Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

Teaching about the Holocaust

In the school where I teach, we read Night, Elie Wiesel’s first memoir of the Holocaust. For me, reading Night and having my students learn about the Holocaust amounts to a mission.  Other teachers, though, find it a pain, a bother. They don’t understand all of the terms, which, I guess, means that they don’t want to learn concepts that are alien to them. I’m pretty sure they won’t be excommunicated from any church which they don’t attend if they learn what Shabbos means or what Kabbalah refers to. It seems that they want to stick to analyzing characters in a neat way as opposed to this small plunk of vicious reality that cannot be analyzed for character development.

It is so utterly wrong that the one Jewish member on the team (or the one who identifies as Jewish) is the one who finds true purpose in this unit. After all, do I teach because children need to know how to identify a metaphor, or do I teach because children need the tools to think and express themselves? It is so very wrong that people think, apparently, that since it didn’t happen to their people then they don’t need to relate to it. Or, worse yet, perhaps because it’s too much for them—too depressing, too horrifying, too outside of any comfort zone—they rush through it to fulfill a requirement but no more.

Generally, there is a research component to this unit. I have found it difficult to oversee this project because most kids want to find a single website that will give them answers to the questions they need to consider, yet I, I can’t help it, I want them to take it  more seriously than the means to a grade. So this year I will try a different way to reach inside those teen walls of indifference. This year each student will be assigned an event or place, and then research it and—this is the change—read original source material from people who lived through “their” event. I’m hoping that these personal stories will bridge the gap between doing schoolwork and connecting to history.

At the same time, other teachers have decided that this year they are going to focus on German propaganda. They will focus on how the Nazis led the Germans to follow them, to believe them, to be captivated by their tales of how lovely it is to be us, Aryans, and how hateful it is to be them, the Jews, or anyone who does not look as we say they should or behave as we say they should or believe what we say they should. And that is good, but it feels wrong. Maybe they are right, since our focus is supposed to be on language and that, really, is what we teach. But really, doesn’t this make the students focus on the poor Germans who were manipulated by the evil Nazis. Where in this focus are the victims—the people who were defiled, tortured, shot, gassed by those who believed and those who were too cowardly to not believe? Where is space for the victims of the “mislead”? Will they learn that excuses are more powerful than actions?

I tell myself that any learning and thinking about what happened during the Holocaust is positive; that I should not think that there is anything wrong with their focus. And yet it makes me uncomfortable. Does it come down to these teachers not being Jewish and so not feeling, intrinsically, the honor/importance that they have been given to transmit this lesson to a generation of citizens of the world? Maybe I’m wrong. But it doesn’t feel that way.

How are we to ever get to “never again”—that violent acting out of group hatred or fear—if our teachers can’t put themselves in another person’s shoes, even if those shoes have been preserved in monstrous piles never to be forgotten?

 

Piles of shoes that belonged to prisoners killed in the gas chambers at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Poland, wartime. — United States Holocaust Memorial Museum #0009 

Rape: The Scourge of Our Time

I was all fired up the other day to write about the heinous way women are treated in Afghanistan; the brutal absurdity of imprisoning women for being raped and of forcing them to marry the men who raped them; and how unhealthy it is for a society to give men absolute power over women. I was going to write about how conflicted I am about our leaving Afghanistan: Is it good to leave them to themselves, or is it bad since, obviously, the women aren’t much better off after our ten-year offensive. I even intended to bring in World War II and how we didn’t leave Europe, another scene of debilitatingly horrific acts of violence, until we had defeated Hitler and the evil of his regime.

Then my partner said that I should think about how many women in the military are raped. “Google ‘rape military.’” Then he mentioned a female soldier who accused a man (working for a contractor) of raping her, and how he got off with barely a slap on the wrist. And her, he said, she was jailed.

He’s right: All the wrongs committed against women cannot be dropped on the laps of Afghani men. We can’t just pooh-pooh the men of Afghanistan who conceal women behind burkas and walls, and who torch their schools, and rape them with bestial impunity, because the rest of the world doesn’t exactly present a shining example of gentlemanly behavior.

Women in the Congo, Bosnia, Kuwait, Sudan, Sri Lanka, and Rwanda have been raped as a course of war, as they have been during other conflicts, and throughout history. Reports of Libyan soldiers raping citizens have surfaced, as have sexual assaults by Egyptian police against demonstrators.

I googled “us military rape statistics,” and 2,230,000 results came up. That’s a lot of stories about men in the military who rape, and women (in the military and civilians) who have been raped by our representatives.

And here in the US, where we attempt to look down on their mistreatment of their women, well, we actually have a term for when a man doesn’t get that “no means no.” Date rape is not quite akin to opening a door for a woman. And the acceptance of the twisted logic of “she asked for it” by wearing a dress that was too tight or too revealing, or by being out too late, or by drinking too much is a psychic rape of all women. Women do not ask to be violated. No, Americans are not beacons in any one’s night.

People say that in Afghanistan it is an expression of their culture. Yeah, sure. Men take every right from a woman except the right to inhale and exhale and we let “culture” cover for that constant humiliation and exercise of power. Then what is it here? Can someone state as truth that rape is a reflection of our culture because we so degrade women by objectifying and sexualizing them? Have we let the deviants define us?

Is the genesis of these rapes by Afghani men, African rebels, European fighters, and American soldiers the same? Is the problem a universal acceptance of “boys will be boys”? Have we conceded the stage to the bullies?

Googling “rape” brings up 206,000,000 results. No, we cannot breathe a sigh of relief that at least we don’t live there—because we do. Women can be strong, but not as strong as a 200 lb. man with societal support (for what else is indifference?) on his side.

Is rape the scourge of our time? We have defeated illnesses, now we must defeat a sickness.

A person who rapes is sick in the crudest sense of the word. And it is unhealthy to ignore a sickness in our midst. Why is it that we arrest prostitutes and not Johns? Why are we always protecting the men? Why are we protecting those who need no protection?

Maybe we women are being forced back to being the weaker sex because society is unable or unwilling to protecting us. What does that say about American culture?

It's Cold

Is this the gloom of winter descending upon me?

It’s dark when I get up. It’s dark when I go to work. The chill air means that only my hands and face feel air unfiltered by layers of clothing, even it if it’s just the shared air of indoors. And it’s dark when I go to sleep, which is generally the case since I have always been an early-to-sleep-er, but of late it’s so early that a mere two months ago it would have been considered naptime.

And it’s been gray, so very gray. I didn’t realize how much the gloom could be gloomy; I used to think that it was lovely, but I see now that it seeps in with it a sense of isolation. Windows are closed. Doors are closed. But perspective is not closed.

I can’t let the cave take over since I am still of this world. This lousy, gray, gloomy world that I generally appreciate, or believe will get better—for us all. But not today. No. Today I’m letting the sadness descend. People are mean. People are cruel. People have egos. And I’m just tired of thinking about them. Curious, isn’t it, how people think they should be heeded when they heed not others. Who made your truth the only truth?

You want to keep your head in the sand, go ahead, just leave the rest of us alone so we can deal maturely with the horrible ways we have dealt poorly with the earth.

You don’t believe in abortion. Fine, don’t have one. Hey, guys, not sure if this applies to you anyway.

And do us all a favor, if you don’t like government, don’t become a politician, and don’t work for the government in any capacity, and don’t take money from the government. Is it necessary to always be a hypocrite just because you can?

And all of you terrorists—yes, if their purpose is to instill terror, then they are terrorists—why not let the rest of us use our words to try to solve the problems you have created and exacerbated instead of you continually lobbing your bombs and killing killing killing—just because you can. WooHoo! You killed another person. What did that get you? Do you really feel better? Do you really feel that the world is a better place now that you have forced death over life?

And you know what, I'm tired of the GOP candidates no longer bothering to attempt to impersonate an empathetic person, and I'm disgusted by people who think, heck, it's okay if you sexually harassed a woman--is it really anyone's business? YES IT IS. Stop protecting people who deserve no protection. What is with this society and its twisted desire to always protect those who have all the protection at the expense of everyone else--those they harassed and those they raped and those they demeaned. What kind of moral compass do we have? Where is it pointing? 

And ignoring the rape of boys to protect a game and a name? Unfathomable and unconscionable. And let me say, I am glad that Penn State lost on Saturday. I know, it's petty, but so be it--so be me. Don't these people care about anything but themselves and their careers? Hollow are they all. 

But my daughters are doing their homework. And my partner is studying. And my mother probably had chicken for dinner and will call to tell me about it. And my dog is waiting for just one more doggy treat for the night. And me. I feel tears. I’m tired. I haven’t even touched on the things that I have to deal with at work. The things that make me ache in empathy, and the things which cause me pain and tension and stress.

We’re such phonies, aren’t we? Pretending to care when all we hope to do is get home safely at the end of the day, without harming anyone or being harmed by anyone. (Did I mention my not getting home safely a few weeks ago when a man, who had obviously been abusing substances, side-swipped me?) Or are we the result of the hurts that we experience personally or from feeling the pain of others and by the time you reach 50 it’s just too much, too too much. We don’t become inured, we become inundated.

We can't help it, can we, to reach out--and to be reached for. But we are not an Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, for we are part of the world. With endurance, may we become an opening in the gloom.

Finally, A Benefit of Being Fifty

I tend to think of myself as a big mouth, but it’s more because I will interrupt people to make funny—to me and some of them—off-hand comments, and not so much because I spew my opinions to all, loudly and incessantly, as do some big-time big mouths.

So a few weeks ago, at the break-the-fast meal at a friend’s house, I touched on the power of being a fifty-year-old woman and how it related to my bigmouthedness. There was a man, Sergei, who stated that the high-tech pioneers in Israel in the 80’s were all Russians. I said, no, they weren’t. He restated his point. And I, I said that no, they were not Russian; rather, they were Israelis who had come out of the technology development departments in the military. He countered by saying they were Russians, since the Russians who immigrated to Israel had either been engineers or musicians, ha ha ha. I let it go, and from there other things came up and the discussion leapfrogged about.

And then another man, talking of the wonder of the US and how anyone can succeed if he/she tries (he even quoted, Lenin about picking up opportunity in the street, as a nod to Sergei), told of the success story of his parent’s non-English-speaking gardener who went on to become a successful non-English-speaking landscape company owner with a house probably bigger than his parent’s. And I said that I don’t think that that should be the only gauge of success in our country and that it’s not so easy to find other types of success—or even that kind. He, should I say, works for the government and while he has travelled the world has not tried to start a business or seek a pathless path for himself.

Not much by way of groundbreaking in the conversation department, but for me, these two mini-conversations were important. Generally, when the boys speak ‘round the table, their statements stand as if they know what they’re talking about, and generally, they state, I nod, and the conversation goes on. But I wasn’t in the mood to just let them slide through with pronouncements; I know or surmise a thing or two myself. Or maybe I realized that to speak up you don’t have to be bolstered by reams of data because no one at a dinner party has prepared as if for a press briefing. We know what we know.

And I know that the trapdoor under my seat will not open and send me into the blazing furnace in the basement if I say something that I feel or infer or think because that is enough support. Yes, my mind and feelings and connections are enough. Most people only back up their assertions with a single sentence of “evidence” anyway; and that evidence is often something someone read somewhere, and that’s generally an opinion anyway.

I like to think that my newfound bigmouthedness stems from the wisdom of age. And that wisdom is twofold. First, I feel that I know things, and in the scale of knowledge people have, I know more than some on some things, and less on others, but I have a range of knowledge and understanding of which I am proud. Second, I’m fifty and, it seems, my mouth has overridden my shy self-consciousness.

Is wisdom knowing that you don’t need to know it all to say something? Or is it knowing that it is better to speak than to remain silent? Or is it in knowing that thoughts have as much validity as facts? Or is it that experience, or living life, has taught me that experience, or living life, trumps any degree from any school, and any job, no matter how high-powered or high-paying? Is wisdom of age the true equalizer?

Back with Rebellious Thoughts

Let’s just put it out here: I am appalled by the world we live in. What makes this somewhat palatable is that I doubt there was any time in history when the world wasn’t appalling—if not in totality, at least in select corners. Not the world, no, I misspoke, the people who inhabit the world. We are a collection of murderers, rapists, thieves, racists, bigots, and generally unsavory people who you would not want to break bread with. The beauty of white beaches, swaying palm trees, ripe mangoes, and orange-purple sunsets cannot counterbalance any day’s headline from some place or another. Man’s inhumanity toward man has never taken a break. And while we can say that at least that (insert horror of the day) doesn’t happen here, forget it—it does.

Recorded time goes back 5,000 years. Which means we have before us 5,000 years of dirt on the human race. And it is unrelenting. Wars wars wars. Oppression oppression oppression. Suffering suffering suffering. What is wrong with us? Is it really so hard to fulfill our basic human needs without infringing on someone else’s desire to sit on a rocking chair at the end of the day with a cup of spiked iced tea? According to Maslow, there are five levels of human needs: physiological (stuff), security (here today… and tomorrow), social (let’s be friends), esteem (doin’ alright, if I do say so myself), and self-actualization (feelin’ good in here with myself). Seriously, why do we need to keep inventing armaments so that we can fulfill our needs before the guys on the other side of the river fulfill there’s? Can’t we, really, help each other? What’s wrong with hoisting each other up the ladder of needs, rather than stepping on each other as we try to ascend to the next level of fulfillment?

Is the problem that we are packs of wolves with haircuts and underwear?

It’s beyond frustrating. And beyond depressing. It is demoralizing (a word which assumes a level of morality, but it does indicate the degree to which my esteem has fallen, since I have a hard time finding the morality). Since I am Jewish, my sensitivity to the depravity that just keeps rolling along in human history is quite, unfortunately, well-practiced. But I think that holds true for anyone, anywhere in the world. Most of us, I am sure, can cite a time (assuming we know history past our own generation) when our ancestors had to leave the old village to escape persecution. And if we were “lucky,” we can claim some conquerors of our very own. But we must realize that that “good for our team” circumstance resulted in pain for those whose land/ homes/ farms/ lakes/ gold/ oil /were confiscated. And let’s not forget: women. How many of us can claim pillaged and raped women in our family trees? I bet it’s all of us.

Quite the legacy we have bequeathed ourselves.

Acknowledging the reality of our dismal history—and recognizing it for what it is—no golden age of anything (yeah, great, a golden goblet decorated with precious stones in the shape of a cupid, makes me feel so much better about the world we have come from) may be a place to start. Start what, though?

Who knows?

But it’s generally fun to start, or re-start something, so here I am, back with my rebellious thinking.

I like to imagine that we can each be that butterfly who, by virtue of its existence flutters its wings, causing things to happen somewhere. I’m hoping, though, for good things and not just the storms that keep besetting us.

Holocaust Memorial Day 2011 5771

I’ve been reading The Jews of Russia and Poland: A Bird’s-eye View of their History and Culture by Dr. Israel Friedlander, which was published in 1920, for the past few days. I took it out of my temple library because I’m interested in tormenting myself by reading about how the Jews have been maligned throughout history. The why of that: well, it puzzles me and depresses me--and captivates me. It’s the need to keep probing a wound or debility or sickness that the world has, and which it has continually imposed upon the Jews, and which, even though I am an American Jew and all is seemingly well, I cannot ignore. The other books I took out were about the Spanish Inquisition; the Holocaust; and, for a change, some uplifting Jewish-reading about the Jewish Khazars, a people in the Caucasus region who converted to Judaism in the mid-eighth century. I also took that slim, light blue-cloth-covered book because we are Friedlanders on the maternal side of my family.

I didn’t realize that yesterday was Holocaust Memorial Day, but it does seem fitting to read this book that traces and explains the anti-Semitism of the region—from the pre-Holocaust perspective—at this time. My reading, up to page 110 (another 100 pages of sadness to go before the even more devastating sadness that follows the writing of this book; oh, what would Mr. Friedlander have said, if he hadn’t had been murdered in 1920 when he went to distribute funds to starving Jews in Poland and the Ukraine as a result of World War I) showcases that there is absolutely no SURPRISE! that the Holocaust happened—not the immense devastation, not the vast number of participants and “innocent” bystanders, not the inhumanity of the supposed humane, and certainly not the belief bred from century upon century of church teachings and noble decrees and violent pogroms and debilitating laws, and the “this, too, will pass” survival stance of the Jews. It’s been a reading that traces a terrible trail of hatred, denigration and oppression. And why I take it to bed at night with me is a wonder.

The key to far too much that really is incomprehensible, because what is religion or even culture, after all, except a way or a system that is supposed to help people and not result in the deformity of their personalities in a cult of adherence, is found in this decree “the reason for the existence of the Jews is that they might remind us of the tortures of the Saviour, and by their abject and miserable condition might serve as an example of the just chastisement of God inflicted upon the infidels” (Friedlander 57). I know, not much new, but still, startling to read the bluntness of then—at least a spade was called a spade. But why am I here, in Virginia, thinking and writing about this? Why not say, “Thank goodness that that’s the past”? Because, it seems, “history repeats itself” is truer than “we need to learn about the past in order to prevent it from repeating itself” because the cycle seems to be on auto-pilot.

What is the purpose of a life? Is it to embody an ideal or embrace an idea? Why are we so weak that we can’t find our hearts within our minds? Is there really something that separates people? Are the pains that those closest to us impose upon us so hard to bear and acknowledge that we seek the “other” for a safe distance to express our own pain? Is there such a thing as a peaceful society? Have weapons ever only been used to search for food?

There is so much that is incomprehensible. Unfortunately, those things that cannot be comprehended can be felt.

I have sat here for hours trying to come up with some point that raises my thoughts to a place above or beyond where my thinking began. But I am still here; still listening to the same music (Ofra Haza) and still sitting at my dining room table because moving to the more comfortable couch seems wrong. I have reached no point. I am where Dr. Friedlander left me when I closed his book last night after reading that Catherine the Great “laid the foundations of Jewish rightlessness. Succeeding emperors have built upon these foundations” (Friedlander 112).

The sky is gray. I am on my third snow day because of Wednesday’s snowstorm. A few hours ago my younger daughter went to her father’s house. And Kenny went to work this morning. I am home alone for the first time in a while. It would have been wise to go out and get my haircut or get a sexy nightgown (I’m still on my old flannel pajamas).

Maybe I should still go out; there is time before he comes home for me to move my mood and mind from boundless and inscrutable sorrow. Nothing will be solved this afternoon. I will not uncover how to transform the cruelty in people’s hearts. I will not uncover the formula for “never again.” I will simply continue being the person I am: a person whose heart aches within its own walls, wishing it could find a way for us to live in peace and comprehension.

Memorial Day 2010

OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM U.S. CASUALTY STATUS
FATALITIES AS OF: May 28, 2010, 10 a.m. EDT
Total deaths of US military and DoD civilians  4,404*

OPERATION ENDURING FREEDOM U.S. CASUALTY STATUS
FATALITIES AS OF: May 28, 2010, 10 a.m. EDT
Total deaths Worldwide (in and around Afghanistan)  1,076*

http://www.defense.gov/NEWS/casualty.pdf

http://icasualties.org/ (for a non-government-based accounting)

(These figures do not, in my understanding, include suicides as a result of service in these wars.)

All weekend I have been thinking about Memorial Day and what I want to write about it (which obviously means what I think about it). At first I thought I would write about how I have been talking about war for the last two months with my seniors, what with our talking about Achilles and the Trojan War, reading excerpts from All Quiet on the Western Front, reading The Things They Carried, watching a video about the Vietnam War, listening to anti-war songs, and then reading a few poems about war. The books had their powerful messages, and they were received, for the most part. And between my co-teacher and myself we have hammered at the point that it is their responsibility to not unquestioningly accept the call to war.

And then I thought that I would talk about what it feels like to discuss this with students, some of whom are joining the military or going to military academies in a few weeks, and others who are “blown away” at the idea that a generation ago they would have been drafted as opposed to skipping off to their party schools.

And I also thought that I would write about what Memorial Day means living here, in Northern Virginia, where the motorcycles that will ride in the Rolling Thunder Ride for Freedom motorcycle march into Washington to remind the government and people that there are still MIAs and POWs, to commemorate their fallen friends, and to support the troops who are serving currently, start making themselves seen and heard on Friday. Seeing their gray hair and beards sticking out from under their helmets and their deeply-wrinkled faces gives a sense of the passage of time, and also of how time is not a healer of all things.

And then I read this article in the New York Times: “Child Brides Escape Marriage, but Not Lashes,” and I watched the video clip of a young girl being lashed with a leather strap with great force by a (physically) grown man while other men stood around and watched and then prayed, because she dared to run away from the man who is old enough to be her great-great grandfather but is her husband. And I read of a father and brother who killed their daughter/sister because she defied her marriage arrangement after she ran away because she had been continually beaten by her hubby and his family. And I cannot help but wonder what are we doing in Afghanistan? Not wonder, no, RAGE.

We have been there since October 2001. Osama Bin Laden is still about. The Taliban is still about. The horrific manipulation of women continues. Maybe this is callous, but if we haven’t managed to make a dent into the twisted way that society manages itself, then I say leave. If they want to keep things as they are, as their “traditions” dictate, then we should just get the hell out of there. Women and men have been decrying the status of women there since before the war and now, almost nine years into it, the same heartaches are heard. Isn’t there a point when one’s friends realize that only the suffering friend can help him/herself by seeking help?

It could be that I am wrong and this is a distortion, and in reality this is an aberration and instead of raging I should be happy that things have changed so much since the our forces arrived there. But I don’t think so.

No. I think that there really is a gulf between us that, perhaps, cannot be broached. How can you reconcile helping a society that keeps women in compounds for their entire lives—and does not seem to see any problem with that? And how do you reconcile helping men who keep harming girls who go to school? How do you reconcile helping people whose people blow up their people who are eating and praying and celebrating and mourning? I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it. There are things that are just wrong. And I don’t care if that father and son dynamic duo and the flogger-in-chief think that they are doing good deeds—they are not. I’d like to look into the eyes of those men and see if there is life within. I’d like to see if they really are people, because I don’t think that they are. Twisting one’s mind to think that evil is good and honorable serves a maker that I don’t recognize and that must be visible.

Yes, I know, I have a master’s degree in Conflict Studies, so I should be more understanding and accepting of these people’s “narrative.” But I am not. There is a point when one cannot contort one’s mind to accept or even give credence to such depravity. What else is it? Does someone’s holy book and God really call for maiming young girls?

And what kind of mother can these girls become? These aren’t soccer moms or even hovering helicopter moms-to-be. These are women who continue in too long of a line of women who are not nurtured for the value of their hearts and minds; women who are, at the core of their society, discounted. Isn’t that the basis of a healthy society: women who are healthy and raise their children to be healthy citizens?  

Do the wrongs of that society show what happens when women are discounted? It is, to all intents and purposes, an all-male society, with women ostensibly servants. No education. No rights. No liberties. No voice. Bleak and harsh.

Could it be that this society cannot be fixed until it accepts its women—mothers, wives, sisters, daughters—as worthy and valuable, and not just a thing to use to pay off one’s debt. Isn’t this really a statewide form of child prostitution and slavery?
It is a shame that whatever introspection occurred did not lead to righting this violation. Sure, they could look and see women in our society using their bodies to sell products. And they can read rape and assault statistics. But I wonder if in the dark of night these floggers and beaters long for love and warmth and comfort? How hard it must be to live an entire life imprisoned in a cold harshness. Would that drive you to make everyone else in your life suffer as you suffer; or would it make you feel a little better to know that someone suffers more than you?

Instead of an army of soldiers, perhaps they need an army of mothers. And if that’s not in the Pentagon’s plans, I say “Bring ‘Em Home.”

It’s Still Snowing in Northern Virginia

I just finished the one bag of potato chips that I bought yesterday in my harrowing journey to the supermarket, where the supermarket parking lot was the most harrowing aspect since it does not seem to have been plowed except by the tires of cabin-fever suffering adults in need of milk, bread, butter, yogurt and Cheese Puffs, and am about to embark on my first cup of hot chocolate since I forgot to buy coffee beans and am getting anxious that I will not have enough for my morning cup until I can next exit the cabin. It’s a blizzard outside, as it’s been for hours, and I’m now on my fourth day of school closure (not counting last Wednesday for a mere three inches of snow). For a week, until Monday, my older daughter was here, as was my younger daughter and my dog. Now I am home alone. No one is watching me snack, and watching junk tv, and napping, and reading the weather report over and over, and looking to see it the moment it is posted: the announcement that school will be closed tomorrow. (They just made the announcement: school will be closed on Thursday and Friday.)

In the midst of all the busy-ness, I have had some time to reflect on a number of things. One of the things that kept me most occupied (other than Sarah Palin and the fact that this is a woman who garners an incredible amount of attention as opposed to the countless intelligent, caring women who are not heard from because our media and far too many people are incredibly stupid and selfish—sorry) is hearing that some Republican senators say that Don’t Ask Don’t Tell should stay in place because otherwise unit cohesion will be at stake. Mind you, I have never been in the military and I am not a lesbian, so my response comes from who I am: a woman who lives in this country, and in this world. A country and a world still dominated by far too much violence, especially against women. So tell me, how is it that lying about your sexual orientation will rip at the effectiveness of our military while the unprecedented number of suicides, and attacks and harassment of females in the military don’t do that? I don’t get it.

I know, putting suicide and rape in the same sentence is a bit of a stretch, but seriously, if they really cared about each and every soldier and not some inane pandering to people who have stored their compassion in toe nail clippings boxes, wouldn’t they get up and cry for change that will help soldiers deal with their internal and external wounds? (Never mind stopping the wars and every drum call for war—including the latest Palin inanity of suggesting that going to war with Iran would be a way for Obama to definitely get re-elected. Why is anyone listening to this incredibly mean and stupid woman? Is it because she is a woman? I really don’t get it.) And wouldn’t they call for doing something—I know, this is a tall-order societal thing—to stop men’s abuse of women as some sort of ritual for proving masculinity the world over.

How is it that knowing that someone in your unit is gay and dealing with that is worse than thinking that maybe someone in your unit is gay and having to be overly cautious because you don’t want to offend him? I, of course, am going on the assumption that people who need to work together can actually work together, and do their utmost to make for a positive environment where everyone can work and be valued. Oops, not talking about the Senate. Rather, I'm talking about everyone else who has learned to act grown-up at work, because that’s the only way to potentially keep a job and a paycheck coming.

I don’t have the statistics at hand and I’m not going to get side-tracked by Googling it or asking my friend who is writing about violence against women in the military, but it is unprecedented. Shouldn’t this have an enormous effect on unit cohesion or military might? And not just for the women who are scared and degraded and hurt, and not just for the men who are the perpetrators. But what of the men who find it offensive, wouldn’t their unit cohesion be demoralized knowing that they are living with rapists and abusers?

Can’t the hypocrisy ever end? What kind of world could we possibly be trying to create if the “enforcers” of that philosophy are not able to be free? Free to express their sexuality. Free to go to the bathroom at night without fearing of being raped. Free to express their nightmares without worrying about appearing weak.

Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. How about working to create a society that values an open dialogue of non-ideologues? How about limiting the number of times stupid ideas and stupid people are quoted in a day? Yes, I know, who is to decide? How about this: If what you say hurts people for no reason other than self-aggrandizement, then what you said is stupid and you might be as well. Is that hypocrisy? I’m not sure. For goodness’s sake, isn’t there a way to treat everyone with respect? You would think it’s a basic human right: Be respected and valued. Does that really infringe on someone else’s right to be respected and valued? I would say only if your values infringe on other people; in that case I would say that your values are the ones that need to be clipped.

I think the snow needs to stop and I need to get out of here for a while.

Grandpa's Chess Set

Please visit JC's blog, StoryRhyme, where she posted my latest story, "Grandpa's Chess Set." It's too painful for me to post it here.

Closure, What It Feels Like

I finally got to court on Wednesday; “got to” meaning that we were all there, including the judge, but we didn’t face the judge because nasty lady lawyer decided that we were not properly prepared to face the judge who would get mad at us all for arguing about little things, as in the Battle of the Grocery Store Receipts. That was, to a large extent, because, as she tried to make it out, I did not present the hundreds of pages of receipts and bills to her and her associate early enough to send to exman. Of course, I was never told that I needed to have them in to her early enough to send to him in advance (and in chronological order). She, of course, also said that it was because I got emotional over the summer when there was another delay and I need to, basically, act my age. I was also charged as guilty for not having continued to present receipts to him all the time, as it stated in the PSA but which he always ignored and so I stopped. 

But I don’t feel like mulling over how the lawyers I have encountered have failed me. In spite of her not preparing me to properly prepare for court, I do think she was the best lawyer I have encountered and too bad that I didn’t have her earlier instead of the lawyer who I thought was as good as could be when, in fact, he was incompetent. (Note to self and others: do as Charlotte did and go for the unattractive lawyer if you’re going with a man.)

Okay, the point. Nasty lady lawyer, who wouldn’t let exman rile her and abuse her as he has done to three associates at her law firm as well as the receptionist (imagine that, verbally abusing a receptionist) told exman off and, perhaps momentarily, put him in his little place. Her reaction to him: he’s extremely unattractive; he looks dissolute, as if he might, on occasion, be drinking too much; is seedy and unkempt looking; oh, and he is still in love with me and is devastated by the divorce. She even told him that he’s upset that I left him and it must hurt him that I am so cute. Oh, the woman has balls.

But that’s still not the point. The point is that I am finished, finished with worrying about him getting the better of me, of him getting away with owing me money. I’m just done. What has been has been, and now I am ready to let it go, so I won’t have more money to buy an apartment, and so I have spent too much money on lawyers, I am content as in not mad at myself for letting him win without putting up a fight and not disappointed in myself for having given in. Content that I have done all that I could have—should have—and content, too, that I have come out at the place where I am. 

For the first time I don’t see that another process will bring me anything I need—or that I will get—and am ready to let go. Sure, she said that she will meet with him to go over his receipts and my receipts (at no charge to me she even told him—and she charges quite a lot), but I don’t feel anchored to that in any way. No, I have left the anchor behind. I am no longer moored in any way to him and the marriage and the divorce. Does saying that negate saying it? No, I don’t think so. I really feel complete. Maybe that’s closure, not that there is a tidy end to something (and even an apology and a forgiving), but rather that you feel that no more needs to be done. Does closure happen when you sever your ties to something that had formerly held you? Not that you close a door, but rather that you pass through a doorway. So closure really is an opening, an opening into a space that doesn’t hold you to what had been. Closure, it’s not an end, it’s the gradual movement from one place to another. It is the personal passage from the past to the present.

NOTE: I absolutely loved the fact that this tough 60-something lawyer came to court in an obviously expensive black suit that was decorated with tiny rhinestones and  rhinestone-studded heart-shaped buttons. Oh, she was a sight to see. No power shoulder pads or asexual suiting, she was all woman—all 120 pounds of her in her three-inch heels, ready to do battle with any pin-stripe that came her way.

Generation Some-Random-Letter

The other day I came to the very disheartening realization that the end of endless wars or the end of periodic wars does not seem to be in the future for this “great” nation. That is if I can take what I see of my students and use them as a tiny sample of this generation and extrapolate into a giant generalization. Two anecdotes are, to me, very telling.

In the school’s career center the other day, my ninth graders were asked if they know what they want to do or be. Only a handful raised their hands. Army. Air Force. Marines. Lawyer. Doctor. Army. Dentist. Pediatrician. Notwithstanding the fact that only one girl (pediatrician) raised her hand, I was horrified that so many of the boys see the military as a career. Granted, in this area in northern Virginia there are a lot of military bases and the Pentagon and enough Department of’s for just about every retired military person to get a chance to retire from another government job, and I grew up in New York City where only those kids who were heading down the wrong path went into the military, I was horrified. As I said to a friend later, “the military-industrial complex has won.” I’m not completely naïve, I lived in Israel for a long time, I recognize the need—unfortunately—for a strong military. But the military being a career choice just strikes me as sad for them and sad for us as a nation.

So many times you hear people say that someone was lost until s/he went into the military which straightened her/him out. Such a sorry sentence for our country, for ourselves. Shouldn’t there be another avenue for the kids who don’t have a direction and are seemingly lost by the need to decide at 18 what they want to do with their lives—both if that kid can afford college and not? Why don’t we have service to country that doesn’t involve learning how to shoot a rifle and “defend” our way of life in far-flung deserts and shores? I know there has been talk of a national service, but there isn’t one. Even in Israel, many of the kids who don’t want to go into the infantry can teach or do social work, or some other service to the society. Why are those who in another time would have just followed in the family business or livelihood not aware that there are other “safe” careers other than supporting the never-ending wars? What came first, the never-ending wars or the need to have a large military that must be kept busy?

And then there are two of my students, who are seniors, who just got engaged to each other. He will continue the family job of going into the military and she will continue the family job of supporting her man in the military. But their getting engaged at 18 is not what stands out so much to me, rather it is her engagement ring. She wears distinctive clothes and jewelry often adorned with skeletons and skulls as well as her ubiquitous spiky collar around her neck. He has counter-culture messages on his tee-shirts and sweatshirts. And her engagement ring. Well, it has tiny diamonds. Why can’t the rebels really keep it up? Why are they relenting, why are they abandoning the rebellion to go with the flow? Why have they succumbed so quickly? Is that it? Up to 18 to rebel, and then get in line: join the military, get married, be a continuer and not a questioner.

It made me sad seeing the 9th graders’ responses and the engagement ring on the same day. Maybe I should be happy that they know what they want instead of bemoaning their cattleness, but I am not. I want “question authority,” and I don’t want it to be just us midlife women chanting to ourselves about feminism and against war. Obviously, we have failed. We have our lovely choir, but where is the audience?

I wanted to yell out—THINK, think for yourselves! Yes, you’re confused and you don’t know what you are good at and you want someone else to decide everything for you because it’s so much easier than being confused, but TRY to THINK for YOURSELF—you can do it! Don’t think that might is right! Don’t you read the papers—don’t you know that we are belligerent? That a soldier is a warrior before he is a peacemaker! Believe in yourself. But I didn’t. I sat there thinking of the members of the military who have been injured or killed, or will be. And I thought about those who send them into battle, whether they dither over it or take longer to decide what kind of cigar to chomp on than when to send troops into battle.

I thought life was about valuing life—each other’s—and not just the life of the nation. But perhaps this is what we deserve, after all we live in a country where a company has personhood and is, apparently, more important than an individual’s life. 

But at least I know there is a choir out there. Those of us in the choir must continue to raise our voices, otherwise we will be shufflers. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to bring my shoes in to get fixed, the heels are beginning to show slight signs of wear.

Feminism, Still Alive and Pertinent to Me. WooHoo!

I think I will be perceived as just another bitter woman, but so be it. If I can’t change perceptions, I might as well go with them.

• I’m sick of the male/female ratio of songs played on the radio with so many more boys than girls you would think that men are the vast majority of the population.

• I’m sick of the male/female ratio of DJs on the radio. Except for a couple of afternoon shows and the ubiquitous side-kick, it’s rare to hear a woman’s voice. 

• I’m sick of the male/female ratio on the news. Is that why I have stopped watching the news? Or is it the news itself? Or is there some connection between the two?

• I’m sick of the male/female ratio in government. I know, I know, nothing new about old white guys, but for goodness’ sakes, can’t they just stop thinking that they should decide everything for the rest of us and people agreeing by voting for them.

• I’m tired of everyone I know having a “big boss” who is a man.

I know none of this is groundbreaking or insightful, but so be it. Sometimes the tried and true just really can get you down.

• And I’m tired that people think it’s tiring that this needs to be continually revisited.

• And, as noted at She Writes about Publishers Weekly’s compendium of the ten best books of 2009: I'm tired that so often those who are acknowledged in certain fields, writing, are men. All of the top ten books are by men talking about sort-of men-things. Really? No women wrote great books in 2009? Oops. Maybe they wrote them but didn’t get them published?  Just another bitter thought with no basis in any research—just life.

• And I’m annoyed that my younger daughter thinks I’m a crazy woman for thinking these things. Wait. Maybe I shouldn’t be annoyed at that. Perhaps it’s a sign that the next generation has truly changed and things will change. Or. Or that generation just doesn’t care and will take society as it is.

• And I’m pissed that the healthcare bill lets men continue to receive Viagra so they can control themselves, but us women are being denied the same thing—to have control over our own bodies.

 I guess the time for being tired, annoyed and pissed is far from being over, unfortunately.

How many days does it take to prepare for Christmas?

My younger daughter would say, “Mom, get over it,” but how do you get over going into the supermarket on November 6th only to be greeted by Christmas trees, red and green decorations, and holiday goodies in fancy boxes? I may be misconstruing something, but I thought that Christmas was a celebration of Jesus and his life. Do I have this wrong? Do the retailers really think that a strong Christmas season will save them when, in fact, the very commercialization of Christmas may be one of the reasons for the economic crisis we are facing. I thought that we were finally being forced to realize that there is more to life than our purchasing power. This is ludicrous—it’s only November 6th. And no, it’s not just a jealous Jew speaking, it’s a person who cannot comprehend how things—the getting and giving of them—can be the only way we have at our disposal to show love.

In 1985 it took me three months to plan a wedding, get a dress, buy an apartment and buy a car. It’s not that complicated. Why does it take almost as long to buy gifts? And why should people still feel pressured to buy so much for so many? Your kids will love you even if you don’t buy them the latest; after all, my daughters still love me and they never once got a play station or more American Girls dolls than can fit on a comforter. And what’s with the exchange of gift cards? Why don’t you say you did and don’t. Wouldn’t that be easier for everyone?

We got rid of the president who thought that buying was the way, now, well, I’m not really sure but I think at some point this president said something about investing in a healthier world, one, I’m assuming, where we take care of ourselves and each other in real ways and not through stuff.

Yes, I am the curmudgeon at work who did not sign up to help sponsor a family’s Christmas gifts. Could it be that on this I agree with conservatives with their mantra to: Take back Christmas? Take it back to the churches and the gatherings that combine solemnity and celebration. We have got to have a reason for our society and our existence that is other than to buy things and to say how great we are. How great are we, really? Does this say anything good about us? Is it really about giving or is it about pressure? Is it about caring for each other or compartmentalizing our care so that it fits into a well-wrapped gift?  

And someone, please take the Egg Nog back from the milk section. Surely it’s too early for that.  

The Symbolism of a Downed Tree

Yesterday when I was driving home I found the way blocked by a tree that had fallen across the street that I take to get home. There was no way to get around the tree: it spread its trunk and branches from curb to curb. I drove into the parking lot next to it, thinking that I could get back to the street, but I couldn’t so I did an inelegant 3-point turn. When I got to the stop sign at the top of the street where I was planning to turn left, there were two cars in front of me, the first one seemed to be driven by a new driver because s/he was not moving even when there was time to go. So I turned to the right, thinking I’d make a u-turn at the next opening. Of course, there was a “no u-turn sign” there, and since I’m not into breaking obvious road laws, I took a left into the street and did another inelegant 3-point turn to get back to where I needed to be. I made my right. At the light where I needed to make my left turn to the street that would lead me to my street, I temporarily became disoriented by the dusk and the rain and turned into the left side of the street—as in the side where three lanes of cars were coming right at me with their white lights shining—right into my eyes. Luckily, at that moment my temporary road-rule amnesia left me and I did yet another inelegant 3-point turn. Everyone waited for me to turn around, that is except one asshole who was, I guess, aggravated by me and my unfamiliarity with the rules, who drove around me in the middle of my turn. No compassion from him. I bet HE (I am sure it’s a he, sorry guys) was going someplace really important that he couldn’t wait for someone who was obviously in distress or distraught to correct her error. Everyone else waited for me to finish my turn, thankfully, and then at the light, I made a U-turn to my street because there wasn’t a “no u-turn” sign there. I was also afraid what would happen if I needed to go down another street and make another 3-point turn. I needed to get off the road, I felt lucky to still be driving.

The rest of the drive home, all seventy seconds of it, were uneventful.

Those roadblocks and mistakes made me think that the drive home might be symbolic of the meeting I just had, and what it might mean for the future—and what it might represent for the past. I had come from meeting a woman in response to her Craig’s List ad (no, I’ve not so completely given up on men) to start up a Jewish-Palestinian dialogue group and this woman, as we learned through our emails and our first meeting, is the Palestinian-American version of me. It wasn’t odd at all to hear how the trajectories of our lives were so similar, rather it felt right—the embodiment of people connecting as people and not being the representatives of any side or cause. We moved to Israel and the West Bank at around the same age. She married a Palestinian and I married an Israeli. We both suffered from their words. We both had to deal with “dealing with him” with the children and in bitter divorces. And we both came back to the states. We both worked on getting our careers on-track, for ourselves and our children. And we both want to do something about abuse and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. And we laughed and enjoyed telling the stories of our lives to each other.

I thought that the roadblocks on the way home represent the roadblocks that we may face to create whatever group or program we have yet to envision (we’re at the brainstorming phase). They could also represent the immense and intense roadblocks that Israelis and Palestinians have placed between themselves so that in Israel we never would have met. I lived in Israel for seventeen years and the two-hour conversation that I had yesterday was more than I had spoken with any Palestinian in all of that time, unless you add the time I spent ordering meals from Palestinian waiters.

In the three years I spent studying for my master’s degree in conflict studies I never met anyone with whom to have a dialogue. Most of the people were, from my perspective, so anti-Israeli that they couldn’t do the most basic thing the field demands of people--to see those on the other side as people, as individuals, and not as representatives of a side. So there we were, two women—mothers and ex-wives—meeting as women do, by sharing their stories and seeing how they can work together to make the world a better place. A more peaceful place for their children—for everyone’s children. 

It’s raining and dreary outside, but I feel a warmth that I haven’t felt for a while.

Bomb Scare

The other day there was a bomb scare at my school. That means that the entire school body of about 2,200 13- to 18-year-olds and 300 staff members had to evacuate the building as soon as the rather overbearing voice of the principal came over the PA system at about ten in the morning. We were simply told to leave our rooms immediately—we were not told why (I, of course, thought that they were springing a new kind of a drill on us and left all of my things in the room and told the kids to leave their things on the desks—we were in the middle of going over a quiz)—there was no indication of a bomb scare on the PA announcement. The kids were told not to look at their cell phones. (Sounds dumb because it is a dumb thing to say.) In the announcement the teachers were told to read our emails in a tone that seemed to indicate we were amiss for not having read them already. This last comment bothered me, and I said outloud, “I couldn’t read the email because I was busy teaching.” When I checked, I didn’t see an email. It turned out later, in the rumor mill, that the email was being sent as we were leaving the building.

Rumor has it that the amount of time from when the bomb scare was made known until we were evacuated from the building was about twenty to twenty-five minutes, because the principal, who has a virtual presence most of the time, had to be located. Me, in my naïveté, noted (before I heard the rumor) that it was good that he was finally there when he was needed.

In a huddle around the principal about ten minutes after going onto the football field, we were told that there had been a bomb threat and not to tell the kids—only to tell them that the school was being checked and cleared. Okay, so a helicopter is flying over-head (I finally made the connection as to why I had been hearing a helicopter while I was still teaching and not that it was some kind of drill or Obama is in town), the school population is evacuated far from the building with everyone in one area (unlike in a normal fire drill when we are allowed to leave from various exits and could be much closer to the school), and we are not allowed to tell the kids the truth? And what about establishing trust with our students?

A student of mine, who had been in my classroom when we were evacuated, asked me if it was a bomb scare as he had heard. To a colleague’s dismay, I responded, “Well, that’s a good thing to hear.” I know, dumb thing to say, but I didn’t want to say, “No.” I wanted him to realize it was right without saying it. She repeated the party line about the building being checked and then we will be able to go back in. And then, another colleague read aloud from her iPhone the email announcement that had come from the county about a bomb scare—the email that was being sent to parents and anyone on the e-mailing list—while the student stood there. Why and how did they think it would be okay not to just tell the truth to these teens?

We spent an hour and a half in the football field (I got a nice tan—it was, gloriously, an amazingly warm fall day) when the announcement came that we will be able to start letting the students go home, and then we, the teachers, would be able to go home too.

Being the eternal optimist that I am, the truster in the powers that be, and not having a lesson to have learned from, I had left everything, except my student roster and emergency info packet, including the orange emergency teacher vest, in my classroom—which was now off-limits. I got a lift home, then found the spare key in the busy-body neighbor’s apartment. At around three another email announcement was sent that said that the school had been cleared and we could come and get our things. As luck would have it, my parents came in that day to visit, so they drove me back to school to get my pocketbook, cellphone, computer and car.

There was a lovely, relaxed atmosphere around the school. Perhaps it was relief. Perhaps it was the joy of getting most of the day off—for students and teachers. Perhaps it was seeing that nothing bad had happened. Perhaps, too, it was because the students had been so wonderful and calm, with no (observed) inappropriate behavior—we spied what we thought was a spitting contest and one very in love/lust couple who kept inching closer to each other. Besides that I saw a Frisbee game and a round of duck-duck-goose. What a great group of kids. There was no need to babysit them or stand guard over them.

I feel sorry for the obviously damaged person who sent the bomb scare, because his (her) life has irrevocably changed. Rumor also had it that the bomb scare was tied to a football game and an intense school rivalry. Sounds like some kind of patriotism gone bad.

In a totally unrelated event, the other day I found that an unknown student of mine—as in a student who sits in my classroom and who I spend my time trying to reach and teach—drew a large swastika and wrote the words "Heil Hitler" on the back of a handout that I gave out. I kept it for a day, thinking that I would try to discover who did it, but then I decided that I don’t want it or to have to think about and ripped it up and threw it out. I had confronted a few kids and they said that they didn’t do it, that they hadn’t even seen it.

You just wonder.

And then I think about the boy, Derrion Albert, who was beaten to death in Chicago less than two weeks ago. And you wonder how is it that so many kids seem to get the messages they are given about bullying and respecting each other, but there are still those who go as untouched by the onslaught of positive messages. Yes, maybe their home lives are not positive. Maybe they don’t feel that the messages touch them. Perhaps they never felt that anyone cares about them.

And a student was talked to by my co-teacher the other day because he thought that because he is a senior in high school he is allowed to be rude to his teacher—me.

And my daughter’s friend, who was nominated as a homecoming princess—as a joke, what of her? Her "crime" from what I can see is that she is chubby, or rather not skinny.

And you just keep wondering.

What of the children who hear the message, but get derailed by those who don’t?
I’m thinking that I will do a short lesson on hate and respect and self-respect. But will the kid who drew swastika hear me? And will the kid who is so full of disdain for me and “the system” hear me? I guess it doesn’t matter—because I will not let them defeat me—or let them think that they can defeat those of us who care about more than the negativity that swills through them.

Are we giving them mixed messages? When we deny them information, are we respecting? Are they, some of them at least, responding to the mixed messages they receive by responding to the negative messages?

Lots of wondering to do.

Losing My Touch

Somehow I have forgotten how to deal with the everyday arrogance of some men. It seems that I have been blissfully in control of all behaviors standing there in front of my classroom. Anytime I sense attitude from my, generally, male students I could turn to him to suggest another way of acting without in any way feeling that I am imposing upon his spirit and certainly without his feeling that he has altered mine. After all, he has been placed in my classroom to learn from me not just what to do with an apostrophe (oh, the horror since they are all but forgotten in this age of txtng) but how to be a decent, civilized man of the world who does not think he is heads above any and all women. And let me tell you, I have been fastidious in this. Just ask Harold, who I had last year. In response to the question, “What have you learned this year in or out of school?” he wrote that he “learned he can never win against a teacher.” His mother, I think, thanks me. I met both her and her husband, and I think she would have liked to send her husband to my classroom for some lessons too. (He was a meeting time-hog.)

Even the arrogance of the men who have demonstrated their arrogance in an email exchange or even a date, I have managed to quickly put behind me with an equal amount of bravado or arrogance since there was no reason to be coy since the very purpose of the endeavor was the culling itself, if necessary.

All of which brings me to the phlebotomist who did the initial poking and interview with me prior to donating blood. I sensed that man-to-woman condescension that I have not experienced for some time. It was a bit of a shock to have him attempt to demean me and ask me questions at the same time. In those instances I suddenly became cold and persnickety, forcing him to speak clearly. Did I do that because it tends to dull the tone? Or because I wanted to be sure that I am answering the question asked and not what I think he has said and to force him back to his job and not to think he can toy with me?

Thankfully another woman came in to finish the interview and yet another female phlebotomist drew the blood.

I’m glad my antennae are still working. I’m glad, too, that I have not needed them for some time. Maybe on the whole things are getting better in the world of male egocentricity. It’s certainly about time. But have no fear, I won’t trade in my antennae just yet. 

The Symbolism of the Garbage

The other morning when I threw the garbage out in the little enclosed area that contains the garbage bins, there were two empty boxes. The boxes were for two different kinds of nerf weaponry. Both of them seemed to be of machine guns. From the picture they both looked big, they both were supposed to simulate the real thing, although the brown and orange colors were probably a give-away. The weapon in the bigger box included an ammunition belt that could be slung over the shoulder.

A few days before there was another empty box in the garbage area that caught my attention. It was for a beer pong table. I didn’t know that there was such a thing. I had heard of beer pong (and do not laugh and say I’m lying when I say I have never played the game) but I didn’t know that there was equipment to purchase.

Unlike my very annoying and nosy downstairs neighbor, I don’t know all of the people who live in my new neighborhood. But I have my suspicions as to who goes with which box. There are two quite buff and attractive young twenty-something men (one is a slightly smaller version of the romance novel cover guy, Fabio; my daughter looked shocked at me when I told her he was handsome) who I suspect have called dibs on the beer pong table. And either they, too, can claim ownership to the guns, or the two red-headed brothers who my daughter might babysit for if she is ever here long enough, what with visiting my parents, going to camp, going to the beach with a friend, having sleepovers with other hair-straightening friends, oh, and being at her father’s house, she hasn’t had the time. But I could be wrong, the hunks might also own the machine guns.

While I am not in the habit of checking out people’s garbage, I was startled/annoyed/upset by those boxes. I even did a double-take, reading that the beer pong table was in accordance with an organization (I think it was the Beer Pong Federation). Seriously, official equipment for a drinking game? And the guns. I just stared (putting my head at a sideways angle) at the picture of the cute boy who could just as easily be in an ad for milk holding this huge gun imitating some macho gunslinger movie hero. What? It’s not enough to feel masculine with a little revolver, they need body-size machine guns? 

For weeks now I have been reading about the health care debate and how it’s so heated. I even went to a town hall meeting the other night and was witness to the screeching and shouting and rudeness (post to come; note, on top of an official sign I wrote “Healthcare Not Warfare” on my proudly-raised sign). Is it no wonder that our society is so loud and unhearing when our foundation seems to be non-existent? I know it’s a leap, but seriously, guns as toys and mindless drinking games are not new, but they seem to have become so cornerstone or so emblematic that it’s no wonder that there is no problem with throwing money at the military but none to drop in a bucket for the sick.

Is it silly or simplistic for me to tie those boxes into the healthcare reform debate or even the health of the country? No. As the English teacher I will resume being next week, they are symbols—standing for themselves and something else. Guns. Well, the worth of a life is surely one thing. So, too, is the ability to think that your life and beliefs are more important than someone else’s. And drinking. Becoming numb—casting off thoughts or doubts or concerns or questions for blankness. Every time I hear people (even the wonderfully gentlemanly director of the writing program class I took this summer) talk about getting drunk to celebrate something it makes me wonder why people want to deaden their minds? Is that why people can believe untruths so easily, because not only are they not used to thinking for themselves, but even thinking itself is disparaged? I can imagine that the thoughts one has might be so painful that haze is better, but at some point, the haze must be cleared.

This debate is surely about more than healthcare. It is about the mental health of our nation as a collective whole. Behind the chants “Yes We Can” and “No You Won’t” there is a pushing and a pulling to and against what it means to be an American, about what America stands for.

What I perceive as garbage (I would have preferred the boxes and their contents in the garbage) is someone else’s gift that was saved for and anticipated. Maybe the most that can be hoped for is that one person can’t deny another person her gift. Yes, that seems right. And perhaps the person carrying the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag should look at how her pronouncements would deny someone else what she sorely wants—and needs.

Safe Driving

Maybe it’s because I don’t have long legs that I can’t understand this phenomenon, but even so, it does seem incredibly odd and unsafe. Why would a person drive a car with his left foot sticking out the window like it’s a turn signal? What is with that? How can you possibly drive safely with your body so contorted? Of course my foot can barely reach the dashboard, but I could imagine what it would be like to have longer legs and being able to stick one out the window, feeling the breeze and waving to passing cars, is just a ridiculously unsafe idea. What must be required of a body to have one foot navigating between the brake and the gas pedal while the other foot is outside?

Besides the absurdity of putting your foot where your hand should go, how could you maintain good control over the car when you are doing a split?

Since Congress is finally getting around to writing a law against texting and driving at the same time, I think they should add an amendment against driving while contorted. 

What interesting sights have you seen drivers doing lately?

What I’m Reading

I’ve read many books this summer. As goes with my mind, the books are deeply entrenched in me when I read them and poof! gone the moment I finish them. They inform and inspire me as I read them and then I move on. The reading of them is another experience in my life. I don’t remember every meal I’ve eaten and conversation I’ve had, so, too, with my reading material—it’s been absorbed into my system some stays, enriching the rest, and some goes. 

But right now I am in the midst of two books that point to the two ways my mind seems to be wandering of late. They are What Was Asked of Us: An Oral History of the Iraq War by the Soldiers Who Fought It by Trish Wood, and home safe by Elizabeth Berg.

One, as you can tell by the title, is a very tough-to-read book about what some soldiers have experienced in Iraq. The other is not; it is about a woman coming into herself after her husband dies. One I need to read because it is too horrible to think that “we” are fighting two wars, one since 2001 and the other since 2003, and yet my life is untouched and even my reading, except for some articles and the biographies that the Washington Post publishes when there have been enough deaths for a two-page spread.

I am determined to pass this reading onto my students. No, not just reading, I am determined to have them think outside of their boxes for a while. No, I am determined that they rise to their capability to think about the world they live in.

These wars have become the white noise behind the childhood of these kids (and our own “adult” lives); the seventeen-year olds I will be teaching would have been nine when the War in Afghanistan began and eleven when the Iraq War began. My assumption is that except for the kids who have a parent serving in Iraq or Afghanistan or the military (lots of military kids here, right down the road from the Pentagon and a number of bases) they are not very aware. Not only that, with all of the wars and sundry other things that the history teachers must cover in a year (my take on our history textbooks), they barely talk about Vietnam. So rather than read a novel that enables them to escape, which they surely know how to handle, I feel that we need to reach into the world we live in and consider it.

I’m not sure if I can blame them for their complacency when it’s us, the mature grown-ups, who have become complacent. Or have our experiences and observations made us not believe what Margaret Mead said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

While there had been a time when I entertained visions of creating an NGO that changed people’s lives I have come to find that I am not so much of a doer. I feel bad about that, and no, no amount of wanting it is going to change my personality and I don’t care what all the self-help books say. But in my little classroom I am determined to do my part. It’s not possible that I have become an English teacher only to help kids master the comma and the thesis statement. There must always be a purpose behind a purpose. So, the woman with a master’s in conflict studies, is going to read and talk about war. And I’m excited about it.

Because the way to peace is to understand war.

I Wish I Knew More about How the World Works

The camp my daughter is going to has a two-year old policy that I am required to abide by this year, and that is that luggage cannot go with them on the camp bus, but must be shipped separately. I was given the okay to not ship with their very expensive shipper and to use another shipper.

Last week I went to a FedEx office where I was told that it would take from four to five days to ship a duffle bag from Northern Virginia to her camp in Pennsylvania. I asked approximately how much it would cost. They asked me the approximate weight and size of the bag. I told them and got an estimate. I did the same thing with UPS, and while the price was pretty much the same, they told me two business days. Okay, we’ll use UPS.

Camp starts on Tuesday and she was with her father until Friday afternoon, so we really had to hustle with the packing. When I went in to ship the stuff on Saturday morning, the price came out to be higher than I expected. I looked at the breakdown of the cost and there was an $11.75 charge for each bag. Oh, said the attendant, that’s because you’re not shipping in boxes but in bags. Everything was already packed and I was all tense about it not getting there on time anyway, so I paid the bill and left, annoyed, of course. Why hadn’t anyone told me: “If you send your things in a box it will be cheaper”? Yes, I know, they get to make money on me that way. But I don’t think that is the issue here, nor is it that they don’t care about customer satisfaction. I think the problem is that people don’t look behind the questions that are asked of them or the step in the process that they are currently doing. They are the form, not people.

Friday, in the mad dash to get all the things she needs for camp, we were in a store about to buy a tank top when the cashier asked if my daughter had tried on jeans. No, we responded. To which she said that if she just tries on a pair of jeans, we get a $10 discount on any purchase. So off darling went to try on a pair of jeans (they were too short on her). I certainly would not have known about that deal if the cashier hadn’t said something to me. I wonder how many other deals I’m missing out because I don’t know to ask for them because I don’t know of their existence. 

If they have the deal, why not let us all in on it? Maybe this is a real instance of discrimination, not white, black, male or female, but those on the inside versus those on the outside. Why can’t we all be on the inside? If the deal is too expensive, then cut it out altogether. If you want to get some business, then tell everyone. How annoying.