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December 20, 2004 November 30, 2004 November 3, 2004 Living on either coast, in a way,
isolates you. I've spent my life surrounded by democrats. So
naturally I would find it hard to believe that Bush won the popular vote because
heck, everyone I know voted for Kerry! When I woke up, the day after the
declared winner was announced, I felt much the same way I did the day after O.J.
was acquitted--first, disbelief, then bewilderment. There was such tension
in the air, especially in Los Angeles, immediately following the verdict.
The country was divided, black/white. Walking around the city, you could
feel the discord. Black Americans all looking at white Americans thinking,
"I know you think he did it." White Americans staring back at
black Americans thinking, "How could you think he's innocent?" Fear is fully integrated into our culture. Everything is is designed to make
us afraid. In fact, consumerism depends on fear. Buy my
anti-wrinkle cream, or you'll look old! Buy my pills, or you won't
be able to get a 4 hour erection, and then you're wife will leave you! Buy
my low-carb drink or you'll get fat! It's endless. I know this is cynical. But it's
hard to ignore. America was an experiment after all. I'm not
saying it failed but when you think about it, what do we really have to offer
the world besides consumerism? America has literally become an island of
corporate greed. I'm not suggesting John Kerry was our savior. Or that in fact he would have changed any of this. But I am puzzled by what drove people in this election. There are so many problems we face, problems that affect every one of us yet the single most important issue for the majority of Americans was based on fear. If we are to live up to our name, United States, we are going to have to learn to consume ourselves with something much more positive than fear--compassion. Let that overwhelm us and then we will truly be free. Since I have no formal military training, I've decided to call off my attack on Ohio. For now, all we can do is choose hope. Heartbreak, Boston
Style It's the top of the11th inning at Fenway Park, game 4 of the American League Championship between the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees. I'm hiding upstairs in my room, occasionally running down to check the score. I can't take it anymore. The Red Sox are the heartbreak team of all time, next to only the Chicago Cubs. Every year we go through this. And always seems to come down to that bitter rivalry between us, and them. Them being the dreaded Yankees, or as some Bostonians call them, the Bankees, the Spankmes, the Yankmes. Yesterday they slaughtered us 18-8 in what was supposed to be our must win game to get back into the series. Well, it's all coming down to one pitch and one hit in the 11th inning. The Red Sox did what they do best, let us down then renewed our hope tying the game up in the 9th inning. So why aren't I watching??? The laws of probability. We've been here so many times before with the Sox and every time its the same. We Believe! This could be the one! Reverse the curse! Make history! I can't watch. Probably because in truth, I still do believe. Oh my heart. Why would a baseball team have such a profound affect on ones emotional well being? If you are asking that question, you're obviously not from Boston. I'm going home to Boston in a week. It's the perfect time. The foliage happened to come late this year so I should just catch it while it's still spectacular. There's so much to love about Boston. There's nothing ordinary about this city. It grabs you from the moment you set foot on the cobblestone streets and takes you on a long journey through winding roads and rocky beaches. Boston is advanced residency. You've got to really want it. Because it will fight you, in every sense. It's not enough to be born a Bostonian. You've got to be committed to the city. That could mean a variety of things. Being a sox fan is one of them--the truest test of loyalty. Being a Bostonian means heartache. Because you're born a Red Sox fan whether you like it or not. Secretly, I think we're all masochists. We love the angst and the torture. It bonds us together in the stormy dark days. Being a Bostonian makes you feel like you've earned the right to good fortune, whenever it may knock. Because it doesn't knock that frequently. You've got to, if not have your own hard luck story, sympathize with one. You've got to be willing to take the really good with the really bad. The weather is the perfect metaphor. It's never bland, or even tempered. It's full of drama. You want beautiful colored leaves, sunny skies and a crisp breeze? Okay, here's that and twelve feet of snow and slush back at ya. You want the best blueberry pie, lobster roll and apple cider you'll ever have in your life? You want the greatest intellects, most knowledgeable sports fanatics, conscientious political activists and observers and really great pizza? Okay, have all that and I'll raise ya a Bill O'Reilly and a Dunkin Donuts. ...Okay I think we're in the 12th. Boston makes you cynical and hopeful at the same time. It's a scary mix because the two are like ying and yang endlessly struggling. Maybe it's the plight of being a Red Sox fan--a lifetime of getting just excited enough to be truly heartbroken when they fall. Even moving to California hasn't released me from this burden. I can still watch the games on TV. But I think I did move to California partially because I wanted less of a daily struggle. Life is easier in sunny LA. Although, no where near as colorful. That's what I miss most of all about home, the color, the character, the soul. Boston has more soul than any other city in the world--a tortured one, maybe. But an old one at that. The people are rich with character and distinction. They're never dull, they never relent and they're always fans. The people of Boston need this win. No, the whole country needs this win. If the Red Sox can win this series, just this series, it would not only lift the famous Curse of the Bambino, but lift the dark cloud that's befallen on us since 9/11. There's something symbolic about the idea of the Red Sox finally lifting this curse. The last three years the world has been in some kind of strange twisted cosmic spin. Personally, I've had the worst luck of my life. And I'm so tired of this slump. We're all tired. We're tired of losing. We're tired of war and lies. We're tired of economic hardships and insufficient health care. We're tired of being hit with endless natural disasters. We're tired of being humiliated and beaten down by the big bad greedy corporate monster represented so fittingly by the Yankees. No offense New York. We still love you a nd, we've always got your back. But it's the underdog's turn now. It may sound silly to hang your hopes on the result of a baseball game. If you were from Boston, you'd understand. Well, top of the 12th, still tied. Can I bare to watch this? Maybe I'll just take a peak, and hope for the best. Go Sox! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Red Sox did win the game and went on to win the American League Championship series becoming the first major league ball team in history to come back from a3 game loss to win the series. The Red Sox then went on to beat the St. Louis Cardinals, (the team with the best record in baseball), in a 4 game sweep to win the World Series for the first time in 86 years. September 28, 2004 I woke up early the other morning, grabbed my cup of coffee and went to sit of the back porch. I was stunned at the briskness in the air and that distinct smell of Fall. Where did Summer go? "I'm not ready for Fall!" I thought. I felt the longing for warm nights and the smell of suntan lotion. Then I realized...How quick I am to resist change, to want to hold on to what was. I think most of us live this way, wanting to hold on to the past, somehow stop time from its inevitable marching forward. Mother Nature can be a great teacher, though. As I sat on my back porch, I tried to change the sadness I felt for the loss of summer with the excitement that fall would bring. There can be beauty in change and Fall is a perfect example. As the leaves change from green to colors of red, orange, yellow, and burgundy and the air goes from hazy to cool and crisp, the change from summer to fall wakes us up and puts life into vibrant color. My emotions began to change as I thought of the feeling of new beginnings that Fall brings. I can still be sad and grieve over the end of summer, but that does not mean I can't embrace the changes that Fall brings. This concept goes beyond the weather and season, as all of life is about endings and beginnings, deaths and rebirths, letting go and receiving. Mother Nature shows us with such beauty and consistency the cycle of change. She lets us know that there is nothing to be afraid of and its okay, and in fact, necessary to let go of the past and face the future. We can't stop the seasons, just as we can't stop the changes in our own lives. Especially in recovery, as one lets go of old destructive habits and thought patterns to begin the healing process. What lies beyond these habits and behaviors that have been a part of our lives for so long? That's a scary thought, at times. As you let go, its okay to grieve, to feel the sadness of what was. Let Fall and the image that Mother Nature has given us, help to ease the transition. Change, though difficult, can hold within it such beauty. Let this Fall be an opportunity to embrace the new, letting yourself move forward in life with vibrant color! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Jennifer Campbell is the Director of the Mind & Body Healing Program on Payson Road. We invite you to revisit the Mind & Body and explore our many progressive and alternative healing and recovery programs.
Sensationalism vs. Recovery Millie Plotkin of Voices
Not Bodies recently wrote a letter to the Editor of the Washington Post in
response to a Pro-ED article they recently published. The Post article,
like others, contained contact info. and site addresses for some of the
worst Pro-Ed sites. Both letters raise very crucial points. And I have to ask myself, is ANYONE LISTENING TO US???? Here now are Millie and Jenn's letters on this very important subject. I hope that more publications will take notice and stop sensationalist journalism and start promoting the organizations and websites that are aiding recovery not preventing it. You can do your part by writing a letter to the editor every time you see one of these Pro-ED articles or watch a television segment on Pro-ED sites. Oh, and please note the reference to Payson Road in Millie's article. Thank
you Millie! Disorderly Conduct
More Harm Than Good - Dear Self
Magazine... To Whom it May Concern, I was appalled and angered at what I read in your August issue. I was informed of one of the articles by a friend struggling with Anorexia. The article I am referring to is "Anorexia Outrage." I was deeply disturbed by the article mainly for the fact the you included the names of all of the pro-eating disorder websites! As a recovering Anorexic and Bulimic, I can say that your magazine has made good strides in trying to promote health, however it is still read by many body-obsessed and eating disordered women (I was one of them for many years.) That article is NOT helpful but truly harmful to those struggling with an eating disorder. To quote that article ..."But
women with eating disorders are so vulnerable that exposure to these sites is
extremely dangerous." You are, in fact, promoting these websites by
including their names and are as dangerous to those who suffer as the sites
themselves. Sincerely Jen August 1, 2004 I carry guilt around with me like my son carries his security blanket. Guilt is my “woobie.” Guilt is usually my first emotional reaction to anything. Why, you ask, would I be comfortable with the constant self-deprecating and self-diminishing feeling? You get used to it, after a while. It’s horrible. I hold my breath while I think of something I feel guilty about. I catch myself holding my breath a lot. The other day I got my hair cut after work and I was a half hour late getting home. I started telling the hairdresser how I needed to get home, and I told her this long story about how tired my husband was and could she hurry it up a little. In hindsight, it was the first time in a very long time I had done anything for myself (outside of the home). But I didn’t think of that at the moment, I only thought of the guilt I had for being late, and for inconveniencing my husband. Last night my husband and I went out on a date. We were having a great time and my husband suggested I call in sick so we could spend the day together, take turns taking naps, go to the park with our son, etc etc. I said I can’t, it’s the end of the month at work, blah blah blah. And I went into work this morning. Because last night I felt guilty calling in and then this morning I felt guilty for not calling in so I could be with my family. Oh my gosh, right?! This guilt has got to stop! How have I let guilt travel with me for so long? What is it about guilt that makes it easier to deal with than happiness? I frequently hold myself responsible to all the wrong people. And I’m starting to get really mad at myself for doing that. Aye, there’s the rub. I am so unforgiving of myself, even before I allow myself to feel a certain way, or make a decision. And I know many other women out there that do the same thing, including my sister, my mother, my best friends… So I did some reading about guilt and the consequences of guilt, and I discovered there are two irrational beliefs that I hold onto that make me feel guilty all the time: 1) “People are constantly
judging me, and their judgment is important to me.” Wow. Now what do I do with that information? I’ve been holding on to those beliefs for so long, how can I possibly move on and leave that behind? My husband thinks it’s simple: just say, who gives a rat’s ass! And simply put, he’s right. For the first belief, I really shouldn’t rely on what I believe are other people’s perceptions of me. And for the second belief, I have to understand that it is OK to assume other people might be responsible for negative things that have happened to me over the years. Again with the notion: let it go! In my research, I was told to ask myself, If I felt no more guilt, what would my problem be like then? The answer? I wouldn’t have much of a problem! It was then suggested to say the following: · You deserve to be good to
yourself I feel inspired. And to be inspired, I just couldn’t keep it to myself. I had to share with all of you, assuming perhaps you’ve felt guilty along the way at times yourself too. The best resource along my path to discovery has been forgiveness. Fleshing Out Fahrenheit 911 I turned 18 in a non-presidential election year, and was not able to vote
until the '96 election. I remember a conversation with my mom about how excited
I was to vote. I told her I wasn't sure whom I should vote for and she said that
of course I would vote Republican because our family is Republican. Needless to
say, I voted for Clinton and considered myself a Democrat for many years. It
wasn't until I got a little older that I realized many of my beliefs lean much
more to the Republican side of things. However this article isn't about my
beliefs, so much as it is about representing both sides of a story. I understand
that the point of a documentary is to defend your POV, however I think when that
is done to the point of leaving out anything that doesn’t agree with your POV,
it is not keeping true to your audience. This is just what happened in Michael
Moore's, FAHRENHEIT 9/11. I had heard quite a bit about it (like everyone), and
decided that before I formed my opinion, I should at least take time to check it
out. I walked into the theatre, and could barely find a seat. This ought to be
interesting. It wasn't, at least in this writer's opinion, because I felt it was
filled with deceptive half truths, and carefully phrased insinuations that Moore
does not adequately back up. It's not my intention to sway anyone's belief,
but I felt compelled to at least point out some of these half-truths and
insinuations, to anyone who might care. Lets start with the 2000 Florida
recount. Reviewing the 2000 election during the opening of the film, Moore uses
a quote from CNN legal commentator Jeffrey Toobin to make a deeply misleading
suggestion about the results of the media recounts conducted in Florida: Toobin: If there was a statewide recount, under every scenario, Gore won the election. Moore: -- it won't matter just as long as all your daddy's friends on the Supreme Court vote the right way. But the recount conducted by a group of media organizations found something quite different, as Newsday recently pointed out. If the statewide recount ordered by the Florida Supreme Court had gone ahead, the group found that Bush would have won the election under two different scenarios: counting only "under votes," or taking into account the reported intentions of some county electoral officials to include "over votes" as well. Moore shows Bush sitting in a Florida elementary school classroom for seven minutes after his aide Andrew Card told him a second plane had hit the World Trade Center. "Mr. Bush just sat there and continued to read 'My Pet Goat' to the children," Moore says in a voice-over, "nobody doing anything." As a recent commission report noted, federal aviation and military authorities were overwhelmed during this time, unable to coordinate a response that might have stopped a plane from hitting the Pentagon. When Bush left the classroom, "the focus was on the president's
statement to the nation," the commission said. "No decisions were
made." For instance, Moore shows that the White House blacked out the name of another Texas Air National Guard pilot who was suspended along with Bush - James R. Bath - in service records released earlier this year. He suggests that the White House was not concerned about privacy and instead wanted to hide Bath's links to Bush. Moore says that Bath was retained by a member of the Bin Laden family, and describes Bush's founding of the Arbusto oil company. Michael Moore then heaps on the innuendo in his narration:So where did George W. Bush get his money? One person who did invest in him was James R. Bath. Bush's good friend James Bath was hired by the Bin Laden family to manage its money in Texas and invest in businesses. And James Bath himself in turn invested in George W. Bush. This phrasing suggests that Bath invested Bin Laden family money in Arbusto. Bath has stated this investment was his money, not the Bin Ladens'. In another scene, Moore suggests that members of Osama Bin Laden's family and other Saudis were able to fly out of the country while air traffic was grounded after September 11. Given that Moore states, "In the days following September 11, all commercial and private airline traffic was grounded," how are viewers to know that this description did not include the Saudi flights out of the country? The "after September 13th" clause may show that Moore's claim was technically accurate, but it leaves viewers with the distinct impression that the Bin Ladens left the country before others were allowed to. The film also notes investments in United Defense, a military contractor, by the Carlyle Group, a firm that Bush and his father have been involved with which counts members of the Bin Laden family among its investors. He says that September 11 guaranteed that United Defense was going to have a very good year. He said that they made a $237 million profit in one day after going public, but the Bin Laden's had to back out because the heat was on (or something to that effect). Moore's phrasing suggests that the Bin Ladens profited from the post-Sept. 11 buildup with the United Defense IPO but were forced to withdraw after the stock sale. However, the Bin Ladens withdrew before the initial filing, not afterward, missing the big payday Moore insinuates that they received. Moore also offers a number of suggestions that the Bush administration's military actions abroad and efforts to increase homeland security were motivated by nefarious hidden agendas. For instance, here is his description of the US campaign against the Taliban government of Afghanistan: The United States began bombing Afghanistan just four weeks after 9/11. Mr. Bush said he was doing so because the Taliban government of Afghanistan had been harboring Bin Laden. For all his tough talk, Bush really didn't do much. Moore then shows former counter terrorism advisor Richard Clarke criticizing the war, saying it took two months for US Special Forces to be deployed in the area of Afghanistan where Bin Laden was hiding. This fact is portrayed as an indication of a hidden motive. Moore proceeds with the contrived narrative, suggesting he is unraveling the
alleged hidden story of the US war in Afghanistan through a series of loose
juxtapositions. He tried to implicate that because Bush was the governor of
Texas, when Taliban leaders flew to Houston to meet with Unocal executives
to discuss building a pipeline through Afghanistan bringing natural gas from the
Caspian Sea and that because Haliburton got a contract for the
drilling that it was the reason for this war. Contrary's to Moore's
implication, the fact that Bush was governor of Texas at the time of the
Taliban/Unocal meeting does nothing to prove that he was somehow involved in the
meeting. Governors are obviously not responsible for every business dealing that
takes place in their state. Nonetheless, Moore slips his name in to link him to
the deal. By the way, Unocal dropped support for the pipeline in 1998 (the
company has issued a press release making this point). In 2002, Afghanistan
did sign the agreement Moore described, but Unocal is not involved in the
project, which is still in its planning stages and may never come to
fruition. Regardless of any previous plans to invade Iraq, the argument makes no sense. The breast milk example, for instance, indicates an overzealous devotion to homeland security, not indifference to it. And Oregon's state budgetary woes are hardly proof that the federal government's homeland security effort was insincere. On a more serious note, after suggesting that Ashcroft was unconcerned about terrorism before September 11, Moore uses phrasing that exaggerates how widespread knowledge of the Al Qaeda plot was before the attacks inside the FBI and Justice Department. He implies far more prior knowledge about he flight school activity than actually existed. As the 9/11 Commission found that the "Phoenix memo" was not widely circulated within the FBI and did not reach Ashcroft's desk. His memo was forwarded to one field office. Managers of the Osama Bin Laden unit and the Radical Fundamentalist unit at FBI headquarters were addressees, but did not even see the memo until after September 11. No managers at headquarters saw the memo before September 11. Again, saying the FBI "knew" of a plot to send agents to flight schools is overstated. It is not my intention to say that Bush is not without his faults, nor do I disagree with everything Moore says and depicts in this film. I simply felt as though in his film, he went beyond simply defending his point of view, and left out information that would have completed the story, yet not have supported his story. It is certainly his right to state how he feels, that’s the beauty of America. I encourage you all to form your own opinions, and of course, see the film if you are so inclined. Just remember, things aren’t always as they seem. June 20, 2004 It's summer once again. I can hardly believe it. Last night I had a dream that my Christmas tree was still sitting in my living room, decorations et al. This summer has a dark cloud looming over it for me. I'm having shoulder surgery, again. This time on my right shoulder. Last January I had my left shoulder repaired. It was a nightmare. But it was January. The only thing spoiled was my birthday, and after 35, does it really matter? No, this time it's smack in the middle of the summer--July 9th to be precise. Which means I'll have the sling on my arm long enough to ring in Labor Day. I don't want to do this. But it's inevitable. There was no great dramatic incident that tore my rotator cuff. Just a long standing appointment with destiny. I have to admit that part of me suspects my Bulimia had something to do with loosening up my joints. When you think about what a violent act it is, and how long a period of time I did it, it's not unbelievable. But I'll let my doctor live with his explanation of dancers in their 30s. So now, I'm payin the piper. I'll
spend the majority of the summer in a Velcro prison. Not only that,
it's SO painful. The first day is hideous, the second atrocious, the
third horrible. There's lots of drugs and crackers. Oh God I don't
want to do this! WHY WHY WHY!
I hear Jay's voice in my head. JAY God dammit girl snap out of it! You think this is a big deal? This is nothing. One summer out of your life and you're sitting around like a little girl, boohoo, whoa is me. You know how many summers you've had. You know how many summers you will have? I'd give anything for a summer in a sling if it meant I could walk this world again and feel that warm summer breeze across my face. News flash, you can still do that with a sling on your arm! SARAH Oh my God I'm hearing things. I'm losing my arm, and my mind! JAY Suddenly Jay appears before me as large as life. Now I'm hallucinating! As he investigates my apartment he tears into a burrito. Wow, I miss Baja Fresh. SARAH Talking with his mouth full. JAY Sarah May, life is too short for you to be moping around worrying about details. Stupid details at that! He takes another large bite out of the burrito. See here, it's like this. You've got so many things that are so great right in front of you. Like burritos. And you're sitting on your ass staring out the window at the beautiful sunshine. Get up! Enjoy it! SARAH Finishing off the burrito. JAY You can smell it. SARAH Cause I have to go through surgery to get there. JAY So what! I wish I could go through surgery
to get the chance to be swinging anything again. SARAH Oh come on. JAY Now, don't do that sarcasm thing with me. Just roll with it. SARAH Okay, what, so the ghost of Christmas past is first? JAY Nah, no. Summer. SARAH Summer? JAY Well, it's not Christmas is
it? Jay smirks. I look at him displeasingly. SARAH JAY Wait! You're just gonna leave me hear. VOICE SARAH Nana? NANA Oh my God! It is you? What are you doing here? Yes dear. And we're late. I can't see anything in front of me. The sky is too
dark. Suddenly we land and I look up to see that I'm lying on the couch in
Nana's
house in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. The room looks exactly as it did
when I was a little girl. The room smells like fresh lilacs and blueberry
muffins baking. GORDIE SUSIE This ain't no Dickens! So I won't recreate all the details of the two remaining ghosts. I'll just sum up. I travel to Afghanistan with the ghost of Summer's present, (a
30-year-old Afghan poet and activist who was killed by the Taliban), to see how
much of a spoiled brat I really am. I think it's safe to say my summer
will be better than, well, EVERYBODY's in Afghanistan. Well, Jay's right, I've got to snap out of it. This surgery thing, eh, it's
nothing! So, I won't be sailing and horseback riding. I live in
LA. I can do those things all year round! A President’s Forgotten Legacy My heart goes out to Nancy Reagan, a woman who watched the man she loved lose all memory of who he was and who they were together. My mother accompanied my father on a similar journey. The pain they share as loving wives is almost unbearable. Yet at times like this I wish I could share Alzheimer’s oblivion so that I could avoid another kind of pain and join the multitudes of fellow Americans praising this past president. The innocence and enthusiasm of their tributes to him take my breath away but unfortunately only enhance my memory. Their praise reminds me why it is so difficult for Americans to understand Iraq and Abu Ghraib. My parents taught me to be proud of America’s democracy. I took their words to heart, defending our country’s values fiercely as I moved into work in international human rights. But beyond our borders I encountered another vision of our democracy that challenged all that made me proud. Probably the most difficult challenges came when I was working in Nicaragua first, during Nixon’s presidency, with a church clinic program and a local Harvard-sponsored graduate school and, later with Unicef during the Reagan administration. In the 1970s the challenges came from church colleagues as they watched the army of the Somoza dictatorship arrest and kill peasant leaders and democratic opponents. ‘Why does your government supply Somoza with arms and money,’ they asked. Under Reagan, following the overthrow of the dictator by a revolutionary group known as the Sandinistas, the questions took a different twist. ‘Why is your president organizing Somoza’s former army to attack our new government? Why does America supply money and arms to them? Why does it pay for killing innocent civilians, people who are helping us to improve our lives – teachers, doctors, nurses, literacy volunteers?’ To me it was clear. The targets were the foundation of the Sandinista government’s development programs considered communist by Reagan so they were fair game to the ‘contra’ army. Such people needed to be ‘neutralized’ as US documents later revealed. Since I was writing about the country’s literacy program at that time, I saw the aftermath of attacks on dedicated teachers and student volunteers first hand. The pain and loss were immeasurable. I continue to mourn their deaths today. When a CIA manual written for the ‘contras’ was uncovered in the early 1980s, people’s questions intensified. The manual spelled out details of how to blow up clinics, sabotage water supplies, and ‘eliminate’ and torture opponents. ‘Isn’t this terrorism,’ friends asked. ‘Why does your president hate us so much,’ peasants repeatedly asked me as they grieved for their loved ones killed by the ‘contras.’ I had no answers to console them. What democratic principles supported killing innocent citizens of another nation? How could communism ever justify murdering these people? As millions of Americans mourn the death of President Reagan, many citizens of Latin America remember him as a man responsible for the deaths of countless thousands of innocent people in Central America. They remember the terror of the CIA manual, the ‘contras,’ and the US-backed armies of Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. They see his policies as opening the way to torture at Abu Ghraib and wonder how Americans can be so ignorant of their own history and its consequences. And they worry about how this ignorance will affect life everywhere now and in years to come. This week our country mourns a president while many around the world mourn the violation of democratic principles and rule of law he leaves as part of his legacy. We mourn together but for different reasons. Will we be any wiser for it? As a stubborn believer in the best of our nation and our people, I believe we must. Dr. Valerie Miller: Just Associates, former director of policy at Oxfam America and human rights at the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee, author of Between Struggle and Hope, The Nicaraguan Literacy Crusade. That Defining Moment I was looking back over old Corner articles of mine trying to see if I'd ever told the story of how I realized I was a writer. I don't think I have, which surprises me because of its significance. When I was fourteen, a film crew came to my hometown of Belmont, Massachusetts. They were filming a movie called, The Great American Fourth of July and Other Disasters and thought Belmont was a shoe-in for 1950s Indiana. Many New England towns still have that old town America feel. The strip malls are heavily regulated and kept out of sight of suburbia. The brick design of all the buildings are preserved. All new businesses, even Starbucks have to fit within certain design guidelines. So it's not hard to create a sense of yesteryear in these towns. The movie itself was secondary to my primary interest. The star of the film was the reigning teen heartthrob (circa early 80s) Matt Dillon. I was desperate to meet him. I dragged my friend Jenny Howick with me and we rushed down the street to Cushing Sq. where the filming was progressing. When we arrived, the square was mobbed. It really did look like a scene from a 50s movie. Everyone was dressed in 50s outfits. A high school band, not ours for some strange reason, was marching down Trapelo Road through the center of Cushing Square. Jenny and I squeezed our way through the crowd to try to catch a glimpse of Matt. He was supposedly marching with the band. We got as far as we could get without wearing a poodle skirt and a sweater set. We peaked over heads and slithered in and out of bodies trying to spot Matt Dillon. I kept getting pushed aside by some smelly fat guy in a leisure suit. Don't know how they let him stay in the shot. Poor Jenny was being tossed around forced to follow me on my foolish quest. She kept politely suggesting that we abandon the mission but I was determined. I'm not leaving til I meet Matt Dillon - God dammit! It was the God dammit that caught people's attention - Outta the mouthes of babes. Several mother's glared at me. Belmont's a pretty conservative town, much more so in 1981. It didn't sit well. Suddenly this man appeared out of nowhere. I guess he'd been observing us for awhile but I was too focused on my mission. "So, you like Matt do ya? " He said with gusto. The sound of his voice seemed to calm the prudish soccer moms cause they forgot all about me and went about their business trying to pass judgment on something else. He was a middle-aged man, perhaps in his 50s. He had an appealing grin that put me instantly at ease and sparked my curiosity. Normally, being the good teenager that I was, nothing or no one could distract me whilst in pursuit of a hot teen idol. But there was something so engaging about this man--in a non-predatory way of course. I smiled and told him of my quest. I noticed a name imprinted on his shirt pocket, Shep. I wondered about it. I'd only seen embroidered name tags on delivery men's uniforms. This was peculiar but intriguing even for a 14 year old--I fancied myself a bit of a Nancy Drew. Honestly, I don't remember the details of our conversation, just bits and pieces. But I do remember feeling as though I'd been transported to a far away land of mischief and adventure. He had this amazing way with words, and that voice! He serenaded me with dialogue. What I do remember vividly are his observations of me and Jenny. He referred to the film, The World of Henry Orient, starring Peter Sellars as a famous pianist who was stalked by a couple of young teenage girls. He laughed out loud as he recounted scenes and drew parallels. I didn't know anything about the film at the time, but you better believe I found out. Sooner or later I got around to wondering who he was. So I asked. He told me he was, Shep, simply Shep. And that he was the writer of the film. This fascinated me, and not for the reason I would have thought (a potential chance to meet Matt Dillon). I was mesmerized. The more he spoke, the more I wanted to listen and read, everything he'd ever written! Shep was the master at totally absorbing you with a story, any story. The simplest explanations were painted so vibrantly. The smile never left my face. We talked all about characters and great old movies. Then it hit me like a lightening bolt. I want to be a writer! All the silly professions I'd envisioned myself in were forgotten. I began speaking passionately of my own writing (as if I'd had the life experience to feel passionate about anything). In truth, I started writing early myself. At seven, I wrote my first story and I've kept a journal since I was six. But in adolescence, my attentions started spanning toward other art forms, specifically dance. This chance meeting with Shep was the beginning of my long journey back to an early love, that would ultimately be my savior. As the day went on, I'd forgotten all about the parade and Matt Dillon. The crowd had disappeared. It was getting dark and I realized Jenny had left. Did I say goodbye to her? I couldn't recall. I didn't want to miss a single word out of Shep's mouth. He offered several times to walk me over to Matt's trailer. I said, really? Then forgot about it. Finally another man approached, it was the Director of the film. Shep introduced me as if I were someone of long and fond acquaintance. I don't know how it happened exactly but we somehow wandered over to Dillon's trailer which was parked in the empty lot at Winter's Hardware Store. Shep was speaking to the Director. I took a seat on the steps of the trailer and observed as the two men went over the shooting schedule. The Director's assistant offered me a soda. I think I asked for a Tab. She disappeared inside the trailer. Then moments later a scruffy teenager appeared holding a beer and a cigarette in one hand and a soda in the other. "Got no Tab. But here's a Coke." He said with a slightly slurred Brooklyn accent. It was Matt Dillon. I squinted my eyes several times trying to clarify his identity. How could this be Matt Dillon? He looked like he had crawled out from under that trailer. He was wearing a wife beater tank and the smell of cigarettes was overwhelming. This could not be my Matt Dillon! That was the fastest fall from grace in the history of teen crushes. I thanked him for the soda. He said something incomprehensible and slithered away. Shep kept an eye on me throughout this whole transaction. He must have seen the disappointment on my face for he came to my rescue immediately and transformed the awkward tension into fodder for his witty storytelling. The sun went down without my knowledge. Shep ultimately pointed it out and offered to give me a ride home. I declined, explaining I lived just a few blocks away. He smiled that enormous Santa smile of his and shook my hands with both of his. I thanked him for the day and told him I'd never forget him. He chuckled as he recalled his initial affiliation of me as one of Henry Orient's groupies and urged me to see the film. Then he gave me a card with his name and address, Jean Sheperd, New York, New York. I promised to keep in touch. Then he said something to me that I'll never forget. He said, "Send me your story". "What story? " I asked. "All writers have a story. Send it to me when you get it down on paper. " The walk home was way too short to process all that I'd gained. I remember stopping short in the middle of Cushing Ave. and saying to myself, "I'm a writer." It was probably one of the most defining moments of my life. One I'll never forget or recreate. The years, of course, went by. There was no internet back then and I couldn't Google Shep. But I did research him. I found that he was not only a writer, but a great radio personality and satirist. He was most famous for a little story about Christmas he wrote and narrated called, A Christmas Story which has become an icon for the Christmas season. His narration style became a classic and the model for several other films and television shows including the Wonder Years. Shep was a famous prankster. In 1956, a group of his fans from his radio show went into bookstores all over New York City asking for his book, "Night People" which had yet to be published. The stunt got him a publishing deal with Ballantine books and a spot on the New York Times best sellers list. In addition to his many books, he wrote columns for magazines such as the Village Voice, National Lampoon and TV Guide (to name a few). He recorded 6 LPs and over 5000 hours of radio. I never sent him my story. I did try to
look him up once or twice when I moved to New York after high school. But
the address was no longer valid. I wanted to send him a letter telling him
how much of an inspiration he had been to me and how much that day meant.
I wrote that letter at least a dozen times. I even carried it around in my
book bag swearing I'd find him and mail it to him one of these days!
I didn't look very hard. Truth was, I felt unworthy. I wanted to be
able to write him and tell him that I was a success. I completely missed
the point. In the midst of all these questions of how to proceed, I remembered the CD. Harry Shearer was narrating the piece which they titled a tribute to Jean Sheperd. Hmmm, I wondered, that's an odd choice of words, tribute. It's usually associated with people who have passed away. I was so excited to hear Gene's voice again that I didn't pay a lot of attention to Shearer's. But I did catch this one phrase, "Gene Shepard died...." What did Harry Shearer just say? I started the CD over and listened to it again. Then again just to make sure. It took a minute to sink in then I burst into tears. I hadn't cried like that since I was a little girl. Jean Sheperd died. I'm starting to cry right now just typing the words. He died. And I never thanked him. I never sent that letter. I never told him how he changed my life. He took me from hopelessly ambiguous to defined and driven in a single moment. And I never got to tell him. I let that moment slip by. For the week following my sad discovery, I retreated into a dark place. Blaming myself and hating myself for my shortcomings and inability to seize the moment. Eventually, I shook it off and decided that I would still like to send that letter, somewhere. Even if it was to Harry Shearer. I wanted someone to read it and know that Shep was my inspiration, my mentor, my guiding light into a craft that has literally saved me throughout years of self-abuse. Writing has been the one constant safety blanket in my life. It's something I can do anywhere, anytime, with no preparation, people, no geographical constraints. It's with me all the time. It's truly my most cherished gift. Jean Sheperd helped me shine the light on that gift. The moral of the story? Don't miss the point because of ego or insecurity. Shep wouldn't have cared if I was a successful writer. What would have lit him up would be the fact that our encounter motivated me. In fact, I think Shep would have immediately remembered his reference to The World of Henry Orient and would have manifested another witty story reference. I think he would have been happy just to hear from me. Thank you Shep. You'll be in my heart and words, forever.
My Domestic Diva As a child I spent the majority of my summer vacations at my grandmother's house in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. The fondest memories of my life are from those days. I still think about those summers curled up in front of Nanas fireplace on a chilly night roasting marshmallows and sipping hot cocoa. If I close my eyes, I can smell the fresh pine scent in the air. It's intoxicating. Maine that is. There's something about Maine. It's almost impossible to put into words. Maine stays with you for life. You can never shake the desire to go back. It tugs at you, and woes you like a siren singing pretty lullabies. For me, my grandmother was the siren. The matron of the family--she kept us all coming back. My mother, her two sisters and all of their children, summer after summer. We all squeezed into Nana house together. I loved it. Yet being the youngest of her ten grandchildren wasn't always easy. I was left out of a lot of fun adventures. Nana was the youngest in her family as well and she and I shared a special bond because of this. She always made sure I was noticed and acknowledged. She treated me with a respect only a fellow youngest child could bestow. I loved her for that. Sometimes she drove me a bit crazy. She had this obsession with my hair. She was constantly running around after me with a brush trying to comb it. When I was a child my hair was wild and all over the place. Still kind of is actually. My unkempt hair made Nana, who was all about being tidy and reserved, very uncomfortable. Well, I'm definitely not reserved but I am very tidy. In fact as I've gotten older I've become more and more of a obsessive compulsive neat freak. Nana would never recognize me from my early years as a dishwashing dodger. My grandmother was truly, the definition of a domestic goddess. The ultimate granddame of Martha Stewarts. She was always buzzing around cleaning, whipping up blueberry muffins off the cuff, throwing glamorous parties--dressed to kill always. At the time I didn't appreciate these skills. But I was aware of them. The other day my sister and I were talking about the domestic prowess of the women in our family, especially Nana and our mother. Both my mother and grandmother were/are wonderful hostesses. Nana loved all things domestic, even cleaning. She took so much pride in the appearance and organization of her home.. It was her calling card. She didn't have a career, per say. She was a homemaker. But she made homemaking not only a career but a profession. And she made her house, feel like a home to everyone who walked in it. As we we reminisced about our grandmother, I realized how much of her I have in me. Which shocks me a bit because I never would have made the connect as an adolescent. I hated domestic things bitterly when I was a teenager. I did everything to avoid domestic activities and everything to disassociate myself with the image of a homemaker. I didn't cook, in fact, I insisted I couldn't cook. My room was a complete mess-- clothes strewn across every inch of the floor. For some reason, I didn't want to identify myself with the image of the "housewife". I don't know why. I think I feared being good at these things met I would not have a career. Which is ridiculous. My mother was the ultimate role model for both a career women, and a domestic diva. Who knows. Regardless, I woke up one day, a few years ago, and discovered I too am a domestic goddess! And I like that about myself. I love all things domestic. I love cooking, and I'm a good cook I love cleaning my house! I love making my house a home and taking pride in its appearance. I remember years ago a therapist telling me that I like to clean and take care of my home because I'm avoiding my life. I'm definitely guilty of avoiding my life, but not in that way. Why should there be an explanation? Can't it be that I simply like taking care of my home? When I was a teenager there was such a stigma on women who stayed home because it was an era where women were starting to gain more power in the workplace. I think this is where I got my extreme ideas of what it would mean for me to embrace the domestic world. I was afraid I would be labeled. But it's so unfair because we shouldn't have to define ourselves as one of only two choices. We all have so much more to offer. My grandmother passed away in the summer of 1996. She was 97. I miss her dearly. Maine just isn't the same without her. Because I am so much younger than all my cousins, I really didn't get to bond with Nana the way they did, as adults. She didn't get to see me get married. She won't get to meet my children. She missed out on my whole adult life essentially. All I have with her is my childhood. So what I cherish so dearly today is the deep connection I feel to her. She didn't get to participate in my adult life in person, but she's still participating in spirit. There's a huge part of me that's all about her. Every morning when I make my bed and arrange my little throw pillows, I feel the spirit of my grandmother. She makes me smile. Sometimes it takes years to discover who you are, and even more to realize that in fact, you are like your mother, and her mother before her. And you know what, that works for me. I love you Nana. Wherever you are.
Take Me Out to the
Ballgame With the start of Spring comes the opening day of Major League Baseball, another season all to itself. Today is that special day, folks, and if you are not a huge baseball fan, now is the best time to start, to follow the season through to the World Series, to learn how baseball has become one of America’s staples in history. "It's such a wonderful sport," George W. Bush said before his Opening Day assignment -- the first ceremonial toss by the executive right-hander since Game 3 of the 2001 World Series at Yankee Stadium. "There aren't any time limits, which means you can go and enjoy yourself. It's a great place to go and relax. It's a wonderful place to visit with somebody you love. It's an important part of our history." (ref.) That says it. Baseball is an important part of American history. Legends have been formed through the sport. One single hit from one game became folklore that people still discuss at the local pub each year. And have you ever been to a baseball game? The smell of the stands, of the fresh-cut grass, of the peanuts and hot dogs and nachos and beer… The shine of the stadium lights, the roar of the crowd, the swell of the wave… Just going to a Major League Baseball game can make anyone feel like they’re a part of something special. So to commemorate Opening Day, and to commemorate that which is one of America’s favorite pastimes, here is important information and key facts about baseball throughout our history: General/History:
Baseball Legends:
Team Schedules: Best Baseball Stadiums in the U.S. (of all time):
For a really complete look at the
history of baseball, check out, Baseball-a film by Ken Burns.
It's the best! March 14, 2004 I’m
not Irish. Yet every
year on March 17th I make sure my husband and I have
something green to wear. We
buy corned beef and cabbage and potatoes and put it all in the
crock pot for dinner that evening.
We might even make a couple of black-n-tans, or swig down a
couple of pints of Guinness.
And we look forward to our little St. Patrick’s Day
tradition, every year. It’s
our way of commemorating the special day. And as the day is fast approaching, I asked myself, why do I
celebrate St. Patrick’s Day?
Do I even know what it’s about? I know
the folklore about St. Patrick and the snakes, and I know what the
three-leaf clover means. But
why the big parties? Only
the Irish know, I guess. But
we band-wagoners follow suit.
We’re good at it! There’s
a party? Where? What
about? Who cares?
Let’s party, too! That’s
our philosophy. So
what if we’re not Irish? So
what if we don’t even know why we’re drinking more beer than
usual in one night? And
that seems to be the way of our society right now.
There are green plates and napkins and hats at the entry of
every grocery store, and corned beef and cabbage have been placed
in special sections throughout the stores as well.
There are sections in Hallmark for St. Patrick’s Day
cards. Old Navy has
green nail polish at the check out stand.
It’s everywhere! And
I have to believe that most people don’t really know the true meaning of St. Patrick’s Day, other than they have to be as
green and as drunk as possible.
OK, maybe not everyone is as naïve as myself. But
look at Christmas. People
are out buying gifts for one another because that’s what they
do. People go into
serious debt every year buying gifts at Christmastime.
Children come to expect big presents, and many of those
children probably don’t know why they’re receiving gifts that
time of year. Even
Valentine’s Day is the same thing.
People come to have expectations of each tradition, yet
they’re not really sure why they’re even celebrating or
continuing such traditions. I
don’t mean to put a damper on the day.
I don’t mean to be so cynical, it just happens when I
become introspective. It
just happens when I ask why.
And so I ask you all to join me and take a moment and think
about what each and every day means to you.
Especially holidays. Let’s
take a moment to understand what they’re all about.
You might be surprised to learn something new about someone
else’s culture. I just
read about St. Patrick in Payson Road’s Irish
Rainbows section. I
learned a lot! And now I can feel a little better about my traditions
tomorrow, and I can discuss what I learned with my husband, and we
can celebrate in honor of the Irish! Happy St. Patrick’s Day, me laddies!
Empowering
Role Models My most memorable role model as a child was the Bionic Woman. Seriously. I wanted to be Jamie Summers. I even had the Bionic Woman doll and her dome house. I'd frequently run around my living room in slow motion emulating her bionic moves. Ah but one day I grew up and realized it was just a fantasy. So I moved on to a more realistic role model, Wonder Woman. Oh yeah, that was me. I knew if I spun around fast enough my clothes would strip off and I'd be clad in a brass bustier and gold leather lasso ready to take on the world in my invisible plane. But alas, I hate to fly. I never had a proper mentor. And this is something I desperately needed. My mother was a wonderful role model for empowering women. She's a handicapped woman who suffered much tragedy in her life and went on to be one of the first women to study at Harvard. She graduated Phi Beta Kappa, went on to complete her PhD and became a Professor of English Literature and Women's Studies. She empowered thousands of young women every day for so many years. There aren't enough positive role models in the world like mother. The problem for me was that I allowed the mother-daughter dynamics to cloud my vision. I spent the greater part of my life being oblivious to the fact that I had this incredible role model right in front of me. So, inevitably, like most young, impressionable teenagers, I searched for someone outside my family I could relate to and who would empower me. But she never came. There were men who inspired me. Baryshnikov is one that comes to mind immediately. The first time I saw him dance I nearly fainted. Not for his perfectly sculpted physique, well, maybe a little, but mostly because I was awestruck by the beauty of his movements. His body told a story I'd never heard before. It was tragic, inspirational, funny, and human. The problem was, I couldn't fully relate. I could appreciate the talent and beauty but I can't say I was empowered. Inspired, yes, but there's a difference. To me, inspiration is about hope and motivation. Empowerment takes it a step further and forces change. I never found anyone who incited me to push change. And that was so lonely. I had to rely on myself as the catalyst. And I stunk at it. Thinking back, had I had an empowering role model in my life, I think I would have done things differently. Truth is, we all need cheerleaders. No matter how annoying they may be. I don't know anyone who has it in them to keep the cheers alive consistently on their own. But that's okay. What's not okay is the appalling lack of good role models celebrated, especially women. How can we empower ourselves if we have no one to show us the way? Have you ever heard of Alice
Paul? I hadn't until I saw the HBO film IRON JAWED
ANGELS. Alice Paul was one of the most influential women of
the 20th century, largely responsible for helping secure women's
right to vote. Think about how your life would be influenced if instead of all the magazine articles and biographies on the life of Pamela Anderson, you were being flooded with stories about people like Susan B. Anthony. There's a hundreds of shows out there that are perfect formats for featuring empowering female role models--whether they be historical or current. So why isn't anyone producing that? This is what we need. We need to celebrate women who empower us to do more than increase the size of our breasts and dye our hair. We need role models who fight for social change. Where would we be right now without people like Alice Paul? We'd be standing outside a polling station waiting for our husbands to come out and walk us home. Where would we be without Pamela Anderson? In flatter, but greener pastures. There's a situation going on with my apartment building right now. It's certainly not of the magnitude of voting rights. However, to those of us who live there, it is most definitely unjust. Our elevator stopped working properly last October. The permit expired in September. Nothing has been done to fix this problem despite numerous requests to the manager of the building. He told one of my neighbors, a heavy set woman, when she inquired as to the status of the elevator repairs, that she could use the exercise. I was outraged when I heard this. However nobody in the building did much of anything to protest, including myself. Finally, about a month and a half ago, a note was posted on the elevator wall from the building manager thanking us for our patience and informing us that it they would fix the elevator but it would take four weeks to get the parts. Well, besides the fact that that's RIDICULOUS, it's been over four weeks. Nothing has happened. As pissed off as I am about the
situation, I haven't done anything to resolve it. Sure I've
voiced my angry opinions to the building manager, but I haven't
taken action. I've been afraid to rock the boat because I
don't want to lose my apartment. And I think many of my
neighbors feel the same way. Many of us are in the same boat with
rent control. Our landlord, real estate developer and owner of
the LA Clippers basketball team, Donald Sterling, is notorious for
trying to rid his buildings of left over rent controllers.
However, the other night, everything
changed. Let me explain what this means exactly. Our cars are parked in an underground gated garage that leads directly to the elevator which leads upstairs to the apartments on the first and second levels. If the elevator is not working, you have to walk down the two flights of stairs, out the front door, down the driveway, through the gate into the garage. This prospect is particularly difficult if you're carrying lots of bags, or if you're ill. Forget about the fact that it's not handicapped accessible. So as my neighbor and I were discovering the elevator was not working, I saw the manager drive in. I approached him and forcefully asked when the elevator would be fixed citing the fact that my neighbor had just returned from the hospital after giving birth and this was very difficult for her. He looked at me, then looked at her and whispered to me, "She needs to lose her baby weight." Well, that was the final straw that broke it for me. Maybe I'll have a bitter fight over my apartment, maybe not. Regardless I can't sit by and let this injustice stand any longer. Not only am I writing a letter to the owner of the building, the rent control board, I'll writing a letter to the Los Angeles Times--which will be posted on Payson Road once completed. As I've sat back, angrily yet passively these past few months watching are elevator collect dust, I've lost site of what it means to be an empowering role model. Watching IRON JAWED ANGELS woke me up and made me realize how crucial it is to speak out against injustice. Someone has to take that first step into the forbidden zone. Think of all the pioneering women throughout history we have to thank, Sojourner Truth, Rosa Parks, Eleanor Roosevelt, Barbara McClintock, Betty Friedan, Wilma Rudolph, Barbara Jordan, Oprah Winfrey and my favorite, Mary G. Mason. This is the time for Eating Disorder Awareness. So be an empowering role model. Empower yourself and take one step closer toward recovery. Eating Disorders have been swept under a rug of shame and misunderstanding for too long--this is an injustice that must be amended. You can help empower others by getting involved, write an article, print out our flyers and distribute them, tell a friend about Payson Road and ask them to join the fight. Don't forget the vote didn't happen overnight. Either does awareness. So don't be silent. Be loud, be proud! Change will come. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- For more information about Alice Paul, http://www.alicepaul.org and the HBO film, IRON JAWED ANGELS, check out, http://www.hbo.com/films/ironjawedangels/ Also check out this week's Catch for more links about the Women's Suffragette Movement. Communication
Breakdown Communication Breakdown, Yes, I’m feeling a little insane today. My eyes are swollen and no make-up in the world can disguise it. I sat with teabags on my eyes for ten minutes this morning before getting in the shower (does that really work? It didn’t for me!). You see, I cried myself to sleep last night. Everything is fine, really; I just became overwhelmed from disappointment, and after trying to talk it out with my husband, I wound up feeling worse. And I cried. And I think I cried, not because of what was originally bothering me, but because I was so upset about the way my husband was “listening.” Sometimes listening is truly all we need. It surely ended up being all I wanted last night. But I got so much more. I’ll try and explain (though you might know exactly what I’m about to say because you’ve been through it so many times before): I was feeling introspective last night about a situation with my mother. I was biting my nails and sitting quiet. My husband knew something was wrong. I truly didn’t want to talk about it, because I wasn’t in the mood for lessons or opinions or advice on my situation. I just wanted to think, and honestly, I wanted to feel angry and then let it pass on its own. But my husband wanted to help. I think he felt he had to try, so I could get to sleep since I had a long day ahead of me. So he dragged it out of me, after we were lying in bed. I told him how I was feeling, how I was hurt and frustrated. Things would have been fine if left at that. But my husband, whose intentions are only of a good nature, started to tell me how his situation was worse than mine as far as parents go; how I was just going to have to deal with it; how I couldn’t hold on to hope that things would get better because they wouldn’t; and on and on and on. Perhaps he thought I could use a little dose of reality. Perhaps on a different day that might have worked. And even if he’s right, and I know he is, that type of “listening” was the exact opposite of what I needed last night. I needed nothing. That’s right, nothing. And I know you know exactly what I mean. I needed my husband to just listen. I needed him to say nothing other than “things will be okay.” I needed him to put his arms around me and hold me and just let me process my feelings in my own time. My husband ended up falling asleep, and I got out of bed and cried it out in the kitchen. Now I was frustrated with him, and with my original reason for being so emotional. My husband called me at the office early this morning and I knew he knew I had been upset. He was waiting for me to say something. But I was in the office and I didn’t want to start anything. He said, “well I’ll let you go since you don’t want to talk to me.” And so I let him let me go. And that’s where we are as of yet. No communication, no progress on feeling better. As much as I appreciated his letting me go, I know there are too many things to be said now more than ever. And now I’m feeling a little insane! I never even wanted to talk about it. What a game, huh? I guess it’s up to me at this point to pick up the phone and make the call. Actually, I have two calls to make. I also guess that even when you’ve been with someone for so long, they still can’t read your mind. Too funny that I somehow expect this to be true over and over again! This is the case with both of my issues today. And as ongoing communication can be exhausting and even redundant at times, it can be the only means of closure and forgiveness. Amen! While my theme song for today is Led Zeppelin, I wonder if my husband’s will end up being “All you do to me is talk, talk…” Don’t
Be Disappointed Happy New Year!
The holidays are over.
The decorations have come down; though some of my neighbors
still have nurkles, and I’m not so mad this year about it.
For those of you who don’t know what they are, nurkles
are Christmas lights hung on homes left up way too long.
You’ll see nurkles all throughout the year,
unfortunately. There
should be nurkle police. Anyway,
I digress… This was my
first Christmas as a mother, my baby boy’s first Christmas.
He’s only four months old, so he pretty much had no clue
about the holiday season, or getting gifts, or Santa.
He did like the pretty lights on the Christmas tree.
My husband and I planned our Christmas with my mom and step
dad in Tahoe. We had
a white Christmas, a dream come true.
But somehow I was still left disappointed, and I think I
finally know why: Christmastime
was always a time of dreams for me, a time where my family could
be together and have fun and remember times of past.
I was so excited to spend Christmas at my mom’s this
year, with my new baby, to celebrate the act of giving, and to
experience those traditions the same as they always had been.
And my mom is such a great cook – I was really looking
forward to being taken care of. Our Christmas
Eve started out great, with sugar “sand” cookies and hot cocoa
with marshmallows, and Swedish meatballs and rice pudding for
dinner. But then we
ended up watching TV all night.
At least the “Christmas Story” marathon was running.
But we all just kind of sat there.
Distracted. It
really could have been any other night, other than the fact that
it was snowing, and there was a Christmas tree in the middle of
the room. I guess we
were waiting to be entertained by my mom, who would usually start
a family discussion, or bring out a game, or let us each open one
present. My parents went
to bed, and so did the baby, so my husband and I stuffed the
stockings. Sadly, my
mom and step-dad didn’t do their stockings this year; luckily,
my husband and I brought stuff for their stockings…
Christmas morning came and it was robotic – open
stockings, open presents. Thank
you thank you now it’s time to clean up the paper.
My step dad discusses how most of his presents will be
returned, and everyone leaves the room to go do their own thing.
I sit with my baby on the couch and wonder what just
happened… Is it
really Christmas day? Can
we start over? What about Percy Faith Christmas music? What about more hot cocoa and Christmas braids coffee cake?
Where’s my bike or pony?
And then it hit me, hello?!
I’m not the child anymore!
I’m the mom! My mom is the grandma! Those
are our primary roles now! So much in my
adult life has disappointed me, like the magic of childhood
doesn’t just disappear, it gets crumbled and thrown out with the
garbage, only to be rolled over by the garbage truck tires first
before being tossed. How
can I get past this disappointment?
Let it go, for sure, because there is so much more in my
adult life to bring me pride and the feeling of accomplishment.
But most importantly, I’m excited about building up the
magic for my son and future children.
Yet at the same time, do I want my children feeling this
disappointment once the magic is gone as they become adults?
That’s a tough choice. Look mom, I’m
an adult now!
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