Saturday, March 26, 2011

Spring Break 1994

Though not as fun as last year's spring break trip to the Redwoods, our break this year has been equally memorable. It will best be told through pictures, but not today. Today I am going to flash back seventeen years.

Just typing that seems preposterous, for some of the events from that spring still seem as fresh as if they happened this year. This is the story of my spring break freshman year. Before you get excited for juicy tales of some hedonistic lifestyle choices, I should tell you that this is not that kind of story. That I don't actually have any stories like that. And, well, if you like that sort of thing you should just find another blog to read.

My roommate, Pocohantas (the original Naked Mole Rat, I've mentioned her before), started college with a boyfriend. He wasn't exactly "in tow" as he stayed behind in our home town, a scant hour away. He put off a serious pursuit of college while waiting to go on his mission. I hesitate to say "preparing" to go on a mission, because like many other young men in his position, he worked a little and played a lot. Pocohantas, on the other hand, hit the ground running at college. She wanted to be an optometrist and had to support herself through college and so she had little time to waste.

The summer between high school and college was one of those idyllic times for Pocohantas and Beau. (I had half a summer like that once.) They left their childhoods behind with a bang: drive-in movies, bridge-jumping, a backpacking trip to the Continental Divide, hanging out at the dam, waterskiing . . .

As Beau's birthday wasn't until the spring, he was a frequent weekend visitor at our apartment. When he didn't come, Pocohantas went home. Besides dating Beau, she also worked a part time job selling wedding dresses to bridezillas every Saturday. Her schedule intensified as her classes got harder, science classes designed to select against all but the very fittest. Money grew tighter than expected and she took another job at a local sweatshop making back packs every afternoon.

It is entirely possible that as Pocahontas got busier, Beau got more laid back. He took a few cursory classes at the college, but spent a big chunk of the winter skiing. Pocahontas hated the skiing, though not because it represented just how uninterested Beau was in growing up, but because he was such a daredevil. She finally had to ask him just to stop telling her the stories because they made her freak out.

Yes, this is a spring break story, bear with me through a bit more back story. In November of 1993, a beloved Aunt, in her early 30's was diagnosed with malignant colon cancer after dealing with flu-like symptoms for nearly two months. She was given an open and shut operation the over Thanksgiving holidays. Opened to cut out the offending portion of the colon, and closed when the doctor saw that her abdomen was filled with cancer, and that full surgical removal was impossible. They began an aggressive course of treatment.

Beau received his mission call to Washington D.C., and as young men are prone to do (and, admittedly, young women), he became even more protective of the time that he and my roommate had together. And though he never asked Pocahontas to "wait" for him, it was clear that his fondest hope was that she would still be around when he came back. You see, he had loved her enough to change his whole life for her. Early on in high school, he was headed down a road that wouldn't bring him any happiness, but after meeting Pocahontas, he wanted to do whatever it took to be her guy. Beau was the perfect combination of rebel-factor and Darcy Effect. But even as he turned his life around, he never lost that mischievous charm that made him so much fun.

Back in the day, USU was on quarters, and so Spring Break was preceded by Winter Semester finals. Apartment 41 was a madhouse of caffeine, late nights, oddly-timed power naps and b.o. Early in that busy week, Beau called Pocahontas, with no little frustration over her inability to commit to spending more time with him. He would, after all, be leaving in just over two weeks. Even during the break she was scheduled to work every day at the gown shop. Just before hanging up with a few cursory endearments, he said, "You are spending spring break with me. One way or another."

Then came other phone calls.

The first was my newly-engaged older brother to tell me that he had been scheduled for emergency surgery during spring break because of a birth defect that had caused his lung to partially, spontaneously collapse.

Another call came from my mom. A childhood friend had been involved in a terrible car accident in a late Utah snow storm. She was in intensive care with her jaw wired shut and a leg full of pins.

The third call came from my mom also. My aunt, just over four months after diagnosis, had died. Her funeral would be over spring break. She was survived by a young, grieving husband and four shell-shocked kids ages 2-12.

But it was the fourth call that really turned the world upside down.

It was for Pocahontas.

Beau had been in a bad skiing accident. He had been life-flighted to the hospital and was in intensive care in very unstable condition. He would spend three months in a coma. And he was right--Pocahontas spent every single day of Spring Break with him.

On the first day of the break, my dad had to drive to eastern Utah to look at an area near where his company was bidding a road construction job. It was the middle of nowhere. He invited me to come along and I went for it, knowing that I could spend hours in the car and not really need to talk if I didn't want to. I didn't.

When we arrived at our destination, I got out of the car and walked around a bit, staring out over the sparse, still un-vegetated landscape. And I asked a lot of questions. I'm not sure if I directed them at God, who wasn't my favorite Person at that point, or just threw them out to the universe, but I know that for the first time I really questioned the meaning of existence, and the worth of all I'd been taught. I suddenly felt very strongly that I had to know if religion in general, and mine specifically, was just a series of fairytales people had invented in a lame attempt to feel better when awful things happened, or if the things I'd always been taught were truth. THE Truth.

Later that week, I sat in the car at a rain-soaked cemetery waiting for everyone to arrive at the internment. As I looked out the foggy window, I saw my uncle standing at the graveside in a black trenchcoat and holding a black umbrella. His three oldest children clung to his legs and his baby, with his sprinkling of freckles and his mother's red hair, cuddled against his shoulder as if he would never let go. Even now, 17 years later, it is a picture that still comes unbidden to me sometimes, a constant reminder that each life is fleeting and that things shouldn't be left unsaid.

On that day, I questioned more than ever.

In the months to come, I got serious about my questions. I spent many hours on my knees, pleading for peace and revelation. And then, it came. I still remember the chair in which I was sitting, the book that I was reading, and the words that settled with such clarity on my heart. I've never regressed to the person I was before that time.

Pocahontas continued her biweekly visits to Beau's bedside throughout the spring--even when they moved him to a hospital two hours away. Always the most social and outgoing girl in our class, she became withdrawn, tired and alone. My heart ached to help her, knowing that I had so little to give that she needed. Already a young woman of remarkable faith, her own questions were probably deeper than mine. When she happened to be around, we would spend our time in deep conversations. I remember her saying to me once that so many people kept telling her things happened for a reason, that there were lessons to be learned from each situation, that God was always in charge. She hoped nothing she had to learn in life would be so important that Beau and his family had to suffer so terribly. I cried when she said it and told her I didn't think it worked that way. But I'm still not sure.

What I do know is that the Lord can bless us with peace and knowledge even when your whole world is falling apart. I learned that a broken heart is finally soft enough to accept what the Lord wants to give you.

In the aftermath of that awful week, my brother was fine. His lung was repaired and has had no trouble with it since. My friend also came through her accident with flying colors. She now has four beautiful little girls. My uncle has finally come to a place of great happiness and my family has witnessed miracle after miracle in the lives of his children. I firmly believe that my aunt is watching over those much-loved children from the other side and is helping them in many ways. They are some of the strongest twenty-something adults that I know and each is making their mother proud.

As for Beau . . .

I mentioned before that he was in a coma for more than three months. He finally woke up, but he never really came back. He was paralyzed from the waist down because of trauma to his spinal cord. In addition, a massive brain hemorrhage, likely caused on impact, created stroke-like conditions for him, causing him to lose most of the use of one of his hands. It also gave him problems with slurred speech, destroyed his short-term memory, and left him locked in the mind of a six year-old. Remarkably, his happy personality persisted, though his face traded twinkling mischief for disarming innocence. Everyone who knew Beau in the after years loved him. And Pocahontas still did.

Two years later she met a wonderful guy and said the hardest thing about getting engaged was having to tell Beau, but especially his parents. To Beau, hardly any time had passed. He was still going to serve a mission. Still going to marry Pocahontas. Still going to be a star. But to his parents, my friend's happy news reminded them of how much they loved her too, and that she would never be a true part of their lives.

Beau left this life last weekend, in a tragic turn of events that also claimed the lives of his parents. When I heard the news, I, like everyone who had any contact with the family, was shocked and horrified. I found myself again on my knees, pleading for that peace. I know now that some things are beyond understanding, but the Lord can always send peace.

Saturday morning, one of my paper customers left me a lovely bouquet of yellow daffodils. I cried as I picked them up, their cheery faces reminding me that spring always comes again. That the atonement and forgiveness is real. That God's grace makes resurrection and eternal families possible. I was reminded of those lessons learned through the furnace of affliction so many years ago.

Later that day it occurred to me that now Beau is getting a chance to serve the kind of mission he had one day hoped to. And though it isn't a fairy tale, happily ever after really is possible. Good-bye, friend. Your life and suffering weren't in vain. You touched so many lives for good. Everyone who knew you is better for it.


Friday, March 18, 2011

In the Middle of the Chaos . . .

I finished a 330 page draft.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

I am so excited.

This week has been nuts, and we are entirely over-committed (which includes tiling the kitchen and celebrating the ever-adorable Plantboy's birthday) but I just have to tell someone.

I am going to spend the next month doing my own edit. There are at least 50 pages that are very nearly a free write--unless you count all the writing I do in my head when I don't have time to sit. Anyway, I am going to do a comprehensive edit on my own.

Then a peer review (looking for takers).

Then I have a contact who can hook me up to get some actual feedback from an actual editor at an actual publishing company.

Actually, I'm feeling pretty good today.

My stories nearly always come to me first as dialogued scene between two characters. I flesh out ideas from there, but each project I've finished will come to me in bits and flashes, again usually with dialogue. I will write sections all over the place and then create bridges to join them all up. I finished my last bridge last night. These connections are the hardest for me and where my stories bog down; because they are the rising action bits in between the best stuff, they are also the hardest to get motivated to finish.

I can hardly begin to express how excited I am for this project. The idea came to me in the Fall of 2009, and I've pretty much abandoned all other projects (at least on paper) since. Fifteen months is actually a really good record for me. I have a fantasy novel that is one or two chapters shy of a completion (clocking in at around 400 pages) that I started in the year 2000. I keep wanting to revisit it, but I can't help shaking the feeling that it is actually part of a trilogy. The MIDDLE part of a trilogy. Who do I think I am, George Lucas?

Did I mention how excited I am for this project?

Did I mention how much the love and support you folks give me in this environment has helped to shape me as a writer the last few years? No? Well, if publishing is ever in the cards for me, at least one of my books (though not the first) is going to be dedicated to the Blogger community at Nomad. Your empathy and belief in my ability and almost daily source of encouragement has been invaluable. Thanks for sharing your journey with me.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Looking Forward to the Next Parenting Crisis

Alternately Titled: What I Would Do With the $100 Million Jackpot

Jedi Knight has been taking karate since September. I chose this particular dojo, out of several choices, because its flexibility is awesome. He can go any day of the week because the general beginners' class is offered at the same time each day. He can go four times monthly, and if I up my monthly payment, he could go as often as he wanted. It has been good for him. He has learned some discipline and focus. He is getting better all the time. Some of the instructors I like better than others, though admittedly I don't get to stay and watch him as often as I like, so I'm not always sure how his classes go down.

What I had not counted on was the karate being quite as . . . well. . . self-important as the folks running the dojo make it seem. I appreciate that it is serious to them. That it is not a game or a costume party. But what I'm not crazy about is the secretary who makes me feel like a pariah when I ask questions about the way things work regarding advancement, etc. I sometimes feel like every other parent in the place kind of gets what is going on and I don't. My questions are often met with a combination of incredulity-condescension-and "well, duh!" I'm still trying to get a read on the place because JK likes it. Quite a lot.

A bit more background and then we'll address my current situation at karate. I am a hyper-modest girl. I'm not sure how this happened. My mom didn't necessarily really push this, although there was a pretty strong level of embarrassment regarding anything related to body stuff. For whatever reason, I entered puberty very reluctantly and slowly. I was angry when my friends threw over books, Barbies and school for boys, clothes and hair. By age 10 I was practically barricading myself in the bathroom when it came time for bathing or showering. If I took too long, somebody would always bang on the door threatening to use the butter knife to break in if I didn't hurry. Bra-shopping (at least six months too late) and menarche (at least a year too early) were nightmares of mortification, in which I never wanted to look my mother in the eye again.

Enter seventh grade gym class.

Until we toured the school, it had never occurred to me that we might be required to shower in a group. I was shocked and horrified. My public pool experience was pretty limited and the before pool showering we did was always in the little outside showers. Which word is stronger than mortification? Like you probably did, I learned to change my clothes without ever actually taking my other clothes off. I learned to shower wearing underwear and just wrapping myself in a towel. My feet were always very clean. . . .

I observed a couple of things. First of all, the only girls comfortable wandering the locker room in bra and panties were the cute/popular/boyfriended girls. I was not one of these. Unfortunately, most of my friends were, and it is safe to say that the girls in my locker aisle (which we could choose) were probably the most with-it group of our class start to finish. It is a group I somehow always managed to be on the fringe of and would end up rooming with at college some years later. Some of these women are still my close friends and I love them dearly, though I'm never really quite sure how they were my group to begin with. (Oh, man, this is a whole new set of hang-ups today. I need a new label called "Living in 1987.")

Ah hem. Back to the topic. My second observation from my locker room days is that the only girls comfortable showering uninhibited in front of everyone were the girls who already carried very bad reputations before we turned 13. I still remember this one girl . . . .

Okay, let's not go there.

Our gym teacher complained that somebody stunk. I thought it was a stupid accusation: I didn't smell anyone, and none of us were working hard enough to actually sweat. Still, she stood with the clipboard to watch each of us shower. For a grade. She later uncloseted as a lesbian.

Really.

College was awkward with the same pretty friends and their low inhibitions. Why is it easier to put on makeup in just a bra then it is just to put on a shirt, for crying out loud?? Now I live with four men, but my modesty principles have not loosened up much. Even when my kids were babies I didn't let them in the shower, or even the bathroom with me. I would lock them into the bouncy seat just outside the door and jealously guard my private time. My modesty. When my midwife and I went over the birth plan for my first baby, I mentioned my modesty hang ups and, bless dear Happy Barnes (my midwife's actual name), she was so careful while I labored. At the public pool we regularly attend now I always use the family restroom, even when I only have my three year-old with me. The sight of women changing in front of one another and their daughters and their young sons is really pretty horrible to me. Nursing was perpetually awkward for me and I was never really comfortable doing so in front of other people.

Out in public we cover, cover, cover. Why is it that the moment we step into a changing room it is okay to . . . . and I don't think I'll ever quite get over going to early morning water aerobics with my 70ish grandmother and her friends. I wish I had gone out into the 20 degree morning in my damp hair and clothes rather than be haunted by the elephantine memories of that public dressing room experience.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying this is necessarily right or normal and certainly not any kind of an LDS requirement for virtuous living. It is just me.

And because parents do, I have transmitted some of this to my kids. Jedi Knight showers with the door shut and often locked. He is bothered when people enter his room while he is changing. I have urged bathroom privacy for each child. We have decided to be a non-sleepover family and have spoken with all the kids at length about when and for whom it is appropriate to change your clothing.

Back to karate. When we started karate in the summer, they were meeting in a small and temporary dojo while construction was completed on another. Each child wore their "gi" (the white outfit) to karate. We were careful with it--ONLY to and from karate and kept clean and folded. In mid-October, the new dojo opened and we began going there. I noticed that a lot of kids in the class after JK changed at karate. Maybe even a majority. There is some kind of a group changing area with lockers in one area. Because the next class is comprised of teenagers and adults, I assumed they changed at the dojo because they came from school or work and it was convenient.

Not necessarily so, as I was firmly told on Monday. You see, everyone at the dojo is required to wear street clothes, and change there. Everyone. I was told that there are some lingering kids still making the mistake of changing at home because they allowed it over the summer. Not only is JK my modesty-boy, but he is also very resistant to change. I could see him shutting down as strict-secretary-girl was laying down the law. She explained her reasoning--the Gi is not a costume, they stay cleaner, the kids take greater responsibility, etc. etc. She confirmed that even the four and five year olds at his class are changing their clothes, in the group room, prior to class.

I explained to her that he and I had spoken a lot about modesty and that he had been instructed never to change clothes in front of other people. That it was a thing our family valued. She emphasized that she monitored the room carefully while kids were in there and listened for any talk that wasn't related to changing, and that it was a RULE for crying out loud. Seeing my discomfort, the dojo owner remarked that it would be appropriate for him to change in one of the stalls in the men's bathroom. I conceded that this would work.

Now if I can just convince Jedi "I'm-not-really-comfortable-with-this" Knight that he can go for the compromise.

On my way home from the encounter, all of my horrible junior high PE emotions came back to me. I went to college the year of the huge Skyview High scandal that brought hazing in high school sports into the national spotlight and began a discussion about where does "boys will be boys" cross the line into brutalizing sexual harassment. In a classic case of blame the victim, the young man was told that unless he apologized to the team for having sought police involvement in the case, then he was off the team. The perpetrators didn't even get a slap on the wrist.

Recent studies and practices at some high performing middle schools demonstrate that doing PE in the morning (actual PE, not avoid-the-dodge-ball-and-gossip-for-25-minutes) increases academic performance. I'm a believer in this. The dream school I design in my head all of the time is a 6-12. PE and Health would be a major part of the required curriculum. Every year. Equipment. Classes. Martial Arts. Nutrition. Disease. etc. . . . but if something couldn't be done about completely re-envisioning locker rooms, I could never really get behind it. Individual showers. Stalled changing rooms. Gym teachers with more important tasks to fill their time than watching young kids shower to earn points.

We may have averted the karate crisis. I think by the time our next lesson rolls around I will have him talked into a compromise that works for the dojo and for our family.

But what will I do in middle school? When my quirky, smart, small boys who haven't been weaned onto a diet of team sports are confronted with a locker room dilemma which I find pretty offensive? A place that, almost by design, strives to separate the kids into a social stratification that persists for years and erodes self-esteem. Kids can be so cruel, and I've been around teenage kids more than a little bit. I know the kind on which some of them prey. They are the little men I love more than I love my own life. The system, as it stands, forces kids to be at their most vulnerable around one another just when they are getting smart enough to learn exactly whom they should never "strip" in front of.

Oh! I know we can't take away their hurts, but I don't want to throw them to the lions' den either!

Monday, March 07, 2011

Relief

I did it.

I had THE TALK with Jedi Knight.

Two different events in the last week convinced me that it was time, and finally after months of thought and prayer (really, I'm pretty uptight when it comes to finding JUST THE RIGHT WORDS), the exact words and approach I needed finally came.

Ideally, I would have naturally answered questions as they arose, but there weren't enough questions asked in proportion to what he needed to know.

It was great. Uplifting. Science, spirit and love-based. He came away with a hug and smile, and the knowledge that he can ask his mother about anything. Piece of cake.

*whew*

Onto the next major challenge.

Thursday, March 03, 2011

Movies Are To Film As Pulp Fiction Is To Literature

I apologize for the couplet-title. I'm studying for the Miller Analogy Test and I'm thinking in analogous phrases.

In junior high my best friend was a Mafiaphile. While other young women (aka, me) fantasized about being a Bennet girl or at least living in 18th century England, Kate imagined the romance of being a Corleon matriarch. She also dragged me through the shadowy underground of R-rated movies. Growing up in white-bread Utah, I didn't realize that said shadowy underground mostly exists in minds of members of the Church, and that to other people such a rating didn't particularly influence movie-watching choices. Especially R-rated movies circa the 1980's. As Kate and I made our way each weekend through another gangster movie, I felt delightfully rebellious. And though my Italy-fever never reached my friend's near-obsession, I actually really enjoyed all of the contra-band.

Kate and I didn't stay BFF's. (I guess the label is misnomer.) My new peer group was very anti R-rated movies and, at the time, the Church issued the first edition of its youth pamphlet titled, "For the Strength of Youth" which carried a firm warning against viewing any movie rated R. The line in the sand was more than enough for me and some years passed without me watching any others.

Enter The Mistake. Despite his church-ish demeanor (at least around me), he had few qualms about such viewing. When I had been home from my mission just a month we had already seen Air Force One (actually cool and thought provoking), The Full Monty (hilarious) and The Rock (wrong on nearly every level). The irony, of course, is that of all the movies we saw together (what else did we do, after all?) the trashiest two were both rated PG-13. The first Austin Powers, during which I ultimately had to leave the room; and Titanic. Okay, okay, there are some awesome things about Titanic, but I thought it was highly overrated and plenty heavy on the Tit. Though I'm sure The Mistake was thinking about how artistic Kate Winslet was as she disrobed for her paramour.

Yes, yes, "trashy" is a relative word and certainly in the eye of the beholder. The other strange thing, to me, is that in Australia there is no "R" rating. Most movies in the US that get a PG-13 OR and R rating are labeled "M" for mature in Oz. Every member of the Church I knew went to a wide variety of "M" movies, several of which I knew to be rated "R"in the US. Oooo. . . .even "good" members of the Church.

Not long after returning from my mission, the Church issued a second edition of the Strength of Youth booklet, counseling specifically ONLY against pornography. The header scripture for the section is an excerpt from the 13th Article of Faith, "If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things." The new emphasis on the section is on the dangers of immersing yourself in media of any type that causes of a loss of the Spirit. And that is pretty much it.

There are a variety of opinions on this: some say that the standard is therefore stricter than ever. That there are plenty of even PG rated movies that can't make the cut here, and virtually none of the other movies with their seedier ratings are appropriate, just by virtue of all that can be allowed in movies that have those ratings. Others have gone just the opposite and say that now it doesn't matter what we watch, and that we should just exercise a particle of caution. My own view is more in the middle, though I've definitely gone to the side of more caution and with a reversion to the standard from my teenage yars.

In our married life, Plantboy and I have only rented R-rated movies on two ocassions. One was not a bad movie at all (and I'm still a little confused about the rating); the other was a bloodbath predicated by characters with bloodlust and covered with loads of bloody blood after most scenes. With Mel Gibson. I guess that image should be pretty clear.

We have never paid to go to the theatre to see one; though, admittedly, I've seen plenty of PG-13 and even PG movies that could not pass the 13th Article of Faith Litmus Test.

So it is with the background that I stood in line to buy tickets for The King's Speech last Friday night. I felt anxious. Naughty. Like a 14 year old boy trying to sneak into a porn film . . .

Okay, maybe not THAT bad, but I don't think I've ever paid, personally to see an over-17. The young man behind the counter hesitated, ever so briefly, when I told him what I wanted. No doubt, he was waiting for his computer screen to tell him that, yes, there were still seats available, but I thought he was going to ask for my ID, though I blow past the over 17 thing by more than double. He stared at me lazily, his mood clearly out of step with my shaking hands.

We are so conditioned.

The King's Speech is a movie about loyalty, bravery, war, true love, patriotism, friendship, family, overcoming, suffering . . . Along with such grand themes, every other aspect of what makes film making (and literature) interesting is also present--brilliant juxtaposition, careful characterization, mood and pacing. From the opening minute, you feel such an intense connection to the main character (it IS Mr. Darcy, after all), that you already begin rooting for him. The humanity of this story is truly remarkable.

The film is praising of virtue. It is Lovely. Of good report. Praiseworthy. I came away uplifted, and with a greater conviction to treat others with kindness, to understand their story. Do not miss this film, but seek after this thing as soon as you have opportunity.

So, in other news, I've been very busy. (And I don't just mean breaking commandments that don't actually exist.) I've discovered the graduate program I want to be a part of and am working on my application. My friend and I backed away from running the BIG race because we couldn't get enough support, but we are running a half-marathon at the end of July and I'm making a rather weak effort to train for that. Plantboy was in charge of last weekend's ward party; and, of course, that meant we were co-chairs. Church in general has kept us ridiculously busy. The novel-writing is progressing: slowly but surely. I have maybe 30 pages left to finish a 300 page manuscript. At that point, that is where YOU will come in. I will definitely be soliciting readers. I'm making my six year old a blanket out of granny squares.

Oh, and I un-closeted myself as a registered Democrat the other day on Facebook which generated a very interesting discussion with 65 comments. No, not all of them were mine. Sheesh, if I had that much to say I would just start a blog where I spend an unhealthy amount of time writing/thinking/discussing politics and religion. . . . wait a minute . . .