. Christmas and Thanksgiving, even when few else were around, navigating illness with aplomb. 

She laughed and kept it light whenever she could. 

“Virginia L. Bower is an independent scholar specializing in Asian art,” says the bio for the Harvard Art Museums. She never completed that PhD at Princeton. Instead, she taught around the Northeast, organizing tours, exploring ideas; catalog after catalog bear her name, a testament to a scholarly life:

“From Court to Caravan: Chinese Tomb Sculptures from the Collection of Anthony M. Solomon”

“Spirit and ritual : the Morse collection of ancient Chinese art / text by Robert L. Thorp and Virginia Bower”

“Decorative Arts, Part II: Far Eastern Ceramics and Paintings; Persian and Indian Rugs and Carpets””

Have a lovely Thanksgiving, she said over and over again, sending kind regards. 

My last email to Virginia in the hospital never went through, 

“Big love back to you Virginia. 

Godspeed.”

We thought we’d get to see her over the holidays. 

But that wasn’t to be. 

She was the last, perhaps the closest of Mom’s friends in town. 

And so it continued, a season of goodbyes.  Aunt Ann earlier in the week, the public losses, the mass shooting at a Hanukkah celebration on Bondi Beach, Sydney, 

at Brown, Rob Reiner, killed by his kid,  on and on. 

December 13

With the Winter Solstice approaching, the snow on its way, we walked out for some Chinese food, thinking of Virginia, who passed the night before, out for Chinese food, to Village Works, getting Alley and Damian, looking at the stacks, out Ray's with Ray, thinking about oblivion, what happens with age, with living, with leaving, to MoRUS, on 155 Ave C, greeting Frank and Bill C and Jerry, old friends, conversations, still here, out to Grand Street, out to La Piscine, a dip into forever, dancing with madness.

The night before, Mom talked about knowing Aunt Anne her whole life, grade school in Columbus, Ga. All those years, marriages, Uncle Kirk, her mother, and Columbus, a lifetime of memories. RiP Aunt Anne.

Later we sat watching stories of the American revolution, Thomas Paine, the  Battle of Trenton, Washington's Christmas flight, the Battle of Princeton (Jan 3, 1777), that Dad reenacted with us during the bicentennial, turning points, the 1777 Siege of Fort Ticonderoga, the old fort that we visited all those years ago. And read CS Lewis early in the morning, tracing the stories of the kids in the wardrobe, who she first read with us years and years ago.

December 14

Snow like fog, gushing into the morning, reading, watching the snow through our window, the cold, biking into the bright day, along with the other cyclists, navigating the ice, the first snow, book club, secret stories of novels and novelists, latkes and poems, heartbreak and history, late night meetings in the Bowery with old friends and new. 

“Special g and gossip,” said Prageeta.

Extraction as the word of the day, as we discuss friendship breakups and poetry. 

“Dont forget to love me…”

“Text me when you get home,” as we ride back. 

Winters day of the longest shadow, back through the cold. A friend sends me the Blind Owl, by Hedayat:

"In life there are wounds that, like leprosy, silently scrape at and consume the soul, in solitude….Will there be a day when someone discovers the secrets of these

supernatural events, that reflection of the shadow of the soul that manifests itself

between awakening and sleep, in a state of purgatory and unconsciousness?"

I’m not sure anyone has the secret. We’re all in awe of it. 

December 12

My feed is full of memories of the COP21in Paris ten years ago, running around with Andrew and Greg and the Lisa and Mark. And I recalled the Butterfly demos in Praha six years ago to rid the Czech Republic of Babis. And now he’s back. Wow, history is strange. Anything but linear. Progress? An angel of history looking back at the wreckage, says Benjamin. Sigh. 

In between it meetings at Barbes, 

buddies in motion. 

Greg

Emily

Meaghan

Rebekah, 

Music and chit chat as far as the eye can see on Tuesday. 

A Thursday union meetings, 

Sneaking out to catch 

Baby C’s photography students, shots of the sky. 

Out to the city, the snow sifting through the air, the Bucks and Falcons retro uniforms, Andrew has a new book out, telling me stories at the Library, 

A karaoke band plays on First Ave, 

Pink Floyd covers, the banter with JC about rats and theater, the bread and puppet shows over the weekend, the air of December, I swear I remember...

December 11

The term winding down, feelings of gratitude, for our students, for the stories, during our trauma informed practice class. Maybe the word is overused. But everyone has pain, traumas that repeat, some resolved, others cycling forever through time, through revolutions and reverberations, passed down, cycles of history, existing as memories. Yet how do we understand them, what do we do about them? Students presented their trauma research in what turned out to be one of those this is your life teaching moments. One after another, they shared their stories, of why they picked the topics they picked, how they would work with someone going through what, quite often what they went through, what they felt looking at the world, looking at Gaza from the eyes of a poet, a prison wall from the eyes of a child in solitary confinement, at a kid who was neglected from the eyes of a student who was neglected, being incarcerated and the isolation of it and how that is how he relates to aging adults. One talked about the lack of colors in prison. Everything is tan, black, and grey. Each student storytelling, that one detail is such a poetic line that grounds the story, another student's language around how she deals with her depression from her neglect - she said how when she is in a dark place she "silences the world around me." I felt it. "It's not your fault," we tell another student feeling overwhelmed, recalling her experiences. Another recalled being diagnosed as bipolar, the medications she took, the numbing, and the ways she found herself in school, in reading, in finding something in others. Another recounted coming back from jail, re-entering, listening to the stories of older people. 'One day we are all going to be there, hopefully," he said. So he listens to their stories. Another talked about a character in a graphic novel that inspired him to try to understand the ways we lose our minds.  Another recommended a support group for someone coming back into this world. 

The following week, one student talk on the homeless kids after the Haitian Earthquake. Several from Haiti and the DR, we discuss the dynamics of history, slave revolts and struggles for self determination. Liberty, egality, and fraternity was supposed to be for everyone, they thought hearing about events of Paris 1791. 

Another student presented on an uncle who was not interested in medical care. 

Another student talked about her work in the hospital in the peak covid year. 

Another asked what we do in the face of assault.

Tears. 

 Story after story about ways people take care of each other, about history, about stigma, and models of repair. A lot of difficulty out there, a lot of neglect, yet a lot of people care. A lot of the students care. 

World aids days, the stories hang in the air, the memories of the dead, those looking after the living... 

Ran into a few friends down the street after class, several from the college, and we laughed about it all, another day in the lives.

By Sunday, Allen joined us in lighting the menorah, bringing some much needed light into the world.

Vintage Hollywood posted,

"Rob Reiner in the CBS / TELEVISION CITY parking lot in 1973. I have always loved this Candid snapshot and have posted it many times over the years. Rob Reiner was an American original. A giant storyteller and a believer in humanity. A life devoted to storytelling and service leaves a legacy far beyond the screen. His body of work shaped so many of us, and the grace with which he carved his own legacy speaks volumes about his talent and character. This is a shocking and Devastating loss, accompanied by seemingly unthinkable, horrible event. Rob and Michelle deserved so much better than this. May their souls rest in perfect peace..."

Sarah Shepard Merritt writes:

Anne Elizabeth Dismukes Shepard

September 25, 1940 - December 7, 2025

We are heartbroken to announce the passing of Anne Elizabeth Dismukes Shepard on Sunday December 7, 2025. Anne leaves behind two daughters, Sarah Bowles Shepard Merritt (Columbus, GA, husband Stan) and Morrie Killian (Portsmouth, NH, husband Glen), and her two grandchildren, Logan and Bradley Killian.

Anne was the daughter of the late Arthur Forman Dismukes and Florence Henrietta Barber Dismukes (“Flo”). She grew up with two brothers, Paul Fitzgerald Dismukes and the late Arthur Forman Dismukes, Jr, affectionately known as “Tuffy.” Anne’s father, Forman, doted on her, calling her “Penny” because she was his “shiny penny.” Throughout his life they shared an extraordinary bond.

As a child, Anne was a student at St. Elmo Elementary School in Columbus. Later, she attended and graduated from Columbus High School. After high school, she set off for university, first attending Sweet Briar College, then George Washington University, and later, Auburn University.

After earning her BA in history from Auburn, Anne moved to Atlanta where she worked for Eastern Airlines as a gate agent. While in Atlanta, she was introduced to the late Kirk Shepard Jr. They were married and went on to have two daughters, Sarah and Morrie, and the family ultimately settled in Jacksonville, Florida.

After Anne and Kirk divorced in the late 1970’s, Anne and her daughters moved to Atlanta where she worked as a travel agent. After a few years, she moved back to Columbus with Sarah and Morrie. While in Columbus, Anne earned an MBA from Columbus College (now Columbus State University) where she graduated at the top of her class.

After her daughters finished high school in Columbus, Anne moved to St. Simons Island, Georgia to be closer to her parents, who had relocated to the “Island” in the mid-1970s. In St. Simons, Anne made many good friends and enjoyed a thriving social life – something that, until then, she had not known. It was in St Simons that Anne met the late Anne Bozovich (known as AnnieB by close friends), with whom she went on to develop a lifelong friendship.

Anne and AnnieB became best friends and shared many adventures together, including several trips to Las Vegas where they enjoyed the slots as well as seeing artists perform—including their favorite, Celine Dion. AnnieB was always looking out for Anne—as well as for Anne’s Mother, “Flo,” and the family is deeply indebted to her for the support that she gave.

Anne was an extremely warm and loving person. She raised her daughters with love and dedication. She could always be counted on to share her contagious smile and unrelenting positivity.

Anne was incredibly brave and strong. She faced myriad difficulties and challenges in life, including a 55-year battle with Type I diabetes, which sent her to the ER and ICU many times. Despite the difficulties that she endured, both in life itself and with her health, Anne loved life, was always up for an adventure, and never lost her faith. All who knew her adored her. She was an undeniably beautiful person, both inside and out. She is and will continue to be sorely missed by those who loved her, and she will live in our hearts for eternity.

Anne is survived by her daughters, grandchildren, and her brother Paul.

A graveside service will be held at 11:00AM on Friday December 19, 2025 at Christ Church Frederica in St. Simons Island, Georgia.

In lieu of flowers, the family suggests a gift to the American Diabetes Association or the American Alzheimers Association.

Tales of the #fishballrevolution, From Hong Kong to San Francisco, the Friendship and Fighting Tour at Howard Zinn Bookfair San Francisco #Zinn25

 

James pontificating about Jack Hirschman at Spec's Twelve Adler Museum Cafe in North Beach. 

Tales of the  #fishballrevolution,  From Hong Kong to San Francisco, the Friendship and Fighting Tour at Howard Zinn Bookfair San Francisco #Zinn25

I was in town for the Last leg of the Friendship and Fighting tour, the weekend of December 5 to 7 for the Howard Zinn Bookfair at the Mission Center of City College of San Francisco, 1125 Valencia Street. A city that inspired me like few others, a weekend in San Francisco is always a reminder of a far away feeling.

December 5

I woke up at 414 am. Walked out into the darkness to catch the A train to the airport. Homeless people chatting on the train. Listening, I just about forgot my stop at JKF, for the flight to San Francisco. 

Traverse the continent, thinking about manifest destiny, revolutions past and present. 

Two days before to explore. 

Feel the bright sun, grab the BART to the Civic Center, people about, down 7th Street, South of Market, strolling, where Danny Glover is calling for justice for Kevin Epps, outside the court house. On past the Endup, a 70s era late night dance hall, up to Market, people passed out on the street, somewhere between this life and that, past a sex shop, a bored clerk, a few people screaming, a woman in a conversation with the sky, a harm reduction center, past rooming houses, GLIDE Memorial Church, where Cecil used to preach, up Taylor, past street art, a mural declaring, 'Stop plant your feet, this is where I allow our minds to meet, look towards the street...' I see a lot there, people, ideas, history. Walk past the Owl TreeBar on a dive on Bush, closed, onto Dashiell Hammett St, some people walked out of Chelsea Place, a cozy little dive. I chatted with the bartender. 'I've been here for 32 years,' she says. I used to live here, I tell her. Like those people. They used to live here. They come back every year. That's a good life, lots of friends,' she says. I agree. We talk about the city, ever changing. I thank her. Walking up to Stockton looking back down at the city, walking up the street, to the tunnel, over Nob Hill, a porn magazine with photos strewn about the street, into Chinatown, down Vallejo  to Caffe Trieste, where I meet brother Ron, from New York. We talk with the woman sitting by us about Patti Smith. Doug joins us, LESC reunion. Down to City Lights, we look at the staff picks, want to read them all, peruse the poetry room. Stop for a pint at Vesuvio, where Doug's friend Scott, the tour guide and I talked about Lawrence who saw the bombings at Nagasaki, on the 9th August 1945, when the United States detonated two atomic bombs over the Japanese cities, rattled he studied at the Sorbonne and opened the bookstore that we all love, next door. We talked about the writers here and his divorce. 'We all live in Herb Caen's San Francisco,' he says to me. I agree. 

There are many ways of looking at a city.

But the writers, who listened to the streets scream, they guided us. 

 Off Noe, Dion meets us, sharing stories about Columbus, Ga, recalling Mom's Moms advice all those years ago.

December 6th

“I met some friends at the Live Worm Gallery,” said Scott, welcoming us for his tour, starting at the Dragon Gate of Chinatown: “Welcome to the cool, gray city of love,” he said paraphrasing, George Stirling, about San Francisco. A best friend of Jack London, he was one of the many, to try to make sense of this strange geography where waves of vagabonds found a possibility, albeit desolate, a coldest winter in the summer. Scott talked about a few San Francisco writers Mark Twain, a few Bohemians, Bret Harte, Ena Coolbrith, and Charles Warren Stoddard. These writers shaped American literature through frontier humor, local color, and unique styles, capturing the spirit of the Gold Rush era, Herbert Asbury wrote The Barbary Coast: An Informal History of the San Francisco Underworld, a lively account of San Francisco's Gold Rush era, covering gambling, prostitution, and gangs.

Walking through Chinatown, we talked about the history of the city, its Italian and Chinese immigrants, 49ers, and fires that destroyed the city, and what emerged, workers and writers, street murals and merchants, red lights and alleys. Stopping to look at a street memorial, a street band plays, books hanging above the street, a plaque referring to "The Language of the Birds" at Columbus and Broadway, a public art installation in North Beach by Brian Goggin & Dorka Keehn, flying books with quotes from local authors like Ferlinghetti, tracing historical notions of a divine, secret language, hinting at hidden meanings in language and culture. These books hang in time, suspended, as birds in motion, various wing positions created by the forms of the pages and bindings. Passing under, words and phrases embedded in the plaza floor, which appear to have fallen from the pages above, words in English, Italian and Chinese, from the neighborhood’s literary history. There's more to imagine with each step. 

We stopped at a park, looking for a bathroom, finding a statue of Sun Yat Sat in St. Mary's Square. An inscription: "All under heaven is for the people" ... "The world is for all, all is for the people"  Out for tea, we walk up Stockton Street to the Owl Tree, talking about the world, the Elks club closed, back down to Li Po Cocktail Lounge, saying hi to Scott, our enterprising guide, meeting James, chatting about it all, James pontificating about Jack Hirschman, workers and poets at Spec's Twelve Adler Museum Cafe, a longtime watering hole with a museumlike collection of knickknacks & oddities on the walls across from City Lights in North Beach, laughing with the comedians at the Elbo Room, telling stories into the night.

December 7th

Ron and I listened to Park Avenue Petit on the way to the beach in Pacifica, stopping for a coffee at the Chit Chat Cafe at the Pier on Beach Blvd. And made our way to Valencia Street.  

There, Laurie joined us for  our panel on friendship at the #Zinnfair2025. With panels on punk and anti ICE organizing, the conversations extended into the evening. 

Dan was there talking about Bob Kohler. It was the 100th anniversary of Bob Kohler’s birth, he told me. 

I began the panel tracing stories of oral histories I’d collected from San Francisco to Chicago to New York. 

There, Laurie joined us for our panel on friendship at the #Zinnfair2025. With panels on punk and anti ICE organizing, the conversations extended into the evening. 

Dan was there talking about Bob Kohler. It was the 100th anniversary of Bob Kohler’s birth, he told me. 

I began the panel tracing stories of oral histories I’d collected from San Francisco to Chicago to New York. 

And I introduced Laurie Wen, my buddy from ACT UP, who would be standing in for Lynn Lewis. I had only seen her once since we all got back from the demos in Hong Kong in 2018 and 19. 

“Laurie went to an ACT UP NY meeting originally to do research for a documentary film. She didn't want to leave, so ACT UP became her political home. She went on to organize with Healthcare-NOW!, the Hunger Action Network of New York State, Occupy Wall Street, and Physicians for a National Health Program. She also worked as a policy analyst at the New York City Council, before returning to her hometown, Hong Kong, to participate in the democracy movement. Now based in San Francisco, she's working on a book about the Hong Kong democracy movement. She's active in Bay Resistance, SF Rising, and the Free Farm Stand…” 

“How did you become politicized?” Wen asked the audience.

“High school, seeing Trump elected,” said one man in the audience. 

“I was in college. People were talking about Pinochet,” said another woman. 

“I started documenting demos,” said another woman. 

“I’m obsessed with how people become motivated to engage in political action,” Wen followed. In Hong Kong in 2019, two million people out of a population of m seven and half million were involved in mass protests. How were people mobilized on such a scale? From Wen's experience in activism in New York and in Hong Kong, and from her interviews with more than 80 Hong Kongers, she concluded that ideals only inspire action in small groups of people. Action from this small group of vanguards inspires action in everyone else.

In 2014, dozens of pro-democracy high school students sat down in front of the government HQ and began a peaceful occupation. The police responded with tear gas, prompting thousands of Hong Kongers to rush to the scene. "I've learned so much from the interviews, having people share with me how they felt at the moment they decided to run toward the tear gas," said Wen. The oral histories told her that, while the policy goal of the students' occupation was a democratic electoral system, not a single person she interviewed mentioned democracy as the reason they dropped everything to go join the students. Yes, of course, they wanted democracy. But what actually got them to act at that moment was not the idea of democracy. Everyone said they went because of what the students had done, and because the government responded with tear gas. The students and their supporters refused to leave and began an occupation that lasted 79 days, which became known as the Umbrella Movement.

Hong Kongers have been fighting for self-determination for almost two centuries. The British colonized Hong Kong from 1841 to 1997. Then, when Hong Kong was "handed back" to China in 1997, Hong Kong was promised semi-autonomy under the "One Country, Two Systems" framework. But China has broken that promise and has increasingly cracked down on Hong Kong's civil liberties.

During the Umbrella Movement, the mainstream of the pro-democracy camp adhered to nonviolence. Whenever a few people advocated property destruction, they were almost always denounced as infiltrators. Cancel culture dominated. But a year and a half later, during Chinese New Year in 2016, everything changed.

ABC News reported:

“Violent clashes erupted overnight in Hong Kong after protesters defended unlicensed food vendors, set up for Chinese New Year celebrations, from being shut down by police. The night market has become popular over the years, with officials usually turning a blind eye. But police decided to issue tickets this year. Reports of a crackdown against the hawkers who sell fish balls and other local food delicacies quickly spread on social media along with the hashtag #fishballrevolution. More than 100 individuals are believed to have taken part and police told reporters today that 54 were arrested “on suspicion of assaulting and obstructing officers, resisting arrest and public disorder,” despite instructions to disperse, which included two midnight warning shots…”

Leaders of the Fishball Revolution were sentenced to six to seven years in prison, precipitating a major reckoning. The movement's mainstream started to acknowledge that people with the same goals could genuinely have different ideas about how to achieve them, and that blindly branding those who disagree with you as "infiltrators" would only engender anger and split the movement. So when mass protests erupted again three years later, in 2019, a major cultural shift arose: "Brothers climbing a mountain, each has his own way" became a guiding principle. "Unfortunately, the motto is sexist," Wen said, "but it explains a new ethos, replacing the cancelling culture of a few years prior." A growing faction embraced the idea of "using force to fight (police) violence" and called themselves "the Braves."

The panelists and audience moved on to discuss the current political moment in the U.S. Wen said, "I think of what we're going through now as a dark tunnel. We have no idea how long we're in this tunnel for. Two years? Twenty years? If the Trump administration disappears today, what kind of a world do we have? Meaning, what kinds of cultural values will dominate, and what kinds of structures have we created to build a more progressive future? There are lots of things to do in the tunnel before we get out.”

One kind of structure Wen is excited about is the decentralized organizing model championed by Bay Resistance. Starting in late 2024, Bay Resistance recruited volunteer facilitators to run neighborhood-based action pods. A year later, there are now almost 100 pods. Each has 15-30 members who commit to doing two actions together per month. People internalize a sense of agency through actions. 

We talked all afternoon, panel after panel, some recalled the feeling of solidarity of battling ICE. Another recalled being in the kink community, sharing, making food for your neighbor, building community, in the mosh pit, building solidarity, overcoming alienation. 

After the panel, Laurie and I walked down Valencia Street, talking about old friends and actions. Laurie wonders when people in the U.S. will rise up. Many she knows in Hong Kong are in prison. Others in ACT UP New York are sick. 

 We stop for a rice ball, looking at the city, the sun bright, ideas moving forward, the smell of fresh tacos in the air.  

And said goodbye.

 I walked to 16th, where I drafted my notes about living in San Francisco, three decades prior.

Through Mission Delores, up to the Castro I met Dion after the conference as I always do, enjoying a glass of bubbly.

And made my way back home, traversing a continent.

Back to Baby C, friends and a smile at Big Tiny.

Barbes and my comrades. 

Next morning, I pull out my collection of Jack’s poms:

“Like You”  by

Roque Dalton

Jack Hirschman 

“Like you I
love love, life, the sweet smell
of things, the sky-blue
landscape of January days.
And my blood boils up
and I laugh through eyes
that have known the buds of tears.”

Backwards and forwards... Friday to Sunday and back.