Tonight I witnessed a side effect of our constant, if sometimes challenging, love. Our eldest was faced with a moral dilemma. He chose what was right over his own desires. He didn't like it, but he made the right choice without a guilt trip from me. I didn't have to tell him what was right; he knew. He grumbled and tried to take his cake and eat it too, but realized he had to make the decision to do what his conscience dictated. I am terribly proud of that bratty, moody, infuriating teenager. It sucks being good, but that's what makes life worth it. Every once in a while our parenting is highlighted in a positive way. Today, we won the gold.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Goodness Sucks
Our boys truly tested my strength as a mother and as a good person. So many times I've had to choose to do the right thing when I might have otherwise chosen my own selfish wants had it not been for the four sets of brown eyes watching my every move. Ask any parent of a musical child: elementary and middle school concerts are painful. We go to be there for our kids, to show our support for them and their classmates who have worked hard to bring us the joy of music. B and I reluctantly attend every concert, every fundraiser, every game in which our teenage son carries that cumbersome sousaphone while marching in step with his band. We sigh ever time an event comes up, but we show up. We sincerely congratulate them and his mates for a job well done. While the bleachers numb our buns and cause excruciating sciatic pain, we endure for our sons. They are our world, and I believe they know this.
Tonight I witnessed a side effect of our constant, if sometimes challenging, love. Our eldest was faced with a moral dilemma. He chose what was right over his own desires. He didn't like it, but he made the right choice without a guilt trip from me. I didn't have to tell him what was right; he knew. He grumbled and tried to take his cake and eat it too, but realized he had to make the decision to do what his conscience dictated. I am terribly proud of that bratty, moody, infuriating teenager. It sucks being good, but that's what makes life worth it. Every once in a while our parenting is highlighted in a positive way. Today, we won the gold.
Tonight I witnessed a side effect of our constant, if sometimes challenging, love. Our eldest was faced with a moral dilemma. He chose what was right over his own desires. He didn't like it, but he made the right choice without a guilt trip from me. I didn't have to tell him what was right; he knew. He grumbled and tried to take his cake and eat it too, but realized he had to make the decision to do what his conscience dictated. I am terribly proud of that bratty, moody, infuriating teenager. It sucks being good, but that's what makes life worth it. Every once in a while our parenting is highlighted in a positive way. Today, we won the gold.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Teaching Today
After two snow days this week, which followed two last week, I am reminded why I still teach, even though I truly do not enjoy it any longer: vacation days and snow days. No other job provides the simultaneous excitement when both the kids and mom have a day off in the middle of the week due to this beautiful crystallized water falling from the sky.
This realization that I have to go back tomorrow and endure another day of teaching, that I need to grade those papers that I didn't touch while at home or lesson plans I didn't work on but read and wrote and played game apps and watched movies instead, makes me seriously consider a sick day. Why not? I've got something like 29 saved up.
The problem isn't the papers or the lesson plans, or even the kids. It's the fact that I want to inspire but I'm told to stick to the standards, to teach only the prescribed curriculum. If I teach exactly what the kids will be tested, I'll be a good little teacher whose evaluations will reflect a genuine aptitude for teaching.
The author of _The Little Prince_, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, once wisely stated, "If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea." And yet...
Teachers are told to show the kids how to collect the wood, to assign them tasks that prove they know how to hammer correctly, how to sand adequately, and how to wax well enough to pass the waxing test. We get kids who know how to complete tasks, but we don't have kids who feel inspired to want to do them. Has anyone ever thought, "Hmm, maybe what we are teaching them isn't inspiring. Maybe what we are teaching is, in fact, effing boring"? I have. Every day for the last 13 years. Ever since my own kids started school, too. Even more so since then.
I love teaching novels. Not because I love the stories (although I do), but because we can talk about big ideas. The curriculum tells me I should be teaching the students about literary devices and elements of fiction, which is all good and fine and whatever IF I want a bunch of drones who know what a theme is and can pick it out of a lineup. However, they aren't inspired by that! Talk to them about why people believe what they believe, why we think the way we think, and why a character is so damn annoying (yes, Holden Caulfield, I'm talking to you!), and you get kids who are inspired to want to know more. Do they have to read every word of the novel to get that? No. Do they want to? More do than don't.
I use a circus analogy all the time with my kids (the school ones and the home ones), and I believed it had served me well over the years. We (the ring leaders) ask the kids to jump through various hoops throughout their educational careers. We start with really big hoops like writing one's name or adding two single-digit numbers. As the years go on, the hoops get more difficult to get through, but there is still that "reward" of passing another level (grade) so they can move on to a series of even more difficult hoops. Many get bored, just like a large cat would. The whip has to be cracked, and they have to feel a tiny bit threatened in order to get back in line with the others. That's why we have grades and GPAs. They don't want to get to the end and it all be for naught, do they?
When my students get bored, I remind them about the hoops in life and in school. We have to get through this one so we are closer to the prize. I've been such a sage to give such grand advice... Except now I am going to call BS on myself.
Who wants to jump through a bunch of hoops only to face more hoops? That sounds awful! No wonder student apathy is so great in schools like mine. What's the point in getting an education today only to face the idea of poverty if one doesn't go get more education? And don't stop there, because the other guy has an advanced degree. Better get that, too. For what? A low-level management job in a corporation that could lay you off the next day because they care more about the bottom line than the livelihood of their employees, and there is a dozen more like you waiting to get their feet in the door?
But I digress...
I can't inspire kids any longer with aspirations of more education to get a good job. Our country doesn't value hard work anymore. It values the almighty dollar. University administrators do not care about the students but about their parents' wallets. And school boards don't care about the students' well being or their love of learning; they care about how much money they can get from the state (who wants to kill public schools, mind you) and how to reduce the budget as much as possible by reducing the number of teachers, all the while tying those teachers' salaries to test scores of the students who don't care because they aren't inspired.
Aw, man. This is bleak. I think I need a vacation.
So what is the solution? Like a damn drone, I'll continue to jump through my own hoops to reach that golden prize: retirement. And, hopefully, if I'm still young and healthy enough to enjoy it, I'll get the chance to be inspired myself.
This realization that I have to go back tomorrow and endure another day of teaching, that I need to grade those papers that I didn't touch while at home or lesson plans I didn't work on but read and wrote and played game apps and watched movies instead, makes me seriously consider a sick day. Why not? I've got something like 29 saved up.
The problem isn't the papers or the lesson plans, or even the kids. It's the fact that I want to inspire but I'm told to stick to the standards, to teach only the prescribed curriculum. If I teach exactly what the kids will be tested, I'll be a good little teacher whose evaluations will reflect a genuine aptitude for teaching.
The author of _The Little Prince_, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, once wisely stated, "If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea." And yet...
Teachers are told to show the kids how to collect the wood, to assign them tasks that prove they know how to hammer correctly, how to sand adequately, and how to wax well enough to pass the waxing test. We get kids who know how to complete tasks, but we don't have kids who feel inspired to want to do them. Has anyone ever thought, "Hmm, maybe what we are teaching them isn't inspiring. Maybe what we are teaching is, in fact, effing boring"? I have. Every day for the last 13 years. Ever since my own kids started school, too. Even more so since then.
I love teaching novels. Not because I love the stories (although I do), but because we can talk about big ideas. The curriculum tells me I should be teaching the students about literary devices and elements of fiction, which is all good and fine and whatever IF I want a bunch of drones who know what a theme is and can pick it out of a lineup. However, they aren't inspired by that! Talk to them about why people believe what they believe, why we think the way we think, and why a character is so damn annoying (yes, Holden Caulfield, I'm talking to you!), and you get kids who are inspired to want to know more. Do they have to read every word of the novel to get that? No. Do they want to? More do than don't.
I use a circus analogy all the time with my kids (the school ones and the home ones), and I believed it had served me well over the years. We (the ring leaders) ask the kids to jump through various hoops throughout their educational careers. We start with really big hoops like writing one's name or adding two single-digit numbers. As the years go on, the hoops get more difficult to get through, but there is still that "reward" of passing another level (grade) so they can move on to a series of even more difficult hoops. Many get bored, just like a large cat would. The whip has to be cracked, and they have to feel a tiny bit threatened in order to get back in line with the others. That's why we have grades and GPAs. They don't want to get to the end and it all be for naught, do they?
When my students get bored, I remind them about the hoops in life and in school. We have to get through this one so we are closer to the prize. I've been such a sage to give such grand advice... Except now I am going to call BS on myself.
Who wants to jump through a bunch of hoops only to face more hoops? That sounds awful! No wonder student apathy is so great in schools like mine. What's the point in getting an education today only to face the idea of poverty if one doesn't go get more education? And don't stop there, because the other guy has an advanced degree. Better get that, too. For what? A low-level management job in a corporation that could lay you off the next day because they care more about the bottom line than the livelihood of their employees, and there is a dozen more like you waiting to get their feet in the door?
But I digress...
I can't inspire kids any longer with aspirations of more education to get a good job. Our country doesn't value hard work anymore. It values the almighty dollar. University administrators do not care about the students but about their parents' wallets. And school boards don't care about the students' well being or their love of learning; they care about how much money they can get from the state (who wants to kill public schools, mind you) and how to reduce the budget as much as possible by reducing the number of teachers, all the while tying those teachers' salaries to test scores of the students who don't care because they aren't inspired.
Aw, man. This is bleak. I think I need a vacation.
So what is the solution? Like a damn drone, I'll continue to jump through my own hoops to reach that golden prize: retirement. And, hopefully, if I'm still young and healthy enough to enjoy it, I'll get the chance to be inspired myself.
Bully
Conversation with my husband via text messaging after he has been at the dentist for a dental cleaning and hasn't returned for more than an hour & a half.
Me: Are your teeth exceptionally dirty?
B: No... I have issues
Me: I know that. Particular to your teeth this time?
B: Glad to know my pain amuses you.
Me: I always feel its best to laugh at the pain of others since it's so difficult to do at one's own.
B: Bully for you. I meant you are a bully.
Me: I know. It's ok though. I've been through sensitivity training. Got a D-. That's passing.
Me: Are your teeth exceptionally dirty?
B: No... I have issues
Me: I know that. Particular to your teeth this time?
B: Glad to know my pain amuses you.
Me: I always feel its best to laugh at the pain of others since it's so difficult to do at one's own.
B: Bully for you. I meant you are a bully.
Me: I know. It's ok though. I've been through sensitivity training. Got a D-. That's passing.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Not a Fan
I'm not sure if I'm truly a "fan" of anything or anyone if we go by traditional definitions of the word fan, that is. I will not follow a band around the country. I do not try to get front row seats so I can potentially be so "lucky" as to catch something the lead singer throws off the stage (like his influenza because what he threw was his sweat and spit). I don't go to book signings often even though I have my favorite authors; in fact, I rarely know when they come into town. I don't attempt to get tickets to ballgames when my favorite teams are playing. In fact, although I attended and graduated from KU and like their basketball team above all others, I never went to one game while I was there. Except for one Midnight Madness, which I left just before the team was announced because it was too crowded and loud and hot, I never set foot in Allen Field House in the 3 years I spent at the university. I celebrate their wins now with a smile and perhaps a little post on social media to announce "my" team's superiority. In the few times I've been in the presence of famous actors, I've never asked for an autograph or been so nervous I couldn't speak.
Here's the thing: I don't like fanfare. I am not comfortable in large, large groups where people are excited and excitable. I get a little panicky when surrounded by too much hoopla. I once tried to attend an all-day Jazzercise event (don't judge) because I thought I wanted to be an instructor. I signed in and then stood in the hotel conference room lobby for about 20 minutes with well over 100 other women, all who were eagerly awaiting the opening of the doors to catch a glimpse of one of the founders of the company. There were several mini booths in the lobby, some with items to purchase like "Jazzertogs" and healthy snacks and cookbooks, some with information about becoming an instructor, and some with women selling their own brands of fitness-related items and clothes. As it got closer and closer to the awaited time at which they would throw open the doors to the large conference room and begin the giant exercise class, I moved closer and closer to the exit. Women screeched as the doors opened, and I saw the stage in the front of the room with special lighting and a giant screen so the people in the back of the room could see the instructors, too. When I saw the stampede into the conference room, I turned around and walked out the door to my car. I didn't fit into this scene. I wasn't excited to see someone just because she helped find one of the most revered exercise franchises in the country. Really, I wasn't. I just wanted to become an instructor, and this is where the local instructor who had encouraged me told me to go.
Perhaps it was a mix of a little social anxiety and claustrophobia, but I looked at the others' excited faces, heard their squeals of delight and their joyous chatter - their true fanatic behavior - and I realized I wasn't one of them.
I've met a few celebrities, too. While it was really cool (and still is) to tell people, impressionable ones, that Adam Sandler was at my brother's wedding, and I got to have a conversation with him more than once at the reception, I didn't feel at the time that it was all that big of a deal. I mean, he's just a guy who makes funny movies and who spent time on one of my favorite TV shows (SNL). He grew up like any other kid. He farts just like anyone else, and his wife probably doesn't laugh every time he fluffs the covers. When we left the reception, we rode down in the elevator with him and his wife as well as his good friend and fellow actor Allen Covert and his wife. The elevator stopped to let more people in on another floor, and three teenaged girls stopped dead in their tracks when they saw who was inside. Their eyes grew huge, and one said, "You're - you're - you're that guy from the movies. Oh. My. God!!!" She squeaked, her friends squeaked, and I felt very uncomfortable for the Sandlers. They must get that everywhere they go, and I don't understand it. He's a chill guy, and he took their excitability with good humor, posing for a couple shots while we finished our elevator ride to the hotel lobby in Vegas. I don't know if I would be able to handle that sort of attention with such cool, and I'm sure he has days when he would rather stay at home than to have to deal with it. It's no wonder some celebrities would prefer to be called names by the paparazzi and entertainment media than to have to put on an appreciative smile every time they walk out of their house.
Celebrity just doesn't do it for me. I don't idolize anyone living or dead. I don't feel like anyone is any more special than the next guy. I'm no more special than my neighbor, and President Kennedy was no more special than him either. The difference between "us" and "them" is the amount of attention we get. And what is attention? It's simply other people looking one's way for a while until something else catches the eye.
Some reading this are going to think I'm lying, that I am a fan of certain people, and perhaps their sort of right. I do *love* Dave Grohl, and I did make it a point to go to his concert last year, and I was excited to go, and I enjoyed it immensely. But I sat at a comfortable distance, away from the floor and all the crazed fans. I jammed to the art and the artists. They were beautiful.
I appreciate art and the artist, but I am not fanatical about it. Perhaps I'm broken, too practical for any sort of fun, but I think fanatical behavior of any kind is just plain ridiculous. I'm happy when my team wins, but it doesn't make or break my day, week, month, year. I don't take special pains to see that game or watch that movie on opening day. I'm sensible to a fault.
Here's the thing: I don't like fanfare. I am not comfortable in large, large groups where people are excited and excitable. I get a little panicky when surrounded by too much hoopla. I once tried to attend an all-day Jazzercise event (don't judge) because I thought I wanted to be an instructor. I signed in and then stood in the hotel conference room lobby for about 20 minutes with well over 100 other women, all who were eagerly awaiting the opening of the doors to catch a glimpse of one of the founders of the company. There were several mini booths in the lobby, some with items to purchase like "Jazzertogs" and healthy snacks and cookbooks, some with information about becoming an instructor, and some with women selling their own brands of fitness-related items and clothes. As it got closer and closer to the awaited time at which they would throw open the doors to the large conference room and begin the giant exercise class, I moved closer and closer to the exit. Women screeched as the doors opened, and I saw the stage in the front of the room with special lighting and a giant screen so the people in the back of the room could see the instructors, too. When I saw the stampede into the conference room, I turned around and walked out the door to my car. I didn't fit into this scene. I wasn't excited to see someone just because she helped find one of the most revered exercise franchises in the country. Really, I wasn't. I just wanted to become an instructor, and this is where the local instructor who had encouraged me told me to go.
Perhaps it was a mix of a little social anxiety and claustrophobia, but I looked at the others' excited faces, heard their squeals of delight and their joyous chatter - their true fanatic behavior - and I realized I wasn't one of them.
I've met a few celebrities, too. While it was really cool (and still is) to tell people, impressionable ones, that Adam Sandler was at my brother's wedding, and I got to have a conversation with him more than once at the reception, I didn't feel at the time that it was all that big of a deal. I mean, he's just a guy who makes funny movies and who spent time on one of my favorite TV shows (SNL). He grew up like any other kid. He farts just like anyone else, and his wife probably doesn't laugh every time he fluffs the covers. When we left the reception, we rode down in the elevator with him and his wife as well as his good friend and fellow actor Allen Covert and his wife. The elevator stopped to let more people in on another floor, and three teenaged girls stopped dead in their tracks when they saw who was inside. Their eyes grew huge, and one said, "You're - you're - you're that guy from the movies. Oh. My. God!!!" She squeaked, her friends squeaked, and I felt very uncomfortable for the Sandlers. They must get that everywhere they go, and I don't understand it. He's a chill guy, and he took their excitability with good humor, posing for a couple shots while we finished our elevator ride to the hotel lobby in Vegas. I don't know if I would be able to handle that sort of attention with such cool, and I'm sure he has days when he would rather stay at home than to have to deal with it. It's no wonder some celebrities would prefer to be called names by the paparazzi and entertainment media than to have to put on an appreciative smile every time they walk out of their house.
Celebrity just doesn't do it for me. I don't idolize anyone living or dead. I don't feel like anyone is any more special than the next guy. I'm no more special than my neighbor, and President Kennedy was no more special than him either. The difference between "us" and "them" is the amount of attention we get. And what is attention? It's simply other people looking one's way for a while until something else catches the eye.
Some reading this are going to think I'm lying, that I am a fan of certain people, and perhaps their sort of right. I do *love* Dave Grohl, and I did make it a point to go to his concert last year, and I was excited to go, and I enjoyed it immensely. But I sat at a comfortable distance, away from the floor and all the crazed fans. I jammed to the art and the artists. They were beautiful.
I appreciate art and the artist, but I am not fanatical about it. Perhaps I'm broken, too practical for any sort of fun, but I think fanatical behavior of any kind is just plain ridiculous. I'm happy when my team wins, but it doesn't make or break my day, week, month, year. I don't take special pains to see that game or watch that movie on opening day. I'm sensible to a fault.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
DBAD Day
Caution: Strong language. May not be suitable for sensitive audiences.
I know many of my friends are of differing political persuasions and from many, many different walks of life. Some enjoy reading about issues plaguing the system, and some do not, and that's cool. However, when we ignore the fact that much of our political machine is run by greedy sonsofbitches who are only looking out for themselves and their own wealth, it should piss us off, no matter how much we like to go on about our lives as if everything is peachy and what happens in political arenas don't really affect us much.
We all have our own agendas. I wish my car's oil light came on BEFORE catastrophic engine failure, and I'm going to write to the company to tell them that this is something that needs to be addressed in future models so the consumer doesn't have to shell out nearly 5 grand for a used engine. But I digress... We all want what is best for our OWN family and ourselves, and we are right to do so. On the other hand, we live in communities, in towns, in cities, school districts, counties, states, countries, continents, and on earth. We share a common bond with every human being on this planet. What is good for US (ourselves and/or our families) may not be what is good for others, and can actually make others suffer.
For example: those who believe we should not be taxed for public welfare or who think school vouchers are necessary for one's OWN kids to get a good education are selfish. There, I said it. Selfish, selfish, selfish. When you complain that the school system in your area is terrible but you don't want to pay taxes or vote for public school supporting candidates to help those schools out... REALLY? Do you see the direct correlation? When you claim that welfare for the poor is just teaching "them" to be lazy, in some cases you might be right, but for those who have been fired, laid off from a corporation or school during budget cuts, all the while execs get their bonuses, and school boards vote to increase the superintendent's benefits while firing teachers, you are supporting greed.
I have friends who are very conservative financially and socially, but what never ceases to amaze me is that those who want fiscal responsibility typically vote Republican. Do they ignore the trillions spent on military campaigns (and I don't mean to say supporting military men & women, because there is a distinct contrast between that and military campaigns, i.e. wars. But we'll get to that later) at the expense of public programs to ensure people have the help they need when and if they need it? Do they ignore the bailouts of major financial institutions just before our last prez left office? Those banks (Citi, BoA, etc.) took OUR tax money because THEY made risky business moves AND cheated the public out of money with mortgages and fraudulent equity programs before they started going bankrupt. The real kicker is that those CEOs and execs on the boards STILL got multimillion dollar bonuses. THIS is financial responsibility? And these are the same people who say they shouldn't pay more taxes. No, they can rob us blind, get government bailouts with our taxes, but god forbid they shell out a little more to help the general good.
And what about military families? How many vets struggle with medical issues for the rest of their lives and get sub-par treatment because the richest of the rich in this country control the money and the elections? How many military families are struggling to make ends meet because what was promised is not quite the reality? If we want to say we "support" our military, we HAVE to pay taxes. Otherwise, those who fight for us when we need it are lost to a system that has forgotten their service. That's shameful.
Those who are socially conservative... let's call a spade a spade here. You're probably a faithful person who considers yourself a Christian or a "believer" or whatever. Hey, I'm cool with you even though I don't believe the same thing. What I'm not cool with, however, is bigotry labeled as "Christian Values." That's bullshit. You think gays shouldn't marry. Don't marry one. That simple. You think abortion is wrong? Don't have one. Period. But stop voting for candidates who say they're going to legislate based on those values. Just because they say it, doesn't mean they believe it. They stand more to gain if they don't, but they'll get elected by people based on those hot-button items because the public foolishly believes the candidates share their values. Open your eyes and see that THESE are NOT the kinds of things that should be legislated. Freedom to act based on one's OWN values is democracy, not legislating what OTHERS are free to do. Just because your bible says it's good to have slaves doesn't mean it is. Just because your holy book (not everyone's holy book, but yours) says (in the old testament) that homosexuality is wrong doesn't mean it IS. Social values evolve, as has the bible. The new testament doesn't mention stoning a woman to death because she isn't a virgin on her wedding day, but do you want to legislate that, too?
Now, please, my faithful friends, don't get your panties in a wad. I'm not speaking to many of you, because most of you have read up on the difference between the new and old testament. I'm talking to the ones who blindly follow the asshats who protest true freedom based on some archaic book written at a time when controlling the populace was necessary because they didn't have the science to explain all the weird shit that was happening, like storms and sunrises and phases of the moon; and by true freedom, I'm referring to the above comment about democracy. Freedom to choose what we want as long as it doesn't hurt others.
If you want to ride your motorcycle down the highway at 70 miles an hour without a helmet and you're old enough to make that decision (your prefrontal lobe is fully developed and you can make rational decisions based on facts and statistics), by all means, go for it. I don't think I'll try it, but if you think it's a good idea, I'm not going to stop you. If you think it's fine to drink until your liver explodes, more power to ya. If you get knocked up by some douchebag who isn't going to be there for you or the kid, and you already have enough bills to pay without adding to your burden, get that abortion if you want it. It doesn't hurt me or the rest of society. In fact, you're less likely to become a burden on society if you do choose the abortion over having that child when you can't afford it. (And before I hear an argument for adoption, I just want to remind everyone of the hundreds of thousands of children above the age of 2 out there in the foster care system who need a home - don't argue that a woman should put a baby up for adoption instead of aborting a fetus when all those KIDS are in need of a home and the state pays for them... out of your tax dollar, by the way.)
This election in November isn't about which candidate wins or loses, it's about the American people winning or losing. Neither the Dems or GOP are without fault, to be sure. I don't particularly like the president's education policy (nor his secretary of Ed's track record), but I also don't want someone who thinks public education should be scrapped in favor of vouchers and corporate-sponsored charter schools with no regard for the true quality of education of their students. Taxes are about the greater good, whether you use the services or not (but you do, every single day). It's not socialism, it's about not being a dick to your fellow human beings. It's about looking out for more than just your own. It's about being a good person, whether you are one because it's right or because you hope to win the afterlife lottery one day.
My message: Don't be a dick. Stand up for humanity, not greed and selfishness. Pay taxes because it's the right thing to do for the general good, and DEMAND that the wealthier people and corporations pay MORE because they can afford it, and they earn their money on the backs of you and I.
I know many of my friends are of differing political persuasions and from many, many different walks of life. Some enjoy reading about issues plaguing the system, and some do not, and that's cool. However, when we ignore the fact that much of our political machine is run by greedy sonsofbitches who are only looking out for themselves and their own wealth, it should piss us off, no matter how much we like to go on about our lives as if everything is peachy and what happens in political arenas don't really affect us much.
We all have our own agendas. I wish my car's oil light came on BEFORE catastrophic engine failure, and I'm going to write to the company to tell them that this is something that needs to be addressed in future models so the consumer doesn't have to shell out nearly 5 grand for a used engine. But I digress... We all want what is best for our OWN family and ourselves, and we are right to do so. On the other hand, we live in communities, in towns, in cities, school districts, counties, states, countries, continents, and on earth. We share a common bond with every human being on this planet. What is good for US (ourselves and/or our families) may not be what is good for others, and can actually make others suffer.
For example: those who believe we should not be taxed for public welfare or who think school vouchers are necessary for one's OWN kids to get a good education are selfish. There, I said it. Selfish, selfish, selfish. When you complain that the school system in your area is terrible but you don't want to pay taxes or vote for public school supporting candidates to help those schools out... REALLY? Do you see the direct correlation? When you claim that welfare for the poor is just teaching "them" to be lazy, in some cases you might be right, but for those who have been fired, laid off from a corporation or school during budget cuts, all the while execs get their bonuses, and school boards vote to increase the superintendent's benefits while firing teachers, you are supporting greed.
I have friends who are very conservative financially and socially, but what never ceases to amaze me is that those who want fiscal responsibility typically vote Republican. Do they ignore the trillions spent on military campaigns (and I don't mean to say supporting military men & women, because there is a distinct contrast between that and military campaigns, i.e. wars. But we'll get to that later) at the expense of public programs to ensure people have the help they need when and if they need it? Do they ignore the bailouts of major financial institutions just before our last prez left office? Those banks (Citi, BoA, etc.) took OUR tax money because THEY made risky business moves AND cheated the public out of money with mortgages and fraudulent equity programs before they started going bankrupt. The real kicker is that those CEOs and execs on the boards STILL got multimillion dollar bonuses. THIS is financial responsibility? And these are the same people who say they shouldn't pay more taxes. No, they can rob us blind, get government bailouts with our taxes, but god forbid they shell out a little more to help the general good.
And what about military families? How many vets struggle with medical issues for the rest of their lives and get sub-par treatment because the richest of the rich in this country control the money and the elections? How many military families are struggling to make ends meet because what was promised is not quite the reality? If we want to say we "support" our military, we HAVE to pay taxes. Otherwise, those who fight for us when we need it are lost to a system that has forgotten their service. That's shameful.
Those who are socially conservative... let's call a spade a spade here. You're probably a faithful person who considers yourself a Christian or a "believer" or whatever. Hey, I'm cool with you even though I don't believe the same thing. What I'm not cool with, however, is bigotry labeled as "Christian Values." That's bullshit. You think gays shouldn't marry. Don't marry one. That simple. You think abortion is wrong? Don't have one. Period. But stop voting for candidates who say they're going to legislate based on those values. Just because they say it, doesn't mean they believe it. They stand more to gain if they don't, but they'll get elected by people based on those hot-button items because the public foolishly believes the candidates share their values. Open your eyes and see that THESE are NOT the kinds of things that should be legislated. Freedom to act based on one's OWN values is democracy, not legislating what OTHERS are free to do. Just because your bible says it's good to have slaves doesn't mean it is. Just because your holy book (not everyone's holy book, but yours) says (in the old testament) that homosexuality is wrong doesn't mean it IS. Social values evolve, as has the bible. The new testament doesn't mention stoning a woman to death because she isn't a virgin on her wedding day, but do you want to legislate that, too?
Now, please, my faithful friends, don't get your panties in a wad. I'm not speaking to many of you, because most of you have read up on the difference between the new and old testament. I'm talking to the ones who blindly follow the asshats who protest true freedom based on some archaic book written at a time when controlling the populace was necessary because they didn't have the science to explain all the weird shit that was happening, like storms and sunrises and phases of the moon; and by true freedom, I'm referring to the above comment about democracy. Freedom to choose what we want as long as it doesn't hurt others.
If you want to ride your motorcycle down the highway at 70 miles an hour without a helmet and you're old enough to make that decision (your prefrontal lobe is fully developed and you can make rational decisions based on facts and statistics), by all means, go for it. I don't think I'll try it, but if you think it's a good idea, I'm not going to stop you. If you think it's fine to drink until your liver explodes, more power to ya. If you get knocked up by some douchebag who isn't going to be there for you or the kid, and you already have enough bills to pay without adding to your burden, get that abortion if you want it. It doesn't hurt me or the rest of society. In fact, you're less likely to become a burden on society if you do choose the abortion over having that child when you can't afford it. (And before I hear an argument for adoption, I just want to remind everyone of the hundreds of thousands of children above the age of 2 out there in the foster care system who need a home - don't argue that a woman should put a baby up for adoption instead of aborting a fetus when all those KIDS are in need of a home and the state pays for them... out of your tax dollar, by the way.)
This election in November isn't about which candidate wins or loses, it's about the American people winning or losing. Neither the Dems or GOP are without fault, to be sure. I don't particularly like the president's education policy (nor his secretary of Ed's track record), but I also don't want someone who thinks public education should be scrapped in favor of vouchers and corporate-sponsored charter schools with no regard for the true quality of education of their students. Taxes are about the greater good, whether you use the services or not (but you do, every single day). It's not socialism, it's about not being a dick to your fellow human beings. It's about looking out for more than just your own. It's about being a good person, whether you are one because it's right or because you hope to win the afterlife lottery one day.
My message: Don't be a dick. Stand up for humanity, not greed and selfishness. Pay taxes because it's the right thing to do for the general good, and DEMAND that the wealthier people and corporations pay MORE because they can afford it, and they earn their money on the backs of you and I.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
God & Christmas & All that Crap
OK, so maybe I won't win any friends with a title like that one, but it's how I feel this time of year.
Struggling with the whole to Christmas or not to Christmas, that is the question quandary has been my modus operandi for years, ever since becoming a parent, really. At this time of year, I see my kids' friends celebrate with their families, hear them talk about their trees and lights and wish lists, and I think, am I short-changing my kids because we don't believe in a god? For a few years, we did the tree, lights, stockings and presents thing. The kids liked it, but no one was super excited about it. It was all about the loot. They wanted stuff, and I was fine with that, but I just didn't really see the need for all the pomp & circumstance of trimming and decking. The Martha Stewart K-Mart tree, along with all the decorations and lights, are tucked safely in the attic where they've spent every day since my youngest was about four, maybe five. I think, perhaps, preschool was the last Christmas we had here.
There are some sentimental emotions tied up in those items. I have some nice decorations I got from my family over the years, as well as some cute ornaments I bought when the boys were wee ones - Baby's First Christmas, Eeyore and Pooh, etc. - but all that stuff, that Christmas-y stuff, doesn't really mean much. I can look at pictures of the boys and remember their first Christmases, not that the day ever meant anything. I'd rather look at their birthday pictures or Halloween photos when they were dressed up as their favorite characters or ghouls. But two plastic tubs of red and green decorations are really quite meaningless.
I think the parts of Christmas that bother me the most are what those things represent. The commercialism, the consumerism, the conspicuous flaunting of money and wealth that Americans pretend to have, only to buy their way further into debt between November and December. It's always startling to me the craziness on the day after Thanksgiving. Black Friday is the WORST day of the year! Who thought up the concept of selling off all their shit the day after Thanksgiving, a day of familial gluttony, at slashed prices for the holiday season? Whose idea was it to begin this trend of cutthroat consumerism on a day we should all be out jogging or sleeping off our "sinful" behavior of the day before?
My sister, who is the retail queen - not because of her shopping prowess, although that's arguable, but because she has this amazing gift of salesmanship that I cannot begin to understand - posted a comment to a status update where I bash retail establishments for their un-Christian-like behavior. She was a little offended that I disliked retail so much as to disparage their commercialism during December. In my defense, it was a Kia commercial that said every time a Kia is sold, "an angel gets its wings." Gross, yes? In her defense, though, she's right. America is based on consumerism. She wouldn't have a job if December sales weren't stellar. That's really sad to me, though. Really, really sad. The basis of this economy hinges on the hope that Americans will buy more shit than they need, buy shit they don't need, and buy shit others don't need in the hopes that the shit will fulfill someone's Christmas wish! WTF???
I go back, then, to the origins of my December dismay. If Christmas is meaningless to me because I don't believe in the premise that Jesus is the savior, that God's word is the only word, blah, blah, blah, then why the flying figs do I feel guilty that my kids don't get to participate in the pagan pageantry that is the Christmas tree and all its trimmings?
I guess it boils down to the fact that we, as parents, alienate them from their friends' yuletide celebrations and keep them from what seems to be the birthright of most American school children, especially here in the good ole God-fearing Midwest.
A few years ago my boys were playing with the neighbors during winter break. I love our neighbors, but what one of their kids said to mine really pissed me off. I believe their son was about 9 or 10 at the time, and Christmas was brought up among the three boys. They were probably comparing notes about video games or something, who knows? When my kids said we don't believe in God, the little dear said, "If you don't believe, you don't receive." Now, there's a poetic thing to say. My eldest, who actually understood the concept, just shrugged & came home.
Yesterday, the youngest's friend popped over for a visit. Upon looking around the living room, he asked, "Where is your tree?"
My youngest simply replied, "We don't celebrate Christmas."
"Why not?"
He knows we don't believe in god. He chose, however, not to get into the whole religion discussion, so he chose a simpler version. "We don't believe in Santa Claus."
The friend replied, "Well, I don't either, but we still have a tree!"
I had to laugh, but inside I do feel bad. My kids are different from most of their friends. They have never been to church - well, not really anyway - nor been baptized. They don't celebrate Christmas or Easter. They get "weirded out" when we go to my family's homes or reunions and people pray before meals. (Aiden asked me last year after a Thanksgiving meal with my dad's family, "What the heck was that, Mom?") The boys don't have much to go on when it comes to comparative religions, while my husband and I can discuss the highlights of Lutheranism, Catholicism and Methodism. We have a basis for our contempt, but they do not. They simply do what we do, just like my husband and I did what our parents did when we were kids. We have had discussions with them, however, about religion, faith and belief. My oldest, at age 14, believes in a sort of reincarnation. I'm cool with that. At 14, I, too, had hopes that one day I might come back as a dog or a kitten - anything but a lowly human! But at 14, I also knew I didn't believe in a god of any kind.
Being different, for me, has never been a problem. I sort of relish the idea of being an outsider sometimes. The irony is often quite sweet. I'm an atheist in the Bible Belt, a liberal in a notoriously red state. My friends understand me... or tolerate me, perhaps. My friend M. thinks I'm "too political," and I probably am. Especially when I question others' beliefs. Maybe I'm too convinced of my own righteousness to understand when others aren't as convinced as I.
Case in point: a few weeks ago that same friend was talking about her daughter's CCD classes (for non-Catholics, these are the torturous classes kids have to take before their First Holy Communion or their "conversion" into the Catholic faith). Her daughter is a wonderful little second grader,a sprightly, precocious little waif whom I adore. Anyway, E. and her mom were sitting at CCD listening to the teacher (a nun? I don't know) talking about who shares God's love. The "discussion" went something like this (and if I'm getting this wrong, I hope M. will correct me):
Teacher: Who does God love?
Student 1: Everybody?
Teacher: Not everybody.
Student 2: Christians?
T: Not all Christians.
S3: Catholics?
T: Not all Catholics.
S4: Catholics who confess their sins?
... and so on.
M. commented on just how "un-Christian" this whole thing was, and how she hated that her beautiful (that's my adjective) daughter had to sit through that.
So... not being able to keep my devil's advocate mouth shut (I do love that expression, "devil's advocate"!), I asked, (sic) "Why do you take her then? If it's so awful, why go?"
I was hoping not to offend, but to merely question the intentions of someone who I know is against MOST of what the Catholic faith teaches, especially about God's love and birth control. She didn't seem too offended, but I knew I was possibly hitting a little below the belt. For that, I feel bad, but I desperately want to know why people continue to follow a faith, or pretend to, when they don't agree with the tenets of that faith.
Her answer was something I didn't expect. We went back and forth a bit before she gave it, but it basically came down to taking her daughter through this traditional Catholic ritual for the loot she'd (her daughter) get from family.
And so we come full-circle. It's all about the mo-ney, mo-ney, mo-ney.
But, here's the thing. I don't disparage her for that at all. On the contrary, I feel like this is what it all comes down to. Her daughter will get some nice bling, a little cash-in-hand, and maybe some to put back for college later. She'll get the spoils of those that expect her to grow up to be a good little Catholic school girl (oh, don't get me started on that!). She'll be a member of one of the most self-righteous institutions in history, but she really doesn't have to believe in it. Her parents certainly don't follow the church's teachings (sorry if I'm outing you, M. & R.). They're good people, honest and hard-working, generous and sweet. They aren't self-righteous or indignant about their beliefs. They take the whole religion thing in stride. (They have to; they're friends of mine!) So do I agree with what they're doing with their daughter? Eh. Maybe, maybe not. Not my place to do so. I just remember my own foray into the world of Catholicism and wonder if maybe they'd be better off letting her try on some other faiths after she's got her loot.
We don't have to go all the way back to my own Catechism, but if we did, it wouldn't be pleasant. I questioned the nun a little too forthrightly. At age 8, I didn't understand the Bible and the way it was being translated. I wondered why sane people believed that some dude died & came back to life three days later, and how the hell could they explain the making of man from dirt and woman from dirt's rib! These people knew there was no Santa Claus and no tooth fairy, right? They didn't think the Easter bunny was real, did they? So how on earth did they think I was going to believe some cockamamie story about the son of God, who I couldn't see, mind you, saving the world - or at least the good Catholics - from a million years of fire and brimstone? That seemed a little too far-fetched for me, and I think I might have said so, if not in so many words.
And the white dress? White patent leather shoes with frilly socks? A flippin' veil???? Are you kidding me? I felt more like the bride of Frankenstein than a miniature bride of God. <shudder>
OK, so childhood trauma notwithstanding, I think I have a tough time in December for the hypocrisy (and, people, it's blatant) of the holidays. The commercialism, the consumerism, the damage to the environment from all the effin' lights... it's too much for me. I know I sound like Scrooge, but the spirit of the holiday season is going to have to work a little harder if it wants this girl to feel festive. And that, my friends, would be a friggin' miracle.
Struggling with the whole to Christmas or not to Christmas, that is the question quandary has been my modus operandi for years, ever since becoming a parent, really. At this time of year, I see my kids' friends celebrate with their families, hear them talk about their trees and lights and wish lists, and I think, am I short-changing my kids because we don't believe in a god? For a few years, we did the tree, lights, stockings and presents thing. The kids liked it, but no one was super excited about it. It was all about the loot. They wanted stuff, and I was fine with that, but I just didn't really see the need for all the pomp & circumstance of trimming and decking. The Martha Stewart K-Mart tree, along with all the decorations and lights, are tucked safely in the attic where they've spent every day since my youngest was about four, maybe five. I think, perhaps, preschool was the last Christmas we had here.
There are some sentimental emotions tied up in those items. I have some nice decorations I got from my family over the years, as well as some cute ornaments I bought when the boys were wee ones - Baby's First Christmas, Eeyore and Pooh, etc. - but all that stuff, that Christmas-y stuff, doesn't really mean much. I can look at pictures of the boys and remember their first Christmases, not that the day ever meant anything. I'd rather look at their birthday pictures or Halloween photos when they were dressed up as their favorite characters or ghouls. But two plastic tubs of red and green decorations are really quite meaningless.
I think the parts of Christmas that bother me the most are what those things represent. The commercialism, the consumerism, the conspicuous flaunting of money and wealth that Americans pretend to have, only to buy their way further into debt between November and December. It's always startling to me the craziness on the day after Thanksgiving. Black Friday is the WORST day of the year! Who thought up the concept of selling off all their shit the day after Thanksgiving, a day of familial gluttony, at slashed prices for the holiday season? Whose idea was it to begin this trend of cutthroat consumerism on a day we should all be out jogging or sleeping off our "sinful" behavior of the day before?
My sister, who is the retail queen - not because of her shopping prowess, although that's arguable, but because she has this amazing gift of salesmanship that I cannot begin to understand - posted a comment to a status update where I bash retail establishments for their un-Christian-like behavior. She was a little offended that I disliked retail so much as to disparage their commercialism during December. In my defense, it was a Kia commercial that said every time a Kia is sold, "an angel gets its wings." Gross, yes? In her defense, though, she's right. America is based on consumerism. She wouldn't have a job if December sales weren't stellar. That's really sad to me, though. Really, really sad. The basis of this economy hinges on the hope that Americans will buy more shit than they need, buy shit they don't need, and buy shit others don't need in the hopes that the shit will fulfill someone's Christmas wish! WTF???
I go back, then, to the origins of my December dismay. If Christmas is meaningless to me because I don't believe in the premise that Jesus is the savior, that God's word is the only word, blah, blah, blah, then why the flying figs do I feel guilty that my kids don't get to participate in the pagan pageantry that is the Christmas tree and all its trimmings?
I guess it boils down to the fact that we, as parents, alienate them from their friends' yuletide celebrations and keep them from what seems to be the birthright of most American school children, especially here in the good ole God-fearing Midwest.
A few years ago my boys were playing with the neighbors during winter break. I love our neighbors, but what one of their kids said to mine really pissed me off. I believe their son was about 9 or 10 at the time, and Christmas was brought up among the three boys. They were probably comparing notes about video games or something, who knows? When my kids said we don't believe in God, the little dear said, "If you don't believe, you don't receive." Now, there's a poetic thing to say. My eldest, who actually understood the concept, just shrugged & came home.
Yesterday, the youngest's friend popped over for a visit. Upon looking around the living room, he asked, "Where is your tree?"
My youngest simply replied, "We don't celebrate Christmas."
"Why not?"
He knows we don't believe in god. He chose, however, not to get into the whole religion discussion, so he chose a simpler version. "We don't believe in Santa Claus."
The friend replied, "Well, I don't either, but we still have a tree!"
I had to laugh, but inside I do feel bad. My kids are different from most of their friends. They have never been to church - well, not really anyway - nor been baptized. They don't celebrate Christmas or Easter. They get "weirded out" when we go to my family's homes or reunions and people pray before meals. (Aiden asked me last year after a Thanksgiving meal with my dad's family, "What the heck was that, Mom?") The boys don't have much to go on when it comes to comparative religions, while my husband and I can discuss the highlights of Lutheranism, Catholicism and Methodism. We have a basis for our contempt, but they do not. They simply do what we do, just like my husband and I did what our parents did when we were kids. We have had discussions with them, however, about religion, faith and belief. My oldest, at age 14, believes in a sort of reincarnation. I'm cool with that. At 14, I, too, had hopes that one day I might come back as a dog or a kitten - anything but a lowly human! But at 14, I also knew I didn't believe in a god of any kind.
Being different, for me, has never been a problem. I sort of relish the idea of being an outsider sometimes. The irony is often quite sweet. I'm an atheist in the Bible Belt, a liberal in a notoriously red state. My friends understand me... or tolerate me, perhaps. My friend M. thinks I'm "too political," and I probably am. Especially when I question others' beliefs. Maybe I'm too convinced of my own righteousness to understand when others aren't as convinced as I.
Case in point: a few weeks ago that same friend was talking about her daughter's CCD classes (for non-Catholics, these are the torturous classes kids have to take before their First Holy Communion or their "conversion" into the Catholic faith). Her daughter is a wonderful little second grader,a sprightly, precocious little waif whom I adore. Anyway, E. and her mom were sitting at CCD listening to the teacher (a nun? I don't know) talking about who shares God's love. The "discussion" went something like this (and if I'm getting this wrong, I hope M. will correct me):
Teacher: Who does God love?
Student 1: Everybody?
Teacher: Not everybody.
Student 2: Christians?
T: Not all Christians.
S3: Catholics?
T: Not all Catholics.
S4: Catholics who confess their sins?
... and so on.
M. commented on just how "un-Christian" this whole thing was, and how she hated that her beautiful (that's my adjective) daughter had to sit through that.
So... not being able to keep my devil's advocate mouth shut (I do love that expression, "devil's advocate"!), I asked, (sic) "Why do you take her then? If it's so awful, why go?"
I was hoping not to offend, but to merely question the intentions of someone who I know is against MOST of what the Catholic faith teaches, especially about God's love and birth control. She didn't seem too offended, but I knew I was possibly hitting a little below the belt. For that, I feel bad, but I desperately want to know why people continue to follow a faith, or pretend to, when they don't agree with the tenets of that faith.
Her answer was something I didn't expect. We went back and forth a bit before she gave it, but it basically came down to taking her daughter through this traditional Catholic ritual for the loot she'd (her daughter) get from family.
And so we come full-circle. It's all about the mo-ney, mo-ney, mo-ney.
But, here's the thing. I don't disparage her for that at all. On the contrary, I feel like this is what it all comes down to. Her daughter will get some nice bling, a little cash-in-hand, and maybe some to put back for college later. She'll get the spoils of those that expect her to grow up to be a good little Catholic school girl (oh, don't get me started on that!). She'll be a member of one of the most self-righteous institutions in history, but she really doesn't have to believe in it. Her parents certainly don't follow the church's teachings (sorry if I'm outing you, M. & R.). They're good people, honest and hard-working, generous and sweet. They aren't self-righteous or indignant about their beliefs. They take the whole religion thing in stride. (They have to; they're friends of mine!) So do I agree with what they're doing with their daughter? Eh. Maybe, maybe not. Not my place to do so. I just remember my own foray into the world of Catholicism and wonder if maybe they'd be better off letting her try on some other faiths after she's got her loot.
We don't have to go all the way back to my own Catechism, but if we did, it wouldn't be pleasant. I questioned the nun a little too forthrightly. At age 8, I didn't understand the Bible and the way it was being translated. I wondered why sane people believed that some dude died & came back to life three days later, and how the hell could they explain the making of man from dirt and woman from dirt's rib! These people knew there was no Santa Claus and no tooth fairy, right? They didn't think the Easter bunny was real, did they? So how on earth did they think I was going to believe some cockamamie story about the son of God, who I couldn't see, mind you, saving the world - or at least the good Catholics - from a million years of fire and brimstone? That seemed a little too far-fetched for me, and I think I might have said so, if not in so many words.
And the white dress? White patent leather shoes with frilly socks? A flippin' veil???? Are you kidding me? I felt more like the bride of Frankenstein than a miniature bride of God. <shudder>
OK, so childhood trauma notwithstanding, I think I have a tough time in December for the hypocrisy (and, people, it's blatant) of the holidays. The commercialism, the consumerism, the damage to the environment from all the effin' lights... it's too much for me. I know I sound like Scrooge, but the spirit of the holiday season is going to have to work a little harder if it wants this girl to feel festive. And that, my friends, would be a friggin' miracle.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Taboo
This isn't something I readily talk about (hence the title), but I'm compelled to do so tonight. Truthfully, the compulsion has been eating at me for about a week. You see, last Friday was an anniversary of sorts. For 17 years I've been vague and secretive about something that deeply altered my life then and continues to impact me daily.
<Note: I've been staring at this first paragraph for about 10 minutes now trying to think of how to come out with it. Fuck it. Here goes.>
I have a story to tell, and it's difficult to begin without giving back story. Honestly, the best of writers could somehow flashback effectively or edit for days and days to get just the right combination of words and sentences, but this is a blog, so I don't have the time nor space.
During my sophomore year of college I met a guy and fell in love. He's not the guy I married; we'll just get that out of the way first thing. I met the love of my life a few months later. In fact, my hubby and I wouldn't start dating until over a year after we met.
But I digress.
S. was probably the cutest guy my 20 year-old self had ever seen. Dark hair, blue eyes, beautiful teeth in a broad and seductive smile, but more than that, the worn jeans, faded t-shirt & hiking boots-wearing ruggedness about him made me weak in the knees. It was 1993, and I had a crush on Eddie Vedder, Johnny Depp (the "21 Jump Street" variety), Chris Cornell, and The Edge (U2). (See a "type" here?) He didn't play an instrument or sing in a band, but in my head he was a rock star. Four years older than me, a working man on the campus where I was studying literature and majoring in pheromones, he was the friend of a last-minute roommate met through the UDK's apartment ads. By proximity, we began a FWB relationship that would last more than 2 years. (If you don't understand the acronym, ask someone under 45.)
I was strung along like a puppet through those years. Though, to be fair, he did not likely recognize (consciously) the emotional turmoil this arrangement caused my tender heart. (How my heart got to be so tender is another story altogether, to be saved for another day.) I was quick to please, but reluctant to share too much of myself. We didn't talk about our feelings for one another (there weren't supposed to be any), and we didn't make long-term plans (at least not with one another). It was ideal... for someone who was happy passing the time while looking for something (someone) better.
Less than a year into our quasi-relationship, we did something foolish. I knew immediately that our carelessness would require much sacrifice...on my part.
<See, here's where my brain is telling me to be vague, but my inner writer is telling me to go balls-to-the-wall honest.>
Friday, August 12, 1994: one singular sperm met a singular egg & hit it off - too well. Like I said, I knew it immediately. I didn't sleep at all that night & drove 180+ miles the next day to see my childhood friend Steph, with whom I tearfully confided. She was able to calm me down a little by reminding me that I wouldn't - COULDN'T - know anything for a couple weeks, so go back to school, put it out of my mind, and get on with my life... and, by the way, end it with this jerk. (I loved her brutally honest foresight!)
August 23, 1994: Not quite two weeks in, but I had felt puny & cruddy for a few days, and I knew. I knew. The Wal-Mart pharmacy had them in 2-packs, but on my limited pet shop income I reasoned I'd only needed one test to prove what I obviously knew. I didn't waste time when I arrived home. I barely even read the instructions. It wasn't rocket science, for goodness sake.
I cried silently as I watched one and then (more quickly than I anticipated) two lines appear. It was not a surprise, but that confirmation was so heart-breaking. At the same time, this was the first time I'd ever felt so exhilarated. This was new territory for me. A baby? His baby? Overwhelming would be like saying the war in Afghanistan is a little squabble.
I don't remember the days following much. I was already back in my classes, this time as a junior with the light at the end of the educational tunnel appearing closer and closer. I know I probably cried and talked incessently with Ellen and Steph, probably to the point of exhaustion for them both, but I really didn't know what to do. I wanted to keep this baby, plain and simple. I didn't want to tell S. because I was afraid of his reaction. We didn't have too many deep conversations - not about things that applied to any sort of "us," that is - so I didn't even know how to broach the subject with him. It had to be done. I wasn't going to start some soap-opera drama crap when secrets of this magnitude are kept and revealed years later to an unsuspecting father. We were friends and shared many other friends. He worked on the campus where I'd likely soon be waddling. Besides, I'm just not that kind of girl.
Sunday, August 28, 1994: I swallow every ounce of courage to call him and ask him if I can come over. Our relationship didn't typically work that way - I usually waited for him to call me (wouldn't want to seem desparate or anything, right?). I'm sure he was a little weirded out by my call, and he was distracted when I got to his apartment, as if he were trying to get out of there as soon as I arrived. I followed him around the place with my eyes as he skitted about, trying to find a hat or some other inconsequential item. I think he knew something to make him uncomfortable was brewing. I finally said it, just blurted it out. "I'm pregnant." He stopped in his tracks (pretty much the result I was expecting).
I think he questioned whether it was his. I hardly flinched. I may have been a fool, but I was never stupid. I understood this to be the question out of most men's mouth when not married or securely committed to a girl making this claim. Par for the course. I don't remember details of the conversation, except the repeated words, "I can't" and "I don't want" and "I won't." Of course I cried in front of him - something I'd never, ever done, something that humiliated me more than the fact that I was pregnant with an unwanted child. I left feeling a sense of deep sadness and horrifying shame. Before this point, I hadn't really considered anything but bringing up his baby, either with him or without. But the other words that I remember bouncing around the room like a lead and rubber-filled balloon were, "get rid of" and "take care of."
I called Planned Parenthood the next day, and on Friday, September 9, 1994, I took care of it. Without his financial, physical, or emotional help. My mom took me and consoled me the best she could after, assuring me that it was for the best, to think of my future. I didn't talk to him for about two months. I couldn't. It was fine, though. I no longer lived with his friend, and I made a point of avoiding social gatherings he'd likely attend. I devoted myself to school and to not feeling like there was a million pieces of me on the floor waiting to be swept up and tossed out.
This is no sort of cautionary tale. I am, have always been, and will always be a supporter of and fighter for the right for women to make their own biological decisions. The cluster of cells that had formed after conception looked exactly like a cluster of cells. Those cells didn't have a heart, a brain, or a central nervous system. I write this because I never have before. Not since a cryptic poem for a creative writing class anyway. (I wish I could find that darn thing!) It's cathartic in a way, but it's also frightening for me. I'm afraid of the backlash of something so darn personal. Besides, I teach teens, and there are probably more than a few who will deal with an unexpected pregnancy at least once in their lives. I do not tell this story to them - nor would I ever. I don't expect any of them to read it either. I hope they don't.
Here's the other reason I write: I'm trying to wrap my brain around this and my current infertility. My mind can't help but jump to the obvious connection. I ended one pregnancy on purpose; I got rid of the first of the 3 children I wanted to have. What if this would have been the daughter I have always wanted? Oh, the thoughts that invade my mind! Self-punishment is putting it mildly. I know this is irrational. I know it is.
But here's the real kicker. I'm "friends" with S. on facebook now. This is a fairly recent development - less than a year, I think? Last fall he and his wife had their first baby. A daughter.
A daughter.
Last week was his birthday, and at 41, he commented that he felt old and that maybe he should have done this whole parenting thing 10 years ago.
I want to yell, How about 17 years ago, asshole?!?!
But I won't. I don't. Instead I write about it. Consequences be damned. I'm 37 years old, and I want to own my past without my ear next to the phone waiting for it to give me a booty call at 2am. I don't hate him. I couldn't really ever hate him. I hurt, but it was my decision. The woulda, coulda, shoulda is a stupid game we play in our heads, and it's such a self-loathing practice. I am not only this decision. I am a million great decisions and this one is one of the few that I sometimes question but also know in my heart to be the catalyst for the awesome decisions I made thereafter and the perfect brown-eyed results that fill my life with more happiness than I ever expected.
<Note: I've been staring at this first paragraph for about 10 minutes now trying to think of how to come out with it. Fuck it. Here goes.>
I have a story to tell, and it's difficult to begin without giving back story. Honestly, the best of writers could somehow flashback effectively or edit for days and days to get just the right combination of words and sentences, but this is a blog, so I don't have the time nor space.
During my sophomore year of college I met a guy and fell in love. He's not the guy I married; we'll just get that out of the way first thing. I met the love of my life a few months later. In fact, my hubby and I wouldn't start dating until over a year after we met.
But I digress.
S. was probably the cutest guy my 20 year-old self had ever seen. Dark hair, blue eyes, beautiful teeth in a broad and seductive smile, but more than that, the worn jeans, faded t-shirt & hiking boots-wearing ruggedness about him made me weak in the knees. It was 1993, and I had a crush on Eddie Vedder, Johnny Depp (the "21 Jump Street" variety), Chris Cornell, and The Edge (U2). (See a "type" here?) He didn't play an instrument or sing in a band, but in my head he was a rock star. Four years older than me, a working man on the campus where I was studying literature and majoring in pheromones, he was the friend of a last-minute roommate met through the UDK's apartment ads. By proximity, we began a FWB relationship that would last more than 2 years. (If you don't understand the acronym, ask someone under 45.)
I was strung along like a puppet through those years. Though, to be fair, he did not likely recognize (consciously) the emotional turmoil this arrangement caused my tender heart. (How my heart got to be so tender is another story altogether, to be saved for another day.) I was quick to please, but reluctant to share too much of myself. We didn't talk about our feelings for one another (there weren't supposed to be any), and we didn't make long-term plans (at least not with one another). It was ideal... for someone who was happy passing the time while looking for something (someone) better.
Less than a year into our quasi-relationship, we did something foolish. I knew immediately that our carelessness would require much sacrifice...on my part.
<See, here's where my brain is telling me to be vague, but my inner writer is telling me to go balls-to-the-wall honest.>
Friday, August 12, 1994: one singular sperm met a singular egg & hit it off - too well. Like I said, I knew it immediately. I didn't sleep at all that night & drove 180+ miles the next day to see my childhood friend Steph, with whom I tearfully confided. She was able to calm me down a little by reminding me that I wouldn't - COULDN'T - know anything for a couple weeks, so go back to school, put it out of my mind, and get on with my life... and, by the way, end it with this jerk. (I loved her brutally honest foresight!)
August 23, 1994: Not quite two weeks in, but I had felt puny & cruddy for a few days, and I knew. I knew. The Wal-Mart pharmacy had them in 2-packs, but on my limited pet shop income I reasoned I'd only needed one test to prove what I obviously knew. I didn't waste time when I arrived home. I barely even read the instructions. It wasn't rocket science, for goodness sake.
I cried silently as I watched one and then (more quickly than I anticipated) two lines appear. It was not a surprise, but that confirmation was so heart-breaking. At the same time, this was the first time I'd ever felt so exhilarated. This was new territory for me. A baby? His baby? Overwhelming would be like saying the war in Afghanistan is a little squabble.
I don't remember the days following much. I was already back in my classes, this time as a junior with the light at the end of the educational tunnel appearing closer and closer. I know I probably cried and talked incessently with Ellen and Steph, probably to the point of exhaustion for them both, but I really didn't know what to do. I wanted to keep this baby, plain and simple. I didn't want to tell S. because I was afraid of his reaction. We didn't have too many deep conversations - not about things that applied to any sort of "us," that is - so I didn't even know how to broach the subject with him. It had to be done. I wasn't going to start some soap-opera drama crap when secrets of this magnitude are kept and revealed years later to an unsuspecting father. We were friends and shared many other friends. He worked on the campus where I'd likely soon be waddling. Besides, I'm just not that kind of girl.
Sunday, August 28, 1994: I swallow every ounce of courage to call him and ask him if I can come over. Our relationship didn't typically work that way - I usually waited for him to call me (wouldn't want to seem desparate or anything, right?). I'm sure he was a little weirded out by my call, and he was distracted when I got to his apartment, as if he were trying to get out of there as soon as I arrived. I followed him around the place with my eyes as he skitted about, trying to find a hat or some other inconsequential item. I think he knew something to make him uncomfortable was brewing. I finally said it, just blurted it out. "I'm pregnant." He stopped in his tracks (pretty much the result I was expecting).
I think he questioned whether it was his. I hardly flinched. I may have been a fool, but I was never stupid. I understood this to be the question out of most men's mouth when not married or securely committed to a girl making this claim. Par for the course. I don't remember details of the conversation, except the repeated words, "I can't" and "I don't want" and "I won't." Of course I cried in front of him - something I'd never, ever done, something that humiliated me more than the fact that I was pregnant with an unwanted child. I left feeling a sense of deep sadness and horrifying shame. Before this point, I hadn't really considered anything but bringing up his baby, either with him or without. But the other words that I remember bouncing around the room like a lead and rubber-filled balloon were, "get rid of" and "take care of."
I called Planned Parenthood the next day, and on Friday, September 9, 1994, I took care of it. Without his financial, physical, or emotional help. My mom took me and consoled me the best she could after, assuring me that it was for the best, to think of my future. I didn't talk to him for about two months. I couldn't. It was fine, though. I no longer lived with his friend, and I made a point of avoiding social gatherings he'd likely attend. I devoted myself to school and to not feeling like there was a million pieces of me on the floor waiting to be swept up and tossed out.
This is no sort of cautionary tale. I am, have always been, and will always be a supporter of and fighter for the right for women to make their own biological decisions. The cluster of cells that had formed after conception looked exactly like a cluster of cells. Those cells didn't have a heart, a brain, or a central nervous system. I write this because I never have before. Not since a cryptic poem for a creative writing class anyway. (I wish I could find that darn thing!) It's cathartic in a way, but it's also frightening for me. I'm afraid of the backlash of something so darn personal. Besides, I teach teens, and there are probably more than a few who will deal with an unexpected pregnancy at least once in their lives. I do not tell this story to them - nor would I ever. I don't expect any of them to read it either. I hope they don't.
Here's the other reason I write: I'm trying to wrap my brain around this and my current infertility. My mind can't help but jump to the obvious connection. I ended one pregnancy on purpose; I got rid of the first of the 3 children I wanted to have. What if this would have been the daughter I have always wanted? Oh, the thoughts that invade my mind! Self-punishment is putting it mildly. I know this is irrational. I know it is.
But here's the real kicker. I'm "friends" with S. on facebook now. This is a fairly recent development - less than a year, I think? Last fall he and his wife had their first baby. A daughter.
A daughter.
Last week was his birthday, and at 41, he commented that he felt old and that maybe he should have done this whole parenting thing 10 years ago.
I want to yell, How about 17 years ago, asshole?!?!
But I won't. I don't. Instead I write about it. Consequences be damned. I'm 37 years old, and I want to own my past without my ear next to the phone waiting for it to give me a booty call at 2am. I don't hate him. I couldn't really ever hate him. I hurt, but it was my decision. The woulda, coulda, shoulda is a stupid game we play in our heads, and it's such a self-loathing practice. I am not only this decision. I am a million great decisions and this one is one of the few that I sometimes question but also know in my heart to be the catalyst for the awesome decisions I made thereafter and the perfect brown-eyed results that fill my life with more happiness than I ever expected.
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