Today's pet peeve (more to come, time allowing)
Why is this sentence so incredibly difficult for some men to swallow: "Please teach me how to do it?" I was blessed with a dad who taught, but so often I run into men who seem unduely invested in them knowing and me needing. I swear they will put their bodies between me and the task to prevent my seeing how it's done, and then act (key word: act) all offended when I keep coming back with the same need.
Now, in fairness, "could you do it for me" comes more easily to me, as well. This is an old dance, and I've had my moves, too. But it's gotten very old. I'm tired of it. But there are going to be changes. I will keep forcing the words "please teach" out of my mouth, and whether the response is that I learn peer-to-peer or that the Wizard's curtain gets ripped and he's exposed in his manly gutchies, I don't care.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Whitewashing
““Why do you look like that?”
she says, lip curled up like she smells something bad.
I give the answer the White Coats told me,
let it roll off - sassy - hoping she may scold me
or even hold me, yeah, like that’s gonna happen
“I always felt this way. I was just hiding it.”
Smack.
“I see” says the lip.
“I think I liked it better like that, please.”
Right back at me so quick,
not missing a beat.
I retreat, stung, and freeze
And it comes clear.
Appearances are what we’re treating here.
Not feelings. Not needs.
Well, not about me.
I am well-mannered and well-churched, well-educated and well-off
and now I am, well, embarrassing.
With that pain visible on my porcelain face
putting a kink in my porcelain smile
In that moment it became clear
that my status in the world dictates even control of my eyes.
My eyes
If eyes are the windows to the soul
Mine were to be frosted,
with stick-on lilies-of-the-valley,
whatever the cost was
to make me a Good Girl
And I learned.
I learned “I’m doing much better, thank you.”
I learned charming and cute and harmless and mild
Be a sweet child
I learned how, with only my eyes,
those same eyes that betrayed us,
to soothe good folks’ fear that my depth of feeling might be contagious
I learned perfect nothingness with a side order of a slight stupid smile,
girl-next-door style
I can call up a twinkle in my eye
faster than a blink
lest you think you got in.
My eyes dance like Melissa Fucking Gibert.
Sparkle and grin
And the Nice Boys came for me at the college White Ball
And my eyes twinkled at them across the hall
And when they asked me to dance, I say
“it’s my privilege.”
And when they took me into the woods after the dance to show me their manliness, I say softly
“it’s my privilege,”
And I was Pleasant and Sweet and Mild and Accommodating,
and never showed the daggers in my eyes.
she says, lip curled up like she smells something bad.
I give the answer the White Coats told me,
let it roll off - sassy - hoping she may scold me
or even hold me, yeah, like that’s gonna happen
“I always felt this way. I was just hiding it.”
Smack.
“I see” says the lip.
“I think I liked it better like that, please.”
Right back at me so quick,
not missing a beat.
I retreat, stung, and freeze
And it comes clear.
Appearances are what we’re treating here.
Not feelings. Not needs.
Well, not about me.
I am well-mannered and well-churched, well-educated and well-off
and now I am, well, embarrassing.
With that pain visible on my porcelain face
putting a kink in my porcelain smile
In that moment it became clear
that my status in the world dictates even control of my eyes.
My eyes
If eyes are the windows to the soul
Mine were to be frosted,
with stick-on lilies-of-the-valley,
whatever the cost was
to make me a Good Girl
And I learned.
I learned “I’m doing much better, thank you.”
I learned charming and cute and harmless and mild
Be a sweet child
I learned how, with only my eyes,
those same eyes that betrayed us,
to soothe good folks’ fear that my depth of feeling might be contagious
I learned perfect nothingness with a side order of a slight stupid smile,
girl-next-door style
I can call up a twinkle in my eye
faster than a blink
lest you think you got in.
My eyes dance like Melissa Fucking Gibert.
Sparkle and grin
And the Nice Boys came for me at the college White Ball
And my eyes twinkled at them across the hall
And when they asked me to dance, I say
“it’s my privilege.”
And when they took me into the woods after the dance to show me their manliness, I say softly
“it’s my privilege,”
And I was Pleasant and Sweet and Mild and Accommodating,
and never showed the daggers in my eyes.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Some kinds of help...
This morning I woke up with a song in my head that I haven't heard for a while. "The Helping Song" from Free to Be, You and Me was running through my head. It's a song about children interfering in other children's activities, sometimes well-intentioned and well-done, sometimes well-intentioned but poorly done, and other times really just being mischevious and calling it "helping." It took me a little while to sort out why my subconscious gave me this song, today.
Finally, I nailed it. It came up during a conversation with a family friend 2 days ago. This friend is really wonderful to us. She is, beyond any doubt, really well intentioned. She loves the kids, and they love her. She is also one of those people who believes, without a shadow of doubt, that her neighborhood is the very best, and the school in that neighborhood is the very best, and that if kids aren't thriving there then they need to be even closer to the school. It could never be that the school, or the neighborhood, needs to be in any way different... always that the dose wasn't high enough. If the child has a fever and Advil doesn't help, give more Advil! Never consider that the ailment may need a different medicine, or even that there may be no "ailment" at all, but just a response.
Last year, we had some recurring issues with the school: communication issues, busing issues, etc. This group of friends - and they are friends - always came back with the same reassurance. The words varied, but the message was that our kids were so close to fitting in, and they would help us be Just Like Them. They would be our kids' new moms and dads, would provide us with surrogate neighbors, would make sure our kids were almost indistinguishable from The Natives. They were going to Save My Kids from the fate the other bused in kids suffer. And, grateful as I am that they did keep the kids safe during the school's fuckups, there's a place where that attitude makes me want to scream. I do not want to be you!!!! I want my children to be treated well in school, as residents of our neighborhood. I want them to be safely bused to and from our neighborhood. I want to be acknowledged. I want my neighborhood to be acknowledged as a neighborhood, and not just as some Outpost for Lesser Children.
There is an attitude there which I'm going to call salvationist, not in the Christian sense (although IMO they are related) but in the belief that the way to help You is to make you more like Me. This is arrogant. It gets on my last nerve, nomatter how well intentioned. I have tried subtle replies like "Yes, isn't it great how many wonderful - yet different - neighborhoods there are in Ithaca?" (insert smile.) This usually gets a smiling blank stare for a second, before returning to raves about the Best Neighborhood. These are the same folks who want to bring all the sweet little children to Jesus, bus poor-but-exception children (in very small, managable numbers) to schools in Good Neighborhoods and adopt all the Ethiopian children and raise them in suburban Jersey. They are the ones who encouragingly remind me how close we are to "passing" for Authentic Neighborhood Kids, and mean it with all the goodness in their hearts. And it drives me up a wall. That song just says it best: Some kinds of help are the kind of help that helping's all about. And some kinds of help are the kind of help... we all can do without.
Here's what I want: If a resource is needed by some of the students, provide it via the school. If a resource is available via the school, make it available to all of the students. Students from one background, neighborhood, etc. do not need to be remolded into images of students from another background, neighborhood, etc. in order for this to happen. Why is this such a threat to neighborhood pride?
Finally, I nailed it. It came up during a conversation with a family friend 2 days ago. This friend is really wonderful to us. She is, beyond any doubt, really well intentioned. She loves the kids, and they love her. She is also one of those people who believes, without a shadow of doubt, that her neighborhood is the very best, and the school in that neighborhood is the very best, and that if kids aren't thriving there then they need to be even closer to the school. It could never be that the school, or the neighborhood, needs to be in any way different... always that the dose wasn't high enough. If the child has a fever and Advil doesn't help, give more Advil! Never consider that the ailment may need a different medicine, or even that there may be no "ailment" at all, but just a response.
Last year, we had some recurring issues with the school: communication issues, busing issues, etc. This group of friends - and they are friends - always came back with the same reassurance. The words varied, but the message was that our kids were so close to fitting in, and they would help us be Just Like Them. They would be our kids' new moms and dads, would provide us with surrogate neighbors, would make sure our kids were almost indistinguishable from The Natives. They were going to Save My Kids from the fate the other bused in kids suffer. And, grateful as I am that they did keep the kids safe during the school's fuckups, there's a place where that attitude makes me want to scream. I do not want to be you!!!! I want my children to be treated well in school, as residents of our neighborhood. I want them to be safely bused to and from our neighborhood. I want to be acknowledged. I want my neighborhood to be acknowledged as a neighborhood, and not just as some Outpost for Lesser Children.
There is an attitude there which I'm going to call salvationist, not in the Christian sense (although IMO they are related) but in the belief that the way to help You is to make you more like Me. This is arrogant. It gets on my last nerve, nomatter how well intentioned. I have tried subtle replies like "Yes, isn't it great how many wonderful - yet different - neighborhoods there are in Ithaca?" (insert smile.) This usually gets a smiling blank stare for a second, before returning to raves about the Best Neighborhood. These are the same folks who want to bring all the sweet little children to Jesus, bus poor-but-exception children (in very small, managable numbers) to schools in Good Neighborhoods and adopt all the Ethiopian children and raise them in suburban Jersey. They are the ones who encouragingly remind me how close we are to "passing" for Authentic Neighborhood Kids, and mean it with all the goodness in their hearts. And it drives me up a wall. That song just says it best: Some kinds of help are the kind of help that helping's all about. And some kinds of help are the kind of help... we all can do without.
Here's what I want: If a resource is needed by some of the students, provide it via the school. If a resource is available via the school, make it available to all of the students. Students from one background, neighborhood, etc. do not need to be remolded into images of students from another background, neighborhood, etc. in order for this to happen. Why is this such a threat to neighborhood pride?
Friday, July 29, 2011
Sometimes you hold your own hand
This is the mopey post. Every blog needs one, right? I am in a grade a funk right now. I need that "big brother" I dreamed up a few decades ago. Or perhaps even a very compassionate log. lol. There are too many people leaning on me right now, and nobody backing me up, and my foothold is for crap. For everyone who could back me up, someone else needs them more. I think about the lyrics from Lean On Me "no one can fill those of your needs that you don't let show." I've always had a love/hate relationship with that song. It's a sweet song. I wish I believed it. But that has not been my experience. In my experience, true story, when I show my needs to my family, as a child, they flat out told me not to do that again... and it hasn't really improved from there.
No, I'm not depressed. I'm just really, really tired. It's flattering that people seem to think I can handle "it," whatever "it" is this time, but it's getting really old. Whether you can handle it or not is stupid, anyway. When "it" happens, you handle it. Especially if you know nobody is coming for you.
No, I'm not depressed. I'm just really, really tired. It's flattering that people seem to think I can handle "it," whatever "it" is this time, but it's getting really old. Whether you can handle it or not is stupid, anyway. When "it" happens, you handle it. Especially if you know nobody is coming for you.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Rebirths, of a nonreligious kind
This is not an insightful blog. It’s just where I am, today.
The past year or so has been… hard. A little over a year ago, my cousin Jeff died. Jeff was the cousin I was closest to as a child. We spent 2 weeks every summer at my grandparents’ house, and spent nearly all of it together. I watched him go through hell with his own physically and emotionally abusive immediate family, and couldn’t help him. I tried to keep him away as long as possible, running through the woods together, exploring the train tracks, or just hiding together so they couldn’t get him, or at least so he could just get a break. But at the end of the day he always had to go back to his father and brother. I could never hide him away forever, never long enough. Eventually we got older. Girls became girls and boys became boys, and we lost touch. I knew he became alcoholic, occasionally sober, usually not. I tried to reach out to him, but by that point – as a college-educated, several years sober woman – I had become too different in his eyes. He eventually put together 3 years sober, was getting it together, but then died of heart failure. He was just too late. He left behind boys the same age as my son. I have since sought out his kids’ mother, and we are actually pretty similar. We’re becoming friends, which is good. Perhaps we can tie our sons together into “cousins” of a sort. Better than nothing. But bittersweet when I think of what could’ve been as “whole” families… with my cousin back.
Next, my aunt died very suddenly. Frankly, I never got along with her. In fact, I often used her as an example of someone I did not want to be like. This feels cold to me, now, and cruel. When she died, I chose not to go to the funeral. I didn’t really feel anything, anything at all. I felt sorry for her devoted husband. I felt bad for her adopted son (who had already witnessed the death of his biological mother and grandmother, and was battling addiction.) But for myself… nada. What I didn’t realize then is that “counterpoint” is a relationship. She has always stood for weakness, to me. She blamed her father for her emotional issues until her death. She was so pushy, so obviously seeking love. So… needy. I can’t stand neediness in myself, and it bugs the crap out of me in other people. She saw herself in me, and tried many times to connect with me. I would have none of it. But without my counterpoint, I feel unsure. Like a floating yin.
This spring, my grandmother died. My grandmother was my rock. Everything I pull out of myself when times are tough, I get from her. She was quiet and calm, but not at all weak or ambiguous. Her calmness was one of certainty. She knew right from wrong, and what was important and what wasn’t. Her expectations were high and clear, always, and when I didn’t meet them, they didn’t change. She was an anchoring point in a childhood which was mostly frothy, black waves. She was not especially affectionate, which was actually perfect for me. It gave me nothing to bristle against. Nothing to fight or resist or resent. Just… guidance and history and ability. I know that she knew about my struggles with depression, drinking, etc. I’m sure it came up between her and my parents. Yet it never came up from her. I don’t know what she thought of it, but I know that I never fazed her even when I frightened a lot of people. She simply, calmly, moved forward. It was all just struggles and detours, taken in stride. It wasn’t until later than I learned how many struggles she’d had, and how my drama likely paled in comparison.
And now, as most people know, my cat of 19 years has died. I found Mackie when I was barely 20, and a few months before getting sober. Mackie was my bridge from a childhood of craziness and addiction to my current adulthood, and now that bridge has ended. And with this last loss, I feel so raw. I feel shoved into a different, disjointed stage of life. I could be anything or anyone. That is the gift. But I am finding that so much of who I am is about who other people are, and that without them I'm at a loss. I don’t know how to orient myself on my own, how to ground. Have you ever looked at small child’s hand in the night, when the blankey or teddy they usually clutch has fallen away? The hand flits around aimlessly, seeking its Something in the air. That’s where I am, today. Flitting. I know that adults do this all the time, but I can’t seem to quite get my legs under me.
The past year or so has been… hard. A little over a year ago, my cousin Jeff died. Jeff was the cousin I was closest to as a child. We spent 2 weeks every summer at my grandparents’ house, and spent nearly all of it together. I watched him go through hell with his own physically and emotionally abusive immediate family, and couldn’t help him. I tried to keep him away as long as possible, running through the woods together, exploring the train tracks, or just hiding together so they couldn’t get him, or at least so he could just get a break. But at the end of the day he always had to go back to his father and brother. I could never hide him away forever, never long enough. Eventually we got older. Girls became girls and boys became boys, and we lost touch. I knew he became alcoholic, occasionally sober, usually not. I tried to reach out to him, but by that point – as a college-educated, several years sober woman – I had become too different in his eyes. He eventually put together 3 years sober, was getting it together, but then died of heart failure. He was just too late. He left behind boys the same age as my son. I have since sought out his kids’ mother, and we are actually pretty similar. We’re becoming friends, which is good. Perhaps we can tie our sons together into “cousins” of a sort. Better than nothing. But bittersweet when I think of what could’ve been as “whole” families… with my cousin back.
Next, my aunt died very suddenly. Frankly, I never got along with her. In fact, I often used her as an example of someone I did not want to be like. This feels cold to me, now, and cruel. When she died, I chose not to go to the funeral. I didn’t really feel anything, anything at all. I felt sorry for her devoted husband. I felt bad for her adopted son (who had already witnessed the death of his biological mother and grandmother, and was battling addiction.) But for myself… nada. What I didn’t realize then is that “counterpoint” is a relationship. She has always stood for weakness, to me. She blamed her father for her emotional issues until her death. She was so pushy, so obviously seeking love. So… needy. I can’t stand neediness in myself, and it bugs the crap out of me in other people. She saw herself in me, and tried many times to connect with me. I would have none of it. But without my counterpoint, I feel unsure. Like a floating yin.
This spring, my grandmother died. My grandmother was my rock. Everything I pull out of myself when times are tough, I get from her. She was quiet and calm, but not at all weak or ambiguous. Her calmness was one of certainty. She knew right from wrong, and what was important and what wasn’t. Her expectations were high and clear, always, and when I didn’t meet them, they didn’t change. She was an anchoring point in a childhood which was mostly frothy, black waves. She was not especially affectionate, which was actually perfect for me. It gave me nothing to bristle against. Nothing to fight or resist or resent. Just… guidance and history and ability. I know that she knew about my struggles with depression, drinking, etc. I’m sure it came up between her and my parents. Yet it never came up from her. I don’t know what she thought of it, but I know that I never fazed her even when I frightened a lot of people. She simply, calmly, moved forward. It was all just struggles and detours, taken in stride. It wasn’t until later than I learned how many struggles she’d had, and how my drama likely paled in comparison.
And now, as most people know, my cat of 19 years has died. I found Mackie when I was barely 20, and a few months before getting sober. Mackie was my bridge from a childhood of craziness and addiction to my current adulthood, and now that bridge has ended. And with this last loss, I feel so raw. I feel shoved into a different, disjointed stage of life. I could be anything or anyone. That is the gift. But I am finding that so much of who I am is about who other people are, and that without them I'm at a loss. I don’t know how to orient myself on my own, how to ground. Have you ever looked at small child’s hand in the night, when the blankey or teddy they usually clutch has fallen away? The hand flits around aimlessly, seeking its Something in the air. That’s where I am, today. Flitting. I know that adults do this all the time, but I can’t seem to quite get my legs under me.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Birth Story for Aidan
Once upon a time, in a far off place where souls live when they are not on earth, there was a very special little soul. He was full of energy and curiosity, and passed the time gazing at all the colors, and running through clouds, and laughing and enjoying the other souls all around him. Then there came a time when this soul noticed the earth, far off in the distance, and longed to see what adventures that world held for a spirit like his. He saw the people there, working and playing and exploring, and he wanted to see what they saw and work and play along with them.
At the same time, on earth, there were a man and a woman who were deeply in love with each other. And having lived in this love together for a few years, they longed for another person to share it with… a baby to join their family.
And so it was that this little soul came to explore the earth, and the man and woman began their life as a family. The little soul was to live in his mother’s body for 10cycles of the moon, while he built up his human body. But he was as energetic and eager to explore as his soul had always been, and after only 9 cycles he decided that he had waited long enough, and he would be born now. And so out he came, to begin his adventures!
The boy’s parents had been thinking about what name to give their son. On the day of his arrival, the sun was beating heavily on the earth, the air was thick and steamy, and the ground felt hot as fire. And so the parents named the child Aidan, after an ancient god of fire. Aidan had a spark in his eyes and a quickness to his movements just like a little flickering flame, and so this was the right thing to call him… little fire. For his second name, the parents gave him Robert, the name of his mother’s grandfather, a man who also loved adventures and meeting people and – most of all – laughter. So Aidan Robert came to the earth on June 12th, 2001.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Difficult decisions, and goodbyes
Two nights ago, I dreamed that my cat, Mackie, had died. It was such an intense dream that I was genuinely surprised she stayed alive that day. But my heart is so heavy, because I know it's time for her to go. She is skin and bones, eating and drinking ravenously but losing weight all the same. Now, she wakes up enough to puke, pee and poop, usually in all the wrong places.
She's alive today mainly by my own fear and selfishness. Mackie found me when I was 20 years old, and in the final throws of active alcoholism. I was wearing my black leather jacket, and my "badass" dagger earrings, when I spotted a tiny kitten on the side of the road. I stuck her in my pocket, and hid her away in my dormroom until the spring term ended and I moved to an apartment. She's been with me ever since... as I got sober, finished college, engaged, engagement broken off, moved back home and back out again. Then marriage, three children, an out of state move... All with Mackie.
But this is the end, even thought I hardly remember the beginning anymore, since it was a lifetime ago. I will miss her deperately, my constant companion.
She's alive today mainly by my own fear and selfishness. Mackie found me when I was 20 years old, and in the final throws of active alcoholism. I was wearing my black leather jacket, and my "badass" dagger earrings, when I spotted a tiny kitten on the side of the road. I stuck her in my pocket, and hid her away in my dormroom until the spring term ended and I moved to an apartment. She's been with me ever since... as I got sober, finished college, engaged, engagement broken off, moved back home and back out again. Then marriage, three children, an out of state move... All with Mackie.
But this is the end, even thought I hardly remember the beginning anymore, since it was a lifetime ago. I will miss her deperately, my constant companion.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
psychic temper tantrum
I am having a psychic temper tantrum today. Taking a detour from issues of race, there are many kinds of statistics kids face in life. Despite being born into a white, upper middle class family, I still managed to run headlong into many of these bad odds of survival. I've overcome a lot, a LOT, of stuff. And now, here's me, a mom of three healthy kids, a treasured employee, and in an Ivy League PhD program. And I'm grateful and blessed and all that good stuff. I truly am. But sometimes, I don't want to be "the girl who lived." Sometimes, it's too much pressure. A friend, who knows my struggles well, called me her hero today. Please, please don't do that. Please. I don't want to be a hero. I'm still sure someone's going to find me out tomorrow, and when my cover's blown, I don't want to let y'all down.
Days like this, I close my eyes walking down an alley, and run my hand along the brick wall to feel the comforting textures and rhythms when nobody's looking. Days like this, I want to break beer bottles in the playground and terrify strangers just for sport, then curl up in a fetal position and be spoon fed hot chocolate. With marshmallows.
Days like this, I close my eyes walking down an alley, and run my hand along the brick wall to feel the comforting textures and rhythms when nobody's looking. Days like this, I want to break beer bottles in the playground and terrify strangers just for sport, then curl up in a fetal position and be spoon fed hot chocolate. With marshmallows.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Sick of it.
Sorry, this isn't witty. It isn't especially intelligent, and may not even be intelligible. It's just shit I need to say.
In the course of three weeks, whe my husband started a new job with a less predictable schedule, the school bus forgot my kids twice. Completely forgot them. Apparently a teacher saw them but she didn't call me. No admin *ever* called me. My babysitter found them and called me. Both times I waited until evening to contact the school, *assuming* they would contact me since they knew.
Finally, after escalating this to the Superintendent, I got enough pressure to revise the dismissal procedures in a way that will make it harder to lose my children. We're talking every so *slight* revision, no great hardship to the almighty Walkers of Fall Creek. Apparently, this new plan was presented to the PTA last night, and got "much discussion." I wonder what there was to discuss??? Use the other fucking door so the bused kids don't get lost in the stampede.
Anyway... we didn't go to that PTA meeting. We went to hear the Super talk at a different meeting a few blocks away. We left our kids at the school's childcare, in the guardianship of our sitter who is also the caregiver and who assured us that kids bring friends to the child care all the time. Apparently not *bused* kids.
I just got an irate email from the PTA pres expressing her indignation that we should leave our kids in the PTA childcare, which is for PTA attendees only. Yeah, ok... sorry... didn't know. We asked several people if it was ok, we filled out the forms so that it would be totally clear, but apparently we can't do this. My bad. That said, you and I and trees all know *neighborhood* families do this all the time.
No, what I'm *pissed* about is that, in this ream-out, she talks about how obnoxious that was of us considering "the lengths that have been taken to secure [our kids'] safety and transportation stability." The lengths they've taken??? You mean, like, the absolute legal minimum, on a good day?? No way. Taking extremely *minor* steps in order to fix a school fuckup is not a favor to me or my children. It is mediation for a pretty significant screwup on the schools' part. And am *appalled* that there was even need for "discussion" about this! What's to fucking discuss?? The school lost my kids. Twice. Didn't deliver them home, and nobody apparently was going to tell me that. (Like I said, a teacher knew it, but just left it in our *off duty* sitter's hands) *That* is what should be getting discussion, because it could happen to any bused child. These people who are supposed to be our friends and allies should be getting irate about the dangerous conditions for bused kids, *not* about having to use the other door. This is typical, uncontroversial *procedure* at any other school.
And you know why I don't go to PTA meetings, anymore? Because of this. Because I'm sick of being the official poster child for the good little Southsider, showing how it *is* possible for bused kids to be full members of the community. I'm sick of pleasantly and politely asking people to please give me a way to sign up for conferences, to sign up for activities. Please, try not to lose my kids this week. It is *not* possible for a Southside family to join the community. The "allies" want a project, a nice, easy one, and if you're not there to make them feel good about All They Do for You, then apparently you weren't really worth it and all bets are off. Seriously, some days... I'm thinking, you know what? Have your little cliquey school. Go ahead. Live on your little island. The kids I know deserve better aren't showing anyway. The neighborhood folk don't want to budge. I think I'm the only one who thinks this isn't right, so maybe I'm wrong? I don't know. But I'm just over. it. today.
In the course of three weeks, whe my husband started a new job with a less predictable schedule, the school bus forgot my kids twice. Completely forgot them. Apparently a teacher saw them but she didn't call me. No admin *ever* called me. My babysitter found them and called me. Both times I waited until evening to contact the school, *assuming* they would contact me since they knew.
Finally, after escalating this to the Superintendent, I got enough pressure to revise the dismissal procedures in a way that will make it harder to lose my children. We're talking every so *slight* revision, no great hardship to the almighty Walkers of Fall Creek. Apparently, this new plan was presented to the PTA last night, and got "much discussion." I wonder what there was to discuss??? Use the other fucking door so the bused kids don't get lost in the stampede.
Anyway... we didn't go to that PTA meeting. We went to hear the Super talk at a different meeting a few blocks away. We left our kids at the school's childcare, in the guardianship of our sitter who is also the caregiver and who assured us that kids bring friends to the child care all the time. Apparently not *bused* kids.
I just got an irate email from the PTA pres expressing her indignation that we should leave our kids in the PTA childcare, which is for PTA attendees only. Yeah, ok... sorry... didn't know. We asked several people if it was ok, we filled out the forms so that it would be totally clear, but apparently we can't do this. My bad. That said, you and I and trees all know *neighborhood* families do this all the time.
No, what I'm *pissed* about is that, in this ream-out, she talks about how obnoxious that was of us considering "the lengths that have been taken to secure [our kids'] safety and transportation stability." The lengths they've taken??? You mean, like, the absolute legal minimum, on a good day?? No way. Taking extremely *minor* steps in order to fix a school fuckup is not a favor to me or my children. It is mediation for a pretty significant screwup on the schools' part. And am *appalled* that there was even need for "discussion" about this! What's to fucking discuss?? The school lost my kids. Twice. Didn't deliver them home, and nobody apparently was going to tell me that. (Like I said, a teacher knew it, but just left it in our *off duty* sitter's hands) *That* is what should be getting discussion, because it could happen to any bused child. These people who are supposed to be our friends and allies should be getting irate about the dangerous conditions for bused kids, *not* about having to use the other door. This is typical, uncontroversial *procedure* at any other school.
And you know why I don't go to PTA meetings, anymore? Because of this. Because I'm sick of being the official poster child for the good little Southsider, showing how it *is* possible for bused kids to be full members of the community. I'm sick of pleasantly and politely asking people to please give me a way to sign up for conferences, to sign up for activities. Please, try not to lose my kids this week. It is *not* possible for a Southside family to join the community. The "allies" want a project, a nice, easy one, and if you're not there to make them feel good about All They Do for You, then apparently you weren't really worth it and all bets are off. Seriously, some days... I'm thinking, you know what? Have your little cliquey school. Go ahead. Live on your little island. The kids I know deserve better aren't showing anyway. The neighborhood folk don't want to budge. I think I'm the only one who thinks this isn't right, so maybe I'm wrong? I don't know. But I'm just over. it. today.
Redistricting roosters
I'm going to tell you a story. A few years ago, before moving here, we tried our hand at homesteading. You know, grow your own produce, laundry lines all over the place, bulk foods in salvaged containers, and some random "beginners'" animals. We chose chickens.
We chose to get our baby chicks in the mail. Don't laugh... it's actually really common! The only catch is that chicks have to be packaged by 2 dozens in order to survive. There have to be that many in the box to keep the temperatures up, and to keep the chicks packed tightly enough not to get slid around to death. So, here's what you do. You can order as many hens as you want, 3 or 23, whatever. Everyone wants hens, only. The shippers make up the difference in roosters, to bring the total to 24. The roosters are free, you don't pay for them. They're basically packing material. The shipment arrives, and the roosters are typically allowed to live with the hens until they start to actually consume valuable resources (eat food) or behave in a way that is a threat to the valuable hens (behave territorially.) At the first sign of aggression, or when the farmer wants to cut down on the food bill, the roosters are promptly "culled." (killed.)
Funny, this seems an awful lot like school redistricting! A school functions best with a certain number of students. This makes the bottom lines work out in terms of teacher: student: space ratios. Of course, not every neighborhood has the perfect number of students to meet this ratio internally. Thankfully, there are always these conveniently transient areas, typically areas which have already lost their own neighborhood schools making them a) less desirable for homebuyers and b) more likely to be populated by transient and/or marginalized groups who won't fight back. Need 40 more bodies? Take a corner of one of these neighborhoods. As long as they don't start getting... needy.
So what will get a rooster child "culled?" Not that different from the bird variety. Remember that the resources are really for the hens, and that anything you get is a favor. Show deference at all times, and accept your limitations. Remember, the hen house is called a hen house for a good reason, just like a "neighborhood school." It's there *for* the neighborhood. You may also attend. The rooster should learn to blend. Be involved in the school, but only as involved as you can be on your own. Ideally, get driven to school. When we first had struggles with the bus, authorities strongly suggested we drive our kids, since the "bus is a problem." I've since learned that almost all the other families with "good" kids (white, dual parent, middle class) from our area do drive their kids. Playtime is for the neighborhood kids, because if bused kids don't board immediately they'll get left, while the neighborhood kids can stay and play. Many activities are only announced or signed-up-for on site, so those are de facto also for the neighborhood kids. Know your place. If you have money, you can pay for entry to some of these, even from outside the neighborhood (pay for enrichment classes or aftercare, to keep your child at the school playground to improve their odds of breaking in, socially.) This is also strongly encouraged for those who may pass as hen-like.
Do not call attention to where you're from. Do not mention Southside events or multicultural events in the same vein as the neighborhood families mention Fall Creek events. It's not the same. You're not the same kind of member. To call attention to being from the Southside is "pushy." Most importantly, whatever you do, behave *perfectly!* Everyone knows, as a teacher told me, that "the bused kids are almost always the problem kids." Stay off the radar.
If you follow these rules, it can bide you time. Of course, in the end the roosters who do survive will become big enough that they simply need to eat more and developed enough that they will crow and move *big.* Eventually, if they live, they'll become too hungry and loud to blend. It will become apparent that they really just aren't hens. If they're cute and harmless, they may reach maturity, but that's as far as it goes. Nothing can help, then.
So, put like this, the farmer seems really callous, or even cruel, right? We can blame the farmer for doing this to the roosters, who did nothing to choose to be roosters. They just are who they are, and are slaughtered for it. It's easy to hate the farmer. Even easier to hate the "society" that supports the farmer. Let's all bash the mean old farmer! (Go ahead... I'll wait.)
My kids aren't born roosters, they really are hens (humor me now, I'm going to stretch this... lol.) I have made a decision to link their fate to that of the roosters, to be raised together, ride the bus together, etc. I can't put the same stigma on them and I can't change their inherent traits, but I have chosen to link my hen chicks to the roosters to the extent possible, to make the point that they have equal *inherent* worth. I have placed my hens in front of the roosters. The roosters didn't ask me to, so they aren't culpable for what happens to my hens. The farmer (the principal, the PTA, etc.) has advised me repeatedly to pull the sweet hens out of the way. So, if the hens - my children - are harmed, *I* did it.
We chose to get our baby chicks in the mail. Don't laugh... it's actually really common! The only catch is that chicks have to be packaged by 2 dozens in order to survive. There have to be that many in the box to keep the temperatures up, and to keep the chicks packed tightly enough not to get slid around to death. So, here's what you do. You can order as many hens as you want, 3 or 23, whatever. Everyone wants hens, only. The shippers make up the difference in roosters, to bring the total to 24. The roosters are free, you don't pay for them. They're basically packing material. The shipment arrives, and the roosters are typically allowed to live with the hens until they start to actually consume valuable resources (eat food) or behave in a way that is a threat to the valuable hens (behave territorially.) At the first sign of aggression, or when the farmer wants to cut down on the food bill, the roosters are promptly "culled." (killed.)
Funny, this seems an awful lot like school redistricting! A school functions best with a certain number of students. This makes the bottom lines work out in terms of teacher: student: space ratios. Of course, not every neighborhood has the perfect number of students to meet this ratio internally. Thankfully, there are always these conveniently transient areas, typically areas which have already lost their own neighborhood schools making them a) less desirable for homebuyers and b) more likely to be populated by transient and/or marginalized groups who won't fight back. Need 40 more bodies? Take a corner of one of these neighborhoods. As long as they don't start getting... needy.
So what will get a rooster child "culled?" Not that different from the bird variety. Remember that the resources are really for the hens, and that anything you get is a favor. Show deference at all times, and accept your limitations. Remember, the hen house is called a hen house for a good reason, just like a "neighborhood school." It's there *for* the neighborhood. You may also attend. The rooster should learn to blend. Be involved in the school, but only as involved as you can be on your own. Ideally, get driven to school. When we first had struggles with the bus, authorities strongly suggested we drive our kids, since the "bus is a problem." I've since learned that almost all the other families with "good" kids (white, dual parent, middle class) from our area do drive their kids. Playtime is for the neighborhood kids, because if bused kids don't board immediately they'll get left, while the neighborhood kids can stay and play. Many activities are only announced or signed-up-for on site, so those are de facto also for the neighborhood kids. Know your place. If you have money, you can pay for entry to some of these, even from outside the neighborhood (pay for enrichment classes or aftercare, to keep your child at the school playground to improve their odds of breaking in, socially.) This is also strongly encouraged for those who may pass as hen-like.
Do not call attention to where you're from. Do not mention Southside events or multicultural events in the same vein as the neighborhood families mention Fall Creek events. It's not the same. You're not the same kind of member. To call attention to being from the Southside is "pushy." Most importantly, whatever you do, behave *perfectly!* Everyone knows, as a teacher told me, that "the bused kids are almost always the problem kids." Stay off the radar.
If you follow these rules, it can bide you time. Of course, in the end the roosters who do survive will become big enough that they simply need to eat more and developed enough that they will crow and move *big.* Eventually, if they live, they'll become too hungry and loud to blend. It will become apparent that they really just aren't hens. If they're cute and harmless, they may reach maturity, but that's as far as it goes. Nothing can help, then.
So, put like this, the farmer seems really callous, or even cruel, right? We can blame the farmer for doing this to the roosters, who did nothing to choose to be roosters. They just are who they are, and are slaughtered for it. It's easy to hate the farmer. Even easier to hate the "society" that supports the farmer. Let's all bash the mean old farmer! (Go ahead... I'll wait.)
My kids aren't born roosters, they really are hens (humor me now, I'm going to stretch this... lol.) I have made a decision to link their fate to that of the roosters, to be raised together, ride the bus together, etc. I can't put the same stigma on them and I can't change their inherent traits, but I have chosen to link my hen chicks to the roosters to the extent possible, to make the point that they have equal *inherent* worth. I have placed my hens in front of the roosters. The roosters didn't ask me to, so they aren't culpable for what happens to my hens. The farmer (the principal, the PTA, etc.) has advised me repeatedly to pull the sweet hens out of the way. So, if the hens - my children - are harmed, *I* did it.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Relative budgets
I'm just back from another school budget meeting. I've been following the budget, mainly just out of curiosity... trying to better understand what some of the pieces of running a school system are before I complain too quickly. The whole "walk a mile" thing...
What I've noticed, tho, is that I think my "normal" is vastly different from the normal where I now live. I went to a city elementary school of 500 students, some walkers plus kids bused in from 3-4 adjacent neighborhoods. Each classroom had one teacher, and there were a handful of aides in the school, who came and went from different classrooms. There were counselors in the district, and they came and went from the various schools.
Now, one of the things on the potential chopping block for the district budget is having a *third* adult in pre-K classrooms. Three adults? A case was made that this third person is necessary because there are any number of reasons why one of the two mandated adults may be out of the classroom over the course of the day. Um.... so?? Are you telling me one teacher can't hold down a pre-K classroom for 10 minutes while another gets the lunch trays? With dozens of other teachers in hollering distance if there is a serious, bloodspilling crisis? I totally get wanting that aide. No doubt, it is very helpful. But...
Budgets are in the red, or they are in the black. This is true for homes. This is true for schools. Wanting something unaffordable to be affordable has nothing to do with anything. I wanted a second pair of stinkin' shoes (or not stinkin'... either way) for most of a year before I could afford them. Tough luck. There's red and there's black. No. new. shoes.
I love this town. I really, really do. But sometimes I just don't get it. This district is cushy, at least if you're in the cushy demographic overall. If it has to be a little less cushy, particularly in the interest of maintaining basic programming for the most at-risk kids, we'll live! Suck it up. There. Carry on.
What I've noticed, tho, is that I think my "normal" is vastly different from the normal where I now live. I went to a city elementary school of 500 students, some walkers plus kids bused in from 3-4 adjacent neighborhoods. Each classroom had one teacher, and there were a handful of aides in the school, who came and went from different classrooms. There were counselors in the district, and they came and went from the various schools.
Now, one of the things on the potential chopping block for the district budget is having a *third* adult in pre-K classrooms. Three adults? A case was made that this third person is necessary because there are any number of reasons why one of the two mandated adults may be out of the classroom over the course of the day. Um.... so?? Are you telling me one teacher can't hold down a pre-K classroom for 10 minutes while another gets the lunch trays? With dozens of other teachers in hollering distance if there is a serious, bloodspilling crisis? I totally get wanting that aide. No doubt, it is very helpful. But...
Budgets are in the red, or they are in the black. This is true for homes. This is true for schools. Wanting something unaffordable to be affordable has nothing to do with anything. I wanted a second pair of stinkin' shoes (or not stinkin'... either way) for most of a year before I could afford them. Tough luck. There's red and there's black. No. new. shoes.
I love this town. I really, really do. But sometimes I just don't get it. This district is cushy, at least if you're in the cushy demographic overall. If it has to be a little less cushy, particularly in the interest of maintaining basic programming for the most at-risk kids, we'll live! Suck it up. There. Carry on.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
What is it with autographs?
Ok, help me out, people. What's the deal with autographs? I was watching images of the hoards outside a certain recent awards show, screaching for various celebrities to come sign something. I don't get it. I actually *could* understand the "he *touched* me!" thing (think swooning teenage girl straining for the elusive hand of a rock star, as they make the obligatory mass high-five reach into the crowds.) There is a sense of having made contact, there. And I guess in those cases, an autograph is a souvenir of an actual contact made.
But take, for instance, mail-in requests for autographs. If you aren't going to sell them (which is a whole 'nother rant), what's in it? (Especially since a majority are not handwritten, anyway, so contact was never made with the celebrity.) What is the thing, feeling, etc of interest?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not bashing the adoration of celebrities. (I may, at some point. But I'm not now.) There are several people I would really love to meet. I would love the opportunity to tell them what they did or made was fabulous. And it would be amazing to make eye contact with them, and hear about that experience. I just don't get that from having proof that they can, or could at one point, sign their own name.
But take, for instance, mail-in requests for autographs. If you aren't going to sell them (which is a whole 'nother rant), what's in it? (Especially since a majority are not handwritten, anyway, so contact was never made with the celebrity.) What is the thing, feeling, etc of interest?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not bashing the adoration of celebrities. (I may, at some point. But I'm not now.) There are several people I would really love to meet. I would love the opportunity to tell them what they did or made was fabulous. And it would be amazing to make eye contact with them, and hear about that experience. I just don't get that from having proof that they can, or could at one point, sign their own name.
Monday, January 17, 2011
On motivation...
I rediscovered this morning that there's a trick to motivating yourself for those 0 (that's "zero") F runs. You only really need to talk yourself into the first half. After that, you'll realize that you are now a cold, wet (sweaty), asthmatic chic several miles from home. And getting colder and more asthmatic with every second you walk. At that point "Run home... fast!" seems like the most sensible and natural response in the world.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
f* no, part 2
The shooting in Arizona yesterday, particularly the murder of Christina Taylor Green, has really hit home with me. It is so ironic, so painfully ironic, that this took place right after my blog about how it felt to bring a newborn child into the post-9/11 US. Christina was born on 9/11, and was featured as a face of hope for our nation. I thought I was writing about the past.
I held my kids a little closer today, remembering violence isn't past tense. It can always be just around the corner. When can we heal, already? We grow a scab, then it gets ripped off again. The same old wound, a little bigger and little more resistant to healing every time.
Or maybe it's me. Maybe the world was never any different, and what I feel is only a losing battle with my own naivete. If so, I'd like my blinders back, please. This hurts.
May we honor Christina by doing everything in our power to make the world more peaceful than her too-brief 9 years in it. And now, if you'll pardon the lack of poetry, I'd really like to puke and cry a little. Dammit, we really needed our faces of hope. I hope we find our best humanity, and soon.
I held my kids a little closer today, remembering violence isn't past tense. It can always be just around the corner. When can we heal, already? We grow a scab, then it gets ripped off again. The same old wound, a little bigger and little more resistant to healing every time.
Or maybe it's me. Maybe the world was never any different, and what I feel is only a losing battle with my own naivete. If so, I'd like my blinders back, please. This hurts.
May we honor Christina by doing everything in our power to make the world more peaceful than her too-brief 9 years in it. And now, if you'll pardon the lack of poetry, I'd really like to puke and cry a little. Dammit, we really needed our faces of hope. I hope we find our best humanity, and soon.
Friday, January 7, 2011
uninvited blessings
In three days, it will be my youngest child's birthday. This is always an intense time for me, for several reasons. She is my last. Her birth was also the most wonderful birth experience I've had. I think mostly, though, it's the miracle of her very existence, and the anniversary of my giving myself over to her and to our family as it was meant to be... not as I planned it to be.
After my 2nd child's birth, my hubby was to get the Big V. We meant to get around to it, but just didn't. She was still nursing almost completely at a year old, with very little solid food. (She's still the pickiest eater!) I had not had a cycle yet. So while we meant to do it, we just... didn't.
Apparently there's an incredibly slim chance of starting to cycle while still nursing that much. And then, if you do, there's an incredibly slim chance of that first cycle starting egg first (rather than the more obvious bleeding first.) And, if you cycle, and if it starts egg first, there is an incredibly slim chance of that egg being viable and the womb being fertile enough to support the pregnancy to term. Yeah... So....
At some point, I felt strange. I had no reason to expect to be pregnant. I was exhausted and had been so ill most of my last pregnancy that I usually felt strange. But something inside said "test." So I tested. Three times. I was pregnant. I broke down and cried for hours, and I do not mean tears of joy. We were barely affording two kids, had just signed a purchase agreement on a 3 bedroom house which was meant to save us money. I had a narrowly-margined plan all lined up for how I was going to pull off my family of four. I cried, and cried, and cried. When I couldn't cry anymore, I just stared blankly ahead. I was in a depressed fog for weeks, at least. I considered abortion, and so did my husband, but we both agreed that wasn't for us. This was to be our path, even though we had no idea how to handle it.
The pregnancy was uneventful, and sometimes I even just forgot about it. It was hard to be excited since I was still absolutely terrified, and no one else really focused on it since it was my third. So the pregnancy went largely unnoticed. At some point, I decided that, since this was happening, anyway, I may as well have the birth experience I'd wanted with my 2nd child, which was changed by illness. Also, I was pretty fed up with doctors and hospitals. So I saw midwives, only as often as I had to, and arranged for a birthing center delivery. Low key. No bright lights, no wires, no drugs. I wanted to be left alone, more than anything.
On January 10th, around 7pm, I thought I had to pee. Turned out to be a head, and we got the kids back up and in the car and off to the midwife center. After about 90 minutes, my youngest child was born. I won't say it was bliss at first sight. I was still terrified. I was still, frankly, kind of ticked off. I know I was depressed. But I was curious, and that was a start. It started as curiosity, then as acceptance, then as a sort of "we're in this together, Kid" partnership. Over time, it has grown into a truly unique relationship. I watch the effect she has on people, how she draws them in and just... knows them. She is so intuitive and loving. When she grows up and puts words to her relationship with her mother, she will likely describe it as just being the baby or something. I will know differently. She is a miracle, and I am her biggest fan. She is bringing something to this world that the world needs, more than I needed my plan. And my family was never meant to be any other way.
After my 2nd child's birth, my hubby was to get the Big V. We meant to get around to it, but just didn't. She was still nursing almost completely at a year old, with very little solid food. (She's still the pickiest eater!) I had not had a cycle yet. So while we meant to do it, we just... didn't.
Apparently there's an incredibly slim chance of starting to cycle while still nursing that much. And then, if you do, there's an incredibly slim chance of that first cycle starting egg first (rather than the more obvious bleeding first.) And, if you cycle, and if it starts egg first, there is an incredibly slim chance of that egg being viable and the womb being fertile enough to support the pregnancy to term. Yeah... So....
At some point, I felt strange. I had no reason to expect to be pregnant. I was exhausted and had been so ill most of my last pregnancy that I usually felt strange. But something inside said "test." So I tested. Three times. I was pregnant. I broke down and cried for hours, and I do not mean tears of joy. We were barely affording two kids, had just signed a purchase agreement on a 3 bedroom house which was meant to save us money. I had a narrowly-margined plan all lined up for how I was going to pull off my family of four. I cried, and cried, and cried. When I couldn't cry anymore, I just stared blankly ahead. I was in a depressed fog for weeks, at least. I considered abortion, and so did my husband, but we both agreed that wasn't for us. This was to be our path, even though we had no idea how to handle it.
The pregnancy was uneventful, and sometimes I even just forgot about it. It was hard to be excited since I was still absolutely terrified, and no one else really focused on it since it was my third. So the pregnancy went largely unnoticed. At some point, I decided that, since this was happening, anyway, I may as well have the birth experience I'd wanted with my 2nd child, which was changed by illness. Also, I was pretty fed up with doctors and hospitals. So I saw midwives, only as often as I had to, and arranged for a birthing center delivery. Low key. No bright lights, no wires, no drugs. I wanted to be left alone, more than anything.
On January 10th, around 7pm, I thought I had to pee. Turned out to be a head, and we got the kids back up and in the car and off to the midwife center. After about 90 minutes, my youngest child was born. I won't say it was bliss at first sight. I was still terrified. I was still, frankly, kind of ticked off. I know I was depressed. But I was curious, and that was a start. It started as curiosity, then as acceptance, then as a sort of "we're in this together, Kid" partnership. Over time, it has grown into a truly unique relationship. I watch the effect she has on people, how she draws them in and just... knows them. She is so intuitive and loving. When she grows up and puts words to her relationship with her mother, she will likely describe it as just being the baby or something. I will know differently. She is a miracle, and I am her biggest fan. She is bringing something to this world that the world needs, more than I needed my plan. And my family was never meant to be any other way.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
city of steel
city of blood and muscle, sweat and smoke
I laugh along at jokes about the smog
mocking the very air that first filled my lungs
when She welcomed me into the world
Even as I join in I feel the pang of guilt
of laughing at the expense of one I love
the bitter taste of betrayal far worse
than smog or smoke or steal could ever be
My bones, straight and strong, of steel
My blood flowed in mills, and mines, on ships
in men who came before, who wore
the city on their threadbare shirts, strong and tall
City of steel, city of stolen dignity
I feel your pulse within me and within you
hidden under high-tech, shiny reimagining
land where my fathers died
land where I laughed and lied,
the prodigal daughter, full of pride,
to thee I sing
I laugh along at jokes about the smog
mocking the very air that first filled my lungs
when She welcomed me into the world
Even as I join in I feel the pang of guilt
of laughing at the expense of one I love
the bitter taste of betrayal far worse
than smog or smoke or steal could ever be
My bones, straight and strong, of steel
My blood flowed in mills, and mines, on ships
in men who came before, who wore
the city on their threadbare shirts, strong and tall
City of steel, city of stolen dignity
I feel your pulse within me and within you
hidden under high-tech, shiny reimagining
land where my fathers died
land where I laughed and lied,
the prodigal daughter, full of pride,
to thee I sing
In the extra's window
You know how, in the movies, when there is a disaster - a bomb explodes, or a UFO crashes into a building, something along those lines - the camera pans a long a series of human reactions from non-characters? These are the extra's roles. It may be a couple eating at a patio cafe, a mother pushing a stroller, children playing in a park. Usually, these extras are women and children, our society's most vulnerable. We see the shock, horror, fear, chaos and confusion in their faces, the human face of the disaster. Then, within 10 seconds or maybe even less, the camera moves on and gets back to the proper story with the main characters as they go about trying to save or destroy the world, as written. We never see those faces again; they were only used to set the stage for the stars.
Do you ever wonder what happened to those people, to the extras, the mood-setters? The camera zooms in on a window into a living room. It is an average house, on an average street, in the kind of city where most people's lives go basically the same way their parents' did and not much ever happens. On a threadbare burgundy couch, a woman sits nursing an infant. She is gazing sleepily at the television, juggling the baby a little to reach her coffee on floor by her feet. (They don't have a coffeetable, despite the woman's constant nagging at her husband to make one.) On the tv, the morning news program chatters on. The older gray haired man banters in the fatherly-yet-flirtatious way with his blond female costar. The background is an image of the Twin Towers in New York City. I wonder if that is really a window, or if it's a picture? the woman muses.
Then, without the breeze so much as shifting, one of the buildings seems to.. crack? fold? There is a fireball there now. Is it a picture? Maybe a preview of a movie? Buildings don't just crack. How does this fit with what they were just saying? I don't get it. The fire is everywhere now, and the calm, kindly older man changes. He taps into some other phase of life where he was a reporter. His demeanor changes completely, and forces the viewer to realize that something has happened in Real Life. Time stands still. The woman's face freezes, except her eyes which flit around trying to make this make sense. She holds the baby tighter, to increase the sense of him, so she doesn't drop him. If she were a robot, this is when she would say "does not compute." As a human, what she says is "oh fuck. I don't...what? oh no. no. oh fuck no."
But it isn't over. These were planes. They hit the buildings. They were intended to hit the buildings. And they did. And there are more planes. Another hit the Pentagon. More fire, more chaos and crying, but still it isn't over. There is a map on the television now, and it looks familiar, even through the shock-induced blur. The image is... here. Another plane is near here. Near home. The television is talking (it doesn't matter now which faces are which... and she will never remember) about possible "targets" for the other plane. Places she knows very well... where she works, a few miles from her, from her home from her family. Still, her eyes barely flit and flicker, and she tries to remember to breathe, at least a little. Then that plane is down, too. Close to home, but not at her home. She breathes a shakey breath, and stands up, just to remember how.
The camera zooms out now, to the main scene, where the action is and where people will remember. In the silence, alone with her newborn, the woman paces in her echoing, empty house a while. Then she starts making phone calls, trying to remember who is where, who is likely safe, and who may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Things won't be the same, not for a long time and likely not in her lifetime. Something has changed, not only for the people directly affected in the main scenes, but for the extras like her, the irrelevant ones.
I overreact to violent movies and television. I realize this. There is some place where fear and terror and chaos as "entertainment" don't work for me. The camera may go on to the main characters, to the stars of the show. The heroes may even save the world, after a good fight. But for the extras, the woman on the couch, the couple at the patio restaurant and the mother with the stroller, changes happened in those brief moments which won't un-happen just because there's nobody watching. I can't help but remember those faces the camera panned over in those 10 seconds. They feel more real to me than the heroes. I know it's me. It's just me. It's all me. But then again, it's me.
Do you ever wonder what happened to those people, to the extras, the mood-setters? The camera zooms in on a window into a living room. It is an average house, on an average street, in the kind of city where most people's lives go basically the same way their parents' did and not much ever happens. On a threadbare burgundy couch, a woman sits nursing an infant. She is gazing sleepily at the television, juggling the baby a little to reach her coffee on floor by her feet. (They don't have a coffeetable, despite the woman's constant nagging at her husband to make one.) On the tv, the morning news program chatters on. The older gray haired man banters in the fatherly-yet-flirtatious way with his blond female costar. The background is an image of the Twin Towers in New York City. I wonder if that is really a window, or if it's a picture? the woman muses.
Then, without the breeze so much as shifting, one of the buildings seems to.. crack? fold? There is a fireball there now. Is it a picture? Maybe a preview of a movie? Buildings don't just crack. How does this fit with what they were just saying? I don't get it. The fire is everywhere now, and the calm, kindly older man changes. He taps into some other phase of life where he was a reporter. His demeanor changes completely, and forces the viewer to realize that something has happened in Real Life. Time stands still. The woman's face freezes, except her eyes which flit around trying to make this make sense. She holds the baby tighter, to increase the sense of him, so she doesn't drop him. If she were a robot, this is when she would say "does not compute." As a human, what she says is "oh fuck. I don't...what? oh no. no. oh fuck no."
But it isn't over. These were planes. They hit the buildings. They were intended to hit the buildings. And they did. And there are more planes. Another hit the Pentagon. More fire, more chaos and crying, but still it isn't over. There is a map on the television now, and it looks familiar, even through the shock-induced blur. The image is... here. Another plane is near here. Near home. The television is talking (it doesn't matter now which faces are which... and she will never remember) about possible "targets" for the other plane. Places she knows very well... where she works, a few miles from her, from her home from her family. Still, her eyes barely flit and flicker, and she tries to remember to breathe, at least a little. Then that plane is down, too. Close to home, but not at her home. She breathes a shakey breath, and stands up, just to remember how.
The camera zooms out now, to the main scene, where the action is and where people will remember. In the silence, alone with her newborn, the woman paces in her echoing, empty house a while. Then she starts making phone calls, trying to remember who is where, who is likely safe, and who may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Things won't be the same, not for a long time and likely not in her lifetime. Something has changed, not only for the people directly affected in the main scenes, but for the extras like her, the irrelevant ones.
I overreact to violent movies and television. I realize this. There is some place where fear and terror and chaos as "entertainment" don't work for me. The camera may go on to the main characters, to the stars of the show. The heroes may even save the world, after a good fight. But for the extras, the woman on the couch, the couple at the patio restaurant and the mother with the stroller, changes happened in those brief moments which won't un-happen just because there's nobody watching. I can't help but remember those faces the camera panned over in those 10 seconds. They feel more real to me than the heroes. I know it's me. It's just me. It's all me. But then again, it's me.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Running wild, running away, running headlong into running
So many expressions involve running, you'd think it was important or something. I run. I can't yet call myself "a runner." Actually, I still blush and dodge when that label is applied to me. I'm not sure what the distance requirement, or speed limit, or other qualification might be to be "a runner," but it isn't me. All the same, I do run.
I started running for exercise, I guess. There are those extra 10-15 pounds, the ones my doctor calls "probably muscle" and my mother calls "just nature." Like most unathletic 30-something women, I was looking for a way that my body could shrink without requiring much of me. My choice of exercise was made practically... running is (or can be) free. And running need not be a "sport" unless you want it to. Running seemed safe, noncommittal. The game could never go too fast for me, I couldn't lose and, timed strategically, nobody ever needed to see me sweat. These were my criteria... cheap and anonymous, and easily abandoned.
An amazing thing has happened, though. I have not become thin, but I have become strong. I, who started playing the violin largely in order to conflict with gym class... I, who picked up a boyfriend so that he could cover me in volleyball... I, am strong. There are still the spots that make me cringe (hello to you, too, flabby armpitish/ribcageish nemesis!) But overall, I see and feel a connectedness between my limbs and my core, between my mind and my body, my heart and my lungs. My body is not the Vespa I wanted, but it's no 1980's trash truck, either.
To this date, I've only lost about 8 pounds. Those pesky 10 pounds are still there. Maybe they will get off me, and maybe they won't. I hope they do, only because my clothing options would improve without them. But when I run these days, I am not thinking of pounds. I think of power. I think of myself pushing the sidewalk behind me, and pulling the wind around me then flicking it off my heels. When I run, I participate in something bigger than me. I am the conductor of a body that knows what to do. My body, the same body that puked at the thought of gym class for 12 years, knows how to run if I just get out of the way. It is our nature. There is a feeling, at that very first step, that is not "starting to" run. It isn't forced, it is enveloping. It is "entering into running." Running exists, and I join in. And it feels good! If anyone had told me 20 years ago that I would exercise and like it, I would've died laughing.
I started running for exercise, I guess. There are those extra 10-15 pounds, the ones my doctor calls "probably muscle" and my mother calls "just nature." Like most unathletic 30-something women, I was looking for a way that my body could shrink without requiring much of me. My choice of exercise was made practically... running is (or can be) free. And running need not be a "sport" unless you want it to. Running seemed safe, noncommittal. The game could never go too fast for me, I couldn't lose and, timed strategically, nobody ever needed to see me sweat. These were my criteria... cheap and anonymous, and easily abandoned.
An amazing thing has happened, though. I have not become thin, but I have become strong. I, who started playing the violin largely in order to conflict with gym class... I, who picked up a boyfriend so that he could cover me in volleyball... I, am strong. There are still the spots that make me cringe (hello to you, too, flabby armpitish/ribcageish nemesis!) But overall, I see and feel a connectedness between my limbs and my core, between my mind and my body, my heart and my lungs. My body is not the Vespa I wanted, but it's no 1980's trash truck, either.
To this date, I've only lost about 8 pounds. Those pesky 10 pounds are still there. Maybe they will get off me, and maybe they won't. I hope they do, only because my clothing options would improve without them. But when I run these days, I am not thinking of pounds. I think of power. I think of myself pushing the sidewalk behind me, and pulling the wind around me then flicking it off my heels. When I run, I participate in something bigger than me. I am the conductor of a body that knows what to do. My body, the same body that puked at the thought of gym class for 12 years, knows how to run if I just get out of the way. It is our nature. There is a feeling, at that very first step, that is not "starting to" run. It isn't forced, it is enveloping. It is "entering into running." Running exists, and I join in. And it feels good! If anyone had told me 20 years ago that I would exercise and like it, I would've died laughing.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Happy New Year!
My new year's resolution for 2011: to regain my Muchness. The past year has been one of endurance... how long can I go without sleep, how far can I stretch a dollar, how many wounds can I heal, how many tears can I dry, how many people's jobs can I do? The answer to all of this is a resounding VERY! I am impressively good at making due. My Calvinist ancestors would be proud. All the same, my train passed the run-down towns of Drained and Exhausted several stops ago, and Whimsy and Lightheartedness are the stuff of fairy tales, barely remembered. There used to be more... "Muchness"... to me (swiped from Alice in Wonderland.) This year, I want to find my Muchness, even if I have to be significantly less impressively competent to do it.
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