Relative Safety
Posted
November 27, 2006 at
7:19 pm by
Stacy
A few months after we bought my Suburban, I was driving around at night and felt the need to hit the automatic door lock. It was dark and I didn’t want to take my eyes off of the road, but I couldn’t figure out which end of the oblong button to hit. Both ends, when pushed, made an identical sound. I guess locking and unlocking sounded the same to me at the time. One end was smooth and the other end had raised lines which, I assumed, was the part of the button to press in order to keep myself safe inside the car.
When I got home my husband got a flashlight and pointed out to me that the raised lines were for unlocking the car. I was momentarily confused. Wouldn’t one naturally feel around for the braille-like end of the button in order to lock the doors against external dangers? He told me that, according to most people’s way of thinking, the danger lay in being locked inside a car that was either submerged in water, on fire, or on the verge of exploding after impact. A passenger or driver needed to be able to feel for and find that button in order to escape the car, rather than be sealed inside it. Certainly the car makers felt the same way he did and the fact that he and I viewed danger in such drastically different ways gave me pause.
Though I am not a very traditional female, I was, as the oldest of three daughters, raised to be just such a person. For better or for worse, my upbringing taught me that dangers lay in the external world and safety was to be found while locked inside one’s home or…while driving around at night…inside the car. My husband, the oldest of three sons, told me that it was the ability to escape the car, or any other dangerous situation, that made the most sense to him and…obviously…everyone else who makes cars.
I admit, it makes complete sense to me now, but I’m still amazed at my knee-jerk reaction to the concept of danger, how it comes to us and which way is best to find safety or refuge. Is this a male/female thing? Or just a symptom of the way I was raised? I still think it’s important to be able to lock your doors quickly and it’s also crucial to be able to flee the car at a moment’s notice. But, in an emergency when one acts by instinct and under stress, how are we supposed to tell the difference between the act of locking or unlocking the car? I mean…back in the day it was easy to tell. The knob was either up or it was down. Am I the only person who thinks about this stuff?
Tags: door locks, emergencies, safety
Shake it but don’t break it.
Posted
November 13, 2006 at
12:19 pm by
Stacy
I was not raised to be a feminist. I had to develop those sensibilities all on my own. Both my parents were born during the Great Depression and became “young adults” during the early 50’s. Back then, girls were “ladies” who wore hats and gloves and were discouraged from pursuing a career except as a last-ditch option when marriage didn’t make itself available. Boys were “young gentlemen” who got an automatic Get Out of Jail Free card that came in the form of the boys will be boys double standard.
My parents were very traditional people and I was raised, along with my sisters, to be a female person rather than just a person and the rules for being a girl were mostly about keeping a smile on your face while serving others. To put yourself before others was to be selfish and selfish was always bad. Unless a guy was being selfish and then it was conveniently called something more positive…such as “driven” or “self-motivated”. I had no brothers and so I never really understood the duplicity of those two gender worlds until I left my parents’ home.
Despite all of this, my father insisted that his daughters learn to shake hands upon meeting someone. Anyone. A firm, strong handshake was the first impression you gave a person upon making their acquaintance. Because Dad’s alma mater became our alma mater and that university championed a long tradition of “whipping out” (shaking hands) with strangers, friends or family, the notion of a woman with a strong grip did not seem unnatural to my father in the least. Unfortunately, upon graduation, we entered a world that didn’t share our father’s sensibilities or our alma mater’s frenzied obsession with shaking hands. And it was frustrating.
I still meet men, particularly those from my father’s generation or older, who won’t allow me to shake their hand. Some grasp my outstretched hand and turn it over as though they intend to bow and kiss it, which no one actually does. Some give me a weak-as water handclasp, as though I’m made of glass. Others will not allow me to grasp their entire hand and so they wind up daintily gripping the last two digits of my fingers. And the women of that generation often falter or stare at my hand as though they weren’t sure how to proceed. Clearly, they did not get my father’s memo about first impressions. The men from my own generation are better about accepting my hand, but some of them still let their hand go limp in mine…like a dead fish.
At times, when in the throes of one of these wimpy handshakes, I feel driven to use my left hand to anchor the handclasp so as to drive my right hand more deeply into a grip that allows the webbing between my thumb and finger come into contact with the same spot on their hand.
Because I share my father’s philosophy about the handshake and the initial impression it conveys, I have to wonder what lesson I’m supposed to take away from a man who will not accept my hand in the same manner he would that of another man. Is he merely weak himself or is he sending me the message that I am, in his eyes, not worthy of the real thing? That there are limitations in my access to his personal demonstrations of welcome and good faith? I don’t want a bone-crushing handshake. I just want a sincere and enthusiastic gesture of acquaintance. And frequently, I’m disappointed.
It’s one of the minor reasons I’m glad I don’t have daughters. Sure, there are many more important reasons that I’m not interested in raising a daughter, but most of them have to do with the fact that I still don’t have a great deal of understanding as to why a woman’s handshake doesn’t carry the same significance as a man’s. The same thing comes to mind when the removal of a man’s hat is a sign of respect when the American flag is present, but women stand around like a bunch of clueless dolts. Removal of our hat isn’t important. These are, as I’ve said, minor issues. But if I can’t find a way to explain their stupidity or change them in my own life, how can I expect to prepare a daughter for those situations? You can trust me when I say that it’s more important than you think. In fact, let’s shake on it.
Tags: double standards, gender issues, rules of conduct, shaking hands You can’t make this stuff up…or can you?
Posted
November 7, 2006 at
11:27 pm by
Stacy
As I was driving him to school today, my 7th grade son wanted to talk about science and what he was learning about the thinker and scientist, Gallileo. My son was amazed how this man and his new discoveries and his promotion of the Copernican doctrine had been met with hostility and mistrust from the tiny, threatened minds of the church and its subsequent Inquisition which, at the time, dictated what could and could not be called historical or scientific “fact”. His then-radical theory which proposed that while two dissimilarly-weighted objects, if dropped, might fall at different rates on Earth, the same objects, in an airless atmosphere, would both hit the ground at the same time.
The Church, incensed that Galileo would dare to challenge the “wisdom” of the day concerning gravity as well as his theory that the Sun– not the Earth–was the center of the universe, felt Galileo was nothing less than a heretic. After 18 days of formal interrorgation (and using threats of torture), Galileo confessed under duress that he may have worded his support for the Copernican case a little too strongly. Despite this, he was placed under house arrest in 1633 where he remained until his death in 1642.
At the end of the last Apollo 15 moon walk (1971), a live demonstration was performed before the television cameras by Commander David Scott using a feather and a geologic hammer. Because the atmosphere on the moon did not provide the same air resistance that one finds on our planet, both objects–released at the same time– fell at the same rate and landed at the same time. Despite this very public demonstration which is preserved on tape, the Church did not see fit to formally reverse its stance on Galileo’s theories until 1983. You read it right, people…1983!!
My son was aghast that anyone would be treated in such a manner for merely encouraging the broadening of intellectual thought and for daring to promote new scientific theories. I told him that this was why his father and I are such strong advocates of the Separation of Church and State. “No church, regardless of denomination, should have the power to decide what is or is not accepted or studied as scientific or historical fact or to censure those who promote such knowledge,” I said. “It would be tremendously naive to believe that what happened to Galileo could not still happen, in some form or other, in our country now.”
You think I’m being an alarmist? Then consider the following two things:
1) The steady encroachment of fundamentalism in this country. Make no mistake, fundamentalism means the death of intellectual growth, regardless of which religion it attaches itself to. There are people being elected to the highest of public offices who maintain that Abraham lived to be several hundred years old and that the world, according to their religious views, is only 6,000 years old. Especially worrisome are the words of Evangelical guru and former head hypocrite of the National Association of Evangelicals, Ted Haggard. Haggard, who “was asked to leave” his post after it was revealed that, despite his attacks on homosexuality, he had engaged in a three year sexual relationship with a male prostitute who also sold him methanphetamines. (Yes….THAT Ted Haggard!) The evangelist, in a taped interview, warned esteemed British ethologist/evolutionist, Richard Dawkins, that it wouldn’t be long before the majority of people understood the 6,000 year theory to be TRUTH. If that doesn’t frighten you, then I have a “science textbook” to show you that is used by fundamentalist homeschooling parents here in Texas. I hope I’m dead when the day comes that public school teachers are required to teach your child that there were pairs of dinosaurs on the ark and that Noah used bags of fireflies to light the dark lower chambers of his watercraft.
2) The present administration just made it legal for the government to torture people. The same government that is presently led by men who–if one believes the public boasts of Haggard–lend their ear to Pastor Ted (who claimed he spoke to George Bush on a weekly basis) and others like him.
NOW are you scared? You ought to be.
Tags: Apollo 15, Christianity, Fundamentalism, Galileo, homosexuality, hypocrites, science, Ted Haggard, torture Happy Cheeseburgers Come From Happy Cows…or something like that.
Posted
October 25, 2006 at
4:01 pm by
Stacy
Before people start throwing rocks at me, I’d like to go on record as saying that I know that I’m a hypocrite. I didn’t need to be told because I figured it out all on my own. But… I’m in good company because we, all of us on this great planet, fail on a daily basis to completely “hold the line” when we presume to stand for some great cause.
I could make a laundry list of well-known people who speak out of both sides of their mouths, but that would take more energy that I’ve got at the moment. Besides, you can watch FOX NEWs anytime you want and save me the trouble. For my own part, I catch myself in moments of duplicity all the time, but one that comes to mind right now is my stance on eating meat.
I love meat. I’ll never be a vegetarian, though I have quite a few friends who live happily by that philosophy. It doesn’t bother me. In spite of the fact that I eat beef, chicken, venison, and pork, I also consider myself a person in favor of treating animals ethically. (Like I said…I’m a hypocrite) I watch “Animal Planet” with my kids and frequently wish a slow and painful death upon the idiots of this world who mistreat the animals entrusted to their care. I suppose this cancels out the fact that I also think of myself as a fairly humane person (albeit one who wishes death on certain people) and I delude myself into believing this because I don’t wear fur. See? I’m all over the place with regard to animals, but I live in Texas, for pity’s sake. Wearing fur here is nothing more than an affectation. A wasteful affectation, if you ask me.
But I’m here to talk about meat and, after reading today’s New York Times, I want to address the kinds of lives animals live right up until the moment they walk toward the great white light and wind up on a styrofoam square covered with cellophane. But first– get a load of this:
“ Whole Foods Market is preparing to roll out a line of meats that will carry labels saying ‘ANIMAL COMPASSIONATE,’ indicating that the animals were raised in a humane manner until they were slaughtered.” You know…just to let us know the cows were happy in their final hours.
I’m sorry, but I think this kind labeling is just a little silly. I’m all for treating cows well. This also goes for any other animals who patiently stand in line one day after lunch only to be surprised by a unpleasant jolt from a stun gun. But the fact that we’re breeding these animals in order to kill them later on is just a fact….an ugly one but a fact nonetheless. A note from the rancher confessing that he sang them a medley of Rosemary Clooney songs right before he pulled the trigger isn’t going to make me feel better about the process. What’s next? Maybe the fine print on the meat labels will look something like this:
To our customer:
Let us take a moment to reflect upon the life lived by your rump roast of choice, Mavis. She was treated, like all the ungulates purchased by SwiftPro Foods, with dignity and respect. She spent her days walking freely about our 10,000 acre compound while munching on natural grasses, having a conjugal visit with her special friend Ernesto, or napping peacefully in a semi-private stall that was painted in complimentary hues of cream and soft yellow and well stocked with aromatherapy candles. Mavis’ handlers spoke to her only in dulcet tones and, on occasion, read aloud to her from the works of Emily Dickenson and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Mavis enjoyed a good massage and submitted herself twice weekly to the skilled hands of our in-house therapist, Dave. She was a cow with a well-formed sense of humor and watching reruns of Seinfeld helped her to understand the irony of her own existence–one in which she was cared for and nurtured lovingly, only to be killed and rendered for the benefit of carnivores like yourself. Mavis, like many cows, wasn’t all that smart was resigned to her fate and we feel fairly confident that, had she not been forced into service, she would have given her life gladly for a cause she barely understood. Perhaps that’s because we kept it a secret from her. That’s how much we care. At SwiftPro foods, we think of Mavis as a hero..a patriot. And as she walked bravely and seemingly unaware towards her fate (To the strains of “Morning Mood” from the Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 Op.46…a Mavis favorite) we knew that our complete and utter dedication to her happiness and well-being would result in one damn fine filet. Call me a silly romantic, but I believe the way she rolled her eye at me just before she fell through the chute was a kind of “thank you” for all we do to keep our cows contented. Or maybe that’s just the way cows look after they’ve been stunned. Either way…enjoy your meal.
Gary (Mavis’ life coach) SwiftPro Foods.
Yeah…I feel better about eating meat already.
These kids today
Posted
October 22, 2006 at
2:30 pm by
Stacy
A few weeks ago my teenaged sons were entertaining a group of friends who just happened to be girls. Traditionally when that happens, the kids start out in the kitchen snacking on bowls of M&M’s or cookies and then they migrate into the bedroom our sons share which is actually a small “suite’, consisting of a study, a bunkroom and a bathroom. PlayStation and their computer are also in there so the taboos that plagued my generation regarding the simple act of bringing the opposite sex into one’s bedroom and “ALL THE PERVERTED THINGS THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO IMPLY” (but didn’t), don’t apply here. That said, I was urging my older sons to put away the enormous basket of clean-and-unfolded clothing so that the room would look less slovenly, lived-in by swine, cluttered.
“Relax, Mom, ” said my 16-year old. “My friends couldn’t care less.”
“What about your underwear? At least stick that in a drawer someplace Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked.
“Why should it? My friends know I wear underwear.”
And then it hit me. Of course their friends know they wear underwear. Their friends know. Their teacher knows. Everyone knows because anyone with two functioning eyes can see a good two inches of it above the waist of their pants or shorts. And I’m not talking about gangbanger pants with the crotch that hangs level with the kid’s calves. I’m just talking about regular Levis and a general “unconcern” about whether or not one’s underclothes can be seen from a remote space satellite orbiting the planet.
So, if the kids don’t care about one’s underwear being visible while it’s still on their body, I suppose it makes perfect sense that several pair of “unoccupied” boxers left lying crumpled under a desk chair aren’t going to give any of their friends a big case of the vapors.
Madonna, you may be yesterday’s news and God knows you’ve been replaced by some other morons (K-Fed comes to mind) with similar taste in attire, but the legacy you began by wearing your bra on the outside of your shirt is still gaining momentum. Gee….thanks.
Tags: fashion, Madonna, teenagers, undwear If not Obama, why not Oprah?
Posted
October 16, 2006 at
11:43 pm by
Stacy
So Patrick Crowe, a Kansas City, Missouri math teacher, wants Oprah Winfrey to run for President in 2008 and he won’t stop talking about it. She’s told him to quit pestering her and she’s even tried to steer him toward promoting Illinois Senator Barack Obama. Obama says he’s not ready to run in ‘08 and Crowe won’t stop pushing Oprah. I confess, I’m a little bit on the fence about this one.
I know it won’t come as a shock to anyone here that I’ll be more than a little elated to see this miserable excuse for an administration’s reign come to an end. You know it’s bad when you start thinking wistfully about Richard Nixon– and I don’t mean the sanitized history book version that hindsight provides. I mean.. the administration I lived through. Yeah…it looks pretty good from here.
And, of course, you can’t swing a dead cat around in the periodicals section of the bookstore without hitting a magazine touting the most recent humanitarian efforts of “Miss O”. She feeds and educates African kids. She gets her viewers to send money for AIDS. She profiles deadbeat dads. rapists and pedophiles and her fans turn them in to the police. She shames authors on national tv and devotes entire shows to advice on how you’re wearing the wrong bra. She’s “all that” and a package of Pop-Tarts. You’d think I’d be thrilled to have Oprah and her Pashmina-giving staff lend a healing touch to this angry and violated nation. And you’d be right…sort of. But President Oprah? I dunno. The whole “Legends Ball” thing rubs me the wrong way and why she thinks we care about losers like Bobby Brown or Mike Tyson is a huge puzzle to me. Plus, she interrupts her guests all of the time while they’re talking so that she can sagely sum up for them the point they were just about to make. I admit it. She irritates me just a little. I’d totally let her buy me a car, but I’m not sure I want her to be the Leader of the Free World. Here are a few reasons why:
(1) Oprah’s Book Club. At least when Oprah claims to have read and be able to discuss the existentialist views of Jean-Paul Sartre, the chat will be televised and the whole country can see it in order to believe it. Oh, wait! My mistake. A President who reads stuff like books and the daily briefings and warnings about 9/11 is a good thing. Right?
(2) Gail King would have to be The First Lady because Steadman just isn’t around enough. At least with Gail there would be someone like a BFF around to tell Oprah to “step off” when she was getting a little bit ahead of herself. Someone whose advice she actually listens to and whose advice she would follow…instead of someone who stands by practicing the adoring Nancy Reagan expression that masks a lot of unexpressed hostility and a killer craving for a cigarette. Besides…I’ve heard that Oprah knows how to correctly pronounce “nuclear”. That’s gotta be worth something. That’s another point for Oprah.
3) Nate Berkus would be the official Presidential decorator hired to completely re-do the entire West Wing. What? Am I completely insane? Who wouldn’t want that? Get rid of the horrible flocked wallpaper that “43″ never saw because he was mostly on vacation in Crawford clearing brush… PLUS ditch the revolving bookcases with the fake Books of the Month that hide all the Presidential hooch. C’mon! You know it’s there! *sigh*. One more point for Oprah. Wow, I’m starting to lose my own argument.
(4)Want several million raised for Darfur? The fight against Female Genital mutilation in Third World Countries? More money for teachers in some impoverished backwater town…or any town? Illiteracy? Yeah…who thinks this Congress would vote to move on ANY of this stuff before giving itself another raise? I thought so. Maybe Oprah could fill Congress with her viewers who love and respect her enough to do her bidding…and then find a lovely Sheryl Crow cd and some Sephora gift certificates on their desks as a way of saying “thanks”. I’m sensing a pattern here…
(5)Her administration would have at least one voice of reason. A person who could quell the clashing of swords and the self-serving chest beating that power often brings to those in charge of making the law and yet somehow managing to live above it. Two words that might strike fear into the hearts of any one seeking to make Oprah a puppet figure for their own evil plans: “DR. PHIL”. Be afraid. Be very afraid, Dick Cheney. Someone inside the White House questioning the Prez and VP?? It’s called “Checks and Balances”. When was the last time we had that? When was the last time anyone listened when we had it? Why am I talking to myself? Score another for “O”.
(6)When Oprah made a pariah out of writer James Frey, she did it for one reason and one reason only: BECAUSE SHE DIDN’T COTTON TO LOOKING LIKE A TOTAL UNINFORMED BOOB IN FRONT OF HER NATIONAL AUDIENCE BY ENDORSING A NOVEL (A WRITTEN DOCUMENT CLAIMING SOMETHING HAPPENED , THOUGH IT DIDN’T HAPPEN EXACTLY THE WAY THE BOOK SAID) THAT WAS REALLY AN EMBELLISHED PIECE OF “FICTION”. At least Oprah knows when she looks bad and will go to great lengths not to let it happen again. I don’t recall her saying, “Heckuva book, Jamie boy!” after he was caught fabricating his life in print. And as for allowing her “Oprah’s Book Club” sticker to be pasted on something that makes her look as though she doesn’t have a clue about what’s going on? Nah! I doubt it. And what about declaring war for similar reasons? Nope. I’m not seeing it.
(7)Think Oprah would stand at a lectern and let any behind-the-scenes lackey feed someone else’s words/thoughts into her ear via an earpiece? Think again. The only grimaces and pauses you’ll see in her State of the Union Addresses will be the ones where she’s thinking about how to Fire Your Ass.
8) Oprah’s an only child. So…when she wins the election it won’t be because a sibling in Florida rigged the voting.
9) Photo Ops. Sure, there will be a lot of these. Miss “O” likes to have her picture taken. Rest assured, however, none will be taken atop a smoking and unexcavated pile of the World Trade Center or standing on an aircraft carrier wearing a fighter pilot costume.
And finally, Oprah knows when she wouldn’t be suited for a job. She’s never wanted to be commissioner of baseball and she’s built every one of her business ventures into empires…from the ground up. She doesn’t squander family start-up money because there is no family money. It’s all hers. Every dollar of it. Oprah isn’t running for President and that’s okay. But you’ve gotta give credit where credit is due. It’s a great thing to know you’re good at what you do, but Oprah gets my respect for turning down a job she thinks she’d do badly. Not everyone has that kind of guts or wisdom. Tough luck for us. She gets my vote anyway.
Tags: Barack Obama, Oprah, politics, Presidents I Don’t Want to Hear Any Excuses.
Posted
October 10, 2006 at
7:57 pm by
Stacy
Back when I was a kid anyone could be a substitute teacher. I’m sure the schools themselves would have preferred someone with a teaching degree or, at the very least, a formal education of some kind. However, it was a measure of just how little the profession was respected that not everyone who came into contact with kids in a learning-type of way–aside from the custodian, secretary and the cafeteria ladies–was qualified to do so.
My own 6th grade class suffered under the tyrannical rule of an occasional substitute I’ll call Constance. She was the mother of a fellow classmate/friend and though we endured her massive and unpredictable mood swings until the real teacher could come back, I know her daughter labored mightily under the desire for a giant trap door to open up just under her mother’s feet as she stood at the desk demanding quiet.
Standards were finally raised in our state to require library aides and teacher’s aides to have an Associates’ Degree and the teachers themselves were required do everything from taking competency tests to submitting gradebooks/lesson plans and objectives with plans for modifications for inspection and approval. We were observed and evaluated and counseled as to how best to meet the needs of low-performing kids who came from clueless families. Poverty. Violence. Layered generations with little interest in the educational system or concern about helping their child achieve more than family tradition would seem to dictate. Ahh yes! What method should we employ with children to counteract the 18 hours of daily exposure to neglect and ignorance with the paltry six hours per day kids spent in school?
Regardless of the flaming hoops teachers have had to jump through to receive their crappy paychecks every month and the lipservice and shallow promises that politicians routinely trot out on the campaign trail, educators are still the lowest paid degreed professionals on Planet Earth. Every year at orientation, teachers are sent out into the field like warriors with pep talks of their participation in “the noble profession” still ringing in their ears. “Noble” meaning: She/He who works for insufficient funds.
One of the problems is that people still approach teaching with a the idea that it’s just a job for women. A bunch of silly women who don’t really need to make a decent salary since that’s the “job of the husband” (Not my words. No death threats, please) And those without husbands–like me in 1982? We struggled along on the $13,000 per year (before taxes, Social Security and NEA dues). Can you say Poverty Level? We had to get jobs during the summer that usually went to teenagers or other young adults who hadn’t gone to college–just to pad the bank accounts. We were paid on the last Friday of every month, except in December when we were paid right before the holidays. One year it was December 18th. I didn’t get paid again until the last Friday of January. Try THAT one on for size.
I’m willing to admit that things are better than they used to be. Cost of living raises are grudgingly given. Politicians eventually have to make good on promises to increase pay, but the conditions under which teachers work are worse than ever. Plus buying a house and raising a family on a low salary is still incredibly difficult. If–as they claim– it’s one of the most important professional jobs in the world, then why aren’t we paying these people in accordance with that philosophy? I’m waiting for an answer.
Most of the teachers I know deserve to be paid well. No one should raise an eyebrow at their requests to be able to feed, clothe, shelter and educate their own children. But among those throngs of worthy professionals are the interlopers. The people–and here it’s mostly women–who become teachers because it was something “to fall back on”. Something to do to bring in a little extra money. A job to pursue because you can get off at 3:30 and–if you have a husband– summer is time off for a job well done…or even if you did it badly.
These are the people who anger me: the faux educators who get a last-minute teaching certificate so that they can HAVE A JOB. Everyone thinks teaching is something they can do. “Hey, I went to school…I can probably teach it.” That makes about as much sense as my saying that since I brush my teeth every day, I can probably be a dentist.
The interlopers infuriate me almost as much as the politicians and spineless administrators who expect perfection from their employees and give little in return but a damp handshake and a vague promise of more money down the road. These “posers” who take up the teaching profession for any reason except for the only one that counts: They really feel called to work with children. Unless that’s your reason, your services are not needed in my kid’s classroom. You want a little extra money? Go get a job working the cosmetics counter at Macy’s. You want something to fall back on? Wait tables or be a cashier in a bookstore. But don’t ask me to pretend you can help my kid find Taipei on a map. It just degrades us both.
Last year I was at the grocery checkout and I saw a man who turned out to be my middle son’s former school football coach. A classroom teacher and a fantastic coach. A father and grandfather who was now retired from the profession. He was sacking my groceries. I rest my case.
Tags: children, salaries, teaching The Best of Intentions
Posted
October 9, 2006 at
1:08 am by
Stacy
A few years ago we went to an Eagle Scout Court of Honor for a young man in our boys’ scout troop. He hailed from an exceptionally traditional family and in this boy’s address to the gathered crowd, he expressed his thanks to his parents. He told of his gratitude for his father who sacrificed many weeknights and weekends to help lead the various campouts as well as sponsor merit badge classes. He extolled the virtues of his father’s gourmet cooking expertise and the many high adventure trips they had taken together. What did he say to his mother, you might wonder? He thanked her for sewing merit badges on his shirts…and for keeping them ironed.
I remember that moment as if it was yesterday because the feeling of wanting desperately to run amok, scream loudly–or to strangle someone was quite overwhelming. My middle son turned to look at me across the room and because he is the child most like me, he knew this was just the kind of thing that would make my head explode. His eyes pleaded with me not to say anything. And I didn’t…until we got in the car. After a moment of silence I turned to address everyone in the car, including my husband. I said: “If at the end of your scouting career you have been worthy enough to receive the Eagle Scout award and you feel the need to thank me for whatever role I’ve had in it, please feel free. However, if after six years in an organization that has required enormous sacrifices of family time, money and scheduling, if all you can credit me with are the creases in your scout shirts…please don’t bother.”
I still stand by that statement.
A friend who is a lawyer/ mother of four told me once that she didn’t believe that staying home with kids required her to also work as an unpaid maid who had to clean up everyone’s mess as part of her daily schedule. “When I’m dead, I don’t want them to get the wrong idea about why they miss having me around”, she said. “I have to have represented more to them than an afternoon snack, good-smelling bathroom towels and a clean kitchen floor. Maybe in some warped world that’s someone’s idea of a good wife, but it doesn’t make me a good mother.” I agree.
Despite the fact that living by this philosophy means that everyone’s shoes will stick to the subsequently filthy floor in the same way they might at…say…the public health clinic or the floor of a circus tent, I think the goal of getting your kids to see you as a person is worth attaining. God knows I’ve tried.
I started writing for money when our oldest two were babies and by the time the third was born and in pre-school I was free-lancing for three publications. Writing was really the only thing I ever wanted to do with my life and, despite an unfortunate seven-year detour teaching school, I found myself living my fantasy. Yes, I stayed at home with the little ones, but my previously unused brain was finally being utilized as a newspaper writer. I learned a little about myself during that time, too.
I learned that I liked staying home if it meant teaching my kids to read (which I did) or showing them how to make homemade Christmas wrapping paper or going to the museum to learn about dinosaurs. If it meant that I was supposed to shelve my full-time working status in order to bleach the bathtub or dust the furniture…um….not so much.
I learned that sitting down with my kids to make watercolor pictures or showing them how to hit a baseball in the vacant lot next door made me feel like I was accomplishing something. And if I spent their naptimes hammering out an article or doing research on an author…well…that made the day especially productive and it called for champagne. A day of nothing but cleaning house was positively mind-numbing and, even today, if such a thing is followed by one of my sons asking me what I did while he was at school, I don’t feel good about myself at all. What I want to do is to throw myself under a bus.
I also learned that keeping all those plates spinning simultaneously, like the guy on the old Ed Sullivan show, and maintaining the feeling that I had a real purpose on the planet, I had also hoped to illustrate how a true equal partnership in marriage worked, and I actually thought we were doing pretty well in that department. My sons had the benefit of a mom and a dad who shared cooking responsibilities and homework duty. Both of us served on PTA. Bryan remodeled houses, but he also changed diapers, read to his kids at night and volunteered for cafeteria duty at the elementary school where he helped his kids’ friends open their milk cartons and ketchup packets. I sponged out the refrigerator and vacuumed more often, but I also shingled many a roof for Habitat and had a byline in a newspaper.
I thought I was leaving them with a good impression…the BEST impression a parent could make, actually. But after all was said and done I found out in recent years that the kids were TOTALLY flummoxed when they discovered the filing cabinet in my office that contains all of my published work. Mom? A writer?? They never remembered me doing anything of the sort because I usually did it around their schedules while they were sleeping or at school. So much for impressions.
The final blow came this summer when I left home for a week to teach art at a pediatric cancer camp. They got another taste of what it’s like not to have me around for awhile. Sort of like my lawyer friend who wanted her kids to value her for more than the clean house. Oh…my kids missed me alright. They were quite dramatic in their retellings of what it was like when old mom wasn’t around. I was curious and just a little flattered. Was it my sense of humor? Was it the advice I offered or my help with a project? Our mother-son talks? No, it was none of those.
“Thank God you’re home, ” they chimed. “Dad never goes to the grocery store and there was NOTHING IN THE REFRIGERATOR THE WHOLE TIME YOU WERE GONE!!” All I’ve got to say is that if anyone mentions groceries in their Eagle Scout thank you speech, heads are going to roll. Word to your mother.
Tags: gender roles, impressions, SAHMs, writing Little White Envelope
Posted
October 4, 2006 at
10:38 pm by
Stacy
It would appear in my mailbox about once a year, usually at Christmas, and sometimes more frequently, depending upon how busy things had been. A little white envelope in and amongst the daily bills, magazines and flyers. Plain and square– with meticulously typewritten lettering across the front and the university’s return address in the corner. Courtesy of Dr. Z. J. Kosztolnyik, Department of History. Somewhere in the maze of papers in my office, I have most of them.
The greeting was always old-world, like the man himself, I could almost imagine his courteous bow, his body hinged ever-so-slightly forward at the waist, whenever he shook your hand. His letters were just like his lectures in the classroom: Articulate. Soft-spoken. Passionate. Away from the lectern he always managed to speak of his projects and his work so manner-of-factly and then turn the conversaton over to inquire as to what was going on in your life. It wasn’t just a matter of good manners, although God knows he was the most polite human being I’ve ever met in my life. No, Dr. Kosztolnyik was truly interested.
I had signed up for a history session called “The Ancient World” and that morning I sat expectantly with a fresh spiral notebook that had a red cover and a fist full of No.2 pencils. Every chair was taken, though a good third of the students would drop the class after the first exam. In walked a thin, tallish man with old-style Derwood Kirby/Drew Carey (depending upon your generation) glasses and a brown suit. The sleeves were just slightly too short. He began speaking about something involving “trees” and I was writing just as fast as I could and trying to decipher what turned out to be a thick Hungarian accent. I found out two days later that he was pronouncing the number “three”…minus the “h”. He was reciting dates…from memory. By the end of the second week I was to discover that Dr. Kosztolnyik rarely–if ever–used notes. He delivered his lectures from memory–translating them from Hungarian as he went. I went on to sign up for two more of his classes and they were among the most challenging of any I’ve ever taken. 25 years later I still have every notebook and test from my time with him.
What ensued from that first day in his class lasted long after I had graduated and entered the working world. I was 18 years old the first time I was praised for my skill as a writer and I was 20 when it happened again in Dr. Kosztolnyik’s course. His penciled “Very Good!” on a particularly grueling essay question (where I had just dumped the contents of my brain onto an open Blue Book ) was like gold to me. I was a consistent A/B student in his class which was thrilling in and of itself, considering the rigorous nature of his exams. This wasn’t so much a testament of my intelligence (for I was–at best–an average student) as it was proof of his teaching ability. He always had a moment to encourage and inspire and you always left his presence feeling better about yourself than when you first knocked on his office door.
As an instructor, he received our respect because he offered it first, rather than demanded it. He was firm, but kind. He didn’t expect us to love history the way he did, but he did expect us to try and succeed, and for that, he gave lavish praise. In turn, we wanted to be better because he believed it could happen.
Under Dr. Kosztolnyik’s tutelage, I realized that success wasn’t just about the brute force or brainpower necessary to master the information he doled out. It had to begin with confidence in yourself and it was impossible to be in the man’s presence without feeling that such belief in oneself was not straining the parameters of reality.
Over the years we exchanged Christmas greetings. I sent him my published clips when I was in the thick of newspaper writing and pictures of my children. He sent me news of his most recent books or articles and he always spoke admiringly of his wife, and accomplished classical musician who–like himself–had been a Fulbright scholar, and his two brilliant daughters whose educations and subsequent careers he championed.
He offered suggestions and help for my career. He listened sympathetically to my frustrations over the lack of a master’s degree and never hesitated to offer assistance in the form of a phone call or a letter of endorsement for an adjunct professorship…something he always thought I should do. The last e-mail I received from him told of his speaking engagements that would take place this month and he encouraged me to seek my life’s purpose in a way that would make me happy.
When our oldest son decided this past weekend that he would pursue his degree at our alma mater and take, among other things, courses in Ancient History, I spoke immediately of the need to write Dr. Kosztolnyik and tell him to get ready for another pupil. A pupil who loved maps and ancient battles and early Germanic tribes. Instead, my search into the department website informed me that Dr. Kosztolnyik had died last April. At 75 he had survived cancer and heart surgery…only to die in a car accident..and I never even knew.
I was and still am deeply sad. I’m sorry for his family’s loss and for his peerless presence at the university. I also grieve for every student–like me–who never ceased to look to this quiet and gentle man for affirmation and a word of encouragement. I will never look at the word “teacher” in quite the same way again. Most of all, I’ll miss the sight of a little white envelope dropping into my mail slot just when I need it. He was one of a kind and what’s more, he believed that I was one of a kind, too. I promise to give it a try.
Tags: History, loss, mentors, teaching, universities A Large Helping of Chit-Chat…hold the sarcasm
Posted
October 2, 2006 at
9:19 pm by
Stacy
Through its commercials, the television station known as “TVLand” has frequently promoted the philosophy of “The Family Table” for the past several years. Famous for luring away classic sitcoms from Nick at Night and introducing younger generations to the gentle buffoonery of Herman Munster or the subtle genius of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, “The Family Table” was built on the foundation of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s television shows when people still ate dinner together almost every night of the week. The campaign set out to illustrate that the best way for families to stay in touch with each other was to sit down and break bread…preferrably NOT over one another’s heads.
I think it’s a great idea and I’d be thrilled if my sons’ coaches, schools, club sponsors and scout leaders could obtain a copy of that memo if for no other reason than to wrest away a little time to shovel down a sandwich before dashing off for parts unknown. Although I’m certainly not one of those who believes that the dinner hour is some holy appointment which cannot be interrupted unless a participant experiences a surprising case of stigmata–or worse–sudden death, we do welcome the rare opportunity to chat with our kids and catch up on their day, and we try to set a few ground rules.
No one shows up with a cellphone or iPods or cd players. This is harder to enforce than you might think, but we think that as long as people are talking to one another, listening with both ears is really the very least one can ask of the others. Besides, I refuse to compete with Green Day.
No arguing. During the course of a conversation there are bound to be differences of opinion, but we save the really brutal confrontations for another time. Nothing can turn a belly full of spaghetti into a roiling ulcer faster than having all of your transgressions and shortcomings listed for you in between gulps of milk. Remember, it’s not the Nuremberg Trials…you’re simply there to fuel up your body. Save the angst and recrimination for another time when people aren’t holding pointy metal utensils in their hands.
No one person gets to dominate the conversation. While one individual may have had an earth-shattering day and everyone else simply just went to work/school and came home, it’s important to approach the time together with a sense of balance. No one person is more important and no one’s experiences are any less valid or worthy of attention. Everyone gets to speak. How do we pull this one off? We play a game called “High-Low”.
The person who suggests it starts by identifying the highest part of his/her day and then the lowest part. Sometimes the stories revealed invite questions or speculation or commentary from the listeners. You know what that’s called? Conversation. Then we go around the table and every person does the same. The result is that every person has a chance to speak and to be heard. Often, the simple act of articulating what made that day fantastic or one that “blows” is incredibly cathartic for the speaker. And the listeners learn, if not a little empathy, the skill of shutting their pie holes and appearing interested. More often than not, we find that we’re able to see the past 24 hours with a sense of balance, rather than two extremes.
Even the worst days have their homely moments of saving grace and the best days have their drawbacks. It’s a lesson some people don’t ever learn. If you can convey that balance to your kids while chewing on a chicken leg–and possibly sharing a laugh in the process–you’ll be doing them one of the biggest favors ever. Plus, the lesson, the chicken and the laughing? That totally counts as multi-tasking, which is another skill some people need to learn. I’m not naming any names here, but one of them leaves for college next year.
My low today? Not making it outside to do a run or even a lousy walk. The high? Picking up my oldest son’s senior portraits and feeling that rush of pride in the man he is becoming. Of course, that leads me to another low wherein I start thinking about him leaving home. I’d say more but…well…it’s your turn to talk.
Tags: conversation, dinner, kids, TVLand — Next Page »
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