I took my 7 year old on a mommy-son date yesterday. He wanted to go roller skating. It was some hard work and encouragement to get him going, but the pride on his face for having figured out how to do this thing was so wonderful.
I had a blast.
I made several of my own quick turns around the rink, skating especially fast during the 80's music. I probably haven't been on roller skates in 25 years, but I've still got the magic. What a remarkable day of silly forgetting my old-lady self and remembering the girl still inside.
And not a moment's worry about which boy was holding which girl's hand. The joy of getting older!
Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sex and Power and the LDS Woman
I find myself singing to my kids often--snippets of songs, really. I think I do this because my mother did. And just like her I sing in snippets because I can't remember all the words and when I am on my own with no music I'm usually off key. One of my earliest mom-song-memories is Helen Reddy singing the great feminist anthem:
I am woman hear me roar
In numbers too big too ignore
And I know too much to go back and pretend
'Cause I've heard it all before
And I've been down there on the floor
No one's ever gonna' keep me down again.
It is funny, really, that this song, a huge hit the year I was born, should have so permeated my childhood. My mom did not, and definitely does not now, consider herself a feminist. And yet, she represented all that the movement wanted--she rose up from a difficult family life to attend college, told her boyfriend she wouldn't be married until she finished college (marrying in 1969), insisted on going back to work part time after her children were born, managed her own money and bank account for her whole adult life, had four children spaced exactly as she chose them to be. Growing up, it never occurred to me that there might be places in America where men and women weren't treated as equals. In my family, the women always had equal say with the men. Always.
And yet I don't consider myself a feminist either. It is ironic really, because I also completely recognize that my lifestyle, choices and self-actualization are a direct outgrowth from that time. I am not a feminist because for all the good the movement did for women in my generation, there were also heavy costs. A huge part of the movement, and the 1960's in general, was an exploration of sexual "freedom." Instead of helping to create a world where men were held to the same high standard that women had always been judged against, they advocated the freedom for women to act to the lowest common denominator. Empowering women became so wrapped up in sex that all the good work the feminists did ended up resulting in some pretty terrible unintended consequences. Women may now exhibit all kinds of lewd behavior without the consequences of a generation or two ago, but in the process these same women cause men to further objectify them. So much for the sexual revolution being anything more than huge step in the wrong direction.
A few months ago, Kathryn Soper, one of the lovely and talented women behind Segullah, posted an incredible article at a website called "Patheos." The article is about the ways in which we miss the mark when it comes to teaching teen aged women about chastity. Her insights are fascinating, the writing engaging, and her personal experiences deeply poignant. If you haven't had a friend send you the piece yet, you really should take a few minutes to go and read it. Ever since reading it a few weeks ago, I haven't been able to quite put it out of my head, and though I won't be as eloquent, I would like to add some of my own thoughts here.
The article begins by pointing out that most teenage girls do not engage in sexual activity because of an overwhelming desire to have sex. In fact, a New Yorker article from a couple of years ago, when reviewing the Twilight books, believed the popularity of the books was due to the fact that young women want love without sex. Soper asserts the same, and quotes President Ezra Taft Benson to back her up. The teen sex itself is a symptom of a deeper problem. Or problems.
Going further, Soper focuses the rest of her piece on just one of these problems: power.
Too many young girls, maybe particularly LDS girls, feel a lack of power. In this case, power is defined as a person feeling like they have a large measure of control over what happens to them. When we talk about power at church, we most often talk about Priesthood power--exclusive to men; or the power of procreation--inaccessible without a man. It isn't that there aren't plenty of examples of female power within the Church, it is just that our terminology doesn't acknowledge it.
When a powerless feeling is coupled with a strong need for love and/or attention, sexuality is the most obvious default for a teenager. Because, let's face it, ladies, men are wired to be deeply driven by sex. Women who learn from an early age to manipulate that desire can gain a lot of power. Of course, Soper reminds us, the power is just an illusion because it isn't based on something inside the young person, it is based on others' perceptions of her. Like the other power mentioned above, such burgeoning sexual power is based on something a man gives or does or notices.
I'd like to add that the power usually only lasts as long as the object of young man's desire is unattainable. Studies show that the vast majority of teen relationships end within a month or two of a couple's first sexual encounter. Girls, of course, have the most to lose in such a break-up, because it ensures that the temporary substitute for love is now absent, and to make matters worse, she has given up the only source of power that she had. In the self-image crash that inevitably follows, needs deepen further and our powerless young teenager finds herself repeating her mistakes because this time it will be "different."
The remainder of Soper's article is in the form of a personal essay, where she bravely talks about her first encounter with the realization that sexual power was within her grasp. In my own life, I was lucky not to have such an experience when I was in my mid-teens, though I knew that many of my friends understood that power. At the time, it didn't feel lucky. Other than a brief stint during my junior year, I could count on one hand the number of dates I had until I was twenty years old.
I was so jealous of the way my many friends could flirt and tease and even manipulate to find any number of boys with which to spend a Friday night. Or to take out the garbage. Or to lift something heavy. Or to hang on their every word. Or ultimately, to spend three months salary on a diamond ring.
Yet, even as my bitterness and mild disdain for what I perceived as the weakness of men grew (along with frustration over my sisters' cruelty toward them), I was busy cultivating other sources of power: intellectual, emotional and spiritual.
Then, when I was twenty years old, something remarkable happened. After a very unusual set of circumstances that landed me in Sacramento California and hanging out with a guy I didn't really like all that well, I looked into his eyes (too) late one night and I recognized exactly what Kathryn Soper is talking about in her article: sudden approval where before there had only been indifference. Bald desire that frightened me.
I kept my power and walked away from the situation, terrified at what I was capable of, and more than a little embarrassed. Because of this person's previous role in my life, for me to suddenly have such a hold was complete reversal, and more than a little exhilarating. What I learned that night, however, without really realizing it, was that "no," was more powerful than desire. My choice, my decision, was a product of every part of my power, not just my sexuality.
In Disneyland last month I was terribly disappointed not to see more evidence of Mulan: my favorite Disney-heroine and the consummate non-Princess. At the first of that movie, right after a disastrous trip to the matchmaker, she goes to the temple of her ancestors, made up and lovely. She is the classic picture of Chinese beauty. Yet, she knows as she catches her image in the highly polished stones that the gorgeous woman she sees is not a reflection of herself. As she wipes the make-up off just one half of her face, she sings,
Who is that girl I see?
Staring straight back at me?
When will my reflection show
Who I am, inside?
I saw this movie the summer I met Plantboy. I was quite self-actualized for 23, but I understood Mulan's sentiment exactly. How many times had I asked myself the same question, though perhaps without the moving vocals. Mulan is not just a love story between a man and woman, it is also a love story of a girl and her father, a girl and her country, a girl and herself.
Some time in my early thirties, I finally looked into the mirror one day and loved the woman I saw staring straight back at me. I found the place where I ceased to see myself through others eyes, even Plantboy's, and I felt deeply empowered. Intellectually, emotionally, spiritually and sexually. A balance that had taken me half my life to finally achieve.
The question I have today is, "why did it take so long?" What can be done to speed this process for the wondering and wandering young women we know and love so that they can be the heroines in their own lives?
Just a few weeks ago, a man in our ward gave a wonderful fireside about dating, but during his remarks he noted that if you believed yourself to be "in love" in high school, then you were just being ridiculous. (Ironically, his own wife, to whom he is very close, is his high school sweetheart.) I felt impressed to drive one of my young women home and speak to her a little more closely: she is dealing with some serious empowerment issues right now, and a serious boyfriend issue. I told her that loving another person wasn't ridiculous, and that part of the nature of women was to be loving. I reiterated that it is never okay to break the commandments, but that there are plenty of appropriate ways to give and express all kinds of love, even that feeling of romantic love. I pray that she will feel the power that comes into her life by choosing to be chaste. By choosing to love. By choosing her own path and asserting what she really wants. Mostly I pray that she will find her power before she finds herself on a road where she actually is helpless.
It is a hard thing we ask of our youth and young adults; it is a hard standard the Lord holds us to while simultaneously blessing us with such powerful needs, but we weren't sent here to fail, either. Empowerment is about realizing that we can do hard things. Because I am God's daughter.
A woman.
Strong. Feminine. Empowered.
Hear me roar!
I am woman hear me roar
In numbers too big too ignore
And I know too much to go back and pretend
'Cause I've heard it all before
And I've been down there on the floor
No one's ever gonna' keep me down again.
It is funny, really, that this song, a huge hit the year I was born, should have so permeated my childhood. My mom did not, and definitely does not now, consider herself a feminist. And yet, she represented all that the movement wanted--she rose up from a difficult family life to attend college, told her boyfriend she wouldn't be married until she finished college (marrying in 1969), insisted on going back to work part time after her children were born, managed her own money and bank account for her whole adult life, had four children spaced exactly as she chose them to be. Growing up, it never occurred to me that there might be places in America where men and women weren't treated as equals. In my family, the women always had equal say with the men. Always.
And yet I don't consider myself a feminist either. It is ironic really, because I also completely recognize that my lifestyle, choices and self-actualization are a direct outgrowth from that time. I am not a feminist because for all the good the movement did for women in my generation, there were also heavy costs. A huge part of the movement, and the 1960's in general, was an exploration of sexual "freedom." Instead of helping to create a world where men were held to the same high standard that women had always been judged against, they advocated the freedom for women to act to the lowest common denominator. Empowering women became so wrapped up in sex that all the good work the feminists did ended up resulting in some pretty terrible unintended consequences. Women may now exhibit all kinds of lewd behavior without the consequences of a generation or two ago, but in the process these same women cause men to further objectify them. So much for the sexual revolution being anything more than huge step in the wrong direction.
A few months ago, Kathryn Soper, one of the lovely and talented women behind Segullah, posted an incredible article at a website called "Patheos." The article is about the ways in which we miss the mark when it comes to teaching teen aged women about chastity. Her insights are fascinating, the writing engaging, and her personal experiences deeply poignant. If you haven't had a friend send you the piece yet, you really should take a few minutes to go and read it. Ever since reading it a few weeks ago, I haven't been able to quite put it out of my head, and though I won't be as eloquent, I would like to add some of my own thoughts here.
The article begins by pointing out that most teenage girls do not engage in sexual activity because of an overwhelming desire to have sex. In fact, a New Yorker article from a couple of years ago, when reviewing the Twilight books, believed the popularity of the books was due to the fact that young women want love without sex. Soper asserts the same, and quotes President Ezra Taft Benson to back her up. The teen sex itself is a symptom of a deeper problem. Or problems.
Going further, Soper focuses the rest of her piece on just one of these problems: power.
Too many young girls, maybe particularly LDS girls, feel a lack of power. In this case, power is defined as a person feeling like they have a large measure of control over what happens to them. When we talk about power at church, we most often talk about Priesthood power--exclusive to men; or the power of procreation--inaccessible without a man. It isn't that there aren't plenty of examples of female power within the Church, it is just that our terminology doesn't acknowledge it.
When a powerless feeling is coupled with a strong need for love and/or attention, sexuality is the most obvious default for a teenager. Because, let's face it, ladies, men are wired to be deeply driven by sex. Women who learn from an early age to manipulate that desire can gain a lot of power. Of course, Soper reminds us, the power is just an illusion because it isn't based on something inside the young person, it is based on others' perceptions of her. Like the other power mentioned above, such burgeoning sexual power is based on something a man gives or does or notices.
I'd like to add that the power usually only lasts as long as the object of young man's desire is unattainable. Studies show that the vast majority of teen relationships end within a month or two of a couple's first sexual encounter. Girls, of course, have the most to lose in such a break-up, because it ensures that the temporary substitute for love is now absent, and to make matters worse, she has given up the only source of power that she had. In the self-image crash that inevitably follows, needs deepen further and our powerless young teenager finds herself repeating her mistakes because this time it will be "different."
The remainder of Soper's article is in the form of a personal essay, where she bravely talks about her first encounter with the realization that sexual power was within her grasp. In my own life, I was lucky not to have such an experience when I was in my mid-teens, though I knew that many of my friends understood that power. At the time, it didn't feel lucky. Other than a brief stint during my junior year, I could count on one hand the number of dates I had until I was twenty years old.
I was so jealous of the way my many friends could flirt and tease and even manipulate to find any number of boys with which to spend a Friday night. Or to take out the garbage. Or to lift something heavy. Or to hang on their every word. Or ultimately, to spend three months salary on a diamond ring.
Yet, even as my bitterness and mild disdain for what I perceived as the weakness of men grew (along with frustration over my sisters' cruelty toward them), I was busy cultivating other sources of power: intellectual, emotional and spiritual.
Then, when I was twenty years old, something remarkable happened. After a very unusual set of circumstances that landed me in Sacramento California and hanging out with a guy I didn't really like all that well, I looked into his eyes (too) late one night and I recognized exactly what Kathryn Soper is talking about in her article: sudden approval where before there had only been indifference. Bald desire that frightened me.
I kept my power and walked away from the situation, terrified at what I was capable of, and more than a little embarrassed. Because of this person's previous role in my life, for me to suddenly have such a hold was complete reversal, and more than a little exhilarating. What I learned that night, however, without really realizing it, was that "no," was more powerful than desire. My choice, my decision, was a product of every part of my power, not just my sexuality.
In Disneyland last month I was terribly disappointed not to see more evidence of Mulan: my favorite Disney-heroine and the consummate non-Princess. At the first of that movie, right after a disastrous trip to the matchmaker, she goes to the temple of her ancestors, made up and lovely. She is the classic picture of Chinese beauty. Yet, she knows as she catches her image in the highly polished stones that the gorgeous woman she sees is not a reflection of herself. As she wipes the make-up off just one half of her face, she sings,
Who is that girl I see?
Staring straight back at me?
When will my reflection show
Who I am, inside?
I saw this movie the summer I met Plantboy. I was quite self-actualized for 23, but I understood Mulan's sentiment exactly. How many times had I asked myself the same question, though perhaps without the moving vocals. Mulan is not just a love story between a man and woman, it is also a love story of a girl and her father, a girl and her country, a girl and herself.
Some time in my early thirties, I finally looked into the mirror one day and loved the woman I saw staring straight back at me. I found the place where I ceased to see myself through others eyes, even Plantboy's, and I felt deeply empowered. Intellectually, emotionally, spiritually and sexually. A balance that had taken me half my life to finally achieve.
The question I have today is, "why did it take so long?" What can be done to speed this process for the wondering and wandering young women we know and love so that they can be the heroines in their own lives?
Just a few weeks ago, a man in our ward gave a wonderful fireside about dating, but during his remarks he noted that if you believed yourself to be "in love" in high school, then you were just being ridiculous. (Ironically, his own wife, to whom he is very close, is his high school sweetheart.) I felt impressed to drive one of my young women home and speak to her a little more closely: she is dealing with some serious empowerment issues right now, and a serious boyfriend issue. I told her that loving another person wasn't ridiculous, and that part of the nature of women was to be loving. I reiterated that it is never okay to break the commandments, but that there are plenty of appropriate ways to give and express all kinds of love, even that feeling of romantic love. I pray that she will feel the power that comes into her life by choosing to be chaste. By choosing to love. By choosing her own path and asserting what she really wants. Mostly I pray that she will find her power before she finds herself on a road where she actually is helpless.
It is a hard thing we ask of our youth and young adults; it is a hard standard the Lord holds us to while simultaneously blessing us with such powerful needs, but we weren't sent here to fail, either. Empowerment is about realizing that we can do hard things. Because I am God's daughter.
A woman.
Strong. Feminine. Empowered.
Hear me roar!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A Patriotic Post Three Weeks Early
American history teaches us that political discourse has always been very volatile: from the earliest Jefferson-Hamilton rivalry to the question of slavery to the Vietnam War to our current financial meltdown. War times and tough economic times will always flush out sharply divergent opinions and philosophies, as well as everything in between. We are going through both right now. This "war on terrorism" and its various battlefields is one of the most confusing conflicts in our history. Each action and its intended (or unintended!) consequences have created a bevy of hot button issues--debt, torture, America's role in foreign affairs, rights of detainees, responsibilities toward veterans, energy and where it is purchased, troop withdrawal, what it means to "win," etc. No doubt you have your own opinions about many or all of these things.
When all of these truly difficult problems are thrown together with our sliding economy after a culmination of years of bad choices both by governments and individuals, well . . .
It is no wonder that people disagree. Even violently disagree. Yet, even with this understanding, and a legitimate desire to things from other perspectives, something happened several weeks ago that shocked me. I was talking with an older woman for whom I have enormous respect. She grew up during the Depression and is part of that "greatest generation" about whom we hear so much. She lived during the second great war and the upheaval of Communism and the Cold War. Her children came of age during the cultural revolution of the sixties and seventies. She saw the way the money made in the 80's and 90's spoiled her grandchildren, but also gave them opportunities she had never even dreamed possible at their age. Her life experience--politically, socially, historically and culturally is rich and full.
During a visit with her, the conversation drifted to politics (not my idea, believe it or not) and she became very angry when speaking about the current course of our government and commended with great fervor one of her children for being involved in a local "tea party." Her vitriol was aimed mostly at our current commander-in-chief, but also at Democrats in general. Though I don't remember hardly any specifics from her rant (was she specific?), she did say, "All this stuff going on lately, and all that they are talking about doing! It is no better than living in Nazi Germany!"
Um . . . .
Again, I have too much love and respect for this person to have even dreamed of contradicting her. But her words greatly disturbed me. Maybe in part because it isn't the first time, or from that single source, that I've heard such language.
I didn't post about this earlier because I didn't want this to turn into an I LOVE DEMOCRATS campaign platform, nor did I want it to be perceived as such. In fact, I think it is safe to say that I don't really like political parties at all. I like good ideas. I'm also the first to admit that what I see as a good idea might not at all match what you think is a good idea. Sometimes only time and perspective can judge whether an idea is good or bad; I think this is especially true in politics where new ideas might change things dramatically, but slowly. I guess I'm more of a wait and see person when it comes to government involvement in most things.
So why am I bringing this up at all, if it happened weeks ago and it was something I didn't intend to post about? I'm reading a book called Reading Lolita in Tehran. It is memoir written by a woman who left Iranian academia (she'd been a lit professor) when the Ayatollah's government just made it too oppressive to teach any longer. On the sly, she started a book group that met weekly over the course of a couple of years. They read only banned books. (And before you start thinking, well, what is the good of reading banned books???!!!??? Please note that one of the titles the group read was Pride and Prejudice. It is safe to say that the Iranian censors have a very strict standard of "acceptable.")
Reading Lolita is a good book, though a bit intellectual for my taste. These women read deeply and can create a whole morning's discussion out of a single obscure passage. I've been a lot more interested in the bits where the author describes the women's lives and how this little act of rebellion--this studying of literature--helped them cope with all they are dealing with. Glimpsing a world outside their own gave them to hope for a different future. Studying the diverse and strong women in the works helped them maintain their individuality. Instead of feeling like cogs in a machine to be acted on, the felt some measure of control over their own lives.
I read the following passage today and it prompted this post,
Gradually my life and family became part of the landscape . . . . one day my daughter, Negar, burst in crying . . . between tears [I] held her in my arms and tried to calm her. Gently I took off her navy scarf and robe; under the thick scarf her hair was damp with sweat. . . I asked her to tell us what had happened. That day in the middle of her last class, the principal and the morality teacher had barged in and told the girls to put their hands on their desks. The entire class had been escorted out of the classroom, without explanation, their school bags searched for weapons and contraband: tapes, novels, friendship bracelets. Their bodies were searched, their nails inspected. One student, a girl who had returned from the United States the previous year with her family, was taken to the principals' office; her nails were too long. There, the principal herself had cut the girl's nails, so close that she had drawn blood. Negar had seen her classmate after they were dismissed in the school yard, waiting to go home, nursing the guilty finger. The morality teacher stood beside her, discouraging other students from approaching. For Negar, the fact that she couldn't even go near and console her friend was as bad the the whole trauma of the search. She kept saying, "Mom, she just doesn't know about our rules and regulations; you know, she just came back from America--how do you think she feels when they force us to trample on the American flag and shout, Death to America? I hate myself, I hate myself, " she repeated as I rocked her back and forth and wiped the mixture of sweat and tears from her soft skin . . . . Everyone tried to distract Negar by joking and telling her stories of their own, how once Nassrin had been sent to the disciplinary committee to have her eyelashes checked. Her lashes were long, and she was suspected of using mascara. "That's nothing!" said Manna, "next to what happened to my sister's friends at the . . . .university. During lunch three of the girls were in the yard eating apples. They were reprimanded by the guards: they were biting their apples too seductively!"
I'm not sure what my older friend meant by our country starting to resemble Nazi Germany. Did she mean the government had begun to infiltrate too many aspects of our lives? (Interesting observation--not long ago she had a major surgery that would not have been possible without Medicare. Her ability to live alone would not be possible without her social security payments. The medicine she takes regularly for her various health issues would not be affordable without government subsidy.) Did she mean that taxes are too high? Though, truthfully, even if she paid taxes, they would be as low as at any time since the Depression. If she meant the cultural and political acceptability of homosexuality and other moral issues, then she can only be dead wrong: in Nazi Germany homosexuals were sent to concentration camps by the thousands, a purple triangle on their prison garb instead of a yellow star.
Next time you want to criticize the government, great! Criticize away. It is this dialogue that makes America great.
You hate high taxes? Wonderful! Write your Congressman without fear that your words will land you in prison.
You think a government-run health care plan is the equivalence of Communism? Fantastic! Say whatever you want about it on your blog without anxiety that website will be pulled and your name being put on a watch list.
Do you hate Obama? No worries! You can vilify him (even using racist language if you are so inclined) and as long as you don't make a direct threat, nobody can touch you.
But as you rant and rave, please consider two things, particularly if your criticism involves complaining about the government getting too involved in your life. First, the very fact that you can complain, criticize or even condemn any course of action pursued by the American government makes you a member of the most free society anywhere on earth. Not just at this time, but ever. And if you are a woman making these complaints, well, that makes you part of an even more elite group. Never have women, ever, in the history of the world, enjoyed the freedom that American women have now.
And secondly, say a silent prayer for our Iranian brothers and sisters who have shown this week that they too love liberty. There may not be enough of them yet to stand up and make a difference. It may be years yet before there is a critical mass who insists on their agency, even as imperfect as we all are, but the news this week out of Iran is heartening to freedom-loving people everywhere. America can never impose our democracy in the Middle East, but it doesn't mean that the people are incapable of choosing it for themselves. As we pass the 20th anniversary of Tiananmen Square and watch the Iranian riots unfold in stolen cell-phone transmissions, let us each take a moment to remember that it isn't just our own brave men and women who have died in the cause of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Democracy and agency can never be forced on a people. It must be chosen.
As we each chose our own path and allow others to do the same, let us not forget just how good we really have it. Go America!
When all of these truly difficult problems are thrown together with our sliding economy after a culmination of years of bad choices both by governments and individuals, well . . .
It is no wonder that people disagree. Even violently disagree. Yet, even with this understanding, and a legitimate desire to things from other perspectives, something happened several weeks ago that shocked me. I was talking with an older woman for whom I have enormous respect. She grew up during the Depression and is part of that "greatest generation" about whom we hear so much. She lived during the second great war and the upheaval of Communism and the Cold War. Her children came of age during the cultural revolution of the sixties and seventies. She saw the way the money made in the 80's and 90's spoiled her grandchildren, but also gave them opportunities she had never even dreamed possible at their age. Her life experience--politically, socially, historically and culturally is rich and full.
During a visit with her, the conversation drifted to politics (not my idea, believe it or not) and she became very angry when speaking about the current course of our government and commended with great fervor one of her children for being involved in a local "tea party." Her vitriol was aimed mostly at our current commander-in-chief, but also at Democrats in general. Though I don't remember hardly any specifics from her rant (was she specific?), she did say, "All this stuff going on lately, and all that they are talking about doing! It is no better than living in Nazi Germany!"
Um . . . .
Again, I have too much love and respect for this person to have even dreamed of contradicting her. But her words greatly disturbed me. Maybe in part because it isn't the first time, or from that single source, that I've heard such language.
I didn't post about this earlier because I didn't want this to turn into an I LOVE DEMOCRATS campaign platform, nor did I want it to be perceived as such. In fact, I think it is safe to say that I don't really like political parties at all. I like good ideas. I'm also the first to admit that what I see as a good idea might not at all match what you think is a good idea. Sometimes only time and perspective can judge whether an idea is good or bad; I think this is especially true in politics where new ideas might change things dramatically, but slowly. I guess I'm more of a wait and see person when it comes to government involvement in most things.
So why am I bringing this up at all, if it happened weeks ago and it was something I didn't intend to post about? I'm reading a book called Reading Lolita in Tehran. It is memoir written by a woman who left Iranian academia (she'd been a lit professor) when the Ayatollah's government just made it too oppressive to teach any longer. On the sly, she started a book group that met weekly over the course of a couple of years. They read only banned books. (And before you start thinking, well, what is the good of reading banned books???!!!??? Please note that one of the titles the group read was Pride and Prejudice. It is safe to say that the Iranian censors have a very strict standard of "acceptable.")
Reading Lolita is a good book, though a bit intellectual for my taste. These women read deeply and can create a whole morning's discussion out of a single obscure passage. I've been a lot more interested in the bits where the author describes the women's lives and how this little act of rebellion--this studying of literature--helped them cope with all they are dealing with. Glimpsing a world outside their own gave them to hope for a different future. Studying the diverse and strong women in the works helped them maintain their individuality. Instead of feeling like cogs in a machine to be acted on, the felt some measure of control over their own lives.
I read the following passage today and it prompted this post,
Gradually my life and family became part of the landscape . . . . one day my daughter, Negar, burst in crying . . . between tears [I] held her in my arms and tried to calm her. Gently I took off her navy scarf and robe; under the thick scarf her hair was damp with sweat. . . I asked her to tell us what had happened. That day in the middle of her last class, the principal and the morality teacher had barged in and told the girls to put their hands on their desks. The entire class had been escorted out of the classroom, without explanation, their school bags searched for weapons and contraband: tapes, novels, friendship bracelets. Their bodies were searched, their nails inspected. One student, a girl who had returned from the United States the previous year with her family, was taken to the principals' office; her nails were too long. There, the principal herself had cut the girl's nails, so close that she had drawn blood. Negar had seen her classmate after they were dismissed in the school yard, waiting to go home, nursing the guilty finger. The morality teacher stood beside her, discouraging other students from approaching. For Negar, the fact that she couldn't even go near and console her friend was as bad the the whole trauma of the search. She kept saying, "Mom, she just doesn't know about our rules and regulations; you know, she just came back from America--how do you think she feels when they force us to trample on the American flag and shout, Death to America? I hate myself, I hate myself, " she repeated as I rocked her back and forth and wiped the mixture of sweat and tears from her soft skin . . . . Everyone tried to distract Negar by joking and telling her stories of their own, how once Nassrin had been sent to the disciplinary committee to have her eyelashes checked. Her lashes were long, and she was suspected of using mascara. "That's nothing!" said Manna, "next to what happened to my sister's friends at the . . . .university. During lunch three of the girls were in the yard eating apples. They were reprimanded by the guards: they were biting their apples too seductively!"
I'm not sure what my older friend meant by our country starting to resemble Nazi Germany. Did she mean the government had begun to infiltrate too many aspects of our lives? (Interesting observation--not long ago she had a major surgery that would not have been possible without Medicare. Her ability to live alone would not be possible without her social security payments. The medicine she takes regularly for her various health issues would not be affordable without government subsidy.) Did she mean that taxes are too high? Though, truthfully, even if she paid taxes, they would be as low as at any time since the Depression. If she meant the cultural and political acceptability of homosexuality and other moral issues, then she can only be dead wrong: in Nazi Germany homosexuals were sent to concentration camps by the thousands, a purple triangle on their prison garb instead of a yellow star.
Next time you want to criticize the government, great! Criticize away. It is this dialogue that makes America great.
You hate high taxes? Wonderful! Write your Congressman without fear that your words will land you in prison.
You think a government-run health care plan is the equivalence of Communism? Fantastic! Say whatever you want about it on your blog without anxiety that website will be pulled and your name being put on a watch list.
Do you hate Obama? No worries! You can vilify him (even using racist language if you are so inclined) and as long as you don't make a direct threat, nobody can touch you.
But as you rant and rave, please consider two things, particularly if your criticism involves complaining about the government getting too involved in your life. First, the very fact that you can complain, criticize or even condemn any course of action pursued by the American government makes you a member of the most free society anywhere on earth. Not just at this time, but ever. And if you are a woman making these complaints, well, that makes you part of an even more elite group. Never have women, ever, in the history of the world, enjoyed the freedom that American women have now.
And secondly, say a silent prayer for our Iranian brothers and sisters who have shown this week that they too love liberty. There may not be enough of them yet to stand up and make a difference. It may be years yet before there is a critical mass who insists on their agency, even as imperfect as we all are, but the news this week out of Iran is heartening to freedom-loving people everywhere. America can never impose our democracy in the Middle East, but it doesn't mean that the people are incapable of choosing it for themselves. As we pass the 20th anniversary of Tiananmen Square and watch the Iranian riots unfold in stolen cell-phone transmissions, let us each take a moment to remember that it isn't just our own brave men and women who have died in the cause of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Democracy and agency can never be forced on a people. It must be chosen.
As we each chose our own path and allow others to do the same, let us not forget just how good we really have it. Go America!
Sunday, March 01, 2009
I Don't Care If He Is Happy, As Long As He Is Surprised
On Wednesday I called my mum for a bit of a chat. We spoke about my dad's 60th birthday coming up this weekend and the surprise party she was putting together for him. She then said, "I really wish you could be here."
It was the first time I had considered this. As I mentioned a week or two ago, Plantboy and I are planning a trip "home" in April. My mom also turns 60 in March, but knowing that we would see them later in the spring I hadn't considered coming for either of their birthdays. After mom and I hung up, I checked Delta for fares and I was pleased about the affordability. Especially if mom was willing to go halves. After a surprisingly easy number of arrangements, I boarded a plane, BY MYSELF, in Portland on Friday. (I hadn't been alone in the airport for thirty minutes when I'd bought a hamburger, Dr. Pepper and the most luscious, chocolaty, $4 cookie you have ever seen. Now do you understand why it is bad, very bad, for me to spend too much time alone?)
After a lovely two-hour conversation with an Indian woman who is a mechanical engineer, Mom picked me up at the airport, and filled me in on the plans for the surprise party. She was trying to figure out a way to get Dad out of the house Saturday afternoon so that she could go to the party room at the restaurant and decorate it. I suggested, very unselfishly I might add, that he and I could go skiing for the afternoon. It would be no problem to borrow my sister's gear and get him out of the way for a few hours. She agreed and then we talked about how to convince him that he wanted to eat at a Mexican place he only has marginal feelings for. It had been a long day and she said, with no small amount of impatience, "I don't care if he's happy; I just want him to be surprised!" That became the mantra for the weekend.
About an hour later I walked into my dad's kitchen and said, "Surprise!" The look on his face was priceless. One surprise down.
He was so thrilled and distracted to see me that convincing him of the rest was easy. "You don't want to go to Cabella's on your birthday, Dad! I'm never here--we should go skiing!" Um, okay. "You don't want to go to a steakhouse on your birthday, Dad! I'm never here--and I'm really craving Mexican food!" Um, okay.
Skiing was fantastic. The day was sunny, clear and almost warm. The snow wasn't too icy or crusty, though it hasn't snowed for a week, and we met people from all over the country. It struck me more powerfully than ever before just how lucky I was to grow up where I did and with the opportunities I had. It is impossible for me to imagine a happier way to help the first man in my life celebrate his birthday. When I was growing up, my mom and sister hated to ski, and it was always my special thing I got to do with the boys. My abilities are extremely average, but there is nothing better to clear the mind than cruising as fast as you dare straight downhill until your breath won't come any more, and then stopping on a ridge and looking out as far as you can see past layer upon layer of mountains, gulping great gasps of frigid air.
Not all was perfection, however; the muscles in my thighs don't really think that skiing is an activity that should be attempted biennially. My older brother and I have begun to think that there are some activities that we just have to do more often or quit all together. I'm voting for more often. It has worked for my dad--he could have outskiied me by at least six runs yesterday though he is nearly twice my age.
At the ski shop I bought a sticker for my dad to put on his helmet, so that he always remembers what he did the day he turned 60. And I had to have this hat. Isn't it just so cute?
That night we made it to the restaurant, just when Mom and I wanted to, but frustratingly late for my dad. He was fuming because he kept saying that we'd never get back home in time to meet the other kids for ice cream and cake at 7:30 as late as we were leaving. We smiled and stalled and acted in all ways innocent of any plotting.
The surprise over my appearance was nothing compared to seeing a roomful of family in the place he least expected them. I thought my mom was going to have to go after the defibrillator paddles. Six of my dad's brothers were there with their spouses, a couple of nieces and nephews, his mother, three of his children and/or their spouses, and six of his nine grandchildren. Dinner was a little better than marginal, and the company was fantastic. After my dad recovered from the shock a bit, one of his brothers called out, "I hope you brought your Visa!"
The weekend has been lovely, irresponsible and different. My dad is now highly suspicious of anything anyone tells him, having been lied to so many times this week, but I'm sure he'll get over it. I think I'm missing my kiddos, and I will return to them rested, rejuvenated and re-committed.
It was the first time I had considered this. As I mentioned a week or two ago, Plantboy and I are planning a trip "home" in April. My mom also turns 60 in March, but knowing that we would see them later in the spring I hadn't considered coming for either of their birthdays. After mom and I hung up, I checked Delta for fares and I was pleased about the affordability. Especially if mom was willing to go halves. After a surprisingly easy number of arrangements, I boarded a plane, BY MYSELF, in Portland on Friday. (I hadn't been alone in the airport for thirty minutes when I'd bought a hamburger, Dr. Pepper and the most luscious, chocolaty, $4 cookie you have ever seen. Now do you understand why it is bad, very bad, for me to spend too much time alone?)
After a lovely two-hour conversation with an Indian woman who is a mechanical engineer, Mom picked me up at the airport, and filled me in on the plans for the surprise party. She was trying to figure out a way to get Dad out of the house Saturday afternoon so that she could go to the party room at the restaurant and decorate it. I suggested, very unselfishly I might add, that he and I could go skiing for the afternoon. It would be no problem to borrow my sister's gear and get him out of the way for a few hours. She agreed and then we talked about how to convince him that he wanted to eat at a Mexican place he only has marginal feelings for. It had been a long day and she said, with no small amount of impatience, "I don't care if he's happy; I just want him to be surprised!" That became the mantra for the weekend.
About an hour later I walked into my dad's kitchen and said, "Surprise!" The look on his face was priceless. One surprise down.
He was so thrilled and distracted to see me that convincing him of the rest was easy. "You don't want to go to Cabella's on your birthday, Dad! I'm never here--we should go skiing!" Um, okay. "You don't want to go to a steakhouse on your birthday, Dad! I'm never here--and I'm really craving Mexican food!" Um, okay.
Skiing was fantastic. The day was sunny, clear and almost warm. The snow wasn't too icy or crusty, though it hasn't snowed for a week, and we met people from all over the country. It struck me more powerfully than ever before just how lucky I was to grow up where I did and with the opportunities I had. It is impossible for me to imagine a happier way to help the first man in my life celebrate his birthday. When I was growing up, my mom and sister hated to ski, and it was always my special thing I got to do with the boys. My abilities are extremely average, but there is nothing better to clear the mind than cruising as fast as you dare straight downhill until your breath won't come any more, and then stopping on a ridge and looking out as far as you can see past layer upon layer of mountains, gulping great gasps of frigid air.
Not all was perfection, however; the muscles in my thighs don't really think that skiing is an activity that should be attempted biennially. My older brother and I have begun to think that there are some activities that we just have to do more often or quit all together. I'm voting for more often. It has worked for my dad--he could have outskiied me by at least six runs yesterday though he is nearly twice my age.
At the ski shop I bought a sticker for my dad to put on his helmet, so that he always remembers what he did the day he turned 60. And I had to have this hat. Isn't it just so cute?
That night we made it to the restaurant, just when Mom and I wanted to, but frustratingly late for my dad. He was fuming because he kept saying that we'd never get back home in time to meet the other kids for ice cream and cake at 7:30 as late as we were leaving. We smiled and stalled and acted in all ways innocent of any plotting.
The surprise over my appearance was nothing compared to seeing a roomful of family in the place he least expected them. I thought my mom was going to have to go after the defibrillator paddles. Six of my dad's brothers were there with their spouses, a couple of nieces and nephews, his mother, three of his children and/or their spouses, and six of his nine grandchildren. Dinner was a little better than marginal, and the company was fantastic. After my dad recovered from the shock a bit, one of his brothers called out, "I hope you brought your Visa!"
The weekend has been lovely, irresponsible and different. My dad is now highly suspicious of anything anyone tells him, having been lied to so many times this week, but I'm sure he'll get over it. I think I'm missing my kiddos, and I will return to them rested, rejuvenated and re-committed.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Anticipation and Memory
There was a man who taught English at my high school named Thomas Moore. Really. And though he was not British, he never corrected any student who called him Sir Thomas. In fact, I think he rather liked it, and it may not even be too out of line to say he encouraged such address. There was an air of mystery about Sir Thomas as well, though over time enough details surfaced to make his life the envy of any small town person aspiring for romance. He graduated from BYU at age 20, having been something of a wunderkind. He met his wife there, and though he was a couple of years younger than she, he fell madly in love at first sight: he was even able to tell you down to the handbag what she was wearing when they first met.
She was an Eccles. If you are from (way) Northern Utah, this will mean something. If not, think "Huntsman" or "Marriot" and you are getting in the ballpark of the money this family has and the number of buildings sporting their name. She was loaded. They bought an old mansion in one of the very few aging-gracefully neighborhoods in Ogden and spent tens of thousands in restoring it. But not perfect restoration: he once spoke with great vehemence about berating a contractor for trying to fix a squeaky stair railing. "I bought this house because of that squeak!" Only Sir Thomas could say such a thing and make it sound noble, as if he alone was battling callous modernization. It was rumored that he taught at our school as a hobby, and that he was not actually paid.
Besides the house in Ogden, there was a flat in London. Every year, for several years, he had taken a student or two with his family for two weeks in the winter. These blessed students were hand-selected from his classes and were always the best of the best. My friend's older brother went and Sir Thomas paid for everything. Times changed and Sir Thomas was probably not unaware of the questions of propriety in taking selected students with him. In addition, teaching all AP prep English, he ended up with loads of fantastic students, many of whom wanted to go on the trip. The year I came to high school, he began opening up the trip to anyone who could afford to go. The itinerary was enough to make one drool: museums, 7 trips to the theatre and Windsor Castle. He said that if too many students signed up his flat would be too small, and so students would stay in a variety of apartments around Kensington station. These other flats were owned by Sir Thomas' friends, one of whom was the CEO of Payless Shoes.
I was not in Thomas Moore's class. I had The Rat. (The only place she ever went was to the hairdresser each week to have her hair teased into a modified beehive in which she usually lost a pencil or two. Tuesday was her appointment and by Monday she always looked a little bit disheveled.) My best friend, however, was in Sir Thomas' class and we poured longingly over the trip information. It was agreed--we would approach our parents and she would tell her mother that I could go if she could; I would tell my parents that she could go if I could.
Remarkably, beyond any expectation my life to that point had given me, my parents said yes. And so did her mother.
Then began many long months of anticipation. We wrote at least three notes a day to one another, trading them between classes at our adjoining lockers. Kate was a writer and her notes were wonderful. I still have them saved in a decorated shoebox somewhere, unwilling to throw out the evidence and documentation of what was easily the most important friendship of my teenage years. But in the all the voluminous correspondence passed over the years, there is only ONE line from ONE note that I memorized. Less than a month before our departure for England, she paraphrased a discussion from Sir Thomas' class thus, "The memories and anticipation of summer vacation are better than the holiday itself."
The memorable things in our life tend to be long looked forward to, but the event themselves are short-lived--a concert, a first date with someone special, seeing a convert baptised, holidays, vacations, birth, a wedding day, for example. But how many hours of enjoyment come from re-telling the stories of these events? How many lessons are learned as we walk away from, digest and assimilate our experience? And how many lives are shaped by the perception of what happened in the past, rather than what actually happened?
Anticipation gives us something to look forward to. It helps make the mundane tasks of day to day seem a little bit more bearable; and, perhaps, a little bit more meaningful. Memory gives us something to hang our lives on. It gives us "June roses in the December of our lives."
Plantboy and I will be married ten years in June and we have only taken an anniversary trip once. (For our 5th anniversary, thanks to Forecast Calls For Rain and husband.) Nearly two years ago, we vowed that whatever happened and however we had to make it work, we would do something big this year.
And we are.
Though our anniversary is in June, the best time for us to get babysitting for several days is in April. The best place for us to get babysitting for several days is in Utah. So to Utah in April it is, but Plantboy and I are going to go places neither of us have been for years and destinations we've never been together. We are going to spend several days in southern Utah hitting as many national parks as we can. We will do a combination of camping and staying in bed and breakfasts. We will hike and whatever else strikes us as interesting. (I'm going to really strive to be spontaneous, outside of the advance bookings that are necessary.) Mostly we will enjoy the deep quiet that comes in wide open spaces where there are no kids begging to have their every need met. I think I'm looking most forward to Capitol Reef, which seems to be in the middle of nowhere and there is nary a picture with a living soul in it.
I know that to many of you, such a vacation, even sans kids, seems more like a punishment than a getaway. But you can have your cruises and your outlet malls and your airports and your theme parks. . . give me a tank full of gas, a sleeping bag and, mostly, solitude, then I can find my bliss. The anticipation is high. I hope the memories will sustain us through the next ten years.
Since my friend's note all those years ago, I have found the following quote by Flaubert, "Pleasure is found first in anticipation, later in memory." I wonder if perhaps that was the springboard for the discussion in Sir Thomas' class? But I think I like Kate's way of saying it best--that the anticipation and memory are actually better than the events themselves. In the end, we only have the sum total of what we have learned from our experiences with which to leave this life. What are you looking forward to this year? Or even better, what is your favorite memory from years past?
She was an Eccles. If you are from (way) Northern Utah, this will mean something. If not, think "Huntsman" or "Marriot" and you are getting in the ballpark of the money this family has and the number of buildings sporting their name. She was loaded. They bought an old mansion in one of the very few aging-gracefully neighborhoods in Ogden and spent tens of thousands in restoring it. But not perfect restoration: he once spoke with great vehemence about berating a contractor for trying to fix a squeaky stair railing. "I bought this house because of that squeak!" Only Sir Thomas could say such a thing and make it sound noble, as if he alone was battling callous modernization. It was rumored that he taught at our school as a hobby, and that he was not actually paid.
Besides the house in Ogden, there was a flat in London. Every year, for several years, he had taken a student or two with his family for two weeks in the winter. These blessed students were hand-selected from his classes and were always the best of the best. My friend's older brother went and Sir Thomas paid for everything. Times changed and Sir Thomas was probably not unaware of the questions of propriety in taking selected students with him. In addition, teaching all AP prep English, he ended up with loads of fantastic students, many of whom wanted to go on the trip. The year I came to high school, he began opening up the trip to anyone who could afford to go. The itinerary was enough to make one drool: museums, 7 trips to the theatre and Windsor Castle. He said that if too many students signed up his flat would be too small, and so students would stay in a variety of apartments around Kensington station. These other flats were owned by Sir Thomas' friends, one of whom was the CEO of Payless Shoes.
I was not in Thomas Moore's class. I had The Rat. (The only place she ever went was to the hairdresser each week to have her hair teased into a modified beehive in which she usually lost a pencil or two. Tuesday was her appointment and by Monday she always looked a little bit disheveled.) My best friend, however, was in Sir Thomas' class and we poured longingly over the trip information. It was agreed--we would approach our parents and she would tell her mother that I could go if she could; I would tell my parents that she could go if I could.
Remarkably, beyond any expectation my life to that point had given me, my parents said yes. And so did her mother.
Then began many long months of anticipation. We wrote at least three notes a day to one another, trading them between classes at our adjoining lockers. Kate was a writer and her notes were wonderful. I still have them saved in a decorated shoebox somewhere, unwilling to throw out the evidence and documentation of what was easily the most important friendship of my teenage years. But in the all the voluminous correspondence passed over the years, there is only ONE line from ONE note that I memorized. Less than a month before our departure for England, she paraphrased a discussion from Sir Thomas' class thus, "The memories and anticipation of summer vacation are better than the holiday itself."
The memorable things in our life tend to be long looked forward to, but the event themselves are short-lived--a concert, a first date with someone special, seeing a convert baptised, holidays, vacations, birth, a wedding day, for example. But how many hours of enjoyment come from re-telling the stories of these events? How many lessons are learned as we walk away from, digest and assimilate our experience? And how many lives are shaped by the perception of what happened in the past, rather than what actually happened?
Anticipation gives us something to look forward to. It helps make the mundane tasks of day to day seem a little bit more bearable; and, perhaps, a little bit more meaningful. Memory gives us something to hang our lives on. It gives us "June roses in the December of our lives."
Plantboy and I will be married ten years in June and we have only taken an anniversary trip once. (For our 5th anniversary, thanks to Forecast Calls For Rain and husband.) Nearly two years ago, we vowed that whatever happened and however we had to make it work, we would do something big this year.
And we are.
Though our anniversary is in June, the best time for us to get babysitting for several days is in April. The best place for us to get babysitting for several days is in Utah. So to Utah in April it is, but Plantboy and I are going to go places neither of us have been for years and destinations we've never been together. We are going to spend several days in southern Utah hitting as many national parks as we can. We will do a combination of camping and staying in bed and breakfasts. We will hike and whatever else strikes us as interesting. (I'm going to really strive to be spontaneous, outside of the advance bookings that are necessary.) Mostly we will enjoy the deep quiet that comes in wide open spaces where there are no kids begging to have their every need met. I think I'm looking most forward to Capitol Reef, which seems to be in the middle of nowhere and there is nary a picture with a living soul in it.
I know that to many of you, such a vacation, even sans kids, seems more like a punishment than a getaway. But you can have your cruises and your outlet malls and your airports and your theme parks. . . give me a tank full of gas, a sleeping bag and, mostly, solitude, then I can find my bliss. The anticipation is high. I hope the memories will sustain us through the next ten years.
Since my friend's note all those years ago, I have found the following quote by Flaubert, "Pleasure is found first in anticipation, later in memory." I wonder if perhaps that was the springboard for the discussion in Sir Thomas' class? But I think I like Kate's way of saying it best--that the anticipation and memory are actually better than the events themselves. In the end, we only have the sum total of what we have learned from our experiences with which to leave this life. What are you looking forward to this year? Or even better, what is your favorite memory from years past?
Monday, January 19, 2009
I'm Starting to Hate the Word "Historic"
I've noticed over the last several years at General Conference, that the word "historic" is bandied about in a way that has me saying, "I do not think it means what you think it means." 150 years since the Saints entered the valley--historic. Oh, we built a behemoth conference center--historic. Oh, conference coincided with Easter, again--historic. Oh, we are remodeling the tabernacle--historic. Oh, there is a new apostle--historic. Oh, we are back in the Tabernacle--historic. Oh, so-and-so is the oldest living apostle born in the 20th century who is a sixth generation member at a conference falling precisely two weeks after the autumn equinox--historic. After all, if we say that every conference is remarkable or extraordinary or special then maybe what we are really saying is that none of them are?
Just an opinion.
The political frenzy of the last two years did not plateau in November. A woman garnering more primary votes than any defeated candidate ever--historic. Oh, and a woman from ALASKA on the ballot--historic. Oh, there is a white male on the ballot, wait, not historic; what was that? you said that he's the oldest man EVER to get on the ballot?--historic! Oh, and man from Hawaii on the. . . .wait, he's also Black! And biracial! And his middle name is Hussein--historic!
Every story in the first three pages of my newspaper this morning was about Obama. The pundits and reporters and bloggers and everybody who thinks their opinion is worth two shakes has foamed at the mouth in recent days about the import of what will happen tomorrow.
As fantastic as tomorrow will be, and indeed a day (or at least a very narrow window of time) that historians will point to the great change that took place in our country (historic!), I would argue that the real change, the truly remarkable thing, is not a single event or election or even a man.
Forty-six and a half years ago, a young Black preacher stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and called America to task for its failed promise, particularly to people of Color, but also to women and the poor. He told of his dream that his children would one day be judged for the content of their character and not the color of their skin. Barack Obama was two years old when this speech was given. I wonder what his mother and grandparents thought?
No doubt, the election was historic. Our economic times are historic. The war situation is historic. The inaugural speech will be historic. The money spent on the parties tomorrow will be historic.
But greater than history is the miracle that took place in the minds and the hearts of the people from 1963 to 2008. It took 45 years, but maybe, just maybe we have come to a place where we look a little bit more carefully on a man's heart because we have taken the time to try to listen and understand. It is no doubt that our modern world is an era of great wickedness, but it is also a time of great goodness. Remember when the Berlin Wall fell? It seemed to have happened all at once, almost overnight, but the reality is that the hearts and minds of the people had been building to the event for years. The same thing has happened in America. But the lesson of Eastern Europe is a powerful reminder for us as well: the work of bridging the divide between peoples of all colors and creeds is not at an end. Like the tearing down of that wall, this "historic" election is just a symbol of all that we've accomplished, and all that must still be done.
In the book of Exodus, we read of Moses' great leadership and journey. But the Israelites wandered a long time before entering the Promised Land. The Lord waited, at least in part, for many in the old generation--the generation who had known nothing but Egypt--to die. It was the younger generation who received the miracle.
It is hard for me to read MLK's writings and not believe that he was a prophet of sorts: no blasphemy meant here, of course, but when you listen to the last, spontaneous, minutes of his "I Have a Dream" speech you know that he was given the words to say by a higher power. And, he, with his great faith, would likely be the first to agree. He led America to the edge of the promised land and showed them what might be theirs. Forty-five years have passed. Maybe it will be up to our generation to enter this sacred place.
Just an opinion.
The political frenzy of the last two years did not plateau in November. A woman garnering more primary votes than any defeated candidate ever--historic. Oh, and a woman from ALASKA on the ballot--historic. Oh, there is a white male on the ballot, wait, not historic; what was that? you said that he's the oldest man EVER to get on the ballot?--historic! Oh, and man from Hawaii on the. . . .wait, he's also Black! And biracial! And his middle name is Hussein--historic!
Every story in the first three pages of my newspaper this morning was about Obama. The pundits and reporters and bloggers and everybody who thinks their opinion is worth two shakes has foamed at the mouth in recent days about the import of what will happen tomorrow.
As fantastic as tomorrow will be, and indeed a day (or at least a very narrow window of time) that historians will point to the great change that took place in our country (historic!), I would argue that the real change, the truly remarkable thing, is not a single event or election or even a man.
Forty-six and a half years ago, a young Black preacher stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and called America to task for its failed promise, particularly to people of Color, but also to women and the poor. He told of his dream that his children would one day be judged for the content of their character and not the color of their skin. Barack Obama was two years old when this speech was given. I wonder what his mother and grandparents thought?
No doubt, the election was historic. Our economic times are historic. The war situation is historic. The inaugural speech will be historic. The money spent on the parties tomorrow will be historic.
But greater than history is the miracle that took place in the minds and the hearts of the people from 1963 to 2008. It took 45 years, but maybe, just maybe we have come to a place where we look a little bit more carefully on a man's heart because we have taken the time to try to listen and understand. It is no doubt that our modern world is an era of great wickedness, but it is also a time of great goodness. Remember when the Berlin Wall fell? It seemed to have happened all at once, almost overnight, but the reality is that the hearts and minds of the people had been building to the event for years. The same thing has happened in America. But the lesson of Eastern Europe is a powerful reminder for us as well: the work of bridging the divide between peoples of all colors and creeds is not at an end. Like the tearing down of that wall, this "historic" election is just a symbol of all that we've accomplished, and all that must still be done.
In the book of Exodus, we read of Moses' great leadership and journey. But the Israelites wandered a long time before entering the Promised Land. The Lord waited, at least in part, for many in the old generation--the generation who had known nothing but Egypt--to die. It was the younger generation who received the miracle.
It is hard for me to read MLK's writings and not believe that he was a prophet of sorts: no blasphemy meant here, of course, but when you listen to the last, spontaneous, minutes of his "I Have a Dream" speech you know that he was given the words to say by a higher power. And, he, with his great faith, would likely be the first to agree. He led America to the edge of the promised land and showed them what might be theirs. Forty-five years have passed. Maybe it will be up to our generation to enter this sacred place.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Footloose and Fancy Free. And a Little Sick to my Stomach.
Plantboy is out of town again. Why is it that two nights away from hubby and I revert to bachelorette mode?
He has been gone about 24 hours, and I've accomplished quite a lot--mostly because I threatened to abolish story-time if I wasn't given help to clean up the house RIGHT NOW, LITTLE MISTERS. But I also realize that this 24 hours has been full of wastes as well:
I watched TV until nearly midnight, including the CMA's which would never have flown with Plantboy home. I flipped between that and another show I like, only to miss Keith Urban singing his new song, which was the main reason I was watching the CMA's to begin with. And no, Nem, his shirt was not unbuttoned to his navel even once. Does anyone else think Nicole Kidman isn't so much aging as she is turning into an alien? After the CMA's I spent an hour watching "Sahara," which is actually a pretty good movie, as far as that sort of thing goes. Which is more attractive? Matthew McConaughy without a shirt, or Steve Zahn being hilarious and needing a hat? If you said "Plantboy," you got the right answer.
Having missed The Keith, I then surfed the Internet until 1 a.m. hoping someone had posted footage from the show. No luck.
I read nearly 250 pages to finish my novel: Spindle's End. I love Robin McKinley, but this was a little obtuse for my fantasy-light taste. More along the lines of Rose Daughter than The Blue Sword. (If you've read McKinley, you'll know what I mean. If not, you MUST read Hero and the Crown and The Blue Sword.)
Corn dogs. Two. I ate two corn dogs for "dinner" last night. Even my kids won't eat corn dogs.
Not wanting to make my bed again, I slept on top of my covers with a blanket over the top. But only on half the bed. The other half is covered with junk from the emptied furniture I was supposed to spend some time refinishing today. Oh, and I took a nap.
Pizza. Homemadish, but still pizza.
After a morning of errands, I put on my flannel PJ bottoms for comfort during the housework; I also wore these for my nap. The Jedi Master getting home from school woke me up. The first words out of his mouth were, "Are you STILL in your pajamas?" I was a little defensive.
Dr. Pepper. Ooo! That reminds me--the other 20 ounces are still out in the car.
Chocolate. Of course. It's only 9:30, west coast time. Who wants to come hang out?
He has been gone about 24 hours, and I've accomplished quite a lot--mostly because I threatened to abolish story-time if I wasn't given help to clean up the house RIGHT NOW, LITTLE MISTERS. But I also realize that this 24 hours has been full of wastes as well:
I watched TV until nearly midnight, including the CMA's which would never have flown with Plantboy home. I flipped between that and another show I like, only to miss Keith Urban singing his new song, which was the main reason I was watching the CMA's to begin with. And no, Nem, his shirt was not unbuttoned to his navel even once. Does anyone else think Nicole Kidman isn't so much aging as she is turning into an alien? After the CMA's I spent an hour watching "Sahara," which is actually a pretty good movie, as far as that sort of thing goes. Which is more attractive? Matthew McConaughy without a shirt, or Steve Zahn being hilarious and needing a hat? If you said "Plantboy," you got the right answer.
Having missed The Keith, I then surfed the Internet until 1 a.m. hoping someone had posted footage from the show. No luck.
I read nearly 250 pages to finish my novel: Spindle's End. I love Robin McKinley, but this was a little obtuse for my fantasy-light taste. More along the lines of Rose Daughter than The Blue Sword. (If you've read McKinley, you'll know what I mean. If not, you MUST read Hero and the Crown and The Blue Sword.)
Corn dogs. Two. I ate two corn dogs for "dinner" last night. Even my kids won't eat corn dogs.
Not wanting to make my bed again, I slept on top of my covers with a blanket over the top. But only on half the bed. The other half is covered with junk from the emptied furniture I was supposed to spend some time refinishing today. Oh, and I took a nap.
Pizza. Homemadish, but still pizza.
After a morning of errands, I put on my flannel PJ bottoms for comfort during the housework; I also wore these for my nap. The Jedi Master getting home from school woke me up. The first words out of his mouth were, "Are you STILL in your pajamas?" I was a little defensive.
Dr. Pepper. Ooo! That reminds me--the other 20 ounces are still out in the car.
Chocolate. Of course. It's only 9:30, west coast time. Who wants to come hang out?
Saturday, November 08, 2008
More Buckets
Yesterday Plantboy had to take a day off because he went out of town for several days last week. I told Plantboy that I thought I'd take a day off too. I spent most of the day Christmas shopping. I also treated myself to a guacamole bacon burger at Red Robin. I ordered double fries and drank enough rootbeer to rival the ward campout intake. While I ate my luscious lunch I read and I did NOT wipe any faces or break up any fights.
If you haven't done this for a while, please, take a day off. It was pretty much awesome.
I also bought supplies to make up a few more of my gift buckets--these ones for the ladies I visit teach. Though there are 80 things on the to-do list before Christmas should really be addressed, my project has put me a bit in the mood today. They are rather festive. I'm going to fill them with hazelnut clusters. Don't you wish I visit-taught you?
If you haven't done this for a while, please, take a day off. It was pretty much awesome.
I also bought supplies to make up a few more of my gift buckets--these ones for the ladies I visit teach. Though there are 80 things on the to-do list before Christmas should really be addressed, my project has put me a bit in the mood today. They are rather festive. I'm going to fill them with hazelnut clusters. Don't you wish I visit-taught you?
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Go Ahead, Thank Me for Sparing You the Complete Travel Log
As the Law of Conservation of Film doesn't apply to digital cameras, I took well over 200 pictures in Washington DC. I'll spare you the agony of ruffling through all of them (half of which are repeats and only half of those are really worth keeping), or even having to view them for the next several months on some sort of ongoing slide show on my sidebar.
However, I cannot completely overlook six wonderful days spent with only myself to look after and no bums to wipe, so this will be a DC post, though I'm hoping it doesn't deteriorate to a mere travel log of events. Yankee Girl's side bar says with her typical wry humor, "this blog does have narrow focus--it is all about me!" The same could easily be said here, but I hope this post does a little bit more than that. I want it to illustrate lessons learned from the journey, both literally and figuratively. And a few pictures.
As mentioned in the pre-DC post, my brother and his wife had led a pretty sheltered Utah-life when they moved to DC almost four years ago. Saturday night, I put my arm through hers as we walked the length of the Reflecting Pool on the way to the WWII monument. The moon was nearly full and it was possible to see a few stars, even with the bright city lights. I knew Shay had mixed emotions as she prepared to leave DC and I asked her if she was holding up okay. She said yes, but was quiet for several moments. Knowing that it takes my sister-in-law just a minute to find exactly the right words, I was quiet. She said, "You know, it isn't just that we've seen a lot of cool stuff since we've lived here." She gathered her thoughts again for a moment, "It is that living here as formed who Eric and I are as adults. Our whole world view is different."
I nodded, understanding perfectly what she meant. The places I've lived have likewise helped form my adult self--it isn't just what you see, it is who you've become.
Because self is constantly evolving, I would like to echo Shay's sentiments here and talk about some of the things I learned from my latest trip to DC. Because as much as I love monuments, museums, art galleries, relaxing and shopping, travel is more than all of this. I think its great value lies in the lessons taught when we immerse ourselves in things we've never seen before, when we try to think about things from other prespectives and see things for a moment as others see them.
So here are my travel insights. No doubt, your own visits to DC have taught you other things. Feel free to comment:
1) Can there be anything more sickening than the shoes, particularly the tiny shoes, in a large pile at the Holocaust Museum? I did not visit this venue last time I was in DC, and I was really grateful that I didn't pass it up a second time. I spent two hours in a haze of realization beyond anything I've ever learned about this "final solution" master-minded by a totalitarian government. While there, I imagined a young mother with three children and her strong husband, leaving behind every worldly posession but a small carpet-bag and the clothes on their backs. They are crammed into a box car with scores of families. On the journey, her children cry out in hunger and fear--it is dark and they are given nothing to eat or drink. They know they are headed east, someplace cold, and so the mother had insisted that each of her children were well-bundled, but these clothes become a terrible liability as the heat climbs and there is no way to catch a breath, or room to remove clothing. If her family of five manages to survive to the death camp, she and her darling, beloved little children will be sent one way, and her husband another. We know what happens next.
What constantly amazes me is that nobody in the chain of command said, "Wait! Enough is enough! People cannot be treated this way!" 2/3 of Europe's Jews wiped out in a handful of years, with a resistance so weak as to be almost negligible. The exhibit's final section is about the rescuers--both those who came in at the end of the war and closed the camps and those who helped in "small" ways during the war--but the blame heaped on the German people, a Fascist government, appeasing neighbors, governments unwilling to expand refugee quotas and individuals is apparent. And, I think, deserved.
It is easy to look back and say, "Why didn't the US do . . . ?" Insert just about anything you like into the elipse. It is probably a worthy question. But to the people of the time, the political questions were just as complicated as those bandied about daily by heads of state in regards to Kosovo, Rwanda, Darfur, Afghanistan, Kurdistan, Myanmar, North Korea and any other place where human rights are violated regularly and viciously. Germany's descent to the hellish nightmare it became in the 1930's and 1940's started with the suspension of basic rights for all Germans and the burning of books that allowed any room for dissent. Targeting homosexuals, the disabled, Jews, Blacks and other minority groups became easy once any voice of argument was strangled. I hope that history will not judge us as harshly as the groupthink rationale that allowed the Holocaust, but I have my doubts.
And, my fellow Latter-day Saints, lest we get too complacent about genocide, let's not forget how few generations our own people are from an extermination order. If there are any people who should reach out to those in desperate circumstances, it should be us. There are no easy answers here--the lessons of large scale intervention have their own history that is just as harsh as doing nothing.
2) Last week I paid my first visit to the Library of Congress. The exhibit on Thomas Jefferson's library is amazing. As I looked at his books I was literally awestruck. I love the words of the Declaration, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain, inalienable rights . . . " I believe firmly that men and women are inspired to do and say great things, but I think that this inspiration is easier to give to the mind and spirit that has been prepared for it. The soul of Thomas Jefferson lives on in those books, though his spirit has long departed and the worms have eaten his body.
3) I didn't notice last time I was at the Lincoln Memorial the simple phrase "I have a dream" engraved in the center steps, in perfect alignment with Lincoln, Washington's monument and the Capitol Building. On that great August day in 1963, Dr. King challenged America to make good on Thomas Jefferson's "promissary note" found in the Declaration of Independence. We are so blessed to live in a country that, for all of its problems, at the very least was founded on the principle that all men are created equal. Lincoln was right--it is better for us to live together and compromise about our many issues than to fraction ourselves off every time we disagree. America is indeed the great democratic experiment: subject to testing and re-testing every generation or so. I feel like our time of testing is now. The Lord always promised that the righteous would be delivered to this land and then subject to the condition of remembrance: remembrance of forefathers, faith, God and true patriotism. Without remembrance, only pride in our own abilities is left. For all of our powerful belief in self-determination, make no mistake that divided we will fall.
4)As Eric graduated from GW, I was so impressed. He, and his wife, have worked so hard. I was struck as I watched those 130+ graduates of varying ages, colors, cultures and sexes walk across the stage that some of America's best and brightest were on display. This group, and other groups like them, will help determine the future of health care in this country. (Indeed, their visiting guest-speaker talked to this very issue, which my mother sniffed at as being way too political.) I feel in my bones that change is in the air. I haven't yet decided if that will be a good or a bad thing. I guess that depends entirely on how willing people are to be committed to principles instead of simply to policy.
5) My reading of choice on the trip was "The Fire of the Covenant." I learned I had an ancestor in the Martin Handcart company. It was a moving book to read in the middle of a city where it is impossible not to think about the sacrifices of so many who've gone before me. I think my late night reading was as profound as the day time sites.
Still, family is family and just being with my sibs for a few days was a great part of the journey too. My brother may be a doctor, but he is definitely not above wearing his doctoral hood as an actual hood and re-enacting the final scenes of Return of the Jedi. Or pretending to stand in a Depression Era unemployment line. We were also not above asking Daddy to pay when we ate at a fancy restaraunt after graduation. And what is a family outing on a blustery, sunny day if mom doesn't impersonate the unibomber at least once. Amanda and I worked it with the concierge to get a free movie in our room (on the premise that our stay was not all it could be because the hot tub was broken). National Treasure: Book of Secrets, of course. Amanda and I also rented 27 Dresses on the plane ride home. I think the guy sitting next to us was ready to kill the two of us. My older brother was so sick of my sister and I by day 6, that I'm sure he just went home and hugged his wife for 30 minutes straight.
And while we reverted back to our "typical" family roles for a few days, there is something really refreshing about being with the people who best know your quirks because they share a lot of them. Still, I was very glad to get back to the home I've actually chosen, grateful in every way for where I have come from and where I'm headed.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Don't Tell My Brother, It Will Go To His Head
I have to take a few minutes this morning before the chaos starts to tell you about my fantastic "baby" brother. He is smart and funny and hard-working. Personality-wise, I've always meshed with him better than anyone in my family. Though seven years apart, I remember playing with him as a child more than anyone else. Or, more precisely, he was a child and I was a tweenie. He was always the clown and the center of attention. He is the youngest, and our family was busy by the time he was born. When he was in early elementary school, much of his read-aloud time was done by me. One of my favorite memories is being cuddled with him on his top bunk in the basement of my parents' old house bawling over the last chapters of "Where the Red Fern Grows." I'm also sure that the current owner of that house is still digging up "dead" GI Joe guys out of her flower beds.
Well, my little brother is graduating from GW Medical School on Sunday, and I couldn't be prouder of him. Four years ago, he and his brand new wife prepared to move to DC with much trepidation. Neither of them had really ever been away from home and they were overwhelmed by the cost of everything. My brother had been pretty bummed when he didn't get into the U of U, but they loaded their car and took off anyway.
As anyone who has moved away from family early in their marriage can attest to, their cross country adventure has turned out to be the best thing for them. They have made friends and valuable professional contacts. They have learned a lot about trusting and taking care of one another. They have learned they are stronger than they could have imagined.
One of the most exciting things is that my brother, who kind of scraped his way into medical school, has emerged as one of the top in his class with super high test scores, honors in every section of his rotationals, and a coveted residency at, yes, University of Utah. My family could not be prouder of him. But don't tell him, he can be a bit of a punk and we've got to keep him in his place.
My parents, my older brother, my younger sister and I are headed to DC tomorrow for the week. No spouses, no kids, just a brother-sister vacation for the first time in nearly 15 years. I'll post pictures when I get back.
Well, my little brother is graduating from GW Medical School on Sunday, and I couldn't be prouder of him. Four years ago, he and his brand new wife prepared to move to DC with much trepidation. Neither of them had really ever been away from home and they were overwhelmed by the cost of everything. My brother had been pretty bummed when he didn't get into the U of U, but they loaded their car and took off anyway.
As anyone who has moved away from family early in their marriage can attest to, their cross country adventure has turned out to be the best thing for them. They have made friends and valuable professional contacts. They have learned a lot about trusting and taking care of one another. They have learned they are stronger than they could have imagined.
One of the most exciting things is that my brother, who kind of scraped his way into medical school, has emerged as one of the top in his class with super high test scores, honors in every section of his rotationals, and a coveted residency at, yes, University of Utah. My family could not be prouder of him. But don't tell him, he can be a bit of a punk and we've got to keep him in his place.
My parents, my older brother, my younger sister and I are headed to DC tomorrow for the week. No spouses, no kids, just a brother-sister vacation for the first time in nearly 15 years. I'll post pictures when I get back.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
I Heart Utah
In the middle of my second year at USU, I interned for the Utah State Legislature. (I have always balked a little bit about saying I was an "intern" since the whole Monical Lewinsky thing. I wasn't THAT kind of intern.) Details from my time in the trenches will be in a forthcoming post about non-career jobs, but I just wanted to link you to this little tidbit from the 2008 Legislative Session, which opened this week.
The link is to an official site, and the friend who forwarded it is pretty sure the bill is legit.
So, what should the name of our 51st state be?
And will it be a clean cut, or will they break it up by county so the bottom of Utah is all jaggedy?
State monument?
State animal?
State flag?
First governor? First ladies?
The link is to an official site, and the friend who forwarded it is pretty sure the bill is legit.
So, what should the name of our 51st state be?
And will it be a clean cut, or will they break it up by county so the bottom of Utah is all jaggedy?
Where would the 51st star on the flag go?
State capital?
State monument?
State animal?
State flag?
First governor? First ladies?
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Elastic Waistband Lady Had a Point
Don't worry, you'll all get the chastity talk, I just haven't modified it to this format yet.
The comments in my last blog really became a political discussion of sorts. I was a bit dismissive of Chavez as any kind of a real threat to the US. Then I read this today. Scary stuff, along the lines of the "if you aren't with us then you are against us" rhetoric I so love.
I guess we are getting oil from one more enemy. What is it with dictators and statues? Or in this case, balloons? Think pyramids. The ultimate diva fit, I guess. What do you call a he-diva?
In an unrelated bit of news. I just finished reading my favorite Christmas book. This has become a nearly annual after Thanksgiving read for me. It is just so cozy.
The comments in my last blog really became a political discussion of sorts. I was a bit dismissive of Chavez as any kind of a real threat to the US. Then I read this today. Scary stuff, along the lines of the "if you aren't with us then you are against us" rhetoric I so love.
I guess we are getting oil from one more enemy. What is it with dictators and statues? Or in this case, balloons? Think pyramids. The ultimate diva fit, I guess. What do you call a he-diva?
In an unrelated bit of news. I just finished reading my favorite Christmas book. This has become a nearly annual after Thanksgiving read for me. It is just so cozy.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
More than Fireworks and Barbecues
It was with no little amount of trepidation that I attended Sacrament meeting today. The first Sunday of July is very often the America-amony meeting. (Like the Fast Sunday near July 24th is the Utah-amony meeting.) If you have ever attended church in another country for any period of time, you may feel that this American Indepence slapped into a church setting is slightly unsettling. While it is true that the United States had to be founded the way it was in order for Mormonism to have a fighting chance, there are good people and countries everywhere. So I was very pleased when today's testimony meeting actually served its actual purpose by staying church-centered, and I came away very uplifted.
I know this blog may inspire some controversy, or hopefully at least provoke a few thoughts beyond breast feeding and diarrhea and tears. Maybe that is why I'm writing it. Maybe I need to think on something outside the realm of mothering. I found a quote last week that has been much in my thoughts as I look at the current political climate and controversy in our country.
Last week I was cleaning out several file drawers of papers and getting rid of a bunch of old stuff. I came across a quote that I had copied from a Canadian Sunday School teacher. It was from a lesson in the Old Testament that was based around a war fought by the Israelites. In June of 1976, the following was written in an address about idolatry given by Spencer W. Kimball. (Bear in mind this is just 14 months after the end of Vietnam.)
"We are a warlike people, easily distracted from our assignment of preparing for the coming of the Lord. When enemies rise up, we commit vast resources to the fabrication of gods of stone and steel--ships, planes, missiles, and fortifications--and depend on them for protection and deliverance. When threatened, we become anti-enemy instead of pro-kingdom of god; we train a man in the art of war and call him a patrtiot; thus, in the manner of Satan's counterfeit of true patriotism, perverting the Savior's teaching. . . "
He then goes on to quote Matthew 5:44-45 from the sermon on the Mount about loving your enemies.
He concludes with, "We forget that if we are righteous the Lord will either not suffer our enemies to come upon us . . . or he will fight our battles for us."
Very interesting. Before I finish my thoughts tonight, I think it is important to say that I am not a pacifist. I think there are wars that need to be fought. I think that when our country has agreed to send our troops into battle we should support them with every resource at our disposal. I think the congressmen who vote to send men and women into battle are the worst kind of cowards and hypocrites if they then turn around and cut taxes, forcing the next generation to pay for their war.
I suppose these thoughts have been with me because mid-summer days and the promise of fireworks always causes me to consider my patriotism. Lately, I have begun to feel much like Bono, when he says that he is in love with this IDEA of America more so than the place.
America is the greatest experiment in civil harmony every attempted in the world's history. And more than 200 years after its inception, by some of the most brilliant (though flawed) men to ever walk the planet, it is still working. The greatest evidence I have seen in recent years of the success of this venture called America is when President Clinton handed his office over to President Bush. Although Al Gore had won the popular vote and there was a lot of bad feeling floating in the air, everything about the change in presidency was done according to LAW. There was no coup, no military uprising. And every citizen in this country was entitled to have their opinion about the outcome and to tell others their opinion by any means necessary.
This is why, in recent years, it has been very difficult for me to see the current administration say over and over that if you don't support the WAY the government is choosing to fight terrorism, then you are no better than the terrorists. It is one thing to say to Iran or North Korea or the Taliban or Al Quaida, "If you're not with us, you're against us." It is quite another for the reds to look across the aisle to the blues and say the same thing.
The beauty of America is that there is dialogue. The challenge of America is to be a part of it.
Thomas Jefferson said that America was great because the people were good. He further said that when the people ceased to be good, they would not be able to sustain their society. Indeed, this is the greatest challenge of any semi-democratic society. I would further add that when its people slip into indifference, America will falter.
That is why I say that these days I'm more in love with the IDEA of America than place of America these days. America is still the place where people can come and make something remarkable of their lives. A man can become President of the United States even if he is raised in backwater Arkansas by a single mother. America is a place where a woman and a black man and a Mormon can each step forward with ideas that make them fit to lead our country. America is a place where a man with an idea can make a million dollars if he is determined enough. But too many of us have lost the wonder of the ideal.
The American culture marketed abroad this days is rife with immorality, substance abuse, disrespect and money. Lots of money. America has graduated from being the wide-eyed can-do anything optimist to the global peddler of excess and vice. We have somehow distorted the American dream to mean that we can have whatever we want and as much of it as we want regardless of how that affects others.
Nine months ago I stood on the steps of the Lincoln memorial and imagined Martin Luther King in that very spot so many years ago. His words echoed through my head. I've since learned that the second half of his speech was unscripted. As he begins to plead, "Let Freedom Ring!" his speech sounds like a mighty prayer and not just an admonition to politicians.
And maybe this is where the heart of the gospel collides with the heart of America--AGENCY. If any of us would truly be free then we must surrender to the will of God. We must be righteous and plead with the Lord to fight our battles and guide our leaders. We must pray for our enemies. We must love those who hate us. We must commit our vast resources, not to things that would destroy, maim and kill, but to causes that would create, restore and bring life.
As mothers, we are the ones who will decide how the next generation views the world. So take that into consideration as we celebrate the holiday with our little ones. How will we make them patriots and Christians at the same time? What formula will we use to teach them to appreciate their country but love all of humanity? What can we do daily to raise a generation who will make peace with their neighbors?
Happy Fourth of July.
I know this blog may inspire some controversy, or hopefully at least provoke a few thoughts beyond breast feeding and diarrhea and tears. Maybe that is why I'm writing it. Maybe I need to think on something outside the realm of mothering. I found a quote last week that has been much in my thoughts as I look at the current political climate and controversy in our country.
Last week I was cleaning out several file drawers of papers and getting rid of a bunch of old stuff. I came across a quote that I had copied from a Canadian Sunday School teacher. It was from a lesson in the Old Testament that was based around a war fought by the Israelites. In June of 1976, the following was written in an address about idolatry given by Spencer W. Kimball. (Bear in mind this is just 14 months after the end of Vietnam.)
"We are a warlike people, easily distracted from our assignment of preparing for the coming of the Lord. When enemies rise up, we commit vast resources to the fabrication of gods of stone and steel--ships, planes, missiles, and fortifications--and depend on them for protection and deliverance. When threatened, we become anti-enemy instead of pro-kingdom of god; we train a man in the art of war and call him a patrtiot; thus, in the manner of Satan's counterfeit of true patriotism, perverting the Savior's teaching. . . "
He then goes on to quote Matthew 5:44-45 from the sermon on the Mount about loving your enemies.
He concludes with, "We forget that if we are righteous the Lord will either not suffer our enemies to come upon us . . . or he will fight our battles for us."
Very interesting. Before I finish my thoughts tonight, I think it is important to say that I am not a pacifist. I think there are wars that need to be fought. I think that when our country has agreed to send our troops into battle we should support them with every resource at our disposal. I think the congressmen who vote to send men and women into battle are the worst kind of cowards and hypocrites if they then turn around and cut taxes, forcing the next generation to pay for their war.
I suppose these thoughts have been with me because mid-summer days and the promise of fireworks always causes me to consider my patriotism. Lately, I have begun to feel much like Bono, when he says that he is in love with this IDEA of America more so than the place.
America is the greatest experiment in civil harmony every attempted in the world's history. And more than 200 years after its inception, by some of the most brilliant (though flawed) men to ever walk the planet, it is still working. The greatest evidence I have seen in recent years of the success of this venture called America is when President Clinton handed his office over to President Bush. Although Al Gore had won the popular vote and there was a lot of bad feeling floating in the air, everything about the change in presidency was done according to LAW. There was no coup, no military uprising. And every citizen in this country was entitled to have their opinion about the outcome and to tell others their opinion by any means necessary.
This is why, in recent years, it has been very difficult for me to see the current administration say over and over that if you don't support the WAY the government is choosing to fight terrorism, then you are no better than the terrorists. It is one thing to say to Iran or North Korea or the Taliban or Al Quaida, "If you're not with us, you're against us." It is quite another for the reds to look across the aisle to the blues and say the same thing.
The beauty of America is that there is dialogue. The challenge of America is to be a part of it.
Thomas Jefferson said that America was great because the people were good. He further said that when the people ceased to be good, they would not be able to sustain their society. Indeed, this is the greatest challenge of any semi-democratic society. I would further add that when its people slip into indifference, America will falter.
That is why I say that these days I'm more in love with the IDEA of America than place of America these days. America is still the place where people can come and make something remarkable of their lives. A man can become President of the United States even if he is raised in backwater Arkansas by a single mother. America is a place where a woman and a black man and a Mormon can each step forward with ideas that make them fit to lead our country. America is a place where a man with an idea can make a million dollars if he is determined enough. But too many of us have lost the wonder of the ideal.
The American culture marketed abroad this days is rife with immorality, substance abuse, disrespect and money. Lots of money. America has graduated from being the wide-eyed can-do anything optimist to the global peddler of excess and vice. We have somehow distorted the American dream to mean that we can have whatever we want and as much of it as we want regardless of how that affects others.
Nine months ago I stood on the steps of the Lincoln memorial and imagined Martin Luther King in that very spot so many years ago. His words echoed through my head. I've since learned that the second half of his speech was unscripted. As he begins to plead, "Let Freedom Ring!" his speech sounds like a mighty prayer and not just an admonition to politicians.
And maybe this is where the heart of the gospel collides with the heart of America--AGENCY. If any of us would truly be free then we must surrender to the will of God. We must be righteous and plead with the Lord to fight our battles and guide our leaders. We must pray for our enemies. We must love those who hate us. We must commit our vast resources, not to things that would destroy, maim and kill, but to causes that would create, restore and bring life.
As mothers, we are the ones who will decide how the next generation views the world. So take that into consideration as we celebrate the holiday with our little ones. How will we make them patriots and Christians at the same time? What formula will we use to teach them to appreciate their country but love all of humanity? What can we do daily to raise a generation who will make peace with their neighbors?
Happy Fourth of July.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
There Are Scarier Things Than Monsters
This blog is going to be a book review. And lengthy. That will probably put most of you off right there. But it is my blog, darn it, I guess it can be whatever I want it to be! My book club this month read "Twilight" by Stephenie Meyer. Now, just 4 days after our meeting, the sequel "New Moon" has likewise spread like wildfire among our group.
Both books are page turners, to say the least.
Meyer's plot is clever and fresh with a young protagonist--all of these things make for excellent popular reading. Or even good critical reading. She has certainly created a formula here that will no doubt carry her easily through the rest of the series; there are five books planned.
Now, here is where we move from book review to personal musing. (Again--my blog, my rules.) Maybe if I had read the sequel yesterday when it was sunny I wouldn't feel quite the way I do. Instead I read it today when it rained all and the snow has begun tonight. It is a good setting in which to read dark stories about werewolves and vampires.
Through both books I keep feeling this mild disturbance tugging at the fringes of my mind. I have been unsure about my disturbance until I neared the end of the second volume. Now, I have begun to put a finger on my trepidation and hope that by writing some of my thoughts I will get even closer to my faint distaste.
Despite the deeply romantic element in these stories (a thing that usually gets me sailing on cloud nine for days after I read such a novel), I do not find myself with a good feeling at the end of them. There is something so obsessive about the love the two protagonists share for one another that it is almost destructive. The Romeo and Juliet allegory in the second tome became almost unbearable. And while Bella, our brave and impulsive heroine, isn't so naive that she doesn't draw this comparison herself, there is a faint sense that she prefers the Romeo and Juliet story above all others, despite its idiotic and unneccessary ending. (No disrespect meant to Bill--I think he meant to point out Romeo and his Juliet for their foolishness.)
And I really hate what was done to Jacob. Since the beginning of the last book, I have loved this character. His connection with the earth and his vibrant humanity (even with his werewolf nature) have been a very bright spot in two otherwise very dark books. I think Mike's line in the second book when he tells Bella that "Girls are cruel," just about sums up a big part of this story for me. Some have complained that Bella is weak . . . well, Bella is human for sure. But she is frightening simply for the power she wields over any man who ends up remotely connected to her life.
Now, on a more personal note, another reason to find Meyer's stories somehow out of jive with what I can relate to. Many years ago I was engaged to a man I loved with everything in me. We were compatible in many ways and I was HIGHLY attracted to him. In my whole life I don't think I've met anyone with quite as much charm. I had a wedding dress and we set a date. (This week would be our ninth anniversary, actually.) I'd begun seeing photographers. And then he began dating somebody else--or did he just want to first and that was the reason we broke up? It doesn't matter at all now. Except for one thing: he left a gaping hole in me that Bella is so fond of bringing up in "New Moon." (The way she brings up having her breath taken away in the first; oh, and don't forget that she says "crap" about 20 times in the last 50 pages of the book. Not your most clever expression. Blood sucking vampires? More like holy s**t! Meyer doesn't shy away from the occassional damn or hell, which make some sense for these characters, but if the beautiful Bella pops out with "crap" one more time then I am going to start wondering what anyone can possibly see in her. But I digrees.)
Anyway, after this abrupt breakup, I did the zombie thing. My grades were impeccable that quarter. I went through the motions of every part of my life, knowing that if I for one minute gave into that aching explosion in my heart the hurt would overwhelm me until it crushed me. My friends and family spent months not daring to look me right in the eye for fear they would shatter the tremulous control I had on my life, or fear that I would start to cry and they would have to somehow find the right words to say--an impossible task. I know that I am not the only person this has happened to. Probably most everyone lives through something like this once.
Then, the healing started, even when I wasn't sure I wanted it to. Even when I knew that if he walked back into my life at any point during that time I would shatter to pieces all over again. I forgot his voice and his walk. I threw away 18 months worth of letters from him, willing the memories away. I recognized our relationship for how difficult and unhealthy it had actually been and I came to gradually accept that there might be a different path forward from the one I had expected.
And I learned the most powerful lesson of all: I was stronger than a broken heart. And while it would be a VERY long time (I even still dream about him some time) before I could let go of that last shred of memory and re-collect all the pieces of my heart, I knew that I would make it. I also came to see that what I really wanted to become was a happy, stable person all by myself. I never again wanted to depend completely on another person to fill my days with color. It is not fair to expect another person to complete every wish fulfillment; after all, I cannot do that for anyone else either.
Whew. Cathartic to get that all out. What I am saying is this--why are Bella and Edward so special that the loss of their love never heals? Why couldn't Bella have loved Jacob? Why couldn't Juliet have found a great measure of contentment as Paris' wife? At least then she would have lived! I want Isabella and Juliet and every woman to know the joy that comes from being in charge of their own lives.
Don't get me wrong--I think men are great. I love my husband dearly and we grow closer all the time. He is wonderful. But he is not a replacement for me. And any human heart can heal if we want it to be so and give it enough time. Maybe Bella is less human than Edward thinks she is . . . .
Still, the third installment comes sometime this summer and I am sure I will read it. *Sigh* I love a romance as well as the next girl, however twisted it may be. I guess I am as exactly as human the next 17 year old girl. Which, as Desmama said of "Twilight," that it painfully points out how much of that girl never left!
Both books are page turners, to say the least.
Meyer's plot is clever and fresh with a young protagonist--all of these things make for excellent popular reading. Or even good critical reading. She has certainly created a formula here that will no doubt carry her easily through the rest of the series; there are five books planned.
Now, here is where we move from book review to personal musing. (Again--my blog, my rules.) Maybe if I had read the sequel yesterday when it was sunny I wouldn't feel quite the way I do. Instead I read it today when it rained all and the snow has begun tonight. It is a good setting in which to read dark stories about werewolves and vampires.
Through both books I keep feeling this mild disturbance tugging at the fringes of my mind. I have been unsure about my disturbance until I neared the end of the second volume. Now, I have begun to put a finger on my trepidation and hope that by writing some of my thoughts I will get even closer to my faint distaste.
Despite the deeply romantic element in these stories (a thing that usually gets me sailing on cloud nine for days after I read such a novel), I do not find myself with a good feeling at the end of them. There is something so obsessive about the love the two protagonists share for one another that it is almost destructive. The Romeo and Juliet allegory in the second tome became almost unbearable. And while Bella, our brave and impulsive heroine, isn't so naive that she doesn't draw this comparison herself, there is a faint sense that she prefers the Romeo and Juliet story above all others, despite its idiotic and unneccessary ending. (No disrespect meant to Bill--I think he meant to point out Romeo and his Juliet for their foolishness.)
And I really hate what was done to Jacob. Since the beginning of the last book, I have loved this character. His connection with the earth and his vibrant humanity (even with his werewolf nature) have been a very bright spot in two otherwise very dark books. I think Mike's line in the second book when he tells Bella that "Girls are cruel," just about sums up a big part of this story for me. Some have complained that Bella is weak . . . well, Bella is human for sure. But she is frightening simply for the power she wields over any man who ends up remotely connected to her life.
Now, on a more personal note, another reason to find Meyer's stories somehow out of jive with what I can relate to. Many years ago I was engaged to a man I loved with everything in me. We were compatible in many ways and I was HIGHLY attracted to him. In my whole life I don't think I've met anyone with quite as much charm. I had a wedding dress and we set a date. (This week would be our ninth anniversary, actually.) I'd begun seeing photographers. And then he began dating somebody else--or did he just want to first and that was the reason we broke up? It doesn't matter at all now. Except for one thing: he left a gaping hole in me that Bella is so fond of bringing up in "New Moon." (The way she brings up having her breath taken away in the first; oh, and don't forget that she says "crap" about 20 times in the last 50 pages of the book. Not your most clever expression. Blood sucking vampires? More like holy s**t! Meyer doesn't shy away from the occassional damn or hell, which make some sense for these characters, but if the beautiful Bella pops out with "crap" one more time then I am going to start wondering what anyone can possibly see in her. But I digrees.)
Anyway, after this abrupt breakup, I did the zombie thing. My grades were impeccable that quarter. I went through the motions of every part of my life, knowing that if I for one minute gave into that aching explosion in my heart the hurt would overwhelm me until it crushed me. My friends and family spent months not daring to look me right in the eye for fear they would shatter the tremulous control I had on my life, or fear that I would start to cry and they would have to somehow find the right words to say--an impossible task. I know that I am not the only person this has happened to. Probably most everyone lives through something like this once.
Then, the healing started, even when I wasn't sure I wanted it to. Even when I knew that if he walked back into my life at any point during that time I would shatter to pieces all over again. I forgot his voice and his walk. I threw away 18 months worth of letters from him, willing the memories away. I recognized our relationship for how difficult and unhealthy it had actually been and I came to gradually accept that there might be a different path forward from the one I had expected.
And I learned the most powerful lesson of all: I was stronger than a broken heart. And while it would be a VERY long time (I even still dream about him some time) before I could let go of that last shred of memory and re-collect all the pieces of my heart, I knew that I would make it. I also came to see that what I really wanted to become was a happy, stable person all by myself. I never again wanted to depend completely on another person to fill my days with color. It is not fair to expect another person to complete every wish fulfillment; after all, I cannot do that for anyone else either.
Whew. Cathartic to get that all out. What I am saying is this--why are Bella and Edward so special that the loss of their love never heals? Why couldn't Bella have loved Jacob? Why couldn't Juliet have found a great measure of contentment as Paris' wife? At least then she would have lived! I want Isabella and Juliet and every woman to know the joy that comes from being in charge of their own lives.
Don't get me wrong--I think men are great. I love my husband dearly and we grow closer all the time. He is wonderful. But he is not a replacement for me. And any human heart can heal if we want it to be so and give it enough time. Maybe Bella is less human than Edward thinks she is . . . .
Still, the third installment comes sometime this summer and I am sure I will read it. *Sigh* I love a romance as well as the next girl, however twisted it may be. I guess I am as exactly as human the next 17 year old girl. Which, as Desmama said of "Twilight," that it painfully points out how much of that girl never left!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
I'm Leavin' on a Jet Plane
Except I do know when I'll be back again. Tuesday afternoon. I'm headed to DC for the weekend. My baby brother lives there and is going to medical school. My mom needed a traveling companion and we are treating ourselves. I feel terrible about leaving Plantboy, but after the fiasco we had trying to get our kids to eat dinner tonight I feel no qualms about having a little space from The Preschooler (from here on out called ManCub) and The Toddler (from here on out called the Poopy Pirate--a nickname given by ManCub). I'm going to owe Plantboy big time. I think the whole, "but I'm supporting you through school thing," is not going to cut it through this favor.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
No Kids for a Day
Funny, isn't it, how easy it is to revert to the life you once knew? I will be without my kids until Saturday evening. You know all those projects you want to get to, but never can? I'm deep cleaning my house and organizing my piles of too much stuff. I rented a chic flick and went out for pizza. Tonight I think I will take a hike and/or go to the temple. I might even go tanning (as long as we are sharing guilty pleasures, that is one of mine).
I'm really supposed to be getting ready to go back to school in a few days, and I suppose I am a little bit, but the freedom to stay up late, and then in turn sleep late is so rare that I can't stop myself from taking advantage of it.
I know that in a day or so I will begin to miss their happy little faces with a sharp ache, but I'm only on day three and I'm not quite there yet. I suppose I should say something self-deprecating here like, "I guess I'm a bad mother." But I don't think I am. I'd like to think that I am typical.
So to all you mothers out there: if you are between little ones (i.e. no nursing infants) find somebody you trust to take the kids for overnight--husband, mother, sister, best friend--and take an overnight trip all by yourself. Shop at the most expensive mall you can find and treat yourself to a wonderful dinner, spend the night at one of those overnight scrapbook lodges with your friends, go to the ballet or a play, sit at a coffee shop all day with a huge hot chocolate and book. Or, send hubby and the kidlets on an overnight trip and then do all those house projects you never can get to. Maybe if we take a little time for ourselves occasionally we will be better mothers on the other end.
I'm really supposed to be getting ready to go back to school in a few days, and I suppose I am a little bit, but the freedom to stay up late, and then in turn sleep late is so rare that I can't stop myself from taking advantage of it.
I know that in a day or so I will begin to miss their happy little faces with a sharp ache, but I'm only on day three and I'm not quite there yet. I suppose I should say something self-deprecating here like, "I guess I'm a bad mother." But I don't think I am. I'd like to think that I am typical.
So to all you mothers out there: if you are between little ones (i.e. no nursing infants) find somebody you trust to take the kids for overnight--husband, mother, sister, best friend--and take an overnight trip all by yourself. Shop at the most expensive mall you can find and treat yourself to a wonderful dinner, spend the night at one of those overnight scrapbook lodges with your friends, go to the ballet or a play, sit at a coffee shop all day with a huge hot chocolate and book. Or, send hubby and the kidlets on an overnight trip and then do all those house projects you never can get to. Maybe if we take a little time for ourselves occasionally we will be better mothers on the other end.
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