Facebook Is A Pandemic

A smartphone user shows the Facebook application on his phone in the central Bosnian town of Zenica, in this photo illustration, May 2, 2013. Facebook Inc's mobile advertising revenue growth gained momentum in the first three months of the year as the social network sold more ads to users on smartphones and tablets, partially offsetting higher spending which weighed on profits. REUTERS/Dado Ruvic (BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA - Tags: SOCIETY SCIENCE TECHNOLOGY BUSINESS)

A smartphone user shows the Facebook application on his phone in the central Bosnian town of Zenica, in this photo illustration, May 2, 2013.

I deactivated my Facebook accounts a month ago. It’s been great to rid myself of one less smartphone addiction. But that little “f” logo is still in my head.

During my birthday week, a few friends (who still maintain non-FB calendars) freaked out when they discovered “I’m off the grid.” Me being off Facebook meant they had to remove a few archaeological layers and send me email, which I got immediately on my cell. “I hope you’re okay,” they said. I assured them I was. In fact, I had just returned from camping where I made my own fire and slept on the ground in a little tent. My scene in the woods was so sweet I wanted to post pictures to let others know about my experience. That was when I witnessed my thumbs making phone swiping gestures in the air. I’m a slave to Mark Zuckerberg’s invention, I thought. I hate this.

As the full moon emerged over my campsite, I read The Stand in the glow of my battery-operated flash light. This 1978 Stephen King epic, updated in 1994, chronicles a weaponized flu that kills 99.4% of the earth’s human population.

Stephen King’s fictionalized pandemic reminded me of Facebook (and its less popular but just as potent strains of Twitter and Instagram). According to The Social Times, 1.59 billion people were using FB as of December 2015. For perspective, the U.S. has 318.9 million people. China has 1.357 billion people. If Zuckerberg’s kingdom were a country, it might be one of the most populous — and unruly — in the world.

As much as I think I need FB to promote my writing and to stay current with friends and the news, it is also ruining my ability to be present, to form my own unfiltered memories, or to have an original thought without gauging potential “likes.” Unsubstantial content — that many don’t actually read — only seems to fuel arguments rather than encourage meaningful dialog. When tempers flare into hate speech, FB’s flimsy abuse reports aren’t there to protect anyone.

Here’s a horrible thought. What happens when all the followers — I don’t have that many — suddenly turn against me or you? Or worse. What if Kardashian fans revolt against their curvy and vacuous figure-heads? We could have a full-scale pandemic, the start of our final World War.

Dirty Dancing Catskills

unnamedOwning a 1940s typewriter has made me a collector of antique stationery, the best frame for an IRL letter in inky font. On eBay, I stumbled upon a lot of five blank letterheads from The Concord, an old resort in the Catskills that featured stars like Judy Garland and Buddy Hackett. As the jewel of the Borscht Belt, The Concord was the largest, most lavish resort in the area, complete with a kosher menu for a mostly Jewish clientele.

As I typed the above paragraph, an older neighbor called to check on me in this heat. “God is well and in charge,” she said as soon I answered. I asked if she ever stayed at The Concord.

“Of course, honey,” she said. “Everyone went to The Concord. I stayed there once for five days when I was pregnant. We had to have a different outfit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was wonderful. That was when I was a rip.”

If you’re having a hard time picturing this, imagine the set of Dirty Dancing, a composite of these fabulous upstate resorts that included Grossingers, Kutcher’s, and The Nevele. Remember one of the last scenes of the film, when Max Kellerman acknowledges the end of an era? Before the last dance, Kellerman says:

You think the kids want to come take foxtrot lessons with their parents? Trips to Europe. That’s what the kids want. Twenty three countries in three days. It feels like it’s all slipping away.”

In the late 1990s, I landed my first professional dance job in one of these fabled resorts. I never knew which one. The gig fell through a few weeks later. I ended up dancing on a small cruise ship in the North Atlantic. I always wondered about The Concord, which closed in 1998, the time my upstate job fell through. Like so many other entertainers, I could have cut my teeth in the Catskills.

Gods That Breathe Through Dust And Darkness

I fell in love with Sharon Watts’ wonderful Om From India article last year in YogaCity NYC that discussed Indian gods. An artist herself, Sharon appreciates the moxie of fellow adventurists like Mark Baron and Elise Boisanté. Through frequent travels to India, the couple has amassed one of the world’s largest private collections of Indian god prints from the 19th and early 20th century. Their detective work inspired filmmaker Rachel Fedde, who’s making a short documentary about the prints. Pieces of the Om From India collection have been acquired by the Metropolitan Museum of Art, among others. 13133298_1380145138678766_3479102306728472513_n

For a year, I thought about the fiery images in Sharon’s article. Because of monsoons and poor framing techniques, these lithographs often have torn edges and missing chunks. But Mark and Elise possess full, breathtaking prints meant to be the gods themselves.

In need of the divine in my own home, I scheduled an appointment with Mark and Elise, not expecting the expansive assortment Mark kept pulling out from a wooden filing cabinet. Each time he opened a paper and plastic-covered print, my nose twitched from the dust. My brain rushed with little pops of adrenaline. Unfortunately, I had only scheduled an hour and 15 minutes for this grand adventure in a New York City apartment.

I will be back, with permission to lithograph stalk.

 

 

Channeling Mom, I Sewed My Own Lululemon Pants

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When Bloomberg News reported the $400 yoga legging trend, my stomach convulsed into spontaneous nauli. Disgusted by this—and my reliance upon these clothes as an instructor—I developed a plan. I would learn to sew my own yoga pants. With my head full of dreams, I decided to skip beginner patterns and committed to a more outrageous venture: By September, I would recreate my favorite Lululemons. Purchased in 2007, these pants still performed gravity-defying properties on my aging backside.

For encouragement, I called my resourceful mother in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

“You’ll hate what you make,” Mom said. “Trust me. It’s cheaper to buy what you want.”

I suspected she was right, but still, thanks for the encouragement Mom. She’d engineered my childhood wardrobe, from Little House dresses to Brownie uniform, until I reached high school and begged her to stop. I can still see her, pins in her mouth, draping patterns on my elongating pre-teen body. For two decades, I’ve lived in big cities, losing daily physical contact with my mother. Now I secretly wondered if my mission wasn’t just about the garment industry. Maybe it was a homage to home and to Mom.

Having re-mastered basic skills, I located a patient teacher, Rachel Blackmon, through my Inwood community Facebook page. We agreed on lessons for $40 an hour, staying within a budget of about $200.

When I met Blackmon in her sunlit apartment, I knew I found my guide. Dressed in a floral skirt of her own invention, she offered red wine while her son played in the bedroom. Like me, she competed in 4-H in her hometown of Boulder, Colorado. Unlike me, she continued through high school and her recent job transition, from middle school teacher to CEO of Rachel’s House of Craft.

“What’s more fulfilling?” Blackmon asked me. “Buying or making? There’s something about creating with the hands that rekindles home.”

Blackmon invited me to touch several samples of knit, one of her favorite fabrics. On her dining room table, she pinned and traced my Lulus onto pattern paper, a maneuver that resembled dissection. Before our next lesson, she recommended two places to purchase fabric: a Mom & Pop in the Bronx and Mood Fabric in the Garment District. As a die-hard Project Runway fan, my ears heard only Mood, the source of sewing porn.

Entering, I imagined the voice of Tim Gunn, warning me to “make it work.” With three levels, Mood was the Capitol. Jo-Ann Fabric was merely a colony.

Impervious to pain, I danced through aisles of notions and faux fur until I was stopped by Jonae, an “ex-con design student” with torn jeans and an Afro.

She led me into a Brothers Grimm forest of knits. My hands reached for a grayish-black material, then to a bolt of stretchy denim. “You’re not allowed to make jeggings,” she gasped. Overwhelmed, I grabbed my first choice, a gray-black ponte. A blend of rayon, polyester, and Spandex, the ponte shared qualities with my olive capris. Jonae cut a yard-and-a-half for $12. “No more murder pants for you,” she said, referring to the 2011 bludgeoning death of a Lululemon sales clerk by a fellow employee.

Jonae was a poem.

After I washed and dried the fabric, I went back to Blackmon who spread it onto her table. “I have a philosophy,” Blackmon said, smoothing wrinkles. “Sometimes we avoid what is most healing to us. It reminds you you’re a physical being with an end. We avoid the things that self-sustain because they connect us to our mortality.”

For the next three Wednesdays, Blackmon coached as I cut, ironed, and basted parts together. Then came my first fitting: a moment of truth. The pants were going to be beautiful. All we had to do was rip basted seams and re-sew with permanent stitches. Confident, I agreed to finish my project using the $10-per-hour unsupervised option. I stitched. Blackmon did laundry. When Blackmon checked on my progress, she turned pale. I had sewn the outer seams together without incorporating the gusset. In a matter of minutes, my promising pants had turned into a long-waisted pair of bootie lederhosen.

“You’re going to have to cut the seams, which means we now have less fabric,” she said. “This ponte may stretch enough to fit you. But you may need to give them to someone who is smaller than you.” I walked home close to tears.

For the final lesson, Blackmon gave me healthy discounts. We would be done in an hour, she said. We were so close.

Four hours and several thread balls later, I did indeed have a pair of pants. I tried them on in her bedroom. Fantastic! But I had mixed feelings. More flattering than the Lulus, they were also more expensive at more than $300 in cloth and instruction.

“This project was difficult,” Blackmon said. “There was an impenetrable quality to the fabric. We solved the problem by changing needles, from ballpoint to a sharp universal. Every fabric has its surprises.”

I wasn’t convinced.

“If you make them again, it would be easier,” Blackmon coaxed. “You were learning a lot at once. I suggest you take a break from knits and go with wovens because you can take out the stitches without ruining the fabric.”

We agreed to leave the pattern at her apartment. I would tackle the pants again, once I’d mastered easier projects. In the meantime, I wore my pants to Jivamukti. They held up in hanuman. They also rocked in CrossFit. Stok
ed, I walked into Lululemon on 14th Street.

“What do you think of my Lulus?” I asked, glowing. “Is there anyone I can talk to about the care and fit of a pair of pants?” A friendly clerk pointed to the manager. The manager directed me to media relations online. I tried the same dialogue at Athleta and Old Navy. I got the same results.

When I sent emails to the media departments of Gap Inc., which owns Athleta and Old

Navy, I heard nothing. When I wrote to Lululemon, I received this from a p.r. person: “Thanks for your email and for thinking of Lululemon for this opportunity. We’d like to respectfully decline . . .”

Yoga For My Favorite Netflix Homocide Detectives

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Like a lot of New Yorkers seeking quiet and inner stillness, I brag I don’t own a TV. What I omit is that almost every night, I pull down the shades, crawl into bed, and scarf down Netflix murder shows from the theater of my laptop. My favorites are River, The Fall, Broadchurch, and more recently for me, The Killing. If you know these shows, you may notice the common denominator: None of these grisly plots take place in New York. In other words, my viewing of sociopaths and stalkers feels like a vacation, simply because the action takes place in Belfast, Broadchurch, London, or even Seattle.

Also, each of these programs focuses on one major crime for full, whole seasons. American crime shows give me whiplash, fitting way too much info into too few episodes. With these slower-build dramas, I feel invested in the well drawn characters and the twists and turns of fine writing.

Because I love these characters so much, I have designed a yoga practice for each of my favorite Netflix detectives:

  1. The Fall: Stella Gibson, named after a guitar, finds stillness in repetitive solo exercise. When she’s not trying to capture her nemesis, serial killer Paul Spector, also named after a guitar, she enjoys swimming laps in local Belfast pools. She always swims indoors and alone. Played by Gillian Anderson, Stella is so cool under pressure that when she weeps over victims or journals about her nightmares, she becomes exquisitely human. For the one and only Stella Gibson, I recommend Iyengar. She wouldn’t trust anything with music or heart language, but she could benefit greatly from an obstinate focus on alignment and self care. For the complicated dreams, I would recommend she download iRest sessions with Richard Miller.
  2. The Killing: With all of Sarah Linden’s Seattle street smarts, she struggles to show her vast resources of love to family members, including her own son Jack. Instead, her heart bleeds for victims like Rosie Larsen. For Sarah, played by the petite but formidable Mireille Enos, I suggest family yoga, something taught in a social work setting, perhaps by her own social worker, Reggie. As an avid runner, she might gravitate more toward a vinyasa style. So would her music-loving preteen.
  3. Broadchurch: Detective Inspector Alec Hardy may be an annoying Scot who hates local fish and chips, but he cares deeply about solving the murder of young Danny Latimer. An outsider in this seaside hamlet in Dorset, England, he privately nurses a very sick, unhealthy heart. He believes that if he cracks the case, he will heal himself, or at least die with a clear conscience. For DI Alec Hardy, I can see him doing well with either yin or Kundalini styles, perhaps both once he is healthy enough to do more challenging krias. My reasoning is that Hardy has dwelling thoughts. While he could benefit from the forgiveness and yielding of yin, chugging through the chakras might do him good.
  4. River: My favorite Netflix detective may be DI John River, played by the amazing Stellan Skarsgard, whom I recognized from Good Will Hunting, Pirates of the Caribbean, and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. In short, the man is a sensitive, complex giant on the screen. Because he sees and regularly talks to dead victims including his old partner, Stevie, River is especially awkward in almost all settings involving “normal” human interaction. But for all his visions, he’s less crazy than incredibly perceptive. The people near him love him and value his gifts. Yet they want him to find peace. That’s why I recommend iRest, offered in a one-on-one setting with his therapist.

The Chitta Behind Yoga Pants

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“You want to know what comes between me and my Calvins?” inquired a 15-year-old Brooke Shields in the famous 1981 ad campaign.

After attending Yoga Journal LIVE!, I see the trend has changed from denim to knits, prompting a similar question: “You want to know what comes between me and my sprayed-on shiny yoga pants with strategically placed graphics? Nothing. Not even my dharma.”

Cfm6knSWQAQoIKnCfm7JasXEAUVmQjSurrounded by an overwhelmingly female crowd in newly purchased leggings and designer jewelry, I entered the event at the Hilton detecting a sexual charge as I signed in and walked to my 8 a.m. class. That energy only intensified inside the dark conference room. We 30 participants, 27 women and three men, settled onto our mats and waited for our famous teacher. Any authority figure could have walked through that door and been the object of messy projections. But it was Vinnie Marino, a good-looking man in his late 50s, whose struggles with drugs changed his mission to one of recovery.

After leading a oms and basic stretches, I got a healthy read from Vinnie. He seemed aware of the crowd’s expectations — possibly even the yoga pants — but focused on the practice instead of collecting phone numbers. I wondered: Where was this sexual energy coming from, if not from him? As I moved through the poses, I picked up on my own thoughts and was shocked at how many times they landed on Instagram vanity, a combo of spirituality and commerce: I want those cool Day of the Dead yoga pants. They make that woman’s butt look so perky. I like that girl’s glitter mala. Did she buy it in the Yoga Journal marketplace?

Here I had shown up in granny sweats, wanting to keep centered on my internal needs rather than all the crap I could buy from vendors. As much as I loved the artistry of shiny leggings decorated with ocean scenes and flowers, I noticed the styles were tighter, if that were even possible. Fabric was less supportive. Seams accentuated crevices, not just curves. Mesh patches revealed vulnerable bits of thigh. It was distracting. It made a pubescent Brooke Shields look like a nun.

Out of curiosity, I googled “yoga pants fetish” and found porn sites dedicated to the genre. What I thought was innocent — wearing trendy althleisure — had become a whole production, a heady mix of paraphilia and consumerism better suited for selling muscle cars than healing anxiety.

Before I go further, I’m not selling my yoga pants. I am an modern American woman who loves easy-to-wash leisure wear that doubles as work-day casual or running gear. I celebrate my femininity and the innovate times in which I live. Today’s fabrics have become more breathable and functional than cotton, Spandex, or even denim. In my closet, I have three pairs of capris (one with a built-in skirt), two pairs of quality full-length tights, and two pairs of looser stretch trousers that cover me for a full-day’s worth of sweating and going to meetings.

While I’m not giving up my workout clothes, I’m struggling with my intentions: Am I desiring comfort, or am I wanting people to find me sexy?

Usually, my answer is the former, but the latter plays a part.

As a compromise, I will stick to basic shapes. And when teaching a class, I can wear a long tunic, out of respect.

The Year In (Dead) Bodies

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Photo By DEA PICTURE LIBRARY/De Agostini/Getty Images)

In my personal research on body donation, I encountered NPR reporter Fred Mogul at NYU School of Medicine’s most recent cadaver memorial in November. He was bugging the stage to collect touching speeches and songs sung by the Ketones, NYU’s medical school choir. I was representing The New York Observer for a 700-article, “The Kindest Cut.” My story centered around two second year students who lingered after the service to snack on bits of the remaining buffet. With me, they discussed the weirdness of dealing with disconnected hands and legs that looked like those of family members.

What impressed me was the admission that medical school was rewarding, but also really hard: “I never doubted that this was what I wanted to do,” said one of the future physicians. “I doubted that I was good enough to do it.”

Fred, meanwhile, had a longer-term project through NPR. He focused on a group of first year students and their relationship with donor Haig Manoukian, whom he met in a body bag on Table 4.

Haig was an Armenian-American whose parents fled the Turkish genocide of World War I. A musician, he played the oud and jammed with the New York Middle Eastern music scene before contracting prostate cancer. The choice to donate Haig’s body was his wife Michele’s. She considered many ways to remember Haig, who loved sharing his craft. Then she stumbled on body donation. “That pulled everything together for me,” she said. “I stopped crying. And I felt integrated. I felt like complete in some way. I just felt this is a real, this is the right decision.”

She said she hoped the students would make really good mistakes on him and feel all sorts of emotions, including humor.

“I didn’t want him to die, and I thought he’ll be alive in some way,” Michele said on NPR’s Only Human. “He won’t go into the dark. He’ll be in light. I didn’t care if it was fluorescent light. I wanted other people’s eyes on him. And I wanted their hands on him. I couldn’t let go. And so I thought, yeah, let’s do that. You know, it was selfish for me in a way, because I just wanted to think of him on 34 th Street. I didn’t want to think of him. I don’t know.”

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Fred Mogul’s wonderful reporting has been released in sections on NPR, “Every (Dead) Body Has A Story” and “A Guide to Donating Your Body To Science.”

Trump and Bikram Are Like Chocolate And Peanut Butter

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I was cleaning my apartment Tuesday night when I imagined Bikram’s balls.

Don’t judge. I don’t have a choice on these mixed-nut flashbacks. Neither do you ever since Bikram Choudhury, founder of the Bikram Yoga, described his heuvos as “atom bombs, two of them, 100 megatons each.” Thanks to his megalomania, the master and his Speedos are forever stored in my hippocampus, just as they are stamped in your brain along with other inconvenient images, including dirty feet and fish eyes.

In this particular sack attack, I was wiping down my kitchen sink when I was slapped in the head with a frank and beans epiphany: Bikram Choudhury and Donald Trump should be friends — possibly running mates.

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Here’s my reasoning. Bikram, as stated above, responds positively to weapons of mass destruction as symbols of power. Fat Man and Little Boy live in his trousers in a permanent state of detonation. The Donald believes Japan, which adopted a pacifist constitution after surviving these atomic bombs, should man up and get nukes.

Practically twins!

Additionally, Mr. Trump has an orange complexion, almost as if he were locked in a 105-degree room all the time. Mr. Choudhury believes his hot yoga routine is the only way to enlightenment. “Everything else is shit,” he has said.

Drumpf enjoys baseball caps on bad hair days, which are indistinguishable from his good hair days. Panty Man also likes billed hats, although it’s impossible to muss his flowing locks, brushed by attendants/slaves in his inner circle.

Obviously, these boys are groin-centered. And creepy. Who could forget the recent GOP debate when the Comb-Over King said this: “Look at those hands, are they small hands? If they’re small, something else must be small. I guarantee you there’s no problem. I guarantee.”

For more evidence of a potential GOP bro-mance ticket, I will provide ridiculous quotes. See if you can guess which pearl came from which guy:

  1. “I give every staff member of mine a car, something like a Jeep Cherokee.”
  2. “You know, it really doesn’t matter what the media write as long as you’ve got a young, and beautiful, piece of ass.”
  3. “The beauty of me is that I’m very rich.”
  4. “I should be the most honored man in your country.”
  5. “Why are your legs spread? Women should not spread their legs any time, anywhere! Only in emergencies.”
  6. “It’s freezing and snowing in New York – we need global warming!”
  7. “Why do you want to pay money to go to a hot room and torture yourself?”
  8. “I’m bullet proof, waterproof, wind proof, money proof, sex proof, emotion proof, stress proof, strength proof.”
  9. “I could shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose any voters.”
  10. “Don’t throw up on the carpet. It’s new.”

Answers: 1. Bikram 2. Trump 3. Trump 4. Bikram 5. Bikram 6. Trump 7. Bikram 8. Bikram 9. Trump 10. Bikram

MNDFL Is Where The Boys Are

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Men trying yoga in this photo from washingtonpost.com.

I recently attended my first class at MNDFL, New York’s first meditation studio with gym hours.

Upon entering the swanky West Village space, I was blown away by the lush decor and the group of four men sipping tea in the inviting living room area. These were normal gentlemen in V-neck sweaters and scarves who have long escaped the snares of my eHarmony search engines. I’ve rarely seen more than a few of this endangered species in vinyasa, restorative, ashtanga, hatha, Bikram, Kundalini, Anusara, yin, aerial, aqua, power, hot, or even naked yoga (although there were more than the average clothed class).

Yoga Journal, which loves nimble cover girls, noticed the disparity. Recently, the publication conducted a survey. As you might have guessed from all the athleisure-wear, yoga practice is stretching like a pair of factory reject compression shorts. As of 2016, 36 million Americans practice asana, up from 20.4 million in 2012. Of that large group, 72 percent are women.

In my experience, yoga is the best place to meet legions of really attractive single women. Yet I remember the days when boys weren’t just potential sweethearts, but brothers and confidantes. I miss male friends. Yoga should be the best place to find them, an incubator of healthy communities on and off the mat. Maybe meditation was less intimidating.

As I approached the cloud of testosterone at MNDFL, I noticed they were sitting Don Draper style, with one ankle crossed over thigh. I tried not to alarm them for fear they would break formation and disperse into the ether. Not only did I hear chatter about gainful employment, I also picked up on how they expressed feelings. I had to investigate further.

One extremely tall gentleman, a triathlete who called himself Fernando, allowed me to interview him for a feature in YogaCity NYC. Through our discussion at MNDFL and others to follow, I collected evidence as to why males don’t flock to studios.

Here’s what Fernando said to me that I couldn’t fit into my published article:

Me: What is it about meditation that may or may not be more attractive to men than a yoga class?

Fernando: Fewer yoga pants. We have to look at them all day on the streets. Fine. We get it. You’re on your way to yoga. Always. All day. Every day. But a room full of those. The concentration of yoga pants is simply too much for most men. The visual effect is basically a naked ass covered in black or grey spray paint. That’s not conducive to concentration or introspection or even lowering your gaze. If the women wore burlap dungarees, men would do more yoga.

Me: What is it about yoga that may or may not be intimidating to men?

Fernando: For men, the main problem with yoga is what to wear. Sweats are too loose. Shorts are too loose. Speedos are for the pool. I’ve gone to Reebok and Lululemon and Nike, and they just don’t make yoga pants for men.

Me: Why are there fewer numbers of men in yoga in your opinion? Is it flexibility? I’m aiming to be helpful to yoga teachers. We DO NOT KNOW!

Fernando: I do think that flexibility is one issue. When the instructor says to lay your face down on your knees, or if you can’t, then do something similar, that might be tough for men to take. One thing is tone of voice. Some yoga teachers can speak in a “calming” whisper which can be more aggravating than relaxing.

More to follow on this important issue. I did tell Fernando about Moon & Son yoga clothing just for men.

A Non-Catholic Salutes Hometown Bishop, Hero of ‘Spotlight’

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This letter to editor appeared in my Indiana hometown paper, The Fort Wayne News-Sentinel on Feb. 28, 2016.

Fort Wayne audiences may recognize the name “John D’Arcy” in one of the most pivotal scenes of “Spotlight,” which won Best Picture at this year’s Academy Awards.

A Summit City native who lives in New York, I felt soaring pride that former Bishop D’Arcy fought against sexual abuse in his beloved Catholic Church. When visiting my hometown, I often attended D’Arcy’s Christmas Eve mass at the Cathedral of Immaculate Conception. Raised Methodist, I respected him, even though I disagreed with his conservative politics. During the Oscars, I celebrated D’Arcy and his brief mention in “Spotlight,” the story of a Boston Globe reporting team. Gently paced, the film exploded when Mike Rezendes (Mark Ruffalo) opened sealed documents containing damning evidence against the church. Breathless, Rezendes read to fellow reporters a 1984 letter recommending the removal of a predatory priest with a “history of homosexual involvement with young boys.”

D’Arcy, then Auxiliary Bishop of Boston, was the concerned author. In this spectacular scene, Ruffalo finally lost impartiality and shouted to his editor: “We gotta nail these scum bags! We gotta to show people that nobody can get away with this. Not a priest or a cardinal or a freaking pope!”In real life, D’Arcy’s correspondence helped fuel the Globe’s Pulitzer Prize-winning coverage of a corrupt system.

In the first piece on the scandal, which appeared in 2002, Rezendes asked a provocative question about Father Geoghan, accused of molesting more than 130 boys in the Boston area. Rezendes inquired: “Why did it take a succession of three cardinals and many bishops 34 years to place children out of Geoghan’s reach?”

After the article, more victims came forward. Secondary victims often included clergy, parents, and even lawyers stuck with the unimaginable weight of staying silent in fear of the Catholic Church.

I’m not here to single out religious organizations as tyrants. In Michigan, state officials knew that changing Flint’s water source from Lake Heron to the Flint River could be dangerous. But they did it anyway. After 9/11, the Environmental Protection Agency swore New York air was safe. Yet thousands of Ground Zero responders and others continue to be diagnosed with cancer. In such cases, it’s easy to wonder why no one took action. My guess is many of us have worked in similar demoralizing situations. In fear-based regimes, which are as numerous as the stars, shame is an art form of highly skilled leaders.That’s why D’Arcy is a hero in the movie and in real life.

But back in 1984, I imagine D’Arcy didn’t feel bold when his letters were buried. In fact, D’Arcy found himself transferred to the Midwest, where he was promoted to Bishop of the Diocese of Fort Wayne-South Bend. Far from his home in Massachusetts, he remained in Indiana until his death in 2013.His obituary appeared in The New York Times, hailing him as a whistleblower, unusual for an authority in his prestigious position. After viewing “Spotlight” two more times, I wondered why none of my Fort Wayne friends noticed D’Arcy’s role in the film.

One of the movie’s themes is that it takes an outsider to see the obvious. Now 41, I spent my first two decades in Fort Wayne and the last 20 years in big cities. From my distant Manhattan apartment, I am in awe of D’Arcy, Fort Wayne’s adopted son. You should be, too.