There is a handful of remarkable souls in the world so untainted, generous and loving that I am made to feel truly crap. Certainly, we all revere the Teresas, Mahatmas and sundry human shields of our planet. Yet there is none amongst us plainer mortals who has not momentarily resented the bejesus out of such kind souls for making us feel like relative cosmic waste. Come on! You expect me to believe that you’ve NEVER thought begrudgingly of the Dalai Lama, just once? Personally and publicly I will admit to having many uncharitable thoughts about the charitable. While I am very glad that the selfless stalk the earth clad only in modest robes and munificence, just occasionally a girl might think: could you puh-lease put your sandals up, lay off the Good Works for a reincarnation or so and let the rest of us ordinary folk catch up.
Currently preparing for a visit to Australia is one of those rare and good people who serve both to better the world and cause the less self-assured to remember that we haven’t done anything really nice for anyone in at least a decade. Mata Amritanandamayi, or Amma to her mates, is an untiring healer who charges little or nothing to administer her message of purest love.
Surviving on the merest sleep, Amma is noted worldwide for the blessings she dispenses and her inspirational teachings that come by way of profound affection and faultless example. Admirably, she regards all faiths and people as equal and administers her healing embrace to all within her orbit. She is widely regarded as Saintly and, there is no evidence that she ever whines, pouts or has unreasonable backstage demands for deli-platters and the like at her various public appearances.
In preparation for Amma’s nationwide tour in the first half of May, I thought, perhaps, that I would purge myself of unkind and jealous thoughts. I resolved that I would not judge my own litany of failures in relation to Amma’s remarkable résumé. Such irrational comparison would only end in tears. To wit: Amma was just awarded the Ghandi-King Award for Non-Violence at the United Nations headquarters in Geneva. My most recent certificate, if I don’t count the Sex Cheque a smutty mate gave me for my last birthday, (redeemable for an “all night shag”) was a 25 metre swimming diploma.
Not only would I set aside envy and general cynical guffaws, I decided, but I would actually attempt to follow her rousing and model behaviour.
Amma’s main gig is delivering a healing hug. Noted. Despite a distaste for hugging, particularly at Art Gallery Openings, I elected to follow suit. I would hug people. Anyone. Even those to whom I would not consider giving a sex cheque.
Amma has been hugging people for thirty years. In that time, it is estimated; she has hugged in excess of 20 Million people. Obviously, I had my work cut out for me. So, I determined to devote just one hour to reckless, public embrace.
Now, if I was to replicate Amma’s hug rate, calculations were in order. Roughly, 20 million cuddles over 30 years, allowing for two hours sleep, one hour ablutions and eating time and, say the odd average half hour here and there for international travel, award ceremonies etc, equals around 100 hugs to be provided to anyone within my radius per hour. Tender, lingering hugs
With best intentions, I nominated a site for my hug-frenzy. Taking Amma’s cue, I acknowledged the equality of all persons and, indeed, venues. It did not seem untoward that I chose my most regular drinking hole as the site for my enlightenment.
And so, I trod to the place of my karmic improvement. No matter that The Ramones blared rather than raga. No matter that the air was more weighted with cigarettes, bourbon and sweat than incense. No matter that my initial hugging subject answered my tender and lingering embrace with, ‘come back later when I’ve sunk more piss, love.’
Thirty minutes into my experiment and I had only copped three hugs. Only one of which approximated ‘lingering’. And that, it must be said, was not in the least bit tender. Furthermore, it actually came at the price of (a) my dignity and (b) a Double Seabreeze.
Amma is now famed as a hugger. Yet, surely, it was not always so. There was a time when she too must have confronted suspicion and incredulity when snuggling up to the unsuspecting. But she did not quit. I downed tools at the 45 minute mark.
I have resigned as a hugger. But I will not, it is vital to admit, ever resume my scorn for those who do good. Being nice is a hard gig. Props and peace to you, Amma.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
Sunday, April 13, 2003
Only about one in fifteen moms are "hot."
I received some joyful news today. Some ego-boosting, click-your-heels worthy, throw-your-hands-in-the-air-and-wave-‘em-like-you-just-don’t-care news. The news came while I was working at my job, cashiering at the salvage grocery store where I work a few days a week.
Apparently, 15 year-old boys think I’m HOT.
I have this information on good authority. From one of the 15 year-old sources himself.
I mean, holy crap. Do you think this information did not put me over the freaking moon? Well, it did. And then some. I mean, talk about an instant beauty treatment better than any (not that I need, or would ever consider getting a) facelift. Or deep-pore cleansing or French manicure or Brazilian wax.
Repeating this just for the chance to crow about it, because, really, how often does this happen to you? (and if the answer is “often” then hats off to you and congratulations. You bitch. Just kidding.) It’s just that, considering that the standard icons of female hotness to a 15 year-old boy, in my mind, are Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera and other teen hotties whose names I don’t even know. I certainly don’t resemble any of them (and thank goodness), not even close.
Today was my first time working alone without J., the other cashier. Just me and D., my 15 year-old stockboy bagboy carry-the-boxes-out-to-the-car helper. Because the store is only open 2 days a week, Fridays and Saturdays, Friday mornings are insane there. People line up outside the door just for the chance to get in and be the first to snag all the dollar boxes of cereal and cheap paper products we carry, like diapers. The afternoon, in contrast, is slow and mellow. Sometimes steady, but often with generous lags between sales. D. and I were shooting the shit today during these times. Him, regaling me with tales of his friend who snorted Pixy Stix. And then saying how it would be funny to take some strawberry Kool-Aid drink mix and put some lines of it on the conveyor belt there at the cash register and snort it like coke. (These nutty kids! I tell you. What will they think of next?) And I would say, with a world-weary grin and back-and-forth shake of the head, “Oh, D. You are so WILD.”
I can’t help but encourage him a little. He’s such a smart kid, and he’s so all over the place. Full of that famous hormonal energy produced by puberty. You know. We all remember it, don’t we? Sort of constantly crazed, everything you’re feeling just bubbling up to the surface at all times. Unless you’re feeling sullen, and then you bury all your feelings under a bitter crust. (Wait a minute. I STILL do that.)
So, how did I find out that D. - and also B., another young coworker - think I am so hot? In the course of conversation, I don’t quite remember how we got there, D. wants to know how old I am. Before I can answer, he says, “I know, I know that’s like, a REALLY rude question and you’re not, like, supposed to ask women that and everything. So how old ARE you?” I am standing in the juice aisle, facing out the dented cans of coffee, and he is sitting at my chair at the register. (The reason being that he had ‘stolen’ my chair and when I told him I wanted it back, he replied, “Okay, but only if you sit on my lap.” And I said that I didn’t think so and I was going to go and face drinks.) I laugh and say “Okay. Just because it’s you asking, I’ll tell you. I’m 35.”
Well, apparently this news has just rocked his little high school world. And he lets loose with a barrage of excited responses, unable to let up, I guess because he is just so flat-out in disbelief. This includes the following loudly proclaimed statements:
“You’re old enough to be my MOM!”
“You would be like, a totally HOT mom!”
“It’s hard to come by a hot mom.” (moms out there??? how do you like that!)
“Only about, one in 15 moms are hot.” (pretty specific stat....has he done fieldwork in this area?)
“I can’t believe you’re 35!!!” said SEVERAL times. “I thought you were like, 26.”
“You would get hit on by SO many college guys.” (hey. where the hell were all these guys back when I was actually IN college???)
“You came and started working at the store, and I was like, ‘hey! cute college girl!!!’“
“Wait until B. finds out how OLD you are!!” (the other 15 year-old Christian home-schooled high school kid with whom I work. And, emphasis on OLD with a capital “O.”)
D. is cute and slight-bodied and constantly moving and talking and has pimples on his face and is just, so, young young young. I forgot what it was like to be so young. And now, I’m thinking about it and remembering. Remembering the pain and the excruciating happiness. The first flush of romance that stains your cheeks. The sting of rejection. The feeling that the eyes of the world, all those you come in contact with, friends/neighbors/teachers/clergymen/the cashier at the grocery store -- are all upon you. Watching your every move. Passing judgement on you and waiting for you to fuck up. And remembering the feeling of wanting, and the feeling of promise and the knowing that your whole life is ahead of you.
D. is up at the register saying, “I can’t even IMAGINE being 35. 35 is really, really old.”
“Thanks!!” I say back. Next, offering, “Erm...you know, Sheryl Crow says that 40 is the new 20,”. Thinking Sheryl Crow is a pop culture reference that he’ll recognize, and that she’s pretty hot herself, and that maybe this will open his mind up a little, knowing that such a hot rock star babe as herself is over 40 and does she seem old?
“I don’t really like Sheryl Crow,” he says.
“Okay,” I want to say. “How about...Mrs. Robinson, then?” But I don’t. I don’t want to take things in that particular direction, and I doubt he’s ever seen the Graduate, anyway.
We spend the rest of the afternoon with D. basically nonstop almost chanting a mantra, “You are so hot. You are so hot. You are so....old. But you are so hot.” Well, hell, I’m not going to argue with the boy. I don’t mind being called old by a lusting young teenager, you know? Considering I only get paid 6 dollars an hour to work at this place, it’s a blessing to have a coworker who dotes on you like a love-starved puppy. Makes the time go by faster, really.
And I do like these kids. D. and B. I feel happy being around them. I like that jagged energy they give off. Sometimes I am filled with this urge to go up to one or the other of them and take their young faces between my hands. And say, looking directly into their eager eyes, “Look. When you finish high school, I want you to do something for me. I want you to pack your bags and leave this town. Go wherever you want. Even if it’s just to...Madison. Go to school. Go to work. Pick one of your dreams and follow it. Get out of this small town. Put yourself out there in the world and let the world see what you can do. Figure out how you can make things better, make yourself happy, see what that will take. Do it all and don’t come back here until you do.”
I guess I love boys because I don’t understand them. I never had brothers. I never got to date any 15 year-old boys....because I wasn’t allowed to. Which is a story (and the central drama of my life? perhaps. one of them) for another post. I went to an all-girls’ Catholic high school and lived a sheltered, over-protected life. Boys fascinated me. Maybe that’s why I’m such a big flirt today. I’m thinking now, though, I’m suddenly aware of what a huge influence I could have over these 2 kids’ lives. As the, you know, hot-woman-we-work-with-who’s-old-enough-to-be-our-mom. That influence strikes me as a rather grave responsibility. And I want it to be a good one.
“Hey, D.” I say, still straightening out the coffee cans. “How old are you?”
“Freshman,” comes the reply.
I stop and turn towards him. “NO.” Widening my eyes in mock surprise. “You are not. Get out.”
“Yeah, really,” he says.
“Well, when I first met you I was sure you were a sophomore, or even a junior,” I say. He is so thrown I can almost see waves bouncing off his body.
“You DID. Awwwwwww, man, that is SO COOL!” he says and goes on about it for about another 5 minutes.
“Yeah,” I say, "I was really fooled." And turn back to the shelves. A warm feeling spreading all over me.
I think I love this kid.
[cross-posted at cocokat in slumberland.]
Apparently, 15 year-old boys think I’m HOT.
I have this information on good authority. From one of the 15 year-old sources himself.
I mean, holy crap. Do you think this information did not put me over the freaking moon? Well, it did. And then some. I mean, talk about an instant beauty treatment better than any (not that I need, or would ever consider getting a) facelift. Or deep-pore cleansing or French manicure or Brazilian wax.
Repeating this just for the chance to crow about it, because, really, how often does this happen to you? (and if the answer is “often” then hats off to you and congratulations. You bitch. Just kidding.) It’s just that, considering that the standard icons of female hotness to a 15 year-old boy, in my mind, are Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera and other teen hotties whose names I don’t even know. I certainly don’t resemble any of them (and thank goodness), not even close.
Today was my first time working alone without J., the other cashier. Just me and D., my 15 year-old stockboy bagboy carry-the-boxes-out-to-the-car helper. Because the store is only open 2 days a week, Fridays and Saturdays, Friday mornings are insane there. People line up outside the door just for the chance to get in and be the first to snag all the dollar boxes of cereal and cheap paper products we carry, like diapers. The afternoon, in contrast, is slow and mellow. Sometimes steady, but often with generous lags between sales. D. and I were shooting the shit today during these times. Him, regaling me with tales of his friend who snorted Pixy Stix. And then saying how it would be funny to take some strawberry Kool-Aid drink mix and put some lines of it on the conveyor belt there at the cash register and snort it like coke. (These nutty kids! I tell you. What will they think of next?) And I would say, with a world-weary grin and back-and-forth shake of the head, “Oh, D. You are so WILD.”
I can’t help but encourage him a little. He’s such a smart kid, and he’s so all over the place. Full of that famous hormonal energy produced by puberty. You know. We all remember it, don’t we? Sort of constantly crazed, everything you’re feeling just bubbling up to the surface at all times. Unless you’re feeling sullen, and then you bury all your feelings under a bitter crust. (Wait a minute. I STILL do that.)
So, how did I find out that D. - and also B., another young coworker - think I am so hot? In the course of conversation, I don’t quite remember how we got there, D. wants to know how old I am. Before I can answer, he says, “I know, I know that’s like, a REALLY rude question and you’re not, like, supposed to ask women that and everything. So how old ARE you?” I am standing in the juice aisle, facing out the dented cans of coffee, and he is sitting at my chair at the register. (The reason being that he had ‘stolen’ my chair and when I told him I wanted it back, he replied, “Okay, but only if you sit on my lap.” And I said that I didn’t think so and I was going to go and face drinks.) I laugh and say “Okay. Just because it’s you asking, I’ll tell you. I’m 35.”
Well, apparently this news has just rocked his little high school world. And he lets loose with a barrage of excited responses, unable to let up, I guess because he is just so flat-out in disbelief. This includes the following loudly proclaimed statements:
“You’re old enough to be my MOM!”
“You would be like, a totally HOT mom!”
“It’s hard to come by a hot mom.” (moms out there??? how do you like that!)
“Only about, one in 15 moms are hot.” (pretty specific stat....has he done fieldwork in this area?)
“I can’t believe you’re 35!!!” said SEVERAL times. “I thought you were like, 26.”
“You would get hit on by SO many college guys.” (hey. where the hell were all these guys back when I was actually IN college???)
“You came and started working at the store, and I was like, ‘hey! cute college girl!!!’“
“Wait until B. finds out how OLD you are!!” (the other 15 year-old Christian home-schooled high school kid with whom I work. And, emphasis on OLD with a capital “O.”)
D. is cute and slight-bodied and constantly moving and talking and has pimples on his face and is just, so, young young young. I forgot what it was like to be so young. And now, I’m thinking about it and remembering. Remembering the pain and the excruciating happiness. The first flush of romance that stains your cheeks. The sting of rejection. The feeling that the eyes of the world, all those you come in contact with, friends/neighbors/teachers/clergymen/the cashier at the grocery store -- are all upon you. Watching your every move. Passing judgement on you and waiting for you to fuck up. And remembering the feeling of wanting, and the feeling of promise and the knowing that your whole life is ahead of you.
D. is up at the register saying, “I can’t even IMAGINE being 35. 35 is really, really old.”
“Thanks!!” I say back. Next, offering, “Erm...you know, Sheryl Crow says that 40 is the new 20,”. Thinking Sheryl Crow is a pop culture reference that he’ll recognize, and that she’s pretty hot herself, and that maybe this will open his mind up a little, knowing that such a hot rock star babe as herself is over 40 and does she seem old?
“I don’t really like Sheryl Crow,” he says.
“Okay,” I want to say. “How about...Mrs. Robinson, then?” But I don’t. I don’t want to take things in that particular direction, and I doubt he’s ever seen the Graduate, anyway.
We spend the rest of the afternoon with D. basically nonstop almost chanting a mantra, “You are so hot. You are so hot. You are so....old. But you are so hot.” Well, hell, I’m not going to argue with the boy. I don’t mind being called old by a lusting young teenager, you know? Considering I only get paid 6 dollars an hour to work at this place, it’s a blessing to have a coworker who dotes on you like a love-starved puppy. Makes the time go by faster, really.
And I do like these kids. D. and B. I feel happy being around them. I like that jagged energy they give off. Sometimes I am filled with this urge to go up to one or the other of them and take their young faces between my hands. And say, looking directly into their eager eyes, “Look. When you finish high school, I want you to do something for me. I want you to pack your bags and leave this town. Go wherever you want. Even if it’s just to...Madison. Go to school. Go to work. Pick one of your dreams and follow it. Get out of this small town. Put yourself out there in the world and let the world see what you can do. Figure out how you can make things better, make yourself happy, see what that will take. Do it all and don’t come back here until you do.”
I guess I love boys because I don’t understand them. I never had brothers. I never got to date any 15 year-old boys....because I wasn’t allowed to. Which is a story (and the central drama of my life? perhaps. one of them) for another post. I went to an all-girls’ Catholic high school and lived a sheltered, over-protected life. Boys fascinated me. Maybe that’s why I’m such a big flirt today. I’m thinking now, though, I’m suddenly aware of what a huge influence I could have over these 2 kids’ lives. As the, you know, hot-woman-we-work-with-who’s-old-enough-to-be-our-mom. That influence strikes me as a rather grave responsibility. And I want it to be a good one.
“Hey, D.” I say, still straightening out the coffee cans. “How old are you?”
“Freshman,” comes the reply.
I stop and turn towards him. “NO.” Widening my eyes in mock surprise. “You are not. Get out.”
“Yeah, really,” he says.
“Well, when I first met you I was sure you were a sophomore, or even a junior,” I say. He is so thrown I can almost see waves bouncing off his body.
“You DID. Awwwwwww, man, that is SO COOL!” he says and goes on about it for about another 5 minutes.
“Yeah,” I say, "I was really fooled." And turn back to the shelves. A warm feeling spreading all over me.
I think I love this kid.
[cross-posted at cocokat in slumberland.]
A song for mothers, daughters, wives
MOTHERS, DAUGHTERS, WIVES
Words & music by Judy Small
Chorus:
The first time it was fathers the last time it was sons
And in between your husbands marched away with drums and guns
And you never thought to question you just went on with your lives
'Cause all they'd taught you who to be was mothers, daughters, wives
You can only just remember the tears your mothers shed
As they sat and read the papers through the lists and lists of dead
And the gold frames held the photographs that mothers kissed each night
And the doorframes held the shocked and silent strangers from the fight
Chorus:
And it was twenty-one years later with children of your own
The trumpet sounded once again and the soldier boys were gone
And you drove their trucks and made their guns and tended to their wounds
And at night you kissed their photographs and prayed for safe returns
And after it was over you had to learn again
To be just wives and mothers when you'd done the work of men
So you worked to help the needy and you never trod on toes
And the photos on the pianos struck a happy family pose
Chorus:
Then your daughters grew to women and your little boys to men
And you prayed that you were dreaming when the call-up came again
But you proudly smiled and held your tears as they bravely waved goodbye
But the photos on the mantelpieces always made you cry
And now you're growing older and in time the photos fade
And in widowhood you sit back and reflect on the parade
Of the passing of your memories as your daughters change their lives
Seeing more to our existence than just mothers, daughters, wives
Chorus:
And you believed them
Words & music by Judy Small
Chorus:
The first time it was fathers the last time it was sons
And in between your husbands marched away with drums and guns
And you never thought to question you just went on with your lives
'Cause all they'd taught you who to be was mothers, daughters, wives
You can only just remember the tears your mothers shed
As they sat and read the papers through the lists and lists of dead
And the gold frames held the photographs that mothers kissed each night
And the doorframes held the shocked and silent strangers from the fight
Chorus:
And it was twenty-one years later with children of your own
The trumpet sounded once again and the soldier boys were gone
And you drove their trucks and made their guns and tended to their wounds
And at night you kissed their photographs and prayed for safe returns
And after it was over you had to learn again
To be just wives and mothers when you'd done the work of men
So you worked to help the needy and you never trod on toes
And the photos on the pianos struck a happy family pose
Chorus:
Then your daughters grew to women and your little boys to men
And you prayed that you were dreaming when the call-up came again
But you proudly smiled and held your tears as they bravely waved goodbye
But the photos on the mantelpieces always made you cry
And now you're growing older and in time the photos fade
And in widowhood you sit back and reflect on the parade
Of the passing of your memories as your daughters change their lives
Seeing more to our existence than just mothers, daughters, wives
Chorus:
And you believed them
Saturday, April 12, 2003
Boring Techie Notice
Hello from Blog Sisters Tech Support. If you've noticed any funkiness on the home page here, hopefully I've now been able to fix it. It seems that some versions of Internet Explorer were displaying the posts way down at the bottom of the page, after all the stuff in the side bar. As far as I've been able to tell, this is simply due to a bug in IE that I've been able to work around. If you're still having problems viewing this page correctly, please feel free to email me (roceal at jngm dot net).
I've also heard reports that some people are having problems viewing the RSS feed. I think this may be due to the fact that some posts have "curly quotes." Curly quotes are likely to show up when someone pastes their post in from a Word document, for example. The curly quotes are special characters that some RSS readers may not accept. This is only a guess, as I haven't been able to verify the problems with the RSS feed. Again, if you have any problems with the Blog Sisters web site of a technical nature, please drop me a line!
I've also heard reports that some people are having problems viewing the RSS feed. I think this may be due to the fact that some posts have "curly quotes." Curly quotes are likely to show up when someone pastes their post in from a Word document, for example. The curly quotes are special characters that some RSS readers may not accept. This is only a guess, as I haven't been able to verify the problems with the RSS feed. Again, if you have any problems with the Blog Sisters web site of a technical nature, please drop me a line!
Friday, April 11, 2003
The True Clash of Civilizations
This is an interesting viewpoint on why democracy has taken a poor hold on Muslim countries, but I don't think this explanation is completely "true". Culturally based intolerance may play a role, but democracy in the United States did not establish because of this reason. It was only until the 20th century that women were allowed to vote and people became more liberal on views about race and sexual orientation.
But is infusing Western culture really the answer? I don't believe that any culture is inherently better than any other. I think (and I may be wrong--sociology and political experts please correct me) that the problem may lie in the basic concept of a separation between church and state. In the west, there is this understanding that religion should not meddle with politics although lately one wonders if the blurry line between the two even exists anymore. In the Middle East, there was never a line to begin with.
And if one side is firmly entrenched in the other, exactly how easy is it to uproot that side and strip it of its powers? People don't like giving up power.
(Also posted at Syaffolee.)
This is an interesting viewpoint on why democracy has taken a poor hold on Muslim countries, but I don't think this explanation is completely "true". Culturally based intolerance may play a role, but democracy in the United States did not establish because of this reason. It was only until the 20th century that women were allowed to vote and people became more liberal on views about race and sexual orientation.
But is infusing Western culture really the answer? I don't believe that any culture is inherently better than any other. I think (and I may be wrong--sociology and political experts please correct me) that the problem may lie in the basic concept of a separation between church and state. In the west, there is this understanding that religion should not meddle with politics although lately one wonders if the blurry line between the two even exists anymore. In the Middle East, there was never a line to begin with.
And if one side is firmly entrenched in the other, exactly how easy is it to uproot that side and strip it of its powers? People don't like giving up power.
(Also posted at Syaffolee.)
America's True Flag
America has an official “United States Civil Flag of Peacetime” that history has forgotten and it’s time to bring back.
Go here to read how it came about and how it fell into disuse. You can even get the correct dimensions in case you want to make one of your own to display. It sounds like it’s just the right time to do that and spread the word about our civilian (in contrast to the military version that we have been told to think is our one-true symbol) flag.
According to that website:
Through usage and custom, horizontal stripes had become adopted for use over military posts, and vertical stripes adopted for use over civilian establishments. The Civil Flag, intended for peacetime usage in custom house civilian settings, had vertical stripes with blue stars on a white field. By the Law of the Flag, this design denoted civil jurisdiction under the Constitution and common law as opposed to military jurisdiction under admiralty/military law.
Such has been the path that has brought us under the Law of the Military Flag. This should have raised serious questions from many citizens long ago, but we've been educated to listen and believe what we are told, not to ask questions, or think for ourselves and search for the truth.
(Thanks to theonetruebix for pointing me to this. Please feel free to copy the image and post it on your site.)
Go here to read how it came about and how it fell into disuse. You can even get the correct dimensions in case you want to make one of your own to display. It sounds like it’s just the right time to do that and spread the word about our civilian (in contrast to the military version that we have been told to think is our one-true symbol) flag.
According to that website:
Through usage and custom, horizontal stripes had become adopted for use over military posts, and vertical stripes adopted for use over civilian establishments. The Civil Flag, intended for peacetime usage in custom house civilian settings, had vertical stripes with blue stars on a white field. By the Law of the Flag, this design denoted civil jurisdiction under the Constitution and common law as opposed to military jurisdiction under admiralty/military law.
Such has been the path that has brought us under the Law of the Military Flag. This should have raised serious questions from many citizens long ago, but we've been educated to listen and believe what we are told, not to ask questions, or think for ourselves and search for the truth.
(Thanks to theonetruebix for pointing me to this. Please feel free to copy the image and post it on your site.)
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
Memorial
and for those grieved
by those same dark hearts;
and those lost
from this grave dark age
this lost time
this grieving heart.
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
Virgin Blew
In the instant I reserve a commercial flight seat, I make my peace with death. Long before I attempt the doleful drive to the airport, confront the ashen mask-of-death that is the check in attendant or hobble down the passenger bridge with fear-moistened boarding pass in hand, I Just Know I Am Going To Die.
I see others gape at aircraft, or Birds of Certain Death as I prefer to know them, and I am acquainted with their anguish. Their bloodless faces demand: How will 100,000 kilograms of hydraulics, metal and pure faith stay in the air? Is fuselage Old French for fiery death? Why do they call this building a ‘terminal’? All, as far as this passenger is concerned, resolutely reasonable questions.
There is little that can appease the nervous flier. The jagged edge of panic cuts through mini-Gins. Lessons in aeronautical theory, adamant air-safety statistics and yogic breathing will not blunt the fear. When you know in your gut that the undercarriage strut will fall, the afterburner will melt and jam acceleration will deliver you shortly right into the blistering maw of hell, even prescription sedatives refuse to work.
In the squall of mile-high torture, however, I can sometimes find a nook of hope. If there is a legitimately senior flight attendant aboard wearing foundation garments and wielding Safety Procedures Card as though it were a teething ring, I can be pacified. With an unsmiling face that plainly conveys reassuring concepts like Contingency Plan and Best Practice, only she can soothe. And when, like a chaste Greek Goddess, she commandeers a humourless Safety Demonstration, my fists, for a moment, unclench.
This is not to say, of course, that I do not spend the duration of a flight thinking about my own scorching casualty. However, if a grim and artful Safety Demonstration is performed, then, just for an instant, my unwell fantasies of death can retreat. Instead of instant mortality, I can picture the uniformed matriarch saving me as I lurch down a tattered safety chute. Inevitably, I then see a desert isle future where the burly flight attendant strangles me with an oxygen mask and then eats my remains with plastic cutlery. But that’s ok. Those beggared by airline disaster can’t be choosers, you know.
Qantas, as it happens, has surly attendants and sombre Safety Demonstrations to spare. And so, despite the food and service being, at best, unremarkable, it is my preferred carrier. You can, then, imagine my vexation when a recent obligation found me flying Virgin Blue.
Richard Branson appears to have the attention span of a Koi carp. Further, he keeps trying to fly about in a Hot Air balloon. I do not regard concentration deficiency and aeronautical risk-taking as suitable qualities for the CEO of an airline. However, as I was broke and powerless, I waited in line at Virgin Blue.
Before me was a handsome couple in their early thirties. One half of the couple asked the attendant the approximate boarding time. ‘Thirty minutes’ trilled the chipper hunk behind the desk. ‘Just long enough for a quickie!’. Two members of Virgin Blue’s Dirty Weekend target market giggled. I Just Knew I Was Going To Die.
Aboard the Death Craft, I flipped through the inflight magazine. On occasion, the poor literary standard of airline literature can take my mind from incineration. I looked for something temperate. Perhaps an article on inflight dental hygiene. No. Just pictures of Richard Branson wearing garlands of near naked ladies. I Just Knew I Was Going To Die.
I looked about desperately for reassurance. None of the air’s true stewards, gay men and older ladies, were to be seen. And amid my confusion and a blaze of canned break beats, I had missed the beginning of the Safety Demonstration.
More like a Spice Girls video than aviation safety, the young lady bumped, ground and giggled her way through a mockery of my Certain Death. She sucked on the oxygen mask as though it were amyl nitrate, caressed the safety card much in the manner of a pole dancer and indicated the safety exits as though they were the doors to Gomorrah.
The acme of her tease unfurled as she took the ‘safety’ whistle to her full lips and breathed ‘use the whistle to attract attention. Of the opposite sex!’.
The Dirty Weekenders screamed with laughter. I Just Knew I Was Going To Die.
I see others gape at aircraft, or Birds of Certain Death as I prefer to know them, and I am acquainted with their anguish. Their bloodless faces demand: How will 100,000 kilograms of hydraulics, metal and pure faith stay in the air? Is fuselage Old French for fiery death? Why do they call this building a ‘terminal’? All, as far as this passenger is concerned, resolutely reasonable questions.
There is little that can appease the nervous flier. The jagged edge of panic cuts through mini-Gins. Lessons in aeronautical theory, adamant air-safety statistics and yogic breathing will not blunt the fear. When you know in your gut that the undercarriage strut will fall, the afterburner will melt and jam acceleration will deliver you shortly right into the blistering maw of hell, even prescription sedatives refuse to work.
In the squall of mile-high torture, however, I can sometimes find a nook of hope. If there is a legitimately senior flight attendant aboard wearing foundation garments and wielding Safety Procedures Card as though it were a teething ring, I can be pacified. With an unsmiling face that plainly conveys reassuring concepts like Contingency Plan and Best Practice, only she can soothe. And when, like a chaste Greek Goddess, she commandeers a humourless Safety Demonstration, my fists, for a moment, unclench.
This is not to say, of course, that I do not spend the duration of a flight thinking about my own scorching casualty. However, if a grim and artful Safety Demonstration is performed, then, just for an instant, my unwell fantasies of death can retreat. Instead of instant mortality, I can picture the uniformed matriarch saving me as I lurch down a tattered safety chute. Inevitably, I then see a desert isle future where the burly flight attendant strangles me with an oxygen mask and then eats my remains with plastic cutlery. But that’s ok. Those beggared by airline disaster can’t be choosers, you know.
Qantas, as it happens, has surly attendants and sombre Safety Demonstrations to spare. And so, despite the food and service being, at best, unremarkable, it is my preferred carrier. You can, then, imagine my vexation when a recent obligation found me flying Virgin Blue.
Richard Branson appears to have the attention span of a Koi carp. Further, he keeps trying to fly about in a Hot Air balloon. I do not regard concentration deficiency and aeronautical risk-taking as suitable qualities for the CEO of an airline. However, as I was broke and powerless, I waited in line at Virgin Blue.
Before me was a handsome couple in their early thirties. One half of the couple asked the attendant the approximate boarding time. ‘Thirty minutes’ trilled the chipper hunk behind the desk. ‘Just long enough for a quickie!’. Two members of Virgin Blue’s Dirty Weekend target market giggled. I Just Knew I Was Going To Die.
Aboard the Death Craft, I flipped through the inflight magazine. On occasion, the poor literary standard of airline literature can take my mind from incineration. I looked for something temperate. Perhaps an article on inflight dental hygiene. No. Just pictures of Richard Branson wearing garlands of near naked ladies. I Just Knew I Was Going To Die.
I looked about desperately for reassurance. None of the air’s true stewards, gay men and older ladies, were to be seen. And amid my confusion and a blaze of canned break beats, I had missed the beginning of the Safety Demonstration.
More like a Spice Girls video than aviation safety, the young lady bumped, ground and giggled her way through a mockery of my Certain Death. She sucked on the oxygen mask as though it were amyl nitrate, caressed the safety card much in the manner of a pole dancer and indicated the safety exits as though they were the doors to Gomorrah.
The acme of her tease unfurled as she took the ‘safety’ whistle to her full lips and breathed ‘use the whistle to attract attention. Of the opposite sex!’.
The Dirty Weekenders screamed with laughter. I Just Knew I Was Going To Die.
Proposal to Honor Those in Pain
I like this "proposal to honor those in pain", posted by Cowboy Kahill:
I'd like to propose something else to bloggers who respect life, I don't care what your political persuasion. For the innocent of Iraq, for the journalists who've died, for all the dead soldiers, I propose that we make Thursday a day of silence in the blogosphere. No posts. No comments. Perhaps a memorial message to whoever you wish, posted as a final post the night before.
There are thousands hurting, thousands mourning and thousands still at risk. Can't we demonstrate something else important to the world about us besides our capacity to war well?
Spread the word. Let's post a memorial on Wednesday night and go "dark" on Thursday.
I'd like to propose something else to bloggers who respect life, I don't care what your political persuasion. For the innocent of Iraq, for the journalists who've died, for all the dead soldiers, I propose that we make Thursday a day of silence in the blogosphere. No posts. No comments. Perhaps a memorial message to whoever you wish, posted as a final post the night before.
There are thousands hurting, thousands mourning and thousands still at risk. Can't we demonstrate something else important to the world about us besides our capacity to war well?
Spread the word. Let's post a memorial on Wednesday night and go "dark" on Thursday.
Wish we could clone her!
My former boss (New York State Deputy Commissioner for Cultural Education) was featured in a brief profile in our local paper, and I've posted about it on my own weblog.
But I want to repeat this part of my post:
I’ve referred to her management style in many previous posts on Blog Sisters, since, to me, she’s the model for what a truly participatory and democratic manager and strong leader should be. She delegates wisely and doesn’t second-guess her staff (unless, of course, they do something really politically suicidal). On top of that, she battles on the state and national level to support intellectual freedom and the responsibility of libraries to provide free services and protect the privacy of their patrons.
Being a high-level female manager in a predominantly male-run government agency (the State Education Department) is hard enough; having to negotiate the surrounding political currents is even worse. But she does it. And she does it with integrity, compassion, intelligence, and style. (I’m retired now, so I can say these things about her and not look like I’m looking for a raise!)
The world needs more leaders and managers like her.
But I want to repeat this part of my post:
I’ve referred to her management style in many previous posts on Blog Sisters, since, to me, she’s the model for what a truly participatory and democratic manager and strong leader should be. She delegates wisely and doesn’t second-guess her staff (unless, of course, they do something really politically suicidal). On top of that, she battles on the state and national level to support intellectual freedom and the responsibility of libraries to provide free services and protect the privacy of their patrons.
Being a high-level female manager in a predominantly male-run government agency (the State Education Department) is hard enough; having to negotiate the surrounding political currents is even worse. But she does it. And she does it with integrity, compassion, intelligence, and style. (I’m retired now, so I can say these things about her and not look like I’m looking for a raise!)
The world needs more leaders and managers like her.
Monday, April 07, 2003
A Letter to Grandpa
Way before there was blogging, I was a member of Wild Wolf Women of the Web, and we communicated via a listserv. I still get emails from one of the other former members. In the last one was a link to the following. It's a letter from a fifty-year olf woman to her dead grandfather. I think that it's worth sharing here.
Dear Grandpa,
I have been thinking about you a lot, lately, and so I decided to come by and sit at your grave. I know that you aren't in there; it's just a patch of dirt covering up some bones. But I have been wanting to talk to you, and this seemed as good a place as any. I'm sure that you will recognize me and come near.
I don't know for certain, but I wonder if you keep up on what is happening in this world? If you do, then you know that our country has gone to war.
War is a terrible thing, I don't know anyone who would disagree with that. You saw four wars in your lifetime, and you served in One. We never talked about that. I didn't even know that, until after you were gone.
I suppose it isn't unique at all, that a family might be divided about something so big and awful, yet I am confused by a couple of things. Two of my cousins served in Vietnam. I talked to one who told me, "This war is wrong!" He muttered something about how it is dishonorable, and an affront to his fellow veterans who served in Southeast Asia. He was afraid for the soldiers being exposed to more of our government's toxic chemicals, and about their loss of benefits when they return
.
I talked to the other cousin, and he said, "This war is necessary. And I am still a marine." (As if it was the explanation.) He muttered something about the protesters who dishonored the Vietnam vets in the 'sixties. It seemed like he was more angry with the ones who are against this war, than he was concerned about the war itself.
I know someone who participated in the demonstrations at Berkeley. She has told me about being tear-gassed and beaten, and chased by police on horseback. Protesting has always been a dangerous business, I suppose. It was in 1776.
I don't think I have much right to judge about Vietnam. I was just a teenager when it finally ended, and except for the horrible images on the evening news, and the "CARE" packages we made for the boys at Christmas, I wasn't very much affected by it. I remember how upset my mother was, when my brother's number was drawn third in the draft lottery. (He joined the National Guard.)
There were no protest demonstrations in our little town, except the secret wordless one, when somebody put a charge of dynamite under the draft board office one night. A lot of people snickered about it, and I don't think the crime was ever solved. Nobody got hurt, and the office never re-opened. Back then, they called it "mischief". Today, we call it "terrorism".
I was glad when the guys came home. I don't remember feeling anything but proud of them for their courage, and sad for the sadness that would never be far from their eyes.
I married two ex-marines who had each been wounded in Vietnam. A lot of the scars didn't show on their skin. Neither of them spoke to me about it much. Nobody wanted to talk about that war. Everyone seemed angry about it. I have read some things since then, and talked to others that were there -- but that isn't the same as being there, I realize. People are comparing that war to this one. I don't see very much similarity.
I got mail from a military wife, the other day. (She did not know I am opposed to this war.) Her post suggested that anyone who protests ought to be beaten until they change their attitudes. (We hear a lot of talk like that, nowadays.)
I wondered if those are the values she is teaching her children? That if someone has a different opinion than your own, you should "continue to punch them in the nose until they come 'round to your point of view"? I think this lady would be appalled if some kid brought a gun to her children's school and started shooting people (this happens from time-to-time, nowadays). And yet by the logic of her letter, the person with the biggest artillery is the true authority. "Might makes right."
I replied that I didn't agree with her opinion, and I thought it inexcusable that someone should advocate violence against other Americans -- their countrymen -- for voicing their opinions.
The lady wrote back to say that it's very hard, with her husband being in the military and "seeing so many people standing against them", while they are fighting to protect our freedom.
I told her that we who are opposed to this war are not by-and-large "opposed to the troops". Most people I know, regardless of their position on the war, do hold our servicemen and women in high regard. (There are women in all branches and occupations of the military, now, Grandpa. I bet that makes your eyes get wide!) We all know our troops are doing what they are trained to do, and what they are instructed to do.
Unlike the conscripts who were drafted and forced to serve in Vietnam, these soldiers are all paid volunteers. I suspect that a lot of these young people signed up after September 11, 2001, amid the wave of patriotism that washed over our country and united us all, then.
I understand that many who are serving now sincerely believe that what this country is doing in Iraq is "justice" --or vengeance -- for that single act of terrorism. What they don't seem to know, and their leaders are not telling them, is that this really has nothing to do with that. It seems to me that idea has been contorted to fit the schemes of our leadership. (We have a president who was not elected by the majority, now, Gramps.)
The soldiers are told that they are fighting to preserve our freedom. (Except, perhaps, our freedom to object to government actions we may believe are wrong, corrupt, or just plain stupid.) I don't know that I want to shatter their illusions. I do remember that about Vietnam: the sense of betrayal the veterans shared. Nobody talks about the insurrections among our troops then. Military secret. Maybe that's it, then? One cousin blames the government, while the other blames the protesters and the press which caused them to lose the respect of the American public?
I wonder if the new soldiers hear the news from home? Do they see that while they're "fighting for our freedom", that self-same thing is being stripped away? (They are building new internment camps, dear Grandpa, to keep dissenters in. Immigrants are being rounded up and detained without warrants. Anyone's vehicle may be searched without just cause. Yesterday, the president signed another bill that will make it acceptable to force people into quarantine. In your life, I'm sure you saw quarantines; malaria, influenza, maybe even the dreaded smallpox that our scientists wiped out, but now manufacture in laboratories to use against whole civilizations. Did anyone in your time ever have to be arrested to keep them isolated?)
People who support this war say that those of us who don't agree are betraying our country and "abusing" our freedom of speech. Not long ago, such accusations were pretty much reserved for hate groups like the KKK. (Most people of my generation have outgrown racism, mysogeny, and homophobia, Grandpa. That "radical", Dr. Martin Luther King, who was "stirring up the coloreds in the South" became a national hero. He changed the face of this nation with his brave speeches, and strong example of passive resistance. He was killed for doing that. Dissent is dangerous. Sometimes, deadly. I know you were a product of your generation, and perhaps held some of those beliefs, too -- You saw the restriction of Native Americans to squalid "reservations", and the "internment" of Japanese Americans -- and yet, I know you were a man of integrity, who never spoke ill of anyone. You were a citizen of both Canada and the United States, you spoke Mexican Spanish and Basque Spanish fluently, and probably some French, because you worked with people from those countries. I never heard you suggest superiority over anyone because of their race or creed. --Not even the Mormons, whose customs you found endlessly amusing.)
We have a new and wondrous "vehicle", now, Grandpa. It's called the Internet. It makes it easy for people all over the world to talk to one another. I have never been overseas, but I have friends in many countries. You won't be surprised to hear this, but a lot of us have discovered that most people, regardless of where they live, or the culture they come from, all want pretty much the same things. They want to be able to feed their families, and to have a few things that make their lives easier.
(I consider myself very fortunate to have been a witness to these changes in our country. You wouldn't imagine this, Grandpa, but your little "chiquita cucenero" is nearly fifty! It is already more than a quarter of a century since you went away. A lot of things have changed. Until about a month ago, I was proud to be a citizen.)
I had a chat with your daughter recently, Grandpa. (She is seventy, now, and a great grandmother.) I was upset, and I was talking about my sense of betrayal that all my life I have been told that my vote counts, and that everyone in this country has a voice in how the people are governed. Her response was a resounding GUFFAW! -- as if to say, "Silly girl! Has it really taken you this long to figure that out?" (That's the way it is here in the West, now, Grandpa. I was away for quite a while, and I didn't realize what was happening. People here have known for a long time that their votes are always overridden by states with more people and more money. You were a man of the earth, and I think you would be amazed to discover that now, people of the earth are not allowed to work their stock and trades, because other people who claim to be the real people of the earth have more power, and more influence ... and they think they know what is best for our land. They always win, Gramps. It's surprising that anyone here even bothers to go to the polls. You wouldn't recognize Nevada, now. Except for in the casino-driven border towns, the only jobs left are for the government. Your heart would break, I know.)
It bothers me a great deal that the decision to invade a country far away was made by a few men in Washington. They ignored the protests of the people, and by our trusted allies. (People here are refusing to buy things made in countries that disagreed with the decision of our leaders. Former friends abroad are refusing to buy American goods. You wouldn't recognize this country, Grandpa. We used to feed the world. Now, we produce almost nothing but "information" and weapons, and withhold food from hungry children in order to punish their governments.)
Grandpa, I don't know what it was that I was hoping to learn from talking with you, today. I keep thinking that it was you who instilled in me this wildly independent way of thinking... although I don't remember any specific conversations. Somewhere, way back in my memory, though, there are words and phrases -- important values I can't quite get a hold on -- and warnings to keep a vigilant watch upon those who govern this nation. Caution to not let McCarthy -- or Hitler -- return to power. (And maybe a conspiracy theory, or two .. and some skills and notions that would be labeled "radical survivalist", in these times.)
And love! Where you were, Grandpa, there was always love, and laughter, and kindness. You loved life, and the wide-open spaces, and people. You loved us -- my mother, whom you took to raise as your own, and those of us who issued from her. You loved fiddle music, whiskey in moderation, and good horses. And you loved freedom. I wonder what you would think about what this world has come to? I don't know whether you can let me know what to do, if there is anything that I can do to stop the world from imploding. I guess that I just felt a need to return to a long-ago time when my world was safe, and one of Grandpa's hugs was all it took to fix anything that was wrong.
Thanks for listening, Grandpa. I love you always.
Your "CC"
Dear Grandpa,
I have been thinking about you a lot, lately, and so I decided to come by and sit at your grave. I know that you aren't in there; it's just a patch of dirt covering up some bones. But I have been wanting to talk to you, and this seemed as good a place as any. I'm sure that you will recognize me and come near.
I don't know for certain, but I wonder if you keep up on what is happening in this world? If you do, then you know that our country has gone to war.
War is a terrible thing, I don't know anyone who would disagree with that. You saw four wars in your lifetime, and you served in One. We never talked about that. I didn't even know that, until after you were gone.
I suppose it isn't unique at all, that a family might be divided about something so big and awful, yet I am confused by a couple of things. Two of my cousins served in Vietnam. I talked to one who told me, "This war is wrong!" He muttered something about how it is dishonorable, and an affront to his fellow veterans who served in Southeast Asia. He was afraid for the soldiers being exposed to more of our government's toxic chemicals, and about their loss of benefits when they return
.
I talked to the other cousin, and he said, "This war is necessary. And I am still a marine." (As if it was the explanation.) He muttered something about the protesters who dishonored the Vietnam vets in the 'sixties. It seemed like he was more angry with the ones who are against this war, than he was concerned about the war itself.
I know someone who participated in the demonstrations at Berkeley. She has told me about being tear-gassed and beaten, and chased by police on horseback. Protesting has always been a dangerous business, I suppose. It was in 1776.
I don't think I have much right to judge about Vietnam. I was just a teenager when it finally ended, and except for the horrible images on the evening news, and the "CARE" packages we made for the boys at Christmas, I wasn't very much affected by it. I remember how upset my mother was, when my brother's number was drawn third in the draft lottery. (He joined the National Guard.)
There were no protest demonstrations in our little town, except the secret wordless one, when somebody put a charge of dynamite under the draft board office one night. A lot of people snickered about it, and I don't think the crime was ever solved. Nobody got hurt, and the office never re-opened. Back then, they called it "mischief". Today, we call it "terrorism".
I was glad when the guys came home. I don't remember feeling anything but proud of them for their courage, and sad for the sadness that would never be far from their eyes.
I married two ex-marines who had each been wounded in Vietnam. A lot of the scars didn't show on their skin. Neither of them spoke to me about it much. Nobody wanted to talk about that war. Everyone seemed angry about it. I have read some things since then, and talked to others that were there -- but that isn't the same as being there, I realize. People are comparing that war to this one. I don't see very much similarity.
I got mail from a military wife, the other day. (She did not know I am opposed to this war.) Her post suggested that anyone who protests ought to be beaten until they change their attitudes. (We hear a lot of talk like that, nowadays.)
I wondered if those are the values she is teaching her children? That if someone has a different opinion than your own, you should "continue to punch them in the nose until they come 'round to your point of view"? I think this lady would be appalled if some kid brought a gun to her children's school and started shooting people (this happens from time-to-time, nowadays). And yet by the logic of her letter, the person with the biggest artillery is the true authority. "Might makes right."
I replied that I didn't agree with her opinion, and I thought it inexcusable that someone should advocate violence against other Americans -- their countrymen -- for voicing their opinions.
The lady wrote back to say that it's very hard, with her husband being in the military and "seeing so many people standing against them", while they are fighting to protect our freedom.
I told her that we who are opposed to this war are not by-and-large "opposed to the troops". Most people I know, regardless of their position on the war, do hold our servicemen and women in high regard. (There are women in all branches and occupations of the military, now, Grandpa. I bet that makes your eyes get wide!) We all know our troops are doing what they are trained to do, and what they are instructed to do.
Unlike the conscripts who were drafted and forced to serve in Vietnam, these soldiers are all paid volunteers. I suspect that a lot of these young people signed up after September 11, 2001, amid the wave of patriotism that washed over our country and united us all, then.
I understand that many who are serving now sincerely believe that what this country is doing in Iraq is "justice" --or vengeance -- for that single act of terrorism. What they don't seem to know, and their leaders are not telling them, is that this really has nothing to do with that. It seems to me that idea has been contorted to fit the schemes of our leadership. (We have a president who was not elected by the majority, now, Gramps.)
The soldiers are told that they are fighting to preserve our freedom. (Except, perhaps, our freedom to object to government actions we may believe are wrong, corrupt, or just plain stupid.) I don't know that I want to shatter their illusions. I do remember that about Vietnam: the sense of betrayal the veterans shared. Nobody talks about the insurrections among our troops then. Military secret. Maybe that's it, then? One cousin blames the government, while the other blames the protesters and the press which caused them to lose the respect of the American public?
I wonder if the new soldiers hear the news from home? Do they see that while they're "fighting for our freedom", that self-same thing is being stripped away? (They are building new internment camps, dear Grandpa, to keep dissenters in. Immigrants are being rounded up and detained without warrants. Anyone's vehicle may be searched without just cause. Yesterday, the president signed another bill that will make it acceptable to force people into quarantine. In your life, I'm sure you saw quarantines; malaria, influenza, maybe even the dreaded smallpox that our scientists wiped out, but now manufacture in laboratories to use against whole civilizations. Did anyone in your time ever have to be arrested to keep them isolated?)
People who support this war say that those of us who don't agree are betraying our country and "abusing" our freedom of speech. Not long ago, such accusations were pretty much reserved for hate groups like the KKK. (Most people of my generation have outgrown racism, mysogeny, and homophobia, Grandpa. That "radical", Dr. Martin Luther King, who was "stirring up the coloreds in the South" became a national hero. He changed the face of this nation with his brave speeches, and strong example of passive resistance. He was killed for doing that. Dissent is dangerous. Sometimes, deadly. I know you were a product of your generation, and perhaps held some of those beliefs, too -- You saw the restriction of Native Americans to squalid "reservations", and the "internment" of Japanese Americans -- and yet, I know you were a man of integrity, who never spoke ill of anyone. You were a citizen of both Canada and the United States, you spoke Mexican Spanish and Basque Spanish fluently, and probably some French, because you worked with people from those countries. I never heard you suggest superiority over anyone because of their race or creed. --Not even the Mormons, whose customs you found endlessly amusing.)
We have a new and wondrous "vehicle", now, Grandpa. It's called the Internet. It makes it easy for people all over the world to talk to one another. I have never been overseas, but I have friends in many countries. You won't be surprised to hear this, but a lot of us have discovered that most people, regardless of where they live, or the culture they come from, all want pretty much the same things. They want to be able to feed their families, and to have a few things that make their lives easier.
(I consider myself very fortunate to have been a witness to these changes in our country. You wouldn't imagine this, Grandpa, but your little "chiquita cucenero" is nearly fifty! It is already more than a quarter of a century since you went away. A lot of things have changed. Until about a month ago, I was proud to be a citizen.)
I had a chat with your daughter recently, Grandpa. (She is seventy, now, and a great grandmother.) I was upset, and I was talking about my sense of betrayal that all my life I have been told that my vote counts, and that everyone in this country has a voice in how the people are governed. Her response was a resounding GUFFAW! -- as if to say, "Silly girl! Has it really taken you this long to figure that out?" (That's the way it is here in the West, now, Grandpa. I was away for quite a while, and I didn't realize what was happening. People here have known for a long time that their votes are always overridden by states with more people and more money. You were a man of the earth, and I think you would be amazed to discover that now, people of the earth are not allowed to work their stock and trades, because other people who claim to be the real people of the earth have more power, and more influence ... and they think they know what is best for our land. They always win, Gramps. It's surprising that anyone here even bothers to go to the polls. You wouldn't recognize Nevada, now. Except for in the casino-driven border towns, the only jobs left are for the government. Your heart would break, I know.)
It bothers me a great deal that the decision to invade a country far away was made by a few men in Washington. They ignored the protests of the people, and by our trusted allies. (People here are refusing to buy things made in countries that disagreed with the decision of our leaders. Former friends abroad are refusing to buy American goods. You wouldn't recognize this country, Grandpa. We used to feed the world. Now, we produce almost nothing but "information" and weapons, and withhold food from hungry children in order to punish their governments.)
Grandpa, I don't know what it was that I was hoping to learn from talking with you, today. I keep thinking that it was you who instilled in me this wildly independent way of thinking... although I don't remember any specific conversations. Somewhere, way back in my memory, though, there are words and phrases -- important values I can't quite get a hold on -- and warnings to keep a vigilant watch upon those who govern this nation. Caution to not let McCarthy -- or Hitler -- return to power. (And maybe a conspiracy theory, or two .. and some skills and notions that would be labeled "radical survivalist", in these times.)
And love! Where you were, Grandpa, there was always love, and laughter, and kindness. You loved life, and the wide-open spaces, and people. You loved us -- my mother, whom you took to raise as your own, and those of us who issued from her. You loved fiddle music, whiskey in moderation, and good horses. And you loved freedom. I wonder what you would think about what this world has come to? I don't know whether you can let me know what to do, if there is anything that I can do to stop the world from imploding. I guess that I just felt a need to return to a long-ago time when my world was safe, and one of Grandpa's hugs was all it took to fix anything that was wrong.
Thanks for listening, Grandpa. I love you always.
Your "CC"
ghosts of war.
I can’t write about the war.
The words fail me and as soon as I start to take them out, I find I’d like to put them away again. Maybe it has to do with the isolation that I feel.
Recently, I moved to a small town in Wisconsin where the population is under 3000 and the ethnic makeup is just about 100 percent white -- 90 percent or so of one particular European extraction. Solidly Christian and God-fearing and anti-abortion and Republican. I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb here. You can already guess that there are no protests being conducted here. Instead, you see homemade signs in windows and on front lawns. “Support our Troops, Support our President.” “U.S.A.”
Looking down my street, which is the center of town, the American flags outside the houses and the handful of businesses are strikingly abundant. Our house, lacking a flag, feels conspicuous. Everything else looks just like the Fourth of July except for the bare trees and snow on the ground.
I need to tell you, I’m a sensitive person. A person who suffers from depression, a person whose defense mechanism often consists of shutting out painful truths. The war has been one of these painful truths. And so I don’t watch the news because of my fear of exposure and my vulnerability to internalizing it all.
I am feeling such heavy sorrow. Raging, when I let myself, against the injustice of this campaign. Remembering that my own mother lived through Japanese occupation of the Philippines during World War II, and knowing that she is haunted by stories she would never dream of sharing with her daughters. Stories of seeing people in her town led away to public executions. Babies being bayoneted. Things she waves off in dismissal if I try to ask about.
“What is the use of talking about the past?” she says.
My mind travels tonight to a time I collided randomly with a stranger’s haunted past.
I was a DJ and music director at the time, for a community radio station in a college town. The SST band Das Damen was in town on tour, and as part of my job I had interviewed them on the air and offered them my apartment to flop for the night. The owner of a few local bars had provided me with some free passes to take the boys out after their show. Being a geeky social anxiety-stricken girl, I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of entertaining these guys....in fact, I was slightly petrified. But they were nice and polite. And, beer always helps blunt the edges of my socially anxious tendencies.
We are hanging out in the Bluebird, in a narrow space between the bar and the wall, drinking and shouting above the music. I have been noticing for a while that a scraggly-looking, long-haired, forty-something guy in an army jacket is staring at me from behind our group. He makes his way over to us on wobbly feet, clearly smashed. His glassy eyes wander, looking for a place to land, until they look right into mine. He pushes his way into our circle, facing me. He seems to be whispering something and I can’t make it out and one of the guys in the band leans over and asks, “What.”
The scraggly guy hisses at me. I clearly hear the word. “Vietcong!” The nostrils flaring slightly, breath fouled by beer and whiskey.
I think no at first. That can’t be what he is saying.
I start shrinking inward. I can feel myself departing almost physically, but not quite...my mind starts to remove itself and the voices grow softer and more distant, but my feet remain rooted to the ground and the man and his rage are still right there, inches from my face. I can feel a sort of steam, a sweat wafting out of his pores, and breathing it, I start to gag.
The guys in the band still don’t seem to get what is unfolding, don’t understand what the messed-up vet is saying or what it has to do with me. The vet’s eyes widen and he looks wildly at the nearest guy in our bunch and grabs onto the shoulder of his leather jacket.
“Look at her, dude. Look at her. She’s hidin’ somethin’, man, LOOK.”
The guy from the band is nodding, he is trying to calm and soothe, smooth things over. He lets the vet’s hand remain where it is, gripping his shoulder. “She’s not hiding anything...hey. She’s not doing anything, she’s just fine, just a nice sweet girl not bothering anybody.”
The vet, agitated, starts to shout, in his Dennis-Hopper-in-Easy-Rider voice. “You look under her skirt yet, man?” I know I heard what he said, but I can’t quite believe it and so I continue shrinking. I try to inch away but there isn’t really anyplace to go. One of the other guys in the band is standing behind me and I’m pressing back against him, just trying to create some more space between me and this increasingly raving man. The guy behind me places both his hands on the outside of my upper arms, squeezing them reassuringly. I am holding my breath.
The Das Damen guy says, “Now this is no way to talk, is it? Isn’t it time that you just went on home and stopped bothering nice people who aren’t bothering you.”
That’s when the guy I am assuming is a vet snaps. And yells, “Pull up her skirt! I’m telling you, she’s the f**king Viet Cong, man! She’s got a knife up under there man. She strapped it to her thigh. She’ll cut your f**king throat!” And he starts, heroically, to lunge for me. But the guy from the band reacts quickly, inserting his body between us and pushing the vet back towards the wall so that he ends up toppling on his unsteady feet. He goes down. And that’s when I notice that the shoulder of the Das Damen guy’s leather jacket, where the vet had been holding onto him, is sticky and darkly stained. And I look down at the vet splayed on the floor, his eyes going in crazy directions, and his hands are smeared with blood. I don’t know from where. Maybe he was in a fight earlier, or maybe he fell and injured himself. I am not yet seething at the bartender who had gone on for who knows how long serving this guy who can barely even stand. At the moment I am still shaken and sorry to have been drawn into this man’s delusions and made into a spectacle.
Sorrier, though, for him. For the likelihood that he would not be able to remember anything the next day but some dread vision of a knife wielding enemy woman that he was unable to subdue. Sorry that demons were haunting him. Sorry that someone who had perhaps seen combat duty and horrors I could not begin to imagine, was so obviously suffering. Sorry for my own powerlessness. Depressed and guilty and feeling that the whole incident was my fault for looking like I do. For being a reminder.
We got the bartender to call the guy a cab. Went home to my apartment and broke out the sleeping bags. Everyone apologetic about what happened, talking about what a mess the guy was and how crazy it all was. Ensconced in my bed, I can’t wait for it to be morning, for the tears to stop falling, for the guys in the band to get out of my place and get in their van and get back on the road. Tears, thinking about war wounds.
This was three years before the Gulf War. At a time when I was quite certain in my brain that there would never be another American-instigated war. Firm in my thinking that the lessons of Vietnam had been learned and learned well. Sure that we would never revisit such horrors against another nation and another people, nor inflict the traumatic events of war on our own citizens, our own troops.
That’s what I thought to myself that night. How I comforted myself.
I was younger then, and hopeful.
[cross-posted at cocokat in slumberland.]
The words fail me and as soon as I start to take them out, I find I’d like to put them away again. Maybe it has to do with the isolation that I feel.
Recently, I moved to a small town in Wisconsin where the population is under 3000 and the ethnic makeup is just about 100 percent white -- 90 percent or so of one particular European extraction. Solidly Christian and God-fearing and anti-abortion and Republican. I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb here. You can already guess that there are no protests being conducted here. Instead, you see homemade signs in windows and on front lawns. “Support our Troops, Support our President.” “U.S.A.”
Looking down my street, which is the center of town, the American flags outside the houses and the handful of businesses are strikingly abundant. Our house, lacking a flag, feels conspicuous. Everything else looks just like the Fourth of July except for the bare trees and snow on the ground.
I need to tell you, I’m a sensitive person. A person who suffers from depression, a person whose defense mechanism often consists of shutting out painful truths. The war has been one of these painful truths. And so I don’t watch the news because of my fear of exposure and my vulnerability to internalizing it all.
I am feeling such heavy sorrow. Raging, when I let myself, against the injustice of this campaign. Remembering that my own mother lived through Japanese occupation of the Philippines during World War II, and knowing that she is haunted by stories she would never dream of sharing with her daughters. Stories of seeing people in her town led away to public executions. Babies being bayoneted. Things she waves off in dismissal if I try to ask about.
“What is the use of talking about the past?” she says.
My mind travels tonight to a time I collided randomly with a stranger’s haunted past.
I was a DJ and music director at the time, for a community radio station in a college town. The SST band Das Damen was in town on tour, and as part of my job I had interviewed them on the air and offered them my apartment to flop for the night. The owner of a few local bars had provided me with some free passes to take the boys out after their show. Being a geeky social anxiety-stricken girl, I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of entertaining these guys....in fact, I was slightly petrified. But they were nice and polite. And, beer always helps blunt the edges of my socially anxious tendencies.
We are hanging out in the Bluebird, in a narrow space between the bar and the wall, drinking and shouting above the music. I have been noticing for a while that a scraggly-looking, long-haired, forty-something guy in an army jacket is staring at me from behind our group. He makes his way over to us on wobbly feet, clearly smashed. His glassy eyes wander, looking for a place to land, until they look right into mine. He pushes his way into our circle, facing me. He seems to be whispering something and I can’t make it out and one of the guys in the band leans over and asks, “What.”
The scraggly guy hisses at me. I clearly hear the word. “Vietcong!” The nostrils flaring slightly, breath fouled by beer and whiskey.
I think no at first. That can’t be what he is saying.
I start shrinking inward. I can feel myself departing almost physically, but not quite...my mind starts to remove itself and the voices grow softer and more distant, but my feet remain rooted to the ground and the man and his rage are still right there, inches from my face. I can feel a sort of steam, a sweat wafting out of his pores, and breathing it, I start to gag.
The guys in the band still don’t seem to get what is unfolding, don’t understand what the messed-up vet is saying or what it has to do with me. The vet’s eyes widen and he looks wildly at the nearest guy in our bunch and grabs onto the shoulder of his leather jacket.
“Look at her, dude. Look at her. She’s hidin’ somethin’, man, LOOK.”
The guy from the band is nodding, he is trying to calm and soothe, smooth things over. He lets the vet’s hand remain where it is, gripping his shoulder. “She’s not hiding anything...hey. She’s not doing anything, she’s just fine, just a nice sweet girl not bothering anybody.”
The vet, agitated, starts to shout, in his Dennis-Hopper-in-Easy-Rider voice. “You look under her skirt yet, man?” I know I heard what he said, but I can’t quite believe it and so I continue shrinking. I try to inch away but there isn’t really anyplace to go. One of the other guys in the band is standing behind me and I’m pressing back against him, just trying to create some more space between me and this increasingly raving man. The guy behind me places both his hands on the outside of my upper arms, squeezing them reassuringly. I am holding my breath.
The Das Damen guy says, “Now this is no way to talk, is it? Isn’t it time that you just went on home and stopped bothering nice people who aren’t bothering you.”
That’s when the guy I am assuming is a vet snaps. And yells, “Pull up her skirt! I’m telling you, she’s the f**king Viet Cong, man! She’s got a knife up under there man. She strapped it to her thigh. She’ll cut your f**king throat!” And he starts, heroically, to lunge for me. But the guy from the band reacts quickly, inserting his body between us and pushing the vet back towards the wall so that he ends up toppling on his unsteady feet. He goes down. And that’s when I notice that the shoulder of the Das Damen guy’s leather jacket, where the vet had been holding onto him, is sticky and darkly stained. And I look down at the vet splayed on the floor, his eyes going in crazy directions, and his hands are smeared with blood. I don’t know from where. Maybe he was in a fight earlier, or maybe he fell and injured himself. I am not yet seething at the bartender who had gone on for who knows how long serving this guy who can barely even stand. At the moment I am still shaken and sorry to have been drawn into this man’s delusions and made into a spectacle.
Sorrier, though, for him. For the likelihood that he would not be able to remember anything the next day but some dread vision of a knife wielding enemy woman that he was unable to subdue. Sorry that demons were haunting him. Sorry that someone who had perhaps seen combat duty and horrors I could not begin to imagine, was so obviously suffering. Sorry for my own powerlessness. Depressed and guilty and feeling that the whole incident was my fault for looking like I do. For being a reminder.
We got the bartender to call the guy a cab. Went home to my apartment and broke out the sleeping bags. Everyone apologetic about what happened, talking about what a mess the guy was and how crazy it all was. Ensconced in my bed, I can’t wait for it to be morning, for the tears to stop falling, for the guys in the band to get out of my place and get in their van and get back on the road. Tears, thinking about war wounds.
This was three years before the Gulf War. At a time when I was quite certain in my brain that there would never be another American-instigated war. Firm in my thinking that the lessons of Vietnam had been learned and learned well. Sure that we would never revisit such horrors against another nation and another people, nor inflict the traumatic events of war on our own citizens, our own troops.
That’s what I thought to myself that night. How I comforted myself.
I was younger then, and hopeful.
[cross-posted at cocokat in slumberland.]
Sunday, April 06, 2003
I think a roadtrip may be in order.
I am, to say the least, distressed at the state of my country. I don't know if I want to live here anymore.
I don't want to live in a country where a citizen who has been charged with nothing can be held indefinitely in a high-security federal prison. (Read the article from Wired News.)
I don't want to live in a country where so many people would agree with the hateful propaganda on this site and where this bill could be introduced and somewhat supported in our Congress.
I don't want to live in a country where New York City is so strapped for cash that it might start charging rappers for shout-outs by branding neighborhood names. The article's tone is insoucient rather than grave, but once the public sector is soured by the interests of corporate America, there will be no turning back. Wait a second. I think it's already too late.
I don't want to live in a country where citizens are not unilaterally outraged that they have been deceived into supporting a war that is being fought for reasons other than the ones the government chooses to share with us.
I don't want to live in a country where my views are not represented, my rights are not protected, and my future as an American member of the global community is bleak, at best.
Perhaps singer-songwriter Ani DiFranco said it best: "And if I hear one more time about a fool's right to his tools of rage, I'm gonna take all my friends, and I'm going to move to Canada, and we're going to die of old age."
(Cross-posted at Fire & Ice.)
I don't want to live in a country where a citizen who has been charged with nothing can be held indefinitely in a high-security federal prison. (Read the article from Wired News.)
I don't want to live in a country where so many people would agree with the hateful propaganda on this site and where this bill could be introduced and somewhat supported in our Congress.
I don't want to live in a country where New York City is so strapped for cash that it might start charging rappers for shout-outs by branding neighborhood names. The article's tone is insoucient rather than grave, but once the public sector is soured by the interests of corporate America, there will be no turning back. Wait a second. I think it's already too late.
I don't want to live in a country where citizens are not unilaterally outraged that they have been deceived into supporting a war that is being fought for reasons other than the ones the government chooses to share with us.
I don't want to live in a country where my views are not represented, my rights are not protected, and my future as an American member of the global community is bleak, at best.
Perhaps singer-songwriter Ani DiFranco said it best: "And if I hear one more time about a fool's right to his tools of rage, I'm gonna take all my friends, and I'm going to move to Canada, and we're going to die of old age."
(Cross-posted at Fire & Ice.)
Saturday, April 05, 2003
Feminism and War
I do love it when I find support for my position among women a whole lot smarter than I am.
The war's consequences on feminism and the international community were the focus of a panel discussion held at Cornell University on March 25.
The opening speaker addressed the positions of organizations such as Code Pink, which confronts "war as a women's issue." Code Pink claims that current ideologies of international politics are poisoned because they are "dominated by testosterone and a military which engenders a culture of aggression."
[Pardon me, but wooo hooo. Wasn't that what I was just recently saying??]
The five panelists were Prof. Marcia Greenberg, law; Jane Marie Law, the H. Stanley Krushen Professor of World Religions; Prof. Andrea Parrot, policy analysis and management; Prof. Anna Marie Smith, government and Christine Cuomo, Society for the Humanities postdoctoral fellow.
Smith began the panel with her talk, "How to Be a Feminist in an Empire: Feminism and American Imperialist Expansion...." She suggested that .... "Women need to be un-American enough to shift the current dialogue. We have to suspect the empire will try to use us. Women on the periphery need our solidarity now more than ever....." Smith concluded, "This war will definitely not install democracy. It will either result in a puppet regime or a fundamentalist government. History will judge us by our un-American international solidarity."
The final panelist was Cuomo, presenting "Feminist and Women's Anti-War Activism...." She noted her own experiences in antiwar activism, saying that "we are in the midst of a moment with incredible potential to rebuild the American left...." She gave particular note to the organization New Yorkers Say No to War, a group created on Sept. 16, 2001, founded as "a Ground Zero peace movement knowing where the Bush-Cheney regime was going."
In the question and discussion section of the panel, Michelle Krohn-Friedson '05 asked, "Where could I go for unbiased information on issues such as these?"
Cuomo responded that the presence of independent media is especially noteworthy because "in order to get good information these days, you cannot be passive; you have to seek it out."
The war's consequences on feminism and the international community were the focus of a panel discussion held at Cornell University on March 25.
The opening speaker addressed the positions of organizations such as Code Pink, which confronts "war as a women's issue." Code Pink claims that current ideologies of international politics are poisoned because they are "dominated by testosterone and a military which engenders a culture of aggression."
[Pardon me, but wooo hooo. Wasn't that what I was just recently saying??]
The five panelists were Prof. Marcia Greenberg, law; Jane Marie Law, the H. Stanley Krushen Professor of World Religions; Prof. Andrea Parrot, policy analysis and management; Prof. Anna Marie Smith, government and Christine Cuomo, Society for the Humanities postdoctoral fellow.
Smith began the panel with her talk, "How to Be a Feminist in an Empire: Feminism and American Imperialist Expansion...." She suggested that .... "Women need to be un-American enough to shift the current dialogue. We have to suspect the empire will try to use us. Women on the periphery need our solidarity now more than ever....." Smith concluded, "This war will definitely not install democracy. It will either result in a puppet regime or a fundamentalist government. History will judge us by our un-American international solidarity."
The final panelist was Cuomo, presenting "Feminist and Women's Anti-War Activism...." She noted her own experiences in antiwar activism, saying that "we are in the midst of a moment with incredible potential to rebuild the American left...." She gave particular note to the organization New Yorkers Say No to War, a group created on Sept. 16, 2001, founded as "a Ground Zero peace movement knowing where the Bush-Cheney regime was going."
In the question and discussion section of the panel, Michelle Krohn-Friedson '05 asked, "Where could I go for unbiased information on issues such as these?"
Cuomo responded that the presence of independent media is especially noteworthy because "in order to get good information these days, you cannot be passive; you have to seek it out."
Speaking of Babies...
From Newsday:
FORT DRUM, N.Y. -- The Army has court-martialed a 36-year-old 10th Mountain Division soldier for refusing to be vaccinated against anthrax and influenza, Fort Drum officials said Friday.
Pvt. Rhonda Hazley, a wheeled-vehicle mechanic with 514th Maintenance Company, was convicted March 21 by a summary court martial of disobeying the orders of an officer and a noncommissioned officer, said Col. Robert Caslen, the division's chief of staff.
The court martial reduced her three grades in rank to private. She also was ordered to serve 14 days confinement, Caslen said.....
Hazley, of East Dublin, Ga., refused the shot because she is breast-feeding her child, friend Stephanie Ingram told WWTI-TV, a local television station. Hazley joined the Army in April 1999 and was assigned to Fort Drum six months later. ....
Meanwhile, Kamila Iwanowska, a 26-year-old reservist from New York City, also faces a special court martial for refusing to receive the anthrax vaccine, The Watertown Daily Times reported Friday......
Iwanowska, a recently naturalized Polish immigrant, objected because she feared the vaccination could have adverse effects on her reproductive system and her ability to have a baby, her lawyer, Lionel Hector, told The Associated Press.....
The military system is designed from a male perspective. I don't know how I feel about that. The system automatically limits choices that only women need to make. (So, knowing that, when a woman enters the military, should she do so only with the agreement that she turn her choices over to the power of the military?) On the other hand, are there other options for running the military that honors the choices that only women have to make because of their natural biology? If women ran the military, would the system be very different? (My assumption is that we need a military to defend our national boundaries from attack.)
FORT DRUM, N.Y. -- The Army has court-martialed a 36-year-old 10th Mountain Division soldier for refusing to be vaccinated against anthrax and influenza, Fort Drum officials said Friday.
Pvt. Rhonda Hazley, a wheeled-vehicle mechanic with 514th Maintenance Company, was convicted March 21 by a summary court martial of disobeying the orders of an officer and a noncommissioned officer, said Col. Robert Caslen, the division's chief of staff.
The court martial reduced her three grades in rank to private. She also was ordered to serve 14 days confinement, Caslen said.....
Hazley, of East Dublin, Ga., refused the shot because she is breast-feeding her child, friend Stephanie Ingram told WWTI-TV, a local television station. Hazley joined the Army in April 1999 and was assigned to Fort Drum six months later. ....
Meanwhile, Kamila Iwanowska, a 26-year-old reservist from New York City, also faces a special court martial for refusing to receive the anthrax vaccine, The Watertown Daily Times reported Friday......
Iwanowska, a recently naturalized Polish immigrant, objected because she feared the vaccination could have adverse effects on her reproductive system and her ability to have a baby, her lawyer, Lionel Hector, told The Associated Press.....
The military system is designed from a male perspective. I don't know how I feel about that. The system automatically limits choices that only women need to make. (So, knowing that, when a woman enters the military, should she do so only with the agreement that she turn her choices over to the power of the military?) On the other hand, are there other options for running the military that honors the choices that only women have to make because of their natural biology? If women ran the military, would the system be very different? (My assumption is that we need a military to defend our national boundaries from attack.)
she's not coming home to her babies
"Piestewa, 23, was the mother of a 4-year-old boy and a 3-year-old girl and a source of pride in her Hopi community."
The damage of war ripples across so many lives. She looks so alive in this photo. It's the expression. It's the kind of face. You just know you'd like her.
I hadn't thought until I saw this story about Native Americans serving in the military, and how I find a kind of tragic irony in that. Maybe it's just me.
Friday, April 04, 2003
A Local Woman Speaks Out
This is a letter to the Editor published in my local paper. I don’t know Vida Wehren, but I’m sure she won’t mind my sharing it here:
The night the invasion of Iraq began, I was driving home feeling deeply saddened and anxious. In the evening sky, the almost-full moon hung in a veil of clouds, its reflection shining below like a double moon. It occurred to me that some Native American cultures call the moon "Grandmother Moon," symbolizing the wisdom of the grandmother, the much-respected "old crone."
The moon seemed symbolic that evening of the wisdom that is so desperately needed to direct America's path through this difficult time. We are now engaged in a war that continues to be opposed by unprecedented numbers of people the world over. Yet many believe that the only path open to Americans now that war has begun, and the only way to support our troops, is to follow our leaders without question.
The wisdom of the grandmothers leads us to another path, however, the path of seeking moral answers to the terrors facing our country and the world today. The wisdom of the grandmothers calls us, as citizens of this great country, to protect America's democratic foundations, her integrity and her honor.
Guarding America's principles requires constant vigilance, constant questioning and forceful opposition when we believe our leaders are taking us in the wrong direction. It requires citizens to gather the facts from a variety of sources, to actively seek to understand what is happening in this world and why, and to form an opinion based on critical thought, rather than political rhetoric and sensationalized sound bites on the evening news. This is not being unpatriotic; it is being quintessentially American.
A democracy cannot stand if its citizens refuse to question and, instead, blindly trust that the government is acting in the best interests of the country, rather than the best interests of those in government. Those of us who believe this war is being waged on false pretenses will continue to exercise our responsibility as American citizens to seek out the truth and question our government.
We will continue to support our troops while despising the war that put them into harm's way. We will continue to fight to protect our rights as American citizens and the rights of all people worldwide to live in peace. This is what democracy looks like.
VIDA WEHREN
Voorheesville
womenagainstwar@ureach.com
The night the invasion of Iraq began, I was driving home feeling deeply saddened and anxious. In the evening sky, the almost-full moon hung in a veil of clouds, its reflection shining below like a double moon. It occurred to me that some Native American cultures call the moon "Grandmother Moon," symbolizing the wisdom of the grandmother, the much-respected "old crone."
The moon seemed symbolic that evening of the wisdom that is so desperately needed to direct America's path through this difficult time. We are now engaged in a war that continues to be opposed by unprecedented numbers of people the world over. Yet many believe that the only path open to Americans now that war has begun, and the only way to support our troops, is to follow our leaders without question.
The wisdom of the grandmothers leads us to another path, however, the path of seeking moral answers to the terrors facing our country and the world today. The wisdom of the grandmothers calls us, as citizens of this great country, to protect America's democratic foundations, her integrity and her honor.
Guarding America's principles requires constant vigilance, constant questioning and forceful opposition when we believe our leaders are taking us in the wrong direction. It requires citizens to gather the facts from a variety of sources, to actively seek to understand what is happening in this world and why, and to form an opinion based on critical thought, rather than political rhetoric and sensationalized sound bites on the evening news. This is not being unpatriotic; it is being quintessentially American.
A democracy cannot stand if its citizens refuse to question and, instead, blindly trust that the government is acting in the best interests of the country, rather than the best interests of those in government. Those of us who believe this war is being waged on false pretenses will continue to exercise our responsibility as American citizens to seek out the truth and question our government.
We will continue to support our troops while despising the war that put them into harm's way. We will continue to fight to protect our rights as American citizens and the rights of all people worldwide to live in peace. This is what democracy looks like.
VIDA WEHREN
Voorheesville
womenagainstwar@ureach.com
Thursday, April 03, 2003
The War On Logic
For inscrutable reasons, the administration of my country, Australia, has decided to send troops to Iraq.
While millions of Australians attend anti-war demonstrations, still others remain at home. Perhaps the dread of grubby zealots with inappropriate piercings has kept countless cowards away from marches.
I don’t especially mind the noise, pamphlets or foul patchouli nimbus they produce. While I do take exception to specific hippie practises such as chanting, I absolutely affirm both the inalienable right to protest and freely wear unpleasant essential oils.
I have begun to suspect that my Government doesn’t share my respect for public demonstration nor cares to weave such views into policy. So, chanting and poor fashion sense aside, I cannot march because my intended audience has tuned out.
After the Prime Minister’s comments that reduced the monumental expression of sorrow by millions of Australians to the collective noun ‘mob’ –I just can’t be arsed showing up.
Whether one consents to the war on a pintsize despot or not, it is difficult to overlook the fact of an administration who has little respect for public opinion . Even those crisply laundered Christians, upright Professionals and picture perfect families in attendance consist in a ‘mob’.
My Auntie Margaret would rather petit-point than protest. Nonetheless she downed embroidery to march on a surface other than the Airofit Zero Stress Walking Machine. She wasn’t very happy about her chosen Prime Minister identifying her as part of a ‘mob’.
If Auntie Margaret can be construed as rabble then I, her least reputable niece, bear zero chance of maintaining respectability on foot.
So I choose to arm myself in the War Against Logic with my computer. I have been writing letters and I have been sending emails.
The Australian Prime Minister John Howard has a < a h ref = http://www.pm.gov.au/your_feedback/feedback.htm >page inviting email which I cheerfully used. (As you are no doubt aware < a href = http://www.whitehouse.gov/contact/>Gee Dubya has one too.) I received an acknowledgement offering the half-promise 'you may receive a reply’. I had received no further riposte to my numbered questions.
As a charitable constituent, I conceded that the PM might be preoccupied packing his jammies for trysts at Camp David. So I resumed a rather one sided correspondence with the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Alexander Downer.
Again, I posed questions, rather than opinions. I used the email address supplied to me on the Australian Parliament House website. Enquiry revealed that emails to this address do not reach Mr Downer unless he is in his electorate. ‘Send it to this other address if you like’ offered the representative, ‘but you could always call Stirling and attempt to track it down’. I did both.
Mr Downer’s Ministry did not acknowledge my email. His electoral office did not return my phone calls.
I did receive one acknowledgement that read “Your message To: Downer, Alexander (MP) was deleted without being read”.
I responded AGAIN asking why my email was deleted. From one Pam Mayer came the reply ‘Mr Downer does not reply by email and will only give a written reply if a postal address is supplied.’ I answered : How does Mr Downer determine if a postal address is included in an email if it is deleted without being read?’.
Do I need t tell you that this email was also Deleted Without Being Read?
I began to take Pam’s responses personally and thought it best we resolve the confusion. I managed to catch her on March 26. She informed that emails to the Minister were deleted if they were deemed ‘unsuitable’. I asked after that office’s feedback policy. ‘We kind of play it by ear’. I repeated the statement as I committed it to keyboard, thinking that I ought to record such strange advice. ‘I don’t want to talk to you!’ she insisted and terminated the call.
I called again, and Pam screeched ‘I DON’T wish to TALK WITH YOU.’ Trying for a hat-trick, I dialled and was rewarded with another hang up
Multiple calls to the Ministry resulted in a response just received. I am sad to convey that Alexander addressed none of my questions. I was, however, thanked for my ‘views’ which were ‘noted’.
Although, I did not HAVE any views, JUST QUESTIONS. Which were not, incidentally, promptly nor adequately addressed.
Hippies, Auntie Margaret and myself have tried different modes of inquiry and failed to have our distinct voices heard.
By email, telephone or on foot, it seems, we can not be heard above the noise of Federal self-congratulation. Whether query or protest, any sound made is just part of the mob’s din.
While millions of Australians attend anti-war demonstrations, still others remain at home. Perhaps the dread of grubby zealots with inappropriate piercings has kept countless cowards away from marches.
I don’t especially mind the noise, pamphlets or foul patchouli nimbus they produce. While I do take exception to specific hippie practises such as chanting, I absolutely affirm both the inalienable right to protest and freely wear unpleasant essential oils.
I have begun to suspect that my Government doesn’t share my respect for public demonstration nor cares to weave such views into policy. So, chanting and poor fashion sense aside, I cannot march because my intended audience has tuned out.
After the Prime Minister’s comments that reduced the monumental expression of sorrow by millions of Australians to the collective noun ‘mob’ –I just can’t be arsed showing up.
Whether one consents to the war on a pintsize despot or not, it is difficult to overlook the fact of an administration who has little respect for public opinion . Even those crisply laundered Christians, upright Professionals and picture perfect families in attendance consist in a ‘mob’.
My Auntie Margaret would rather petit-point than protest. Nonetheless she downed embroidery to march on a surface other than the Airofit Zero Stress Walking Machine. She wasn’t very happy about her chosen Prime Minister identifying her as part of a ‘mob’.
If Auntie Margaret can be construed as rabble then I, her least reputable niece, bear zero chance of maintaining respectability on foot.
So I choose to arm myself in the War Against Logic with my computer. I have been writing letters and I have been sending emails.
The Australian Prime Minister John Howard has a < a h ref = http://www.pm.gov.au/your_feedback/feedback.htm >page inviting email which I cheerfully used. (As you are no doubt aware < a href = http://www.whitehouse.gov/contact/>Gee Dubya has one too.) I received an acknowledgement offering the half-promise 'you may receive a reply’. I had received no further riposte to my numbered questions.
As a charitable constituent, I conceded that the PM might be preoccupied packing his jammies for trysts at Camp David. So I resumed a rather one sided correspondence with the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Alexander Downer.
Again, I posed questions, rather than opinions. I used the email address supplied to me on the Australian Parliament House website. Enquiry revealed that emails to this address do not reach Mr Downer unless he is in his electorate. ‘Send it to this other address if you like’ offered the representative, ‘but you could always call Stirling and attempt to track it down’. I did both.
Mr Downer’s Ministry did not acknowledge my email. His electoral office did not return my phone calls.
I did receive one acknowledgement that read “Your message To: Downer, Alexander (MP) was deleted without being read”.
I responded AGAIN asking why my email was deleted. From one Pam Mayer came the reply ‘Mr Downer does not reply by email and will only give a written reply if a postal address is supplied.’ I answered : How does Mr Downer determine if a postal address is included in an email if it is deleted without being read?’.
Do I need t tell you that this email was also Deleted Without Being Read?
I began to take Pam’s responses personally and thought it best we resolve the confusion. I managed to catch her on March 26. She informed that emails to the Minister were deleted if they were deemed ‘unsuitable’. I asked after that office’s feedback policy. ‘We kind of play it by ear’. I repeated the statement as I committed it to keyboard, thinking that I ought to record such strange advice. ‘I don’t want to talk to you!’ she insisted and terminated the call.
I called again, and Pam screeched ‘I DON’T wish to TALK WITH YOU.’ Trying for a hat-trick, I dialled and was rewarded with another hang up
Multiple calls to the Ministry resulted in a response just received. I am sad to convey that Alexander addressed none of my questions. I was, however, thanked for my ‘views’ which were ‘noted’.
Although, I did not HAVE any views, JUST QUESTIONS. Which were not, incidentally, promptly nor adequately addressed.
Hippies, Auntie Margaret and myself have tried different modes of inquiry and failed to have our distinct voices heard.
By email, telephone or on foot, it seems, we can not be heard above the noise of Federal self-congratulation. Whether query or protest, any sound made is just part of the mob’s din.
More on Chemical-related Gender Differences.
Got this as part of a advertising/newsletter email from here, so I need to explore the validity of the following statement and see if I can track down the referred-to report.
What makes women more vulnerable to stress?
The reasons stress affects women so negatively are both physical and situational.
Physical factors
Physically, when you're under stress, your body produces corticotrophin-releasing factor (CRF), a chemical that triggers the release of adrenaline and other brain chemicals. Women under stress secrete more of trigger chemicals like CRF than males in the same circumstances.
A report from the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), published in the July 2000 edition of Psychological Review, states that the "fight or flight" response applies to men, not women. Women, the study claims, exhibit a very different reaction, what researchers call a "tend and befriend" response.
The report analyzed hundreds of biological and behavioral studies of responses to stress by thousands of animals and humans. It concluded that women under stress are apt to spend time nurturing their children or seek social interaction, especially with other women.
The study also identified a hormone called oxytocin, which has a calming effect on both animals and people. Oxytocin, researchers believe, prompts maternal behavior and socialization. In men, testosterone counteracts the soothing effects of oxytocin. But women's estrogen is believed to actually enhance oxytocin.
Situational factors
In our society, women are expected to do it all: succeed professionally, maintain a comfortable home, and care for our spouses and children. Conversely, men often are able to relax at home, leaving their work problems at the office.
What's more, women typically fill the role of caretakers. As we grow older, we often find ourselves sandwiched between children and parents, doing double duty as caretakers for both generations. This added responsibility only intensifies a woman's feelings of anxiety and overload.
What makes women more vulnerable to stress?
The reasons stress affects women so negatively are both physical and situational.
Physical factors
Physically, when you're under stress, your body produces corticotrophin-releasing factor (CRF), a chemical that triggers the release of adrenaline and other brain chemicals. Women under stress secrete more of trigger chemicals like CRF than males in the same circumstances.
A report from the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), published in the July 2000 edition of Psychological Review, states that the "fight or flight" response applies to men, not women. Women, the study claims, exhibit a very different reaction, what researchers call a "tend and befriend" response.
The report analyzed hundreds of biological and behavioral studies of responses to stress by thousands of animals and humans. It concluded that women under stress are apt to spend time nurturing their children or seek social interaction, especially with other women.
The study also identified a hormone called oxytocin, which has a calming effect on both animals and people. Oxytocin, researchers believe, prompts maternal behavior and socialization. In men, testosterone counteracts the soothing effects of oxytocin. But women's estrogen is believed to actually enhance oxytocin.
Situational factors
In our society, women are expected to do it all: succeed professionally, maintain a comfortable home, and care for our spouses and children. Conversely, men often are able to relax at home, leaving their work problems at the office.
What's more, women typically fill the role of caretakers. As we grow older, we often find ourselves sandwiched between children and parents, doing double duty as caretakers for both generations. This added responsibility only intensifies a woman's feelings of anxiety and overload.
From Lysistrata to Anita Roddick
So, as I sat at my sewing machine making pillow cases out of old sheets for my mother (who can well afford to buy new ones but old people get that way) so that she can get on her sewing machine and amuse hersef trying to do machine embroidery along their edges, I'm thinking about women advocating for peace.
So, I tooled around the blogroll here at Blog Sisters to see how many of us are writing our hearts out about the problems with the reasons for this war and the problems that waging this war is causing here, there, and everywhere. From respected published Sister writers such as Anita Roddick and Natalie Davis, to the rest of them I've listed below, there are defnitely a lot us who really take this war personally and opt to act, at least in words. (I'm not saying that there aren't men who are doing that as well, but they're not on this blogroll and I don't have time to surf for them because I have to go cook supper for my mother.) I finally gave up looking at each Sister url -- there are just too many. But, here are some who are writing eloquently about their perspectives on war and peace, Constitutional freedoms, and the pain of watching killing done in their names -- just in case anyone feels like checking them out.
http://gratefuldread.net/fando/
http://weblog.burningbird.net/
http://rivervision.com/blog/
http://nonsense-verse.blogspot.com/
http://bittershack.blogspot.com/
http://buzz.weblogs.com/
http://www.katecohen.com/
http://betsydevine.weblogger.com/
http://www.surreally.net/fullbleed/
http://skyedreams.blogspot.com/
http://www.ruminatethis.com/
http://righton.blogspot.com/
http://caxton.stockton.edu/Distracted/
http://www.wampum.blogspot.com/
http://www.gamalei.net/syaffolee/
http://www.serialdeviant.org/
http://klondikekatesaurora.blogspot.com/
If you want to add your url to the list, please do so.
And, as I was checking Sister sites, I discovered that there are more than a few that are either not there at all any more or that haven't been updated for months. So, please check your name in the blogroll and email me corrections for your own or any others that you might know about. Thanks.
So, I tooled around the blogroll here at Blog Sisters to see how many of us are writing our hearts out about the problems with the reasons for this war and the problems that waging this war is causing here, there, and everywhere. From respected published Sister writers such as Anita Roddick and Natalie Davis, to the rest of them I've listed below, there are defnitely a lot us who really take this war personally and opt to act, at least in words. (I'm not saying that there aren't men who are doing that as well, but they're not on this blogroll and I don't have time to surf for them because I have to go cook supper for my mother.) I finally gave up looking at each Sister url -- there are just too many. But, here are some who are writing eloquently about their perspectives on war and peace, Constitutional freedoms, and the pain of watching killing done in their names -- just in case anyone feels like checking them out.
http://gratefuldread.net/fando/
http://weblog.burningbird.net/
http://rivervision.com/blog/
http://nonsense-verse.blogspot.com/
http://bittershack.blogspot.com/
http://buzz.weblogs.com/
http://www.katecohen.com/
http://betsydevine.weblogger.com/
http://www.surreally.net/fullbleed/
http://skyedreams.blogspot.com/
http://www.ruminatethis.com/
http://righton.blogspot.com/
http://caxton.stockton.edu/Distracted/
http://www.wampum.blogspot.com/
http://www.gamalei.net/syaffolee/
http://www.serialdeviant.org/
http://klondikekatesaurora.blogspot.com/
If you want to add your url to the list, please do so.
And, as I was checking Sister sites, I discovered that there are more than a few that are either not there at all any more or that haven't been updated for months. So, please check your name in the blogroll and email me corrections for your own or any others that you might know about. Thanks.
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