Margaret Thatcher and Me

In today's press, we will read and hear countless anecdotes of former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, who died today after suffering a stroke. For me, there is a personal element to the story- one that changed the course of my life. My mind goes immediately to the woman I watched control a room full of swaggering, blathering, excited gentlemen yelling over each other and posturing for position during the 1980 Parliamentary sessions during the year I served as an intern for MP Julian Critchley of Aldershot. Of democracy and his constituents, Critchley once said to me with piercing conviction, "My dear, when power gets into the hands of the people, it's all over." So much for my naive beliefs that I was surrounded by the upholders of democracy itself. Critchley, a well-known columnist for the newspaper The Guardian, had a particularly identifiable writing style and was later outed for penning an anonymous-- and scathing --  critique of the leader of his own party, Mrs. Thatcher. I felt a pang of respect for Mrs. Thatcher at that moment, as she realized what an imbecile she had in her party and she did the right thing: she ousted him. Good on you, Maggie, I said.

The months I spent working in the British Parliament, walking  proudly through the St. Stephen's entrance, flashing my ID and credentials were months that shaped my life's work.  I was not a fan of Margaret Thatcher (no upstanding liberal Democrat from NY would have been at that moment in time); yet seeing her take on that room of men embedded in my mind's eye  a lasting and indelible impression. It was only years later that I realized those PM talks gave me the deepest respect for her, a realization that hit me as I came into my own in the working world in which I was surrounded by smart and snarky men.

Paraphrasing her, "if you need someone to speak, get a man; if you want to get something done, get a woman." How right you were. And how feminist was your position.

RIP Mrs. Thatcher. May you be with your Denis and may you preside over the many debates up on high.

Little Voices

While waiting outside the office of the lower division director at my son's school yesterday, I wrote the following:



Little voices screaming powerfully down the hall
On tiptoe they march to and fro
On steps of concrete, in sand and grass.
Children oh children 

With joy and mirth they cry for help
Quizzical looks as teacher talks

Tears of joy at friendships lost 
Renewed each morning at roll call.

To be young is not to be free
When those around are on constant watch.
Listen now to the little voices
For in them lie the future.
                                -- Karen Davis 2013

RIP Uncle DIck

My husband and I have entered an age when our parents, aunts and uncles and those of our friends begin to fizzle like mosquitoes to summer bug zappers.  My Uncle Dick, we were notified, passed early this morning, after suffering a stroke about a week ago. Dick was my mother's brother.

Dick, may you find peace in wherever it is that you land and may you be comforted by your parents, sister and brother there. Look down at us now and then and give a sign. You come from a long line of sign-givers. Your mother turns the lights on and off in our place every once in awhile. Your sister trips people when she wants us to remember her. Aunt Blanche, well, I think she used to appear on the street and stick out her tongue. But that stopped years ago. We are all part of this very strange and yet wonderful DNA mixture.

May you find comfort in that land beyond.
XOXO,
Your loving niece